hey, orpheus
Category: F/M
Fandoms: Bridgerton (TV)Bridgerton Series - Julia Quinn
Relationships: Sophie Beckett | Sophie Baek/Benedict BridgertonAnthony Bridgerton & Benedict Bridgerton
Characters: Benedict BridgertonSophie Beckett | Sophie BaekAnthony Bridgerton
Additional Tags: Canon Universe, Angst, What-If, Police Brutality, Unhinged Benedict Bridgerton, lots and lots of water imagery, Orpheus retelling (kind of)
Words: 5,221
Chapters: 1/1
Cover art: @apinchofm
On AO3.
Benedict flies down the master staircase like the Devil is after him. Not missing a beat, he sprints for the entrance, hellfire licking his heel. Poor, unassumed Hyacinth, who happens to wander onto Benedict’s path, is nearly knocked over, left baffled by his uncharacteristic haste.
A pang of guilt hits him upon meeting his littlest sister’s red-rimmed, befuddled eyes.
“Brother, it is raining–” her warning is left unfinished and unheard, as he bursts out the door and into the streets, boulder-like. He must leave at once. His horse can be fetched on the morrow. They are in mourning, for crying out loud.
John is dead. Frannie’s husband is dead, and Benedict is fleeing down the streets, unable to find within himself a use he can be for his family, in his current state of mind, consumed by something else entirely.
The least he can do, damn it, the only thing, is save them from the monstrosity he knows he would transform into, were he to spend one more fucking second in his Mother’s house–
For Benedict has never known such fury. He can scarcely believe he is capable of it.
His boots stomp the cobbles with a vengeance, causing little splashes upon impact. Benedict never saw himself as someone who stomps. No. He strolls. Glides. Saunters. Feet barely gracing the ground, a welcoming presence to all, alarming to none, the model pace of a well-to-do, well-liked second son of a respectable aristocratic house. Anthony stomped. Serious and determined steps of high ferocity, with invisible weights around the ankles.
And yet, here he is, stomping.
They call it blind rage, yet Benedict finds, as he is reduced to a beast of based instincts, at the mercy of his inner chaos, every stimulus somehow grows more prominent. The smooth granite beneath hammers against his feet, reciprocating in kind his sudden disdain for gravity. Cool, crisp air burns his nostrils. Icy droplets slice and slash against his face in bloodthirsty delight. Scents of cosmetics over body odours mixed with manure. Sounds of chattering, complaining, and false pleasantries from his peers as they huddle for cover inside pastry shops. All of them reverberate in discordance with the clockwork rhythm of traffic, drowning him in a flood of convoluted colours in painfully, painfully sharp focus.
Worst of all, the onslaught of elements is not nearly strong enough. While his mind forces itself against the environment and his interiors choking on fumes, he cannot drown out the memories of starlight. Luminous, radiant starlight, in his arms, on his lips. Memories he knows will accompany him on his deathbed, when the rest of him has withered and forgotten everything else.
Which, at present, only fuels Benedict’s anger. He does not, absolutely not, want to think of starlight right now. He wants to recall neither touching starlight, much less kissing starlight. He does not want to remember the coral glow of her cheeks, the melody of her voice, or the silky brush of midnight between his fingers. He wants to forget the taste of heaven on her lips. He wants to deny that he sees his future in her eyes.
Because starlight is the reason he is in this state. She has stolen into his life, dismantling the ego he had strategically constructed to her liking, and vanished without a trace. Only to then return under a different guise and lie to him.
Starlight has lied. When he asked her if they knew each other, she has looked at him, in his fucking face, and said no. And admitted she never wanted him to discover her identity when confronted.
She returned, picked up the pieces of him she had previously unraveled, and stitched them all together into one whole Benedict with the thread of her soul.
Then told him she does not want any part of it.
He looks upward, trying to lift his mind above the noise. The skies loom cold and grey. Large, dark clouds, smothering sunlight in thick cottons, churning ever closer toward the cities, the weathercock can pierce through them. As if the heavens are descending to witness this farce up close, their snickers echo in rumbling thunders.
