summary: the terrifying reality that you’re chasing the ghost of your father || warnings: angst, comfort, grief, daddy issues (in a way?) || word count: 1045 || masterlist
You’d heard the Mamas of the Ton discussing your family more times than you can count. But there were only a handful of times you’d been directly mentioned in those discussions.
The overwhelming majority of those conversations were comparing you to others, to your mother, your siblings and your father. It was when they talked about your father that stabbed a hole in your heart every time.
“She’s so obviously Edmund’s daughter; the spitting image.”
They whisper it when you attend your first ball out in society, after all your siblings had gone on to marry for love. A part of you questions if they whispered about your father then too but the prominence of the gossip makes you stumble. You were being compared to a man you had never known, chasing a ghost of the past that everyone except from you seemed to see.
You’d spent most of the next day hidden in Anthony’s study, sitting on the floor and staring up at your father’s portrait. You picked out every similarity you had, every difference sticking out like a sore thumb. How could you relax before you knew everything about him? Until you had memorised every corner of his face?
Your eldest brother had joined you in the early evening, sitting at his desk and watching you watch the portrait. His chest heaved with the weight of grief that would never shift. You spoke nothing and Anthony left you to your thoughts until the house quietened and the fire dimmed.
He stood from his desk and lowered himself to the floor beside you.
“People tell me I look like him. They say it’s an uncanny resemblance. Did they say that about you?” You spoke softly, turning to face him, finally breaking the contact between you and your father.
Anthony met your gaze. “They said it but not as much as they say it to you.” He paused, collecting his words. “It is true. You’re the most like him out of all of us.”
“A bit hypocritical, no?” It was strange that that was the only thought floating through your head. The person most like him never got to meet him.
“He would like you.” Anthony ignored the comment. “You’d be his little shadow, made of all the best parts of him.”
“I feel like I should be doing something… for him.”
Anthony smiled. “You are. You’re being you.”
He laced his hand with yours as you turned your gaze back to the portrait. The night waned on and the pair of you sat in silence, your head on his shoulder until sleep threatened to claim you and he sent you off to bed.
Anthony shared your concerns with Violet the next morning, half asking for advice and half hoping she would talk to you in a way Anthony couldn’t.
She joined you in the living room, sitting beside you on the chaise. “Anthony told me about yesterday.” She said gently, not wanting to push you.
You nod silently. “Mama-“
“You remind me of Edmund every day.” Violet whispered to you. “There’s so much of him in you that I don’t even think you’re aware of.”
You turn to her, brow furrowed. “Like what?”
“The way your eyebrows furrow when you’re thinking about something, like you are now. You get the same twinkle in your eyes that he did, the same smile, the way you pout when you’re trying not to laugh. And your laugh-”
You’re entranced with every word your mama shares about your father. And the more you listen, you come to the startling realisation that you’ll never be able to properly meet the man you share so much with. You wonder how alike you truly are, and how much more alike you would be if he had lived on to raise you.
“I am sorry.”
“What?”
Violet explained herself. “You’ll never truly know him, beyond what we can tell you. There is no way to compare our memory to who Edmund truly was. I am so sorry that was taken from you.”
You bite back tears, rubbing circles in the inside of your wrist to calm yourself. “It’s alright.”
“It shouldn’t be.”
“But it has to be.” You shot back. “I would rather have your memories of Father than nothing at all and although nothing can replace him, you and Anthony have raised me to make him proud. And he would be- proud. He’d be proud of you.”
Now Violet was the one biting away the tears, smiling with a watery chuckle as she pulled you closer. She cradled you in her arms, tucking you under her chin. “He would.” She agreed. “He would be proud of everything.”
When your tears had dried and Violet isn’t clinging to you like you’ll disappear, she stands and motions for you to follow her. She leads you to a spare study you thought was empty or used by one of the valets. Slowly, she pushes the door open with a creak and lights a candle to light the room.
