#taking the little benophie babies and hitting em with the angst fly swatter | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

holybatgirlz · 9 months ago

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but only far from home | Accidents, 1836 (Part I)

read here on ao3

Words: 6.3

Note: it should be noted this is a part of my benophie babies one-shot collection fic I have on Ao3. This took forever to complete, and I kept going back and forth about putting this idea with this fic collection or putting it as a new work.

----

“Charles, it’s going to be alright.”

“Miles, if you say that one more time I will strike you,” Charles grounded out at his cousin while the carriage they sat in jostled and jerked about on the uneven country road.

But Miles took no offense. He only sighed. “I’m just trying to help.”

The knot of guilt in Charles’ stomach only tightened.

“I know,” he replied, wincing at how his tone was harsher than he wanted. He tried to take a deep breath, to calm his nerves. Relax.

How could he relax? When the worst that could happen was about to befall him and his family. Could already have while he was traveling.

Gritting his teeth. “I just–”

I have to get home. Before it’s too late.

The words stuttered in his throat, clawing at his vocal cords in an effort to silence him. His breathing hitched, choking him. His throat was swelling up. His heart started racing as he began to panic over all that had been left unsaid. Every little mistake he’d made before leaving for Cambridge. It was all too much.

“Just breathe, alright?” Miles told him gently. “We’ll be there soon.”

Charles took another deep breath. They would. Thank God.

My Cottage. They were on route back to Wiltshire, as quickly as they could. Charles returned from morning classes to find Mr. Crabtree, the closest person he had to a grandfather, standing outside his lodgings. The older man had a concerned and serious look, which was not normal for the usually jovial groundskeeper, that had put Charles immediately on edge. Something was wrong. Something had happened.

There was an accident. Your father. They don��t know how bad it is–

He’d come to take him home, it was faster than sending another letter, like the ones sent to London and Scotland. To his Uncle Anthony, who could get Alexander and William from school, and to his grandmother who was visiting his aunt up north. But it would still take them a day or two before they arrived, his grandmother longer. Being at Cambridge, Charles had been the closest to home and Miles, who was in his second to last year at the university, had come with him when he’d found him panicking outside the dorms, Mr. Crabtree desperately trying to keep him from driving the carriage home himself.

His knee bounced up and down as the carriage continued its path into Wiltshire. A nervous habit he’d picked up from his father that he did whenever he was stressed. The ‘what ifs’ had taken over, controlling every thought he had. What if they were too late? What if he never got to apologize? What if he hadn’t been so stupid before he left? What if he’d just apologized? He couldn’t focus on anything except the guilt chewing on his insides.

You’re an arrogant ass who thinks he knows what's best for me. I hate you.

What the hell was wrong with him? The last conversation they’d had was an argument. The last thing he’d said to his father was to bugger off out of his life. That he was a grown man now and he didn’t need his father coming to his rescue. Didn’t need his father making decisions for him.

That he wished he would just die.

And over a girl. He had a vitriol fight with his father over a stupid girl the old man hadn’t approved of. A girl who Charles now knew didn’t even love him. Had never loved him. Had only been using him for her own selfish purposes. Something his father had warned him about, had been trying to warn him about when their fight had started.

Why had he been so stupid?

Passing by a field of apple trees, Charles recognized where they were. Realizing that they were close to home only increased his desperation to get there quicker.

He practically flew out of the carriage when it pulled up in front of the door. Miles hadn’t even had the chance to move from his seat. Mr. Crabtree was still climbing down from the driver’s box as Charles barreled into the foyer of his family home, running over the pebbled path and to the front door as fast as he could.

And straight into chaos.

He found the home filled with family members, the Cranes and Woodsons had already arrived due to proximity. His Uncle Hugh and Uncle Philip were down the hall in front of him, whispering to another man Charles recognized as the local physician, Dr. Wilkes. What they were saying, he couldn’t hear over the chatter going on around him. Too many voices were speaking at once.

Mrs. Crabtree was who he spotted next. He caught her moving around upstairs with one of the maids, carrying white sheet Charles saw had red stains on them as she ordered the servants about.

He quickly swallowed the bile he felt coming up his throat. Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Don’t panic.

Glancing around the doorways of the rooms, he finally spotted someone from his immediate family.