A large droplet splatters against his cheek. Benedict pauses, caught in a daze.
It is raining. A mild dribble of late autumn, a delicate act of God’s affection, meant to calm, to gently cleanse. To temporarily dwindle time in a soft, airy embrace.
The second time they met, though he did not know it then, it was raining as well.
Sophie at My Cottage, drenched and shivering, moving about with purpose and confidence amidst the darkness of a foreign room, while he was at a loss at what to do in his own house. Her beautiful face, illuminated by the fireplace, the slight hint of a dimple on her cheek when he made her laugh. Her eyes, sparkling with will, wit and a sorrow he could not chase away.
Around him, the ink of night bleeds in the mist and paints the air lavender, as the day gradually creeps toward its conclusion. In the corners of Benedict’s eyes, the cloaked silhouette of a lamplighter swiftly moves from one pole to another in silent diligence. Deftly, he wields his torch and ladder, assured in the necessity of his work, like knights of old with their trusty lances.
Benedict has become more aware recently, and grown rather both perceptive and humbled for it. The traces of them, the impressions they leave behind, their unlauded contributions. The presence of people whose labour and lives are meticulously arranged to appear ignorable and expendable to people like him, by people like him. He cannot look away. He notices them now, more and more often, and by extension, the faults in his own behaviour. Ever since Sophie.
The pavement shines like silver.
‘Benedict.’
He stops, straining his ear to register the faint sound, but does not turn around. He already knows what is behind him, having travelled these streets many times before. Nothing but rivers of horses and carriages, parasols and gowns, as the ton readies itself for that night’s festivities, illuminated by parallel shores of streetlights and rain, stretching out and disappearing into the dark seas of bodies and mist. His shoulders slump. It is his mind playing tricks on him again. She is not following you. Why should she?
He lingers still. But what if? His heart picks up speed. His skin buzzes in anticipation.
A few moments pass in mere white noise, and reality deflates him once more. Benedict, you fatwit. What do you expect? She is still thinking you want her to be your mistress.
He breaks into a slight jog in the path toward the familiar mess that is his bachelor lodgings and its comforting solitude. His molars clenched, one hand reflexively finds its way to harass yet another unassuming button on his collar, as he scolds himself for the immediate softening at just the idea of her voice. He is still cross with her, still needs time to collect his thoughts.
He can sketch the lamplighter while sulking.
Sophie is not going anywhere. She is at his Mother’s, safe as can be. She will be there still, by tomorrow, when he returns in a less disheveled state. He will propose to her, ask her to be his wife, and they–
At the intersection, two carriages collide in an ill-fated, and embarrassingly slow, standstill. One, a lavish stagecoach, whose passengers are perhaps in a hurry out of town, their impatience is so palpable that it is unnerving the Friesians in front. Its path is impeded by the other car, a humbler, empty hack, whose scrawny horses seem unsteadier than the coach controlling them.
The stagecoach’s driver conceitedly demands the hack to give way, out of respect for his higher-ranked passengers. The hack’s coach, full of the confidence one can only acquire from spirits and being no older than 16 years of age, refuses, slurring some colourful descriptors of the other and his parents instead. As they argue, Benedict sidesteps his way around the carriages to the other side with fair nimbleness, just before the incident draws in more of a crowd.
One horse from the hack eagerly steps in between the frontrunners of the opposite car. Its partner, wobbling in confusion, nearly topples over, if not for the Friesian cushioning its fall. The sudden impact spooks both the hack’s horses and the larger steed they are flanking.
‘Benedict’. At the same time as the three horses neigh in panic, he thinks he hears it again, closer this time.
Taking the safety of his passengers in consideration, the Lord’s coach attempts to retreat to detangle the steeds, only to find the busy traffic has caught up with them. All following vehicles converge at this point, trapping them in an unmovable position.
