sisters and be immediately surrounded by the next generation of offspring. They would tug on his leg, shriek, “Uncle Michael!” and howl with laughter when he would toss them in the air, always begging for one more minute, one more twirl, one more secret peppermint candy.
The Bridgertons were marvelously fertile. They all seemed to produce exactly the number of offspring they desired. And then perhaps one more, just for good measure.
Except Francesca.
Five hundred and eighty-four days after her thirty-third menses, Francesca stepped out of the Kilmartin carriage and breathed the fresh, clean air of the Kent countryside. Spring was well under way, and the sun was warm on her cheeks, but when the wind blew, it carried with it the last hints of winter. Francesca didn’t mind, though. She’d always liked the tingle of a cold wind on her skin. It drove Michael mad—he was always complaining that he’d never quite readjusted to life in a cold climate after so many years in India.
She was sorry he had not been able to accompany her on the long ride down from Scotland for the christening of Hyacinth’s baby daughter Isabella. He would be there, of course; she and Michael never missed the christening of any of their nieces and nephews. But affairs in Edinburgh had delayed his arrival. Francesca could have delayed her trip as well, but it had been many months since she had seen her family, and she missed them.
It was funny. When she was younger, she’d always been so eager to get away, to set up her own household, her own identity. But now, as she watched her nieces and nephews grow, she’d found herself visiting more often. She didn’t want to miss the milestones. She had just happened to be visiting when Colin’s daughter Agatha had taken her first steps. It had been breathtaking. And although she had wept quietly in her bed that night, the tears in her eyes as she’d watched Aggie lurch forward and laugh had been ones of pure joy.
If she wasn’t going to be a mother, then by God, at least she would have those moments.
She couldn’t bear to think of life without them.
Francesca smiled as she handed her cloak to a footman and walked down the familiar corridors of Aubrey Hall. She’d spent much of her childhood here, and at Bridgerton House in London. Anthony and his wife had made some changes, but much was still just as it had always been. The walls were still painted the same creamy white, with the barest undertone of peach. And the Fragonard her father had bought her mother for her thirtieth birthday still hung over the table just outside the door to the rose salon.
“Francesca!”
She turned. It was her mother, rising from her seat in the salon.
“How long have you been standing out there?” Violet asked, coming to greet her.
Francesca embraced her mother. “Not long. I was admiring the painting.”
Violet stood beside her and together they regarded the Fragonard. “It’s marvelous, isn’t it?” she murmured, a soft, wistful smile touching her face.
“I love it,” Francesca said. “I always have. It makes me think of Father.”
Violet turned to her in surprise. “It does?”
Francesca could understand her reaction. The painting was of a young woman holding a bouquet of flowers with a note attached. Not a very masculine subject. But she was looking over her shoulder, and her expression was a little bit mischievous, as if, given the correct pro-vocation, she might laugh. Francesca could not remember much of her parents’ relationship; she had been but six at the time of her father’s death. But she remembered the laughter. The sound of her father’s deep, rich chuckle—it lived within her.
“I think your marriage must have been like that,” Francesca said, motioning to the painting.
Violet took a half step back and cocked her head to the side. “I think you’re right,” she said, looking rather delighted by the realization. “I never thought of it quite that way.”
“You
The Bridgertons were marvelously fertile. They all seemed to produce exactly the number of offspring they desired. And then perhaps one more, just for good measure.
Except Francesca.
Five hundred and eighty-four days after her thirty-third menses, Francesca stepped out of the Kilmartin carriage and breathed the fresh, clean air of the Kent countryside. Spring was well under way, and the sun was warm on her cheeks, but when the wind blew, it carried with it the last hints of winter. Francesca didn’t mind, though. She’d always liked the tingle of a cold wind on her skin. It drove Michael mad—he was always complaining that he’d never quite readjusted to life in a cold climate after so many years in India.
She was sorry he had not been able to accompany her on the long ride down from Scotland for the christening of Hyacinth’s baby daughter Isabella. He would be there, of course; she and Michael never missed the christening of any of their nieces and nephews. But affairs in Edinburgh had delayed his arrival. Francesca could have delayed her trip as well, but it had been many months since she had seen her family, and she missed them.
It was funny. When she was younger, she’d always been so eager to get away, to set up her own household, her own identity. But now, as she watched her nieces and nephews grow, she’d found herself visiting more often. She didn’t want to miss the milestones. She had just happened to be visiting when Colin’s daughter Agatha had taken her first steps. It had been breathtaking. And although she had wept quietly in her bed that night, the tears in her eyes as she’d watched Aggie lurch forward and laugh had been ones of pure joy.
If she wasn’t going to be a mother, then by God, at least she would have those moments.
She couldn’t bear to think of life without them.
Francesca smiled as she handed her cloak to a footman and walked down the familiar corridors of Aubrey Hall. She’d spent much of her childhood here, and at Bridgerton House in London. Anthony and his wife had made some changes, but much was still just as it had always been. The walls were still painted the same creamy white, with the barest undertone of peach. And the Fragonard her father had bought her mother for her thirtieth birthday still hung over the table just outside the door to the rose salon.
“Francesca!”
She turned. It was her mother, rising from her seat in the salon.
“How long have you been standing out there?” Violet asked, coming to greet her.
Francesca embraced her mother. “Not long. I was admiring the painting.”
Violet stood beside her and together they regarded the Fragonard. “It’s marvelous, isn’t it?” she murmured, a soft, wistful smile touching her face.
“I love it,” Francesca said. “I always have. It makes me think of Father.”
Violet turned to her in surprise. “It does?”
Francesca could understand her reaction. The painting was of a young woman holding a bouquet of flowers with a note attached. Not a very masculine subject. But she was looking over her shoulder, and her expression was a little bit mischievous, as if, given the correct pro-vocation, she might laugh. Francesca could not remember much of her parents’ relationship; she had been but six at the time of her father’s death. But she remembered the laughter. The sound of her father’s deep, rich chuckle—it lived within her.
“I think your marriage must have been like that,” Francesca said, motioning to the painting.
Violet took a half step back and cocked her head to the side. “I think you’re right,” she said, looking rather delighted by the realization. “I never thought of it quite that way.”
“You
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