“Far.”
“A little bit far or quite a lot far?”
Benedict was convinced that no man of his age and reputation had ever had such a conversation with his mother, but he nonetheless answered, “Quite a lot.”
“I see. Well, I would have to say ...” She chewed on her lower lip for a moment before continuing. “I would have to say,” she said, slightly more forcefully (although not, if one was judging in absolute terms, forceful at all).
“I would have to say,” she said for a third time, “that I love you very much and will support you in all things.” She cleared her throat. “If indeed we are talking about you.”
It seemed useless to deny it, so Benedict just nodded.
“But,” Violet added, “I would caution you to consider what you are doing. Love is, of course, the most important element in any union, but outside influences can put a strain on a marriage. And if you marry someone of, say”—she cleared her throat—”the servant class, then you will find yourself the subject of a great deal of gossip and no small amount of ostracism. And that will be difficult for one such as you to bear.”
“One such as me?” he asked, bristling at her choice of words.
“You must know I mean no insult. But you and your brothers do lead charmed lives. You’re handsome, intelligent, personable. Everyone likes you. I cannot tell you how happy that makes me.” She smiled, but it was a wistful, slightly sad smile. “It is not easy to be a wallflower.”
And suddenly Benedict understood why his mother was always forcing him to dance with the girls like Penelope Featherington. The ones who stood at the fringes of the ballroom, the ones who always pretended they didn’t actually want to dance.
She had been a wallflower herself.
It was difficult to imagine. His mother was hugely popular now, with an easy smile and piles of friends. And if Benedict had heard the story correctly, his father had been considered the catch of the season.
“Only you will be able to make this decision,” Violet continued, bringing Benedict’s thoughts back to the here and now, “and I’m afraid it won’t be an easy one.”
He stared out the window, his silence his agreement.
“But,” she added, “should you decide to join your life with someone not of our class, I will of course support you in every possible manner.”
Benedict looked up sharply. There were few women of the ton who would say the same to their sons.
“You are my son,” she said simply. “I would give my life for you.”
He opened his mouth to speak but was surprised to find that he couldn’t make a sound.
“I certainly wouldn’t banish you for marrying someone unsuitable.”
“Thank you,” he said. It was all he could manage to say.
Violet sighed, loudly enough to regain his full attention. She looked tired, wistful. “I wish your father were here,” she said.
“You don’t say that very often,” he said quietly.
“I always wish your father were here.” She closed her eyes for a brief moment. “Always.”
And then somehow it became clear. As he watched his mother’s face, finally realizing—no, finally understanding— the depth of his parents’ love for one another, it all became clear.
Love. He loved Sophie. That was all that should have mattered.
He’d thought he’d loved the woman from the masquerade. He’d thought he’d wanted to marry her. But he understood now that that had been nothing but a dream, a fleeting fantasy of a woman he barely knew.
But Sophie was...
Sophie was Sophie. And that was everything he needed.
* * *
Sophie wasn’t a great believer in destiny or fate, but after one hour with Nicholas, Elizabeth, John, and Alice Wentworth, young cousins to the Bridgerton clan, she was beginning to think that maybe there was a reason she had never managed to obtain a position as a governess.
She was exhausted.
No, no, she thought, with more than a touch of desperation. Exhaustion didn’t really provide an adequate description for the current state of her existence. Exhaustion didn’t quite capture the slight edge of insanity the foursome had brought to her mind.
“No, no, no, that’s my doll,” Elizabeth said to Alice.
“It’s mine,” Alice returned.
“It is not!”
“Is too!”
“I’ll settle this,” ten-year-old Nicholas said, swaggering over with his hands on his hips.
Sophie groaned. She had a feeling that it was not a terribly good idea to allow the dispute to be settled by a ten-year-old boy who happened to think he was a pirate.
“Neither of you will want the doll,” he said, with a devious gleam in his eye, “if I simply lop off its—”
Sophie leapt to intervene. “You will not lop off its head, Nicholas Wentworth.”
“But then they’ll stop—”
“No,” Sophie said forcefully.
He looked at her, obviously assessing her commitment to that particular course of action, then grumbled and walked away.
“I think we need a new game,” Hyacinth whispered to Sophie.
“I know we need a new game,” Sophie muttered.
“Let go of my soldier!” John screeched. “Let go let go let go!”
“I’m never having children,” Hyacinth announced. “In fact, I may never get married.”
Sophie forbore to point out that when Hyacinth married and had children, she would certainly have a flotilla of nurses and nannies to aid her with their keeping and care.