The hack’s driver tries to manoeuvre the outer horse to the side. Unfortunately, it seems to have found refuge in the Friesian it is flanking, and stays rooted to the spot, shuddering by the side of its presumably new friend.
‘Benedict!’ He stops dead in his tracks. There is no mistaking it any longer. Sophie is here. She is here! She has run after him. His heart comes alive, aching with unbearable yearning at the certainty of her being nearby.
He turns around, eyes wide, through the open slots between the colliding carriages, scanning frantically for the sight of her beloved face.
The most beautiful woman in the world is on the other side, carefully circumventing between the sea of spectators. Her breathing is laboured, the little white maid’s cap sits slightly askew on her damp hair. Beads of sweat and rain glimmer on her skin. She is turning this way and that, adorably reaching up as tall as she can in search of him.
She looks nervous, and Benedict chokes on the lump in his throat, tangles of emotions coil within, threatening to consume him.
You consume me.
‘Sophie!’ He calls out.
Their eyes meet, and the sharp stings of Benedict's anger, the shatters of his wounded pride, all melt away, like snowflakes in the warmth of spring, or in the palm of her hand.
He feels tears well up in his eyes, unbidden.
The woman he loves is here. Sophie Baek is real, she is so, so close within his reach. That is all that matters.
Sophie’s pause at the sight of him creates the opportunity for a few curious young ladies to move up the rows, pushing her a few steps toward the back of the crowd.
She looks at him, plump bottom lip busied between her teeth, as if unsure what to say. He smiles at her, relief engulfs him.
A part of him, cleaved by her deception, remains bleeding. He is aware they must soon address it. But Benedict is a little wiser than when he was fuming out of Bridgerton House earlier that day.
‘Forgive me. Please?’ He says, his voice almost lost in the crowd. He hopes she hears him. He hopes she knows he means it most earnestly. He should never have made her that damnable offer. He curses at himself, ashamed of the hubris and stupidity that had compelled him to utter those words, believing it a plausible solution. Oh how spectacularly he had failed to realise the offer for what it actually was: pure pain and humiliation to her very being.
Her face, the way she beamed up at him, basking in candlelight and joy and pleasure, before he killed her smile and extinguished the light in her eyes in an instant. The memory of that night will haunt him forever. His body still recalls how she collapsed and slid away from him, as if he physically crushed her between his hands.
He hopes she allows him to make it up to her. For as long as it would take.
‘Forgive me as well?’ She calls out, her voice nearly dissolved in the commotion. He hears it loud enough.
What hurt transpired between them is obviously of less importance than having Sophie near him.
They have missed each other for much too long. He’d rather start the rest of their lives as soon as possible.
Benedict is suddenly gripped with the urge to propose immediately.
The door of the stagecoach opens. Lord Covington, a toplofty type in his fifties, exits, appearing most magnanimous to the inconvenience. His footman scrambles to fetch the stool in time, before scrubbing imperceptible bits of dirt from his master’s shoes, nearly having his hand crushed by them in the process.
A Lord’s appearance reinvigorates interests in the equine stand off. As Covington commences a manifesto bemoaning the lack of decorum and discernment in the uneducated, and how it would only benefit someone so young to be sensible about his place in life, more people arrive, ravenous for fresh scandal. Their shuffling knocks Sophie a few more paces back.
The boy on the hack hardly registers what is said. He picks at his ear and mumbles under his breath while the Lord talks, then sneezes as loudly as possible to conclude the Lord’s speech.
‘Oi mister’, the boy says, then takes a spit before continuing. ‘You finally come out. Whatever took so long? You owes us money. Pay up now.’
Like a thrown stone disturbs the watery surface, the revelation of Lord Covington’s unlikely creditor sends ripples of gasps and whispers across the air. Benedict chuckles in amusement. He looks over at Sophie. She smiles back at him, eyes curving like the moon.
One gloved hand reaches out and casually pushes her out of the way, allowing its owner to move up the row, momentarily obscuring their view from one another.
