#also featuring the headcanon that benedict has the utmost disdain for sophie’s father

[unfortunate-arrow]

Benedict and Hyacinth spending family time by painting. Thank you 💗

UFO (🛸) anon

“You’re predictable,” Hyacinth remarked, dropping onto the grass besides her second eldest brother.

“Huh?” Benedict asked, his gaze lifting from the portrait he was painting.

“You’re predictable.”

“What does that mean?”

“Every other painting or sketch is of them.”

Hyacinth gestured out towards the grass where the numerous Bridgerton grandchildren and some spouses were playing a game or something. Her brother was a talented artist, as evidenced by the fact that he had a few landscapes hanging in the National Gallery. Although, Hyacinth thought that they should hang one of his portraits, of his wife or children. Benedict was always drawing them.

“So?” Benedict asked, and she watched his eyes follow one of his sons, Alexander, perhaps or was that William?

“Well, you’re always painting them.”

“Again, what’s the problem?”

“Nothing. Nothing. It’s just interesting. They hang your landscapes, but not your portraits, which you obviously put a ton more love into. And your weird insistence on not having more portraits of one child.”

Benedict shrugged. “My children deserve to know that they’re seen.”

“Is that how Papa was?”

Benedict turned to look at her, placing his brush down onto the easel. He let out a slow breath.

“You know I look like him? Or so everyone says.” Benedict asked.

“Really?” Hyacinth met his gaze. If there was one thing that she always wanted to know more about, it was their father. She’d always felt a bit disconnected with her older siblings about that. They’d all known Edmund Bridgerton (and not Anthony’s son, Edmund), even Gregory, who didn’t remember him.

“Apparently. Mother always says so. I suppose it’s true. I am taller than him, though.”

“Who was he more like as a father? You? Anthony?” she asked, eagerly.

“I don’t suppose I know. Both of us, probably. We must have picked some of it up from him. Although, Sophie and I are certainly not having eight children. Charles, Alexander, William, and Violet are just perfect.”

“They are quite sweet. Mother was quite pleased when we received news of baby Violet. Not that she wasn’t pleased with the boys.”

Benedict grinned. “I wouldn’t trade my boys for anything, nor my baby girl. I couldn’t have asked for anything more perfect than the children Sophie gave me. You’ll feel that way, someday.”

“Probably. Although, didn’t you play a role in your children?”

“Yes. But Sophie did all the work in giving them life. So, really she gave them to me.”

“I don’t think four children sounds all that appealing, though.”

Her brother shrugged again. “Four’s our number. You’ll find yours someday.”

“Do you ever miss Papa?”

Benedict paused for a moment, his eyes darting away as shrieks of giggles came from the family. Hyacinth smiled, she loved her nieces and nephews so much.

“I do. Very much so. Not as much as Anthony though. But we were very lucky, Hy. Father was unconventional and he wasn’t afraid to show us that he loved us. Sophie’s father ignored her. He couldn’t have loved her. How the bloody hell could he have ignored her if he loved her?” His voice had turned bitter and slightly angry towards the end and after a moment, he winced. “Pardon my language.”

Hyacinth giggled. It was always fun when her brothers swore and then apologized. And this was not the first time that Benedict had snapped about Sophie’s father or Lady Penwood, but usually he was drunk.

“I wish I had known him,” she said softly.

“He loved you. He didn’t have to know you. He would have loved you from the moment Mother told him,” Benedict replied.

Hyacinth smiled, watching a small dark haired boy stumble up to them. Her brother hadn’t noticed, but it was always sweet watching her brothers with their children.

“Papa!” the toddler exclaimed, two tiny hands tugging on the leg of Benedict’s breeches.

“William! Hey, sweetheart,” Benedict responded, bending down to sweep the boy into his arms.

Hyacinth grinned wider as Benedict turned back to his painting, his youngest son on his hip. When she found a husband, she hoped that he’d be as good a father as her brother was to his children. Actually, as good as her eldest brother, too.