Violet, his baby sister, was sitting quietly on the settee in the front parlor, clutching her old, stuffed, rabbit teddy on her lap and sniffling, eyes rimmed red and dried up streaks of tears on her cheeks. Their older cousin Amanda had an arm wrapped around her, rubbing her shoulder and whispering to her, while his fourteen-year-old cousin Sophia clutched her small wrist, trying to assist in comforting his sister even though he could see she was shaking. Georgiana and little Penelope were sitting on the opposite settee, watching in quiet discomfort what was transpiring in front of them, his usually chatty cousins suddenly at a loss for words. And Georgette and John were sitting on the floor, keeping the toddlers Fredrick and Minty distracted. His younger cousins seemed unaware of the chaos going on around them as they quietly played.

“Charles?” he looked over and saw his Aunt Eloise come towards him.

“Auntie El,” he replied, quickly being embraced by his aunt in a hug.

His aunt gave him a tight desperate squeeze. “How are you?”

“I-I’m alright,” Charles answered hastily. “I-Where’s father? What happened?”

“There was an accident,” Eloise explained, shakily, beginning to tell him more than what Mr. Crabtree had although she seemed to look conflicted. “Your father was tending to one of the oak trees out back when one of the branches collapsed. He must have hit his head on the way down. The physician says his leg was crushed. Violet was with him and–”

“Violet saw it? I…What the hell was he even doing up there?” Charles asked in disbelief.

His question only set something off in Violet, who immediately burst into tears behind him, leaning forward and covering her face with her hands as she began wailing again. Amanda gently shushed her, pulling her closer and rubbing her hand up and down Violet’s arm, whispering to her that she was alright. That everything was alright. And Sophia began rubbing her back, whispering similar words as she tried to help Amanda calm his sister down.

Eloise put her hand on his arm, gently leading him out of the room.

“One of the kittens got up there,” she whispered. “Lettie said it had gotten stuck and your father went up to rescue it.”

Charles closed his eyes and took a deep breath, understanding immediately what had happened. Why it had happened.

Their barn cat, that lived out in the stables and had been nicknamed Beezelbub or Bee by Charles and his brothers (due to the cat's petulance for violence) had gotten pregnant by a local stray and given birth to five little kittens before he’d left for Cambridge. Kittens his sister had immediately fallen in love with and had decided to assist Bee in raising, much to the cat’s begrudging acceptance. Charles knew his sister would have been distressed if something had happened to one of them.

But his father shouldn’t have gone up to handle it, and not without help. If he was right about the tree his aunt was speaking about, the old twisted oak that barely got any leaves during the spring, his father should have never even dared go near it.

“That tree was old. Uncle Philip said the damn thing was rotted inside,” Charles told her, his nails digging into his palms. “He was supposed to have it cut down-”

“I know. I know,” Eloise gently cut him off. “But there is nothing we can do about it now.”

“Where’s mother?” he asked, realizing he had yet to spot her in the crowd of relatives. He had to find her. Had to find out if she was alright.

“She’s upstairs with your father,” his aunt answered.

With that knowledge, Charles immediately moved towards the stairs but Eloise grabbed the sleeve of his jacket, stopping him.

“Before you go up there, Charles. I want you to know, your father told me what happened between you two. Before you left.”

He swallowed, tensing, preparing for the judgment. He knew his father and aunt had always had a close relationship, and he expected her to side with her brother, to scold him for arguing with him, disobeying him, for saying what he said.

“It’s not your fault. None of this is,” his aunt said instead, giving his arm a squeeze. “We all say stupid things when we’re upset. No matter how this ends – and I pray this does not end horribly – don’t let yourself be haunted by it, alright?”

Charles dug his nails deeper into his palms, with enough force he was certain he’d break skin, but it was the only thing stopping him from breakdown right then and there. The words got lost in his throat again. All he could do was nod shakily to his Aunt Eloise, before fleeing upstairs to find his mother.

But he slowed down the closer he got to his parents room. The door was opened, light shining out into the hallway as Charles crept closer and closer towards it. He needed to check on his mother, but part of him did not want to go into that room. His father was in there as well and Charles couldn’t deny the fear that came over him, of seeing his father, in whatever state he was in.