The spectators’ excitement is rewarded with an incident of one week’s past, when Covington promised a lame flowergirl one shilling for all her wares, to be delivered to Mrs. Watanabe, along with a letter. Mrs. Watanabe’s lady’s maid accepted the flowers but declined the letter, sending the girl back with the following words from her mistress: “I realise your heart, but our paths have diverged.” The gentleman recipient, Lord Covington, purportedly did not take it well. The girl’s older brother, the hackboy, describes how his sister, only eight years old, cried all the way home after being called stupid, useless and denied her payment. His subsequent visits in the following days to Covington House have never progressed past the entrance.
Benedict’s attention is split between the boy’s recollection and contemplating the steps needed to climb over the barrier to the other side.
The worst of all reactions to the boy’s account comes from the central figure of his tale. In the well-dressed audience, words of disbelief and derision for his ungentlemanly behaviour rise above: to accost a married woman (with failed discretion), to swindle a child, general cowardice, and the ridiculousness of how a certain gentleman’s pride can be bought with the price of one shilling.
More magnanimous voices exchange sighs of sympathy and pity for the wronged flowergirl. All the while, the solitary, insignificant maid from Bridgerton House is carelessly shoved further and further down the back, providing more renowned persons a better view of the newest scandal.
Sophie pushes against the current for a while, trying to make headway without overstepping and failing. Then, she stops struggling, finally remembering herself.
Waves of people surge forward, leaving her further and further behind.
For what does she even hope to achieve? He has his commitments, his family. She has her principles. Nothing is to become of them. She has always known this.
Sophie has not a coherent plan, when she ran after him all the way out here. What was in control was the same force that had emboldened her to steal a kiss after the clock struck twelve, on the best night of her life. The restless, greedy rebellion that has both sustained her, and kept the maid hopelessly dreaming above her station.
She wished she could kiss the gentleman who danced with her, so she did. She wishes to see him, so she does.
Well, there he is, head of chestnut tousles just emerging from the top of the hack on his climb. He is actually climbing over a carriage, this maddening man. Sophie can’t help but smile. Even in this situation, he can still make her smile.
It would have been nice if their confluence had been under different circumstances. It would have been nice to be able to steal another kiss. And nice does not happen often to people like her. Still, she got what she has come for. It has to be enough. She’ll make it enough.
Coming from a short distance away, is a carriage unlike any other on the street, having followed her shortly after from Grosvenor Square. Three men in blue uniforms exit it and hurry toward the crowd. Hardly anyone notices them, enraptured by the comedy ahead.
Benedict manages to get both his arms on the roof. His eyes land on Sophie, right at the edge of the crowd, when her smile falters.
‘I love you’. She mouths at him. ‘Goodbye.’ and turns away.
Benedict is still frozen on the top of the carriage, trying to wrap his mind around what the hell Sophie has just told him, when the three constables lunge at her. She falls to the ground with a dull thud, one side of her head scraping against the cobblestones.
‘No!’ Benedict screams in horror. Sophie cries out in pain as her arms are twisted behind her back.
Panic, Benedict scrambles down, nearly falling off where he was perching. He rushes toward Sophie, forcing his way through the sea of bodies, ripping his coat in the process. ‘Stop!’ he calls out desperately, ‘You’re hurting her!’, his voice seemingly lost amidst others.
The crowd makes way willingly for a gentleman of their own. For a Bridgerton.
‘Sophie Baek!’ The leader of the trio announces sternly. ‘You are hereby under arrest for the crime of theft.’ The attention of the spectating mass changes course with his words.
‘I’ve done no such thing.’ Sophie croaks weakly, having the wind knocked out of her chest. She resists in vain against the iron grip of two men.
‘Lady Penwood thinks differently.’ The constable says.
The mention of the name sends a chill down Sophie’s back. Still dizzy from shock, she is vaguely aware of a strange wetness along her temple. Her cap has been knocked away in the scuffle, setting her hair free from the updo. It tumbles down into dark curtains around her face. Slowly, she tilts her head to the side, through obscure vision, to glare at the only constable whose hands are not currently on her.
