Love in Bloom (B. Bridgerton)

Chapter 9: I'm never gonna love again

July 5, 1814 - And, dear reader, you will be most unsurprised to learn that the Featherington sisters were seen wearing ghastly gowns at yesterday's ball. Indeed, one cannot fathom how the bright citrus hues can do anything for their complexion.

But there are more important matters to discuss. Miss Y/N Beaumont was, once again, notably absent from the Danbury ball yesterday evening. It seems her absence is becoming a recurring pattern, seeing how she has abstained from the previous five balls! Her presence is dearly missed by eager bachelors and ambitious mamas but by Mr Henri Deschamps the most. Miss Beaumont and Mr Deschamps had seemed to form an attachment in the past weeks, and he is undoubtedly disappointed that our elusive diamond has paused her social appearances. Perhaps we will not see a match for Miss Beaumont this season. But who will take her place as the diamond of the season? Surely not Cressida Cowper, whose dance card was utterly void of any gentlemen's names at Lady Danbury's abode last night.

"Y/N, you cannot be absent from yet another ball, especially when this one is being hosted by the Bridgertons!" scolded Primrose, completely exasperated as she stood with her arms crossed, looking at you on the couch a few feet in front of her.

She had hoped to have worn you down by now, but you were equally, if not more, frustrated than her, albeit for different reasons, so you had no problem letting out a loud groan and continuing the argument. Initially, it wasn't an argument at all but rather your mother softly suggesting that you get ready for the Bridgerton ball. But you were in the mood to pick a fight today. So the two of you continued snapping at each other, even though your voice was raw from raising your voice, and your throat was impossibly tight from the pent-up anger you were feeling. Though this anger was not necessarily aimed at your mother, she had been the unfortunate recipient of it by virtue of the fact that she had been the first person to talk to you today.

Nearly a week ago, you had sent Ben a long letter, hoping to at least be able to correspond with him like you did when he was at Oxford, even if you couldn't see him in person. Of course, you were careful to leave out any details of your search for a husband, which seemed to be at a definitive standstill at the moment. However, you had included every annoying interaction you had with Theo and Bastian, a lengthy analysis of a specific painting you had seen with your mother and Violet when you went to a gallery viewing, and a request for book recommendations from Benedict.

This morning, your four-page letter received a simple, two-line answer.

(Y/I),

Haven't been reading much, but will send over recommendations if I do. Tell Bastian and Theo I said to stop bothering you. I hope you're having fun in the city!

Yours, B

To say you were irate would have been an understatement. Holding the letter in your hands, having read it repeatedly, you didn't know whether to scream or cry. The letter had not been one of your most sentimental, to be sure, but you had expected something a bit more substantial than what he responded with.

Part of your disappointment came from your desperate need for some sort of intellectual stimulation since you fell out with Henri two or so weeks ago. After that fateful promenade, you were left with absolutely no desire to continue looking for a husband. The soul-crushing revelation that most of the men you danced with and received flowers from were not at all interested in who you were as a person left you completely deflated. Instead, men cared about your ability to procreate, which you didn't even know how to do, your appearance, and your willingness to become exactly who they wanted you to be. It seemed to you that in order to get married, you would have to leave behind who you were right now: a woman with interests and opinions and a rich inner life. You had expected to have to change slightly after marriage, meeting the demands of being a wife and mother. Still, you did not know the extent to which your personal identity had no weight to anyone other than, seemingly, yourself. In a way, you felt betrayed. By whom, you didn't know. Maybe society as a whole. In response, you had holed up in your home for the past two weeks, only speaking to your family, the Bridgertons and Penelope, if they stopped by, and generally avoiding other members of the ton.