It is said that second-born sons have all the fun. This much is certainly true for Benedict Bridgerton, free from the burdens held by his eldest brother, the Viscount. One must wonder, how does the second eldest Bridgerton spend his time?
To the to...
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The days blended together as Benedict was forced to suffer through the same routine with each moment that passed. He would wake, and for a second, everything was fine. Inevitably, the cruel reality would come crashing down like a ton of bricks on his heart as he remembered. He got ready for the day, helped to get the children ready and downstairs for breakfast. He would check in on his mother, who lie in bed staring out the window, an empty and hollow shell of a woman.
He would talk to her for a few moments to keep her updated on Daphne's piano lessons, or Colin's learning to tie a tie. It broke his heart to see her this way, but he continued to try and make her smile, to no avail. He would entertain the children while Anthony remained locked in their father's study, working away at the funeral arrangements and the late viscount's finances. He would sit through family dinner, keeping a smile plastered on his face while his insides were crumbling.
Finally, he would retreat to his room, attempting to paint for a few hours. No painting seemed good enough to him, no shade of color adequate, no brush stroke sufficient. Nothing felt right anymore. He would inevitably cede in frustration, knocking his paints to the floor or chucking his canvas at the wall. He would cry, he had never cried this much in his fifteen years of life. Finally, he would sleep.
He relished the hours during which he was able to sleep, to escape to a world where everything was perfectly okay, where his father would greet him with a kind smile. Tonight, just as he was dozing off, he heard a tapping on his window. He groaned softly and stood, going to the source of the noise.
Opening the window, he looked down to see Madeleine with a handful of pebbles, ready to throw another before she saw his face appear in the frame. She gestured for him to come down and he shook his head solemnly, closing the window and retreating back to his bed.
Madeleine Sinclair, however, was too stubborn of a girl to give up so easily. So, she sighed and hiked up her dress. And as she had done only once before, she climbed the trellis to her friend's bedroom window. She tapped on the window again, pressing her face against it to see inside.
Benedict did not move, staring at the ceiling as he lay in bed. Madeleine rolled her eyes and began to knock louder, forcing Benedict to stand and let her in so she didn't wake anybody else.
Once inside, she immediately pulled her friend into a tight embrace. Benedict stiffened for a moment, before relaxing into her arms. Her eyes welled up with tears as she heard him begin to cry.
"There, there. It's all right, I'm here now. Come." She guided him over to the bed, the two sitting down as she continued to hold him while he cried. It was a heartbreaking sight, her friend in such pain while she felt helpless to do anything. All she could do was be there for him, as he had been there for everyone else the last few days.
After a while, Benedict took a deep breath and sat up, looking at his dearest friend. She gave him a sad smile, reaching up to wipe his tears with her gentle fingers. She held his face in her hands, stroking his cheek with her thumb.