‘I am innocent.’ is all she can mutter through bleary eyes.
‘That’s what they all say.’ The man sneers. ‘Boys, take her away.’
‘Wait!’ A familiar voice, whose warm timbre sends Sophie’s heart aflutter and her pulse racing, sounding out of breath and drenched with worry, stops the men in their tracks. Benedict? What is he doing here?
Momentary confusion passes, her wits recovered, she realises he must have seen everything from up there. She bites her lip, torn between relief and shame that he has witnessed her embarrassing situation.
‘Three men suppress a small woman,’ Benedict is furious, ‘Where is your honour?’
‘Mister Bridgerton’, the lead constable bows to him. ‘Apologies you must see such an unsavoury sight. But we are ordered to bring this one in for questioning.’
‘You are not to take her anywhere.’ Benedict takes one more step forward, growling through gritted teeth. ‘This woman is no criminal.’
‘Mister Bridgerton, you must not be deceived.’ The other man reasons. ‘She is a dangerous thief and swindler.’
A sardonic laugh escapes Sophie at “dangerous thief and swindler”. It appears in her absence, Araminta has introduced some fresh new additions to the vocabulary of insults she has developed for her.
The grip on her shoulders tighten, forcefully pressing her down to her knees, while the one on her arms bends them further away. She hisses through the pain.
Benedict, seeing red, about to lunge at the men apprehending her, if not for the lead constable promptly blocking his path.
‘Mister Bridgerton!’ His voice is laced with warning. ‘Please understand, sir. You must leave us to our duties. Obstruction of justice is a cause for arrest.’
‘Then fucking–’ Benedict spits out, as he feels from behind him a firm hand on his shoulder. With startling motion, it pulls him back, before ‘arrest me!’ can escape his mouth. By his side, he finds the stern, intertwined eyebrows of Anthony.
The eldest Bridgerton brother addresses the lawmen with a courteous smile.
‘Constables, I thank you for your work.’ He glances at Benedict, playing up the condescending lenience of a patriarch toward his family’s foolishness. ‘Please excuse my brother. Regardless of any wrongdoing, our sisters shall promptly be in need of their lady’s maid. Surely, there is a way we can resolve this matter gently, delicately, as men of honour, no? Why strive for lousiness in polite society?’
The constables hesitate. The presence and authority of Viscount Bridgerton are considerable. He can make things very, very difficult for them if he feels slighted. Can arresting a lady’s maid be seen as a slight to a powerful man infamously devoted to his family?
On the other hand…
‘M’ Lord,’ the lead constable stammers, swallowing hard. ‘While– while your point is well-taken, and we would hate it to inconvenience the young ladies… The charge’s come directly from The Countess of Penwood herself. She… she insists we bring this maid in for questioning.’
‘Theft, you said?’ Anthony’s eyes squint thoughtfully at Sophie on the ground.
‘I have stolen nothing from her.’ Sophie proclaims.
‘You dare accuse the Countess of lying?’ asks the lead constable.
‘Yes.’ She retorts, finding this utter humiliation has bolstered her rebellion.
‘Insolent wretch!’ one of the men holding her screams. One booted foot curls up, eager to swing in her direction. Sophie recoils, squeezing her eyes shut, bracing herself for the blow.
‘Stop!’ Both Benedict’s and Anthony’s commands interrupt the action. The brute’s foot pauses in midair.
‘Do not dare lay a hand on her!’ Benedict growls, struggling against Anthony’s tightening grip on his shoulder, preventing him from bolting at the brute.
‘Brother, remember yourself!’ Frustrated, Anthony grabs Benedict by the collar to turn him to face him, keeping his volume to just between them. ‘Do you wish to embroil our family in scandal–’
The rest of the reprimand dies in his throat. The look on Benedict’s face - plagued with loss, worry, with desperation. With an urgency so profound, it aligns with madness - Anthony recognises it. He saw it in the mirror not that long ago.
