𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐇 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐒 | benedict bridgerton

►cinq étapes du deuil

Marie felt a reckless numbness - not anything calm or peaceful. The pain was erratic, it attacked every nerve in her body. She felt alone. Her house was empty without Bea, despite however made maids and chefs walked through the bustling hallways of her house. She'd formed a special connection to the maid, like a family-type love. Bea was always there for when she had problems from art-block to crying over Benedict. Marie had felt she was so self-absorbed with her own love life that she couldn't see the simple symptoms of scarlet fever. The rash. The coughing and sneezing. 

To begin with, Marie would look at the door every time footsteps sounded, hoping they were the tinkling quick steps of Bea, praying she would round the corner with her deep brown hair and dopey eyes. Her bright smile with had a hint of mischief in it. Her stubborn eyebrows which never left her face. Whistling a soft tune as she cleared up Marie's acrylic mess and sprayed the room with pine in order to mask the masculine smell. 

Next was the anger. Red hot rage. Marie ripped up paintings, smashed teacups, threw paint everywhere. "IT'S NOT FAIR!" She screamed at no one in particular, tears streaming down her flushed face. Her cheeks were red and hot, patchy splotches of heat covering her neck as she cried, collapsing on the floor as she smashed pottery into smaller pieces. Benedict let himself in, finding her asleep next to the shards and picking her up. He'd taken her to the bedroom, cleaned her bloodied hands with a cloth lightly and pulled her into his chest. He'd stroked her face until she was deep in slumber, practising his plaiting skills on her brown locks. Benedict knew that one of the things she missed most was the way Bea did things, and as of having four sisters he already knew how to braid. He started practising the styles he remembered Marie having at balls where they fought, where he committed her whole appearance to memory. 

The next stage of her grief was bargaining. Marie started painting more, hoping she would do something to make herself feel better. She ignored the ignorant hole which wormed its way through her chest as she scraped the acrylic onto the glass palette. She decided to draw Bea's face on a canvas, painting it intricately to make sure every bit of life which Bea put into this world was preserved onto the piece of paper. The memory of her soulmate would live on. Her best friend, her only true friend - gone. "I don't want to forget you," Marie whispered, choking back tears as she brushed her finger down the wet paint. She picked up a cup of tea, staining the pottery with her messy hands, and shakily brought it to her mouth. She sipped the scalding liquid and ignored her tears. It wasn't the same. Nothing was the same. Marie had refused another maid however her Godmother had sent one anyway. Her name was Yasmin. She was relatively pretty albeit she was nothing like Bea. She obeyed every order Marie gave, she apologised even if it wasn't her fault and actually left Marie alone when she asked - Bea would've forced the source of sadness from Marie's lips. 

Next was depression, the stage Benedict felt most vulnerable in. He was turned away by Yasmin every time he went to her house. The love of his life had locked herself away and refused to do anything but sit at the window and stare. She would wake up, have a bath - although it pained her to do it alone - leave her hair dripping down her silk nightdress and then sat in front of the French windows, staring out as the bustling street came to life. Beggars sat by the edges of the street, invisible to the tough farmers who pushed workload down the street. These men dodged the middle class men who ran to work in a late rush hour. They glanced at their cheap pocket watches hoping it would attract attention of longing middle-class women. Then, these men would step out of the way of gentlemen in their long hats and bushy moustaches. They marches down the street with a sense of authority, nodding at Lords who walked slowly, not needing to be anywhere due to their inherited fortune. No job to rush to. 

The great chain of being. The unfair social hierarchy. 

Marie was locked up for two weeks. Two weeks of solitude before Daphne barged past Yasmin in an unladylike manor and rushed upstairs, collapsing through the door. Her  face loosened in pity as she saw Marie sit upright on the chair, watching from the window in the same way she'd done for the prior fourteen days. "Marie, get up. You are coming to the Featherington's ball with me," Daphne decided, pulling the girl up from her seat. "I'm not up to it," Marie told Daphne, finally showing her face. Marie was nearly unrecognisable. Daphne could only think of one thing she embodied - grief. Mourning. 

"Listen to me Miss Howard," Daphne barked with unexpected roughness, "You are coming to this ball with me and then we are going through Bea's things together," Daphne eyed the box at the bottom of Marie's bed labelled 'BEA'. "No," Marie whined, moping as she tried to sit back on her chair. Daphne pulled her back and pushed her onto the bed where Marie flopped backwards. Daphne sighed, finally joining Marie in lying on the bed. "I'm going to get you ready and then you are going to come back and sleep and in the morning we are going through that box. I know Bea was like a sister to you and if you think for one minute she would want you mourning her life like this then it proves how little you truly knew about her," Daphne said, her statement making Marie finally leave her spacey world. "What?" She whispered, her voice breaking. "Bea would want you celebrating her life by drinking and laughing and loving. Not this grief shit," Daphne said, her language shocking Marie into some sort of new headspace. She turned to Daphne who looked hopefully. 

"Can you braid? I want my hair up."