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Anthony has always believed he was well-acquainted with grief - or at least, he has believed as much since he lost his father. He knows what it is to feel the raw wound of losing someone, to feel shocked and somehow detached from reality.
It’s worse when he loses Kate.
Sorry - it’s worse when he loses Miss Sharma. Or rather, when Miss Sharma dies, since she was never his to lose.
It’s worse because it’s so unexpected - even more unexpected than his father dying quite young. But Miss Sharma was still properly young, still a Miss, and she was perfectly healthy and active and sprightly until she was drowned when her ship was lost at sea. She was supposed to be travelling home to India and living an independent life as a governess - the life she wanted for herself.
Now she’s simply gone.
The worst part of all, of course, is that he has no right to be upset, that he must do his best to look unaffected. Miss Sharma and he were barely acquainted - or at least, that is the official story. He was engaged to marry her sister, last season, until she broke it off.
And the reason she broke it off? Ah yes. Because he was absolutely besotted with Miss Sharma.
So it’s an unpleasant situation to say the least. When his mother tells him the news, she at least does it in private. She’s a wise woman and understands it might affect him more than it ought. But he’s determined not to become hysterical or make a spectacle of himself over it.
He’s a Viscount, and he had no official connection with Miss Sharma, and so he must appear entirely unaffected by her death.
“What a shame.” He manages to hold onto his composure and say the proper words to his mother. “She was such a lively young lady. What a loss for her family - we should have some flowers sent to Mrs Bagwell.”
She raises her brows at him. “Is there anything else you wish to say on the matter? Perhaps you wish to ask more about the accident?”
“A ship lost at sea, you said.” He manages to sound quite detached, he believes.
“Yes, a passenger ship lost in a storm - hundreds of poor souls aboard. They haven’t identified many bodies yet, I understand, but Miss Sharma was on the passenger list so she’s presumed dead.”
Yes. Naturally. Obviously she’s presumed dead. Even a woman as remarkable as Miss Sharma can not swim her way clear of a shipwreck in a storm.
“It would be quite understandable if you are upset by this news.” His mother tries. “It’s shocking to lose an acquaintance so young, isn’t it? And - ah - I know you and she did get along quite boisterously, at times, last season.”
Yes. That’s one way of putting it. He accidentally fell in love with her, while she did nothing but argue with him and set his soul aflame. Is that the same as getting along quite boisterously?
Maybe it is, from where the chaperones sit.
“I’m quite alright, mother. We were barely acquainted. I am sorry for her sister’s sake - you know it has been important to me to maintain cordial relations with Mrs Bagwell.” She’s the woman he was actually engaged to marry, once upon a time.
“Yes. Indeed. As you say, we must send some flowers.”
“Yes. Flowers.”
A pause. A beat of silence. Anthony looks up at the portrait of his father on the wall and wonders whether he is destined to lose everyone he is so weak as to care for. If only he’d been stronger, if only he’d not given way to Miss Sharma’s charms, then he wouldn’t be stuck mourning a woman he has no right to care about now, would he?
He’s quite angry with her for that. His life would have been easier if she hadn’t made him love her despite himself, and if she hadn’t gone and died.
“Anthony? Are you quite sure you’re well?”
“Perfectly well. Thank you. If you don’t mind, I have some correspondence to deal with.” He says pointedly.
His mother takes his hint and takes her leave.
…….
He weeps a little that night. Just a very little, tiny burst of weeping. He thinks that’s fair enough - even the most respectable of gentlemen may well weep when the only woman he has ever loved has just been lost at sea.
He thinks she’s probably the only woman he will ever love, too. He can’t realistically imagine falling all over again, not when it was so much trouble the first time. She was quite a frustrating woman to love, and the whole situation was messy and troublesome, and really, he’d take it all back if he could.
He’d take it back, but he’d take her back, too, if she walked through the door now.
No. That’s silly. There was never a question of taking her back. She never expressed any serious interest in him - at first she was determined to keep him away from her sister, and then she was determined to push him closer. She never gave any sign of wanting him as a husband for herself. She seemed sort of drawn to him, perhaps, or attracted to him in a more superficial way.
But there was no substance to her affection for him. She was determined to sail home to India and never see him again, as soon as her sister was settled. Indeed, they have barely spoken all season - just a few awkward glances across the dance floor.
So he has no right to mourn her, now she’s dead.