Everything is covered in white cloths or binded into piles to stop the dust from getting on them. Mama starts to look for something, lifting piles and peeking into their contents until she seemingly finds what she wants.
“Everything in here belonged to your father.”
The truth comes like a punch, the knowledge that you are standing surrounded by all of his things.
“And these-“ She holds out a bundle of notebooks, unwrapped from their binding. “-are your father’s journals.”
“For me?” The fact that she trusts you with them speaks volumes.
“You will never get the chance to know your father. I’m hoping that through his journals, you can get even a glimpse of him. Anything in this room is yours as much as it was his.”
The tears spring up again before you can stop them and you let them run down your face freely. “Mama-“
“I know.” She gently rubs your shoulder as she brushes past you to leave. “You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted you to know it’s all here for when you’re ready.”
Just as she reaches the doorway, you turn and choke out a small, “Thank you,” your father’s journals clutched to your chest like a lifeline.
summary: as the last bridgerton sibling to enter society, you constantly feel the pressure from the success of your sibling's marriages. the feeling that you can never live up to their expectations can only be quelled by the love of a man who understands you, beyond your family || warnings: slight familial angst, period-sexist men || word count: 1466 || masterlist
Growing up the youngest in a bustling house is loud. But watching as your siblings marry and more out and start their own family is worse. Because it gradually gets more and more quiet. Until one day you wake up and the house is so silent that you can hear your own thoughts for the first time.
You've been surrounded by your family your whole life, and now they no longer live in Bridgerton House, you're surrounded by their names spoken by society in reference to you. They begin at your very introduction to society, as your presented to the Queen, Kate by your side.
A man at the side of the ballroom whispers as you leave, "She's not quite as pretty as the other Bridgerton girls, is she? Not the eldest at least." He was old enough to be your father twice over, greys covering half his head and skin sagging against his muscles.
The comment sends a needle into your heart. It's only the first needle prick of the season as you become more and more of a pin cushion. You spend every ball and event with elderly and older men fawning over you and drooling at the thought of having one of the Bridgerton's as his own. The thought makes you want to be sick.
What's even worse is that they don't even try to hide it. During dances, during discussions, they talk about your family to no end, they breathe your sibling's achievements and beauty while saying nothing of you. They ask no questions of you, your interests or your wishes.
There's a sudden decision halfway through your waltz that you have to make a decision about your own life. You can't let your family's history dictate your entire future. And you certainly can't sit around waiting your future to come to you. And as you finally reject the next ugly and self-centred bachelor, Kate beside you smiles widely and squeezes you hand, gently leading you away from the mob of seniles.
"I’m not doing this anymore." It’s spoken as a whisper, a moment of weakness only Kate was meant to hear.
"Then we don’t do this anymore," she gently says, hand looping into yours for a brief second.
It’s in the new moments, the quiet seconds at the edge of a dance floor with no elderly men asking you to dance that you are approached by someone you’ve never really seen before.
"How has a beautiful woman such as yourself avoided the dance floor? Surely every eligible bachelor is thirsting for your hand?"
He’s young, that’s the first thing you notice, not greying and rotund from years of alcohol, but young and fresh and vibrant. The second thing you notice is his eyes, and the way they look only at you. They don’t flicker away to other debutants or men of society, they don’t dull at the sound of your voice, they don’t shy away when you proudly meet his gaze. In fact, it’s you who shies away, his eyes a piercing shade that you feel within your very soul.
"How has a handsome man such as yourself avoided the mama’s begging for a dance for their daughters?"
At the sound of your words, the man actually laughs, not out of pity or duty, but out of joy. He clears his throat, ears tipped pink as he brushes a hand through his hair to hide them. "If I am honest, I am lucky to escape, but it seems I have landed in good company, Miss?"
You hesitate slightly before saying your name, half terrified that the genuineness in his eyes will vanish at the mention of Bridgerton. But, by some miracle, or fate, to something even greater, his eyes don’t change. He doesn’t even seem to react to the title.