His mother was the first one he saw, as he stopped in the doorway. Her back was turned to him, and she was sitting next to the bed in a chair leaning forward, her hand clutching one of her father’s and a handkerchief held tightly in the other. She was rubbing her thumb over his knuckles.

And his father was a sight. Paler than he remembered his mother being after she had Violet, when he snuck into his parents’ room one night to check on her while everyone slept. She’d looked like she was disappearing, fading away from sight. Her skin had taken a gray hue, beads of sweat rolling down as she’d fought off a fever that had almost taken her, while her honey golden curls were dull and flat. Her breaths coming out in short, pained puffs as if her lungs refused to take air. It had terrified Charles as a child, seeing his mother like that. Watching her groan in pain, with death itself hovering over her form.

But his father somehow looked worse.

The blankets weren’t covering one of his legs. He saw the exposed leg was wrapped tightly in bandages and pieces of cloth; wooden sticks placed around to keep the limb straight so it could heal properly. More bandages covered his head, a thick folded square of cloth against the area he assumed was where his father struck his head.

He looked halfway into a grave. Unmoving and eyes closed, he might as well have been laying in a coffin. Looking like his mother had all those years ago. The image of her had haunted him at times when he’d been growing and now he could only add this sight to it.

Charles suddenly felt like he was seven again. A terrified little boy who wanted his mother.

“Mama?” he asked quietly as he gripped the wood doorframe, trying to keep himself standing.

He didn’t think she’d hear him, his voice had barely been over a whisper, but his mother whipped around almost immediately, spotting him standing in the doorway. She blinked in surprise.

“Charles, hi,” she said softly, voice tired and horse. She got up quickly, moving slowly towards him.

He stepped towards her, seeking to give comfort but to also receive it, wrapping his arms around her as she did the same to him, smelling the lavender and vanilla soap his mother always used. The smell of home and comfort, of safety, as his mother clutched him tightly.

She was almost a foot shorter than him now, Charles had shot up like a beanstalk right before he finished at Westminster, as tall as his father now, and now he could rest his chin on her head, keeping her tucked against him protectively.

“Are you alright, darling?” she asked as she pulled away, giving him a once over.

“I’m fine,” he quickly assured her. “How’s father?”

His mother turned to look at their father, still laying on the bed, unconscious. “The doctor says we won’t know how bad it is until he wakes,” she told him with a disheartened sigh.

“How are you?” he asked next, noticing the blonde strands that had come loose from her pinned bun and the redness around her eyes.

“Oh, I’m alright,” she lied, forcing a smile as she patted his arm. “No need to worry about me.”

She stepped away from him, drifting slowly back to his father’s side and took her seat again, taking his father’s limp hand in hers once more, clutching it tightly. But his father remained undisturbed. His chest continued rising and falling. The only sign Charles had that the man was still alive.

“Alexander and William should be here soon,” he told her, not knowing what else to say. His mother hummed in understanding back to him, but her eyes never left his father. “Amanda and Sophia are keeping an eye on Lettie right now.”

She sighed. “Oh, Lettie,” she practically whispered as she moved to stand again. “I need to go speak with your sister. I need to check on her.”

Charles blocked her quickly, gently grasping her arms as he moved her back into the chair. “I’ll take care of that. Do you need anything? Food? Water? I can have Mrs. Crabtree prepare some tea? Do you want me to grab your shawl? You're knitting?”

His mother moved a hand to grasp his arms, giving it a squeeze. “You’re far too good to me,” she teased lovingly.

“Because you deserve only the best,” he told her.

She gave him another sad smile. Her eyes were shining with tears.

Then she sighed. “Charles, darling, we need to–”

Charles stepped away from her, before he could even tell himself not to. She looked like she wanted to have that conversation with him. The conversation he’d never thought he’d have, but he knew his mother well enough that even in her state she needed to talk about what would come next now. Needed to prepare him – prepare herself – for what might come.

For what she thought was coming.

But Charles didn’t want to have that conversation. He couldn’t.

“I’ll be right back,” he told her quickly.

“Charles, wait. We need to–” she started.

“Won’t be a minute,” he lied, before fleeing the room. His heart beating a panicked rhythm into his sternum.