All the same, he does mourn her. He does pay her the honour of shedding a few weak tears. He does what any man would do in this situation, too - he tortures himself with wondering what might have been, how he could have handled things differently. If he’d run after her, that day when he should have married her sister but kissed Miss Sharma instead, might they have ended up married? Might she have been safely in this very room as Lady Bridgerton rather than dead somewhere at the bottom of the ocean?
To ask himself such questions is a recipe for insanity. And anyway, it hardly matters, because it’s done now. All he can do is push aside his grief and carry on being the calm, dutiful Viscount everyone expects him to be.
Tomorrow. He’ll be that man tomorrow.
For now, it appears he might have to weep a little longer.
…….
The next day dawns, and Anthony does not suddenly pull himself together.
No - he makes quite a different decision, actually. He’s going to ride to Aubrey Hall.
That makes sense, he thinks. It will give him a little time and space for quiet grief away from the audience here in Town. He’d attract notice, if he appeared unhappy about the news here, but out in the country no one will remark upon his behaviour.
But his desire to keep up appearances is not the only reason he’s going. There’s another, more foolish reason why he’s desperate to flee to Aubrey Hall.
He wants to go back to the place he and Kate were happiest together.
It’s madness. It’s utter insanity. He and Miss Sharma were never happy together anywhere at all. But once upon a time, he does seem to remember the two of them endured a very odd hunting trip together, and played pall mall together, and fell in the mud together and laughed, covered in dirt. It’s the closest thing he can think of to a happy memory with the only woman he could ever love.
So he’s going to take himself home to Kent, and he’s going to kneel on a certain patch of mud not too far from his father’s grave, and he’s going to mourn a relationship which never really got off the ground.
“Are you sure you must ride out this morning?” His mother asks, when he tells her of his decision.
“Quite certain. I have a letter from my steward about the fences - they’re in a shocking state, apparently. I must go and see to it. You’ll all be quite alright here. Benedict can escort Eloise through the season well enough.”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
And then -
“You are allowed to mourn her, you know. I -” She frowns, tries again. “I have mourned your father these twelve years, and I’m still mourning him. I think you can permit yourself a few days to grieve Miss Sharma, even though you do like to remind me that there was never anything between you.”
“There wasn’t. I was engaged to her sister, if you recall.”
“Yes, dear. I think we all recall that. But you’re allowed to mourn the lady all the same.”
Hmm. Well. He’s not at all sure about that. And if he is going to make himself ridiculous by sobbing over a woman who ought to mean nothing to him, he’s damn well going to do it in private, thank you very much.
So he’s going to ride to Aubrey Hall, today. He ought to make it by dark if he changes horses at a couple of inns along the way. Indeed, if he’s really swift, he might even have time to put a little cross or posy of flowers or some such token on that particular patch of mud.
Yes. That would be fine. To put a posy on a corner of his own lands where no one will see it or remark upon it is perfectly acceptable behaviour.
He may have no right to mourn Miss Sharma, but he thinks he can permit himself to do that.
…….
He makes good progress, on the first leg of his journey. He’s rather motivated. He leans low over his horse’s neck, avoids the traffic carefully, and concentrates precisely on the road in front of him. It’s good to have a very focussed, fast-paced task like this to take his mind off his grief.
It’s difficult to wonder what his and Miss Sharma’s children might have looked like, if only she weren’t dead, while he’s concentrating on riding at top speed.
He’s an absolute fool. He comes to terms with that as he rides. He still maintains that love matches are essentially a daft notion, that emotions are more trouble than they’re worth, that duty is the most important thing in a man’s life. But he’s an utter fool for not trying to marry Miss Sharma anyway while he had the chance - while she was alive.
He could have at least asked her. It would have been better to make an attempt at securing the companionship of such a remarkable woman than it is, now, to know he will spend the rest of his life mourning her.
It would have been easier if he’d never fallen for her in the first place, of course, but evidently that wasn’t an option.
He arrives at the inn where he intends to change his horse for the first time. He often stops at this place and knows they keep a decent stable. He’s in the habit of often riding non-stop by himself like this if he needs to speed swiftly between London and Aubrey Hall for business.
And - this is sort of business. There’s a posy which requires his urgent attention.
He rides into the stable yard, leaps down from his horse. There’s a stagecoach just preparing to set out, and he almost bumps into the corner of it in his hurry.