He sighs, his tone softens to reassurance. ‘Trust me.’ before slipping the mask of the affable Viscount back on.
‘Gentlemen,’ he addresses the lead constable, extending his arm for a handshake. ‘We shall leave you to it. I must, however, entreat you to take our Mother into consideration. She insists our staff well cared for and presentable.’
The man’s face blooms into a sleazy grin, at the feeling of a cold, smooth bill gliding between two palms and into the inside of his cuff.
‘Of course, M’ Lord.’ He bows appreciatively to Anthony. ‘Bugsy, ease off the clobberin’. He barks at his underling. ‘Mustn’t be a scratch on the maid.’
Benedict takes off after them the second Sophie is brought to her feet. But Anthony is faster. His arms remain an unyielding clutch around Benedict, despite the younger man’s frantic resistance.
Benedict watches the woman he loves being escorted away. With every second, her figure, flanked on both sides, crestfallen, grows smaller and smaller. Her eyes are on him the entire time, as they drag her away, as they load her onto that vile, awful wagon, as it rolls away.
Soon enough, the wagon disappears.
Meanwhile, he is held down, restrained, screaming out her name in utter helplessness, feeling agony like he has never known its name.
‘Why?!’ Benedict screams at Anthony, the instant he has wrangled his way out of his brother’s grasp.
Anthony blinks, taken aback by the uncontrolled outburst. He has never known Benedict to be the type to raise his voice.
‘All things in due process, brother. It is needless to invite the ire of Lady Penwood, even if she is truly mistaken.’
‘But she is lying!’
‘Can that be proven then?’ Anthony asks. ‘And even if that is the case, it is your mistress’s word against the word of a Countess.’
‘She’s not my mistress!’ Benedict snaps. ‘She is… she…’
His brother’s distress unnerves Anthony. He winces, discovering his assumption has offended his brother. It appears it has always been Benedict who provided him consolation when they were younger, rarely the other way around. Anthony himself is rubbish at this matter.
‘Alright. It is a rather precarious position for…’ he tries to find the right word, ‘... Miss Baek.’ Good enough. ‘But not unsolvable. It necessitates a private discussion with Lady Penwood. And if that fails, Penwood himself.’
Benedict does not look at him. His eyes are wide and wild, seemingly gazing at nothing at all.
Anthony shakes his brother, afraid he might not have heard him.
‘Brother. Benedict, listen to me. The right thing to do right now is return to Bridgerton House and inform Mother. As Miss Baek’s current employer, she can vouch for her character, among other things. We are not without resources to reach an agreement with Penwood, with everyone’s reputation intact. Benedict,’ he calls again, unconvinced of his brother’s attention. ‘Recklessness only makes things worse.’
‘The boy.’ Benedict blurts out, his voice so low Anthony almost doesn’t hear him.
‘What?’
‘The hackboy.’ Benedict gestures at the youth, who, after acquiring his due amount, finally moved to the side to make way for the stagecoach. He is staring at them with unabashed curiosity. ‘There must be something we can do for him and his family.’ Benedict says, ‘Covington will not forgive this slight.’
‘O- of course.’ A baffled Anthony stutters. ‘Wait a moment. Did you even register at all what I’ve said?’
‘Every word, brother.’ Benedict nods, sounding oddly calm. Thief. Swindler. ‘Talk to Mother. Negotiate with Penwood.’ He can hear them, in the distance, discussing animatedly what has just unfolded among themselves. Vulgar. Ill-bred. ‘You are right, of course.’ He concedes. ‘It should please everyone.’ A cacophony of conversations, flooding and dissolving into each other. A criminal. ‘Even those who don’t deserve it.’
Sophie Baek? Is she not the maid Lady Penwood dismissed for poor character? Such impudence.
Drip, drip, drip, into his ear like poison.