He’d walked out of this house months ago, days after his blow up with his father, thinking he was a man. Believing himself ready for the world and all it had to offer, that he didn’t need to rely on his parents anymore. Didn’t need their guidance and aid. That he could take care of himself. But his father was right. He was still too green. Too arrogant. Cambridge had already told him that but now–

You think you can run a house? Take care of a family and manage income? You’re a boy. You’re not a man. Never had any hardship thrown at you the way your mother and I have. We both made sure you never would!

Benedict, please. Stop. Both of you, just stop!

What the fuck would you even know anyway!? You weren’t the heir father, just the second born with nothing to prove and nothing to do. Dropping out of the Royal Academy must have been so easy when you’ve got no expectations hanging over your head! No need to make a name for yourself when your family already did it for you.

Charles!

You think my life wasn’t impacted when my father died? You think things didn’t change for me because I wasn’t first in line like your uncle? That I didn’t have to grow up and cast aside my own dreams and desires for the sake of my family? You have no idea what that was like for me. No idea!

Gripping the banister, Charles took a deep breath, trying to shake the memory.

You’re an arrogant ass who thinks he knows what’s best for me. I hate you.

I hate you.

I hate–

“Charles? Is everything alright?” his Aunt Posy called up, snapping him out of his spiral. She was standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at him from where he was at the banister. Her hazel eyes wide with sympathy and concern.

No. No, he was not alright.

But he couldn’t break. Not now. Not ever.

It took him a moment to respond, swallowing down his fears before he could shakily answer back. “I’m fine, Aunt Posy. I…I’ll be down in a moment.”

—

It still took him a few minutes to compose himself before Charles forced himself back downstairs, taking each step one at a time. And the moment he was at the bottom, he was ushered into the kitchen by Mrs. Crabtree, forced to sit at the table and eat some of the stew she’d prepared. The old housekeeper fussed over him, talking about how he needed to keep his strength up and not be running around on an empty stomach. Wouldn’t do anyone any good if he got himself ill.

But Charles’ stomach was nothing but a tight knot of guilt. His appetite nonexistent as he sat at the table, pushing a spoon around the bowl. He’d been able to swallow a few spoonful’s before the nausea became too much for him to continue eating.

“Where’s Lettie?” he asked, as he rose from the table.

“She went outside to get some air,” his Aunt Posy told him gently as she helped Mrs. Crabtree with cleaning the dishes.

Without another word, Charles stepped out of the room and headed out towards the back door. It was open and he could see Violet a short distance away, sitting on one of the two swings their father had tied to the large oak trees close to the house. A matching set to the aged pair at the family home in London, of which one of the ropes had finally snapped and his uncle had yet to replace, leaving just the one hanging there now (much to his father’s and aunt’s annoyance).

Violet sat quietly, with the tips of her shoes pressing into the grass as she pushed herself sadly back and forth, head hanging forward as clutched the ropes and she stared quietly at the ground in front of her.

“Hey, cabbage,” he said gently as he stepped closer to the swing. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m alright,” Violet whispered, not looking up at him.

The rotted tree was ahead of them, right at the edge of the property, where it had always been, leading away from the small lake behind their house and to the wooded area that fenced the property. The tree had practically splintered apart from the collapse, as if it had been struck by lightning. The trunk brutally ripped open and exposed. The large branch his father must have been on when it collapsed was still ominously laying where it had landed on the ground. Mocking him.

And all he wanted to go was over and kick the damn thing until it was nothing but splinters, but he knew his sister was more important.

Even though he didn’t know what to say to her.

He slowly sat on the available swing. “Alexander and William should hopefully be here in the morning,” he said, absently. “I doubt Uncle Anthony and Aunt Kate will make any stops. They’ll probably try to come here straight away.”

Violet only hummed back her response, continuing her slow swings back and forth.

“Are you alright, Lettie?” he asked, hesitantly. “You don’t need to talk about it if you don’t want to but–”

“Why did you tell Papa you hated him?” Violet snapped at him suddenly.

Charles froze in surprise. “What?”

The arrow between his sister’s brows deepened as she glowered at him. She was furious at him, but her eyes were red rimmed and beginning to build with water once more.