“Damn it. Damn -”
“Lord Bridgerton?”
“Miss - Miss Sharma?”
No. This is simply impossible. It appears that a woman who looks like Miss Sharma has just greeted him by name, but that can’t be. She’s dead. She can’t be standing in a stable yard three hours south of London.
Unless -
“Are you a ghost?”
“A ghost? Whatever is the matter, My Lord?”
“Am I to be haunted by you, now? It’s fitting, I suppose.”
“I’m no ghost. I’m flesh and blood.” She says.
And then she takes his hand. Just as she did, on that frightening day with the bee, she takes his hand and lays it against her chest.
Hmm. That does feel like a heartbeat. She does seem solid beneath his hand.
“You’re - you’re not dead? We had word that you were dead. Your ship went down in a storm.”
“Oh! Oh heavens, yes, it did.”
“Then - how? Are you an incredibly proficient swimmer?”
“Not at all. I was never on board the ship. I booked passage on it, but decided at the last minute not to travel. That’s why I’m here. I decided to return to London instead.”
He ought to say something. He ought to say thank heaven for that, or express his sympathies for the dead, or tell her he’s pleased to see her.
He can’t do it. He’s utterly lost for words, overcome with relief and joy - and he ought to feel guilt, too. There are probably plenty of other folk left heartbroken over losing a lover in this disaster.
But because he’s a rather flawed sort of Viscount, he can only feel delight.
He abandons all attempt at speech. He simply reaches for her, wraps his arms around her, pulls her into an abrupt embrace. He’s still got his horse’s reins looped in one hand, and they’re still tucked tight against the rear of a stagecoach, but he honestly doesn’t care.
Kate’s not dead, and he’s quite overcome by the magnitude of that news.
He’s never embraced her quite like this before. He’s taken her hand several times, kissed her on that one memorable occasion. But this is better, he decides, quite apart from the relief of finding her alive. It’s the best sort of contact of all, to have the whole of her wrapped up in his arms like this.
“I thought you were dead.” He manages to whisper the words against her hair.
“Yes. So much is becoming clear to me.”
“Ma’am? The stagecoach, ma’am? We’re about to leave.” A voice interrupts the reunion, all brusque and annoyed.
She pulls away, and Anthony reluctantly lets her go.
“Don’t leave. Not yet - please.” He abandons his dignity and begs her. “We have so much to discuss. And - frankly - I’m quite overcome with the shock of this. Won’t you stay and have a bite to eat with me? We can hire a carriage to return to Town.”
“You’re going that way?”
“Well - I wasn’t. I will. It’s complicated. Please might we sit down together and I’ll tell you everything?”
“Yes. Of course. I - there are - that is to say, I ought to explain some things to you, too.”
Yes. She ought to explain how the hell she’s still breathing, how on Earth he has had this stroke of good luck. For the first time in his life he feels quite utterly blessed. That’s a selfish way of looking at it, perhaps, and he hopes to have more perspective on the matter later.
But for now, he’s too busy rejoicing in this second chance.
They manage to start moving, then. He has her luggage removed from the stagecoach, has his horse stabled, leads the way inside the inn. He manages to ask for two plates of whatever food is on offer and a private dining room to eat them in.
“A private dining room?” Kate - Miss Sharma - repeats back to him, in a whisper, after the innkeeper has shown them into it.
“Yes. I’d rather half of Kent was not watching me make an emotional fool of myself.” He mutters, somewhere between cross and nervous and fond. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I was rather upset when I thought you had passed away.”
“Yes. It does seem that way. I am - ah - sorry to have caused you such distress?” She tries.
“Hmm. Hardly your fault.”
“I didn’t realise the news about the ship would beat me back to London. I might have tried to travel faster if I had known, so as to spare everyone the worry. But I suppose I wasn’t thinking of that - it was all quite a sudden decision.”
“So why did you change your mind?” He asks. He doesn’t think of her as a particularly impulsive woman, and he certainly can’t imagine her wasting the price of her passage on a whim.
A pause. She looks up at him, down at the table, out the window. She takes a deep breath, lets it out, takes another.
“Kate?” He dares to ask, dares to use her actual name.
“I decided that returning to India probably wouldn’t bring me happiness. It - ah - it made me feel like I was running away.” She takes another loud breath. “I felt I was running away from you, and that seemed cowardly and - and foolish, really. It wouldn’t have helped.”