‘There is something else I must do before we go.’ Benedict turns on his heel and walks toward the crowd.
‘Brother.’ Anthony is clearly concerned.
‘Don’t worry.’ Benedict gives him a reassuring look, his voice still steady. ‘I am not being reckless.’
For in truth, Benedict is being more clear-headed than ever, as he approaches the crowd in composed, almost nonchalant stride. Only the convulsion of his fingers is evidence to his inner chaos.
The storm is held at bay, barely, by purpose and some forethought. He brings one hand to his collar, his thumb caressing the satin dome of the button there, where she once touched, where his skin still tingles. He anchors his mind to that memory, to her.
It will come, the storm, and soon, he knows it. But for Sophie’s sake, at this moment, he must keep his composure.
His eyes scan each and every familiar, well-polished face that populates the pond that was once his entire world. He watches the way those conceited demeanors turn cowed when they catch his sight, watches them shift uneasily in their spot. The image of a gentleman nary avoiding assaulting a constable before screaming bloody murder over the arrest of a mere maid must leave quite an impression.
Or perhaps there is something about Benedict presently, the way he holds himself, or a strange glint in his eyes, that unsettles them. Something akin to a beast unleashed.
‘Apologies, for having offended your senses.’ he addresses the crowd. A sharp coldness, rarely heard from Benedict, envelopes his perfect courtesy. ‘Regretfully, there has been a misunderstanding. The woman you just saw was arrested under false charges. Her name is Miss Sophie Baek. She is innocent.’
A beat. He lets the weight of his statement settle.
‘The constables have assuredly erred. I am confident they have mistaken their target with someone else. Either that, or the report they responded to is of dishonest nature.’
‘Was it not Lady Penwood who reported her?’ Someone wonders. ‘If I recall correctly, Sophie Baek was the very maid she warned us against hiring, was she not? An untrustworthy type?’
Benedict smirks, tasting bile on his tongue, finding an almost cruel sense of amusement in the irony.
‘Untrustworthy? Yet it required four maids to fulfill the obligations after her dismissal? I wonder how discerning Lady Penwood has been, to burden one person with the tasks of four. Pray tell, Lady Keswick, has Lady Penwood poached your former ladies’s maids with complete transparency?’
His words successfully shift the focus to where it should be. The question is not the dignity of the maid, but the conduct and intention of the Countess.
‘Regardless’, another chimes in. ‘This girl was under Penwood’s employment for years, and entered your House only some months ago. Mr. Bridgerton, how can you vouch for her?’
‘Whyever should I not vouch for Miss Baek’s character?’ Benedict grins. ‘She and I are to be married.’
‘Benedict!’ Anthony yells. Benedict ignores him, while the floodgates break wide open before his eyes.
‘Miss Baek saved my life.’ he goes on, Her morals are beyond reproach. As a matter of fact,’ he lowers his head, feigning humility, ‘it has not been an easy task, convincing such a saintly person to give her hand to someone of my tainted reputation. But I insisted.’ He smirks, his meaning crystal clear. Leave her name out of your disparagement. If you are to have any word against this match, fucking direct it at me.
‘Benedict, that is enough!’ He can practically hear the vein on Anthony’s forehead expanding.
‘You’ve heard my brother,’ he flashes an apologetic smile, ‘I am afraid we must away. It is unkind to bring further distress to our family in the time of mourning, having their future in-law in such a perilous environment. It certainly worries me a great deal.’
Benedict is grateful for the life he has been born into, for the family he was raised in. The last vestige of his hesitation was their well-being. He is more conscious than ever of the magnitude his actions might have on them, most immediately on his unmarried sisters’ prospects.
But his mind is made. For there is no other choice but Sophie for him. And so it will be Sophie, even if it means upsetting his family.
He trusts that in time, they will come to understand his decision.
‘I thank you for your concerns, as well as your well wishes for our upcoming nuptials.’ He bows, making his exit. ‘My bride is expecting me. I would rather not keep her waiting.’