“You said you hated him,” she repeated, voice cracking as she spoke. “Before you left. You said you hated him and wanted him dead. Why would you say that to him?”

You’re a fucking bastard of a father. I wish you would just die.

Charles was taken aback by his sister’s sudden anger, the furious accusatory tone she shot towards him. He’d thought it had only been him and his parents in the house that day. Violet had been an hour away at Romney Hall with William, since his parents had wanted to approach the subject with him privately.

But Alexander had been home that day, outside sketching where he’d stayed as the argument escalated. And given the row Charles had had with his father had turned into a shouting match, his brother had most likely heard all of it. Meaning his siblings had found in the aftermath, either directly from Alexander or from something as simple as overhearing their parents.

“I-I-” Charles stuttered, unsure what to say.

She was on him suddenly. Having left from the swing at his hesitation, Violet jumped up and gave him a harsh shove. She might have been half his size and only twelve, barely moving him, just enough for him to swing a few centimeters, but the force of the shove told him she was furious.

“Why would you say that?” she shouted in frustration, pushing at him again. Then again.

“Violet–” he started, reaching to stop her.

This time she whacked him, smacking her open palm against his shoulder. Charles was taken aback by her action, as was Violet, who had never gotten violent towards him before. She seemed surprised momentarily by what she’d done but had also realized it made her feel better.

So, she whacked him on the shoulder again.

“Why?” she was crying now. “Why would you be so cruel?”

He grabbed her wrists, and she grew even angrier, fighting against his grip as she yelled at him. But Charles held on, knowing he had to help his sister regardless of how painful her words were. Like little daggers into his already bleeding heart, but she was in just as much pain as he was, and he wouldn’t allow that to stop him from comforting her.

“Come here,” he told her, dragging her closer.

“No!” Violet shouted back, still struggling.

But Charles had no difficulty pulling her closer, wrapping his arms around her small frame and holding her close. Violet struggled against him, wriggling aggressively in his grasp, but slowly, very slowly, she began to relax and stop fighting him.

Keeping her tightly held in his grip, hugging her, Charles let her cry into his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, Lettie.”

“Why would you?” she cried, voice muffled and weak. “I don’t want him to die. I don’t want Papa to die.”

“I know, shh,” he told her, rubbing her back. “I’m sorry, Lettie. I'm sorry.”

She wasn’t fighting him anymore. Instead, clutching his jacket as she stood between his legs, leaning against while he held her tightly. Every cry, every weak, shaky breath, only sent a ripple of agony through him, that he only continued to suppress.

This was a nightmare. A nightmare he was praying he could just wake from.

—

There had been the briefest moment of hope that evening, after they’d all gone to sleep, that the nightmare would end. Without tragedy.

He’d woken, Charles’ father, for the briefest of moments. His uncle Phillip had been tending to him while the others slept, remaining by his vigil, when his father had suddenly jolted back to consciousness, confused and delirious, mumbling and moaning as he tried to move from the bed. He had no idea where he was or what had happened and while Phillip had tried to assist him, trying to get him to calm down so he could get Charles’ mother, his father had slipped back into unconsciousness in a matter of seconds.

There was nothing by the next morning. His father was still laying silently in the bed, eyes closed, body unmoving. They’d tried to rouse him but with no success.

And Dr. Wilkes had made it clear if he did not wake soon, to eat and drink, there would not be much any of them could do.

A dark cloud lingered over My Cottage, the mood somber and cold. No one knew what to say or do. No one spoke. And a literal dark cloud passed over outside too, as it had rained most of the day. Charles had spent most of the morning looking out over the fields behind their home as the rain pelted the windows. He confined himself to the library or his room, trying to stay away from his mother. Trying to avoid having that conversation.

And Lettie no longer seemed to be blaming him. She had yet to apologize for it though. Instead, she’d remained by his side, as if stuck to his hip. Her arms wrapped around him like she’d been glued to him, but Charles didn't mind. They kept each other company, even if they barely said anything.

His uncle Anthony and aunt Kate arrived with his younger cousins and brothers after lunch. And upon his arrival, his uncle immediately entered his mother’s study, with Philip, without saying a word of greeting to the rest of them. A severe expression on his face as he disappeared into the office. Both began pouring over the ledgers, rental agreements, and accounts, checking over the copy of the will kept in the house.