Instead, he offers his hand, places a gentle kiss upon yours. "Lord James Harding. It is my immense pleasure to meet you Miss Bridgerton."
The two of you don’t share a dance. Instead you stand at the edge of a ballroom, shrouded half in the shadow of other people and half standing the the sheen of moonlight through a window. You spend almost the entire night simply talking to him.
However, by a miracle or insistence of fate, the topic of conversation never falls to your family. It flaunted past future families of their own but never fell into the trap of each Bridgerton sibling and their exploits. With James you feel new. You don't feel like the youngest discard of a family of perfection.
Kate notices, of course she does.
She sees your absence from the dancefloor, seeing you standing closer to a strange man than she'd ever seen you. Despite the social expectations, she doesn't step closer to chaperone, she doesn't try to push the pair of you apart. But there's a small mention that she lets slip to her husband late at night.
"Your sister seems very comfortable with her suitor."
Anthony's head snapped to attention. "Her suitor? Y/N has a suitor. He hasn't come to the house."
"She seems smitten with him, even if she isn't aware of it."
And with the simple conversation, breakfast the next morning explodes. Anthony sits down with his paper, Kate by his side. And when you finally emerge from your bedroom, hair still frizzy with sleep, he speaks. "You haven't received any flowers this morning sister."
It's as soon as it leaves his lips that he realises how unkind his words were. Kate folds the newspaper that she was reading, whacking Anthony over the head with a gaze that told him to stop talking.
"I only mean-"
"Anthony."
"Yes my love. Kate mentioned the suitor you seem rather attached to. I just found it strange that he hadn't sent any courting gifts to the house." He reasoned and you can feel the blood rushing to your face at the mere mention of James.
You had discussed his desire to send you gifts but wanting them to be far more personal than a bouquet of flowers. Instead he sneaks you crystal trinkets and chains and charms in the pockets of his jackets, wrapping them around your wrists and hair of an evening.
"Why does it matter?"
"If he is true with his intentions for your hand then he should be courting you sister, are you sure he's genuine."
You sigh, trying to eat breakfast to avoid the conversation. "No one's ever done anything normal in this family, why should it start now?"
Kate tuts at you, turning her attention back to her news as Anthony seems to age before you eyes. "Mother, help me with this."
Violet, who had just arrived to the house pauses in the doorway, "Is this about Lord Harding?"
"You know his name!" Anthony cries.
Violet's smile is full of mirth, "Believe it or not Anthony,, my daughter does talk to me about these things."
"Why am I the only on not in the loop?!"
Your eyes stay locked on the tablecloth as you retort, "You were never the most observant..."
"But why do you not care that this man doesn't send you flowers, or cards. He doesn't visit. How can you know that he has intent?" His rambling becomes more and more incensed with passion as he continues.
"Anthony-"
"You speak to his a few times at a ball or two. Do you even dance? What do you talk about? Do you really trust this man Y/N, how can you trust a man you don't know? We need to meet him. I need to meet his is he wants you hand in marriage or anything close to the sort. Why hasn't he visited the house? He hasn't even introduced himself to me. I'm Lord Bridgerton!"
"James doesn't care that I'm a Bridgerton!" You burst out, finally admitting the reason he'd gained your trust and respect so quickly.
The cacophony of noise almost deafened you. But you shut it down with a glare at Anthony.
"Lord Harding doesn't try to force me to be something I am not. He doesn't force me to be a perfect Bridgerton. He doesn't even care that I'm a Bridgerton. All he asks that I be me!"
Silence carves a path. It weaves into the corners of the room, rising to the ceiling.
Violet smiles, as she often does, knowing her children better than they know themselves. "Do you love him?"
For a bizarre reason, the term love had never settled deep within your mind before. And faced with the reality of your situation, you freeze. But everyone is staring at you, waiting for an answer.
You take a steadying breath before you gently say, "I don't know yet."