Preparing for the worst.

That evening, Anthony had taken him into the office. His mother was still upstairs, Eloise and Posy had been taking turns checking on her. With Kate now here helping as well, the three rotated from being by his mother’s side to watching the children and back again to his mother. But Hugh was taking his cousins back home, planning to return the next morning, and Amanda had taken her siblings back to Romney Hall, with Phillip planning to follow later that night.

“I know your mother has been keeping you up to date on all these matters,” Anthony told him as they sat in the office. Alexander was present as well, sitting in a chair next to Charles as their uncle stood before them in front of the desk, tense and terrified as he continued. “Frankly, she’s done a better job with handling all of these accounts than I ever had with my own.”

Charles couldn't help the slight smile that formed over the pride he felt towards his mother, but it dropped away quickly with what his uncle said next.

“There is nothing I can say that will make this easier, but if — and I say if — the worst befalls us in the next few days, I do not believe your mother will be in a position to handle these accounts for some time,” Anthony told him directly, swallowing down his own anxieties and fears as he spoke. “Your father and mother both stipulate in the will that if anything was to happen to them, I would handle My Cottage’s finances for the next few years. Something I’ve discussed with them before. And if something happens to your father I will handle these matters for the time being, with your mother, until you finish at Cambridge.”

Charles nodded.

Then, his uncle sighed. “Alexander, do you mind stepping out? I need to speak with your brother about something. Privately.”

Alexander nodded, looking rather unsure of it though, but saying nothing as he rose from his chair and left the room. Their uncle waited for him to close the door, taking a few additional seconds before he spoke.

“I’ve heard you and your father fought recently?” he finally remarked, a stern edge in his tone. His dark eyes bearing down on him.

Charles sighed. “Yes. We did.”

His uncle hummed. “About a woman?”

“Grace Beauchamp. She’s Baron Beauchamp’s daughter. She and I…” Charles took a deep breath. “We had a short courtship before I left. I…I planned to ask her to marry me, but my parents talked me out of it.”

“Alexander informed me your father did not approve of her,” Anthony commented, and Charles nodded. “He also said some curt words were exchanged between you two before you left.”

A muscle in his jaw tightened as Charles clenched his teeth together.

You don’t know a damn thing about the world, you immature, little git.

And you’re a fucking bastard of a father. I wish you would just die.

“Yes,” he replied, through gritted teeth.

“And this Miss Beauchamp? I take it she has since moved on? Quite quickly from what I’ve heard,” Anthony returned.

Married to a lord’s son. From what Lettie had told him in the letter she’d sent a month after he’d left for Cambridge. It was when Charles finally realized he’d been played. That she’d been stringing him along as a backup if her courtship with Gordon Hammershine didn’t work out. Not just as a backup, but to make Hammershine jealous too.

After he’d asked her to wait it out while he'd figure something out. While he got his parents to accept the match. He hadn’t even been gone long before the engagement was announced. The banns had been read and Grace was long gone now. Off on her honeymoon in Bath apparently before she and her new husband moved to London.

He should have known it would fail. If he’d asked her to marry him the last time he saw her, she would have said no.

And the signs had been there. The entire time.

Lettie had been the first to make her concerns known, telling him she thought Grace was cruel and insincere, that she did not like her. Her reasoning for her dislike being that she'd once seen Grace whack one of Farmer Joseph’s dogs after it had excitedly run into her path, but Charles dismissed it as his sister over exaggerating what she’d seen and heard.

While unsure at first about Charles’ relationship with Grace, Alexander hadn’t kept his feelings to himself after a local picnic they’d attended at the start of the summer, before Grace had left for the social season in London. He wouldn’t tell Charles what had been said, but he’d been upset about remarks Grace had apparently made about their mother to some of her friends. If he hadn’t been so lovestruck, Charles probably would have ended it there and then, but his brother could be a mummy’s boy at times. Fiercely protective of their mother, especially after both he and Charles had been made aware of the truth regarding their maternal grandparents, their true identities. Alexander disliked anyone who did not treat their mother with the respect he believed she deserved, and he could make assumptions too quickly about others because of it.

But when Charles looked back on it, Grace had made remarks about his mother to him as well. Pointed ones. Ones that had always irked him a way, made him feel like he was constantly defending his mother, no matter how many times Grace said she was only joking or that he’d taken her words out of turn.

She was once a maid? Well, she must have been incredibly lucky your father noticed her then.

Charles, I know your mother and father are happy. Your mother’s looks and charm play quite a role in that, I’m sure.

She’s quite the parvenu. Oh, don’t look at me like that. I meant it as a compliment. It’s quite impressive her jump up in society. Don’t you think?

Even William hadn’t liked her. And if the fourteen-year-old, laid back, devil-may-care William Bridgerton did not like someone, that was a sign something was wrong.

And Charles was certain Alexander had been the reason his father had gone against the match in the end. But his father had not liked the Beauchamps to begin with.

With four out of five of his relatives being against the match, his mother had done quite a good job at staying neutral for the majority of his courtship with Grace, trying to be supportive and telling him she would stand by him regardless of the decision he made. But after the fight with his father, she’d finally made her true opinion. The night before he left.

I know you love her, darling, but I do not believe she loves you the way you do her. Nor do I think you are your true self when you’re with her. A relationship built with love also needs honesty and trust, and while change always occurs with time, you should be changing for the better. Not because you have to appease someone.

She’d been the ones to sow the seeds of doubt in him. And Lettie’s letter had been the final nail in the coffin. Not that Grace had done anything to convince him to stay. She never wrote to him and had told him not to write to her lest they be caught. Said she’d wait for him as long as she could (which had been a week from what Lettie’s letter implied).

Charles had been heartbroken, but also ashamed. He felt like a fool and the realization that he had been wrong, that his father had been right, was tough to swallow.

“Yes. She did,” Charles admitted, tensely.

His uncle said nothing, only watched him with his arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the desk. While his face remained neutral and impassive, Charles knew his uncle was disappointed.

In him.

“There is no benefit in kicking a man when he’s already down,” his uncle told him. “I will assume you have since realized your errors.”

Charles nodded; jaw clenched tightly.

“I have,” he replied, keeping his eyes trained down.

Anthony looked as though he wanted to say something else, but no words came out. There was a sadness in his eyes now as he put his hand on Charles’ shoulder, giving it a quick squeeze before telling them he had to go help Phillip with another matter, leaving Charles alone in the room.

It wasn’t for long though. Alexander slipped into the room after his uncle departed, taking a seat next to him.

“What do we do?” he hesitantly asked after a few moments. Charles looked towards him. “What are we supposed to do if father dies?”

“He’s not going to die,” Charles told him.

“It’s been two days now, Charlie,” Alexander retorted, his face serious but his eyes revealing his panic. “You just started at Cambridge. I still have two years left at Westminster and William’s got six more. Mother and Lettie shouldn’t be out here on their own if-”

“He’s not. Going. To die,” Charles repeated, harsher this time.

Alexander watched him, quietly, but Charles couldn’t look him in the eye right now, not without seeing their father’s eyes staring back at him.

“You don’t know that,” his brother whispered.

Charles stared up at the wedding portrait hanging behind the desk. The one his father’s friends had done for his parents after they married. Unknown to most, his mother had been pregnant with him at the time, his parents having convinced him quite quickly after their marriage, but the painter had hidden the growing bump. She sat with her hands on her lap in the portrait, wearing a pale sage green gown with daisies pinned in her hair, as their father stood directly behind her, his left hand rested on her shoulder, proudly showing off the wedding band on his ring finger. Both were smiling. Almost twenty years younger than they were now. Happy and content with no idea where their life would go after the painting was done.

No idea it might end this week.

God, she was so happy. His mother. After everything she’d endured in her life, she was finally happy. His father too.

And now she might become a widow.

And his father might lose his life.

And the rest of them, fatherless.

Why the fuck had he said all those things to his father?

He sighed, leaning back in his chair forlornly as he continued staring at the portrait. Defeated by this point.

“No,” he admitted softly with despair. “No, I don’t.”

#benophie #benophie babies #my fics.#bridgerton #taking the little benophie babies and hitting em with the angst fly swatter #benophie babies fic #Charles bridgerton #my fic.

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silverhallow · 9 months ago