It wouldn’t have helped. What does she mean by that, exactly? Where is she going with this?
What can he do, to help her along the way?
“So - were you hoping to encounter me again in London?” He dares to ask. She has seemed to keep her distance from him, this season, so he’s rather puzzled by her implication.
“Yes. Of course.” She takes an audible breath. “I determined that avoiding you was not the most sensible way of reacting to my… fondness for you. I decided that I ought to return and see whether you felt something similar.”
He grins. He can’t help it. That’s a fairly natural reaction, he thinks, to learning that the love of his life is not dead and happens to nurse a fondness for him.
So it is that he leaps ahead and trusts her to keep up with him. He simply dives right into the most frightening revelation of all.
“I think we ought to get married.” He tells her outright.
To his surprise, she laughs a short, loud laugh. “I should hope so. You have just embraced me in the courtyard of a public inn, and then whisked me away to eat with you in private. I should think a short engagement might be a necessity.”
He tries again. He can do better than that, can make her feel the strength of his love and not just an obligatory engagement.
“I would have asked you to marry me anyway.” He explains. “Those few hours I spent believing you were dead shocked some sense into me, perhaps. I’ve been an utter fool, Kate. Heaven knows I don’t deserve your hand in marriage. But you are the most captivating and - and infuriating - and beautiful woman I have ever beheld, and - and… I admire you.”
He swallows hard, ashamed of himself for being such a coward. How is it that he can’t say it to her, now, even when she is restored to him from the brink of death? A better man would have done a better job of courting her, he frets. He’s done this all wrong. He chased her sister, then ignored her for a season as best he could, and now he’s throwing his heart at her feet - or failing to - only because hundreds of other folks have been lost at sea.
“This has been an unexpected morning.” She says, tone admirably level. “You have avoided me all season. I thought I would have to muster my courage, say my piece to you, and then be prepared to face rejection. Yet now you are embracing me in public and speaking of admiration?”
“I thought you had been avoiding me this season.” He offers now, with a rueful grin.
“Of course I was. It’s a little humiliating, to fall for my sister’s suitor.” She points out.
“I think you’re looking at it wrong.” He tells her firmly. “I think you were brave enough to find love in an inconvenient place.”
Hmm. Very good. So he can manage to mention love, just as long as he’s in the flow of an argument with her?
“No. I won’t let you make a virtue of it.” She argues in turn. “I have made quite a mess these last two seasons - and now wasted the price of my passage across the sea. It’s almost flighty of me, really, I think, and I -”
“I love you.” He manages to interrupt her, abrupt, not to be argued with. He’s quite fed up of listening to her criticise her own behaviour at such length.
He won’t have anyone speaking harshly of his future wife like that, not even the lady herself.
She blinks at him, evidently taken aback. She tilts her head, as if considering, her eyes searching his face.
“You really mean it. You really love me.” She echoes the words back to him, apparently dazed. “I wondered whether the nasty shock of thinking me dead had simply addled your brain, but it would appear that you actually love me.”
“You were testing me.” It’s not a question.
“Of course I was. You would too, in my shoes. I wouldn’t want to be married to you all the rest of our lives, and later find out you would still rather marry my sister, but had only picked me out of shock and obligation for a little public embrace. I could never live my life feeling second best like that. Not when I love you to distraction.”
He admits defeat. He reaches for another embrace, knocks his elbow harshly on the table in his rush to reach for her. But he doesn’t care, doesn’t mind the smarting of pain, because now Kate is in his arms again and it feels even better than it did before.
“Definitely a short engagement.” She murmurs against his neck.
He laughs, pulls back a little, so he can reach for a kiss instead. They haven’t kissed since the day he ought to have married her sister, and he’s glad of the wait. It’s better to have everything settled and comfortable between them, he thinks. That first kiss was such a tortured, hurried thing.
This is a kiss so relaxed and easy it might last forever.
It can’t. He knows that, logically speaking, it can’t. He ought to hire a carriage, get her back to town, share the good news that she’s still breathing with everyone who will listen. He ought to tell all his family about the engagement, too, and see just how quickly a wedding might be planned.
“Anthony?”
He starts a little, pulls back from the embrace. He’s never heard her use his given name before.
“Kate?” He echoes.
It sounds good, he thinks. It sounds good to be bouncing names so familiarly between themselves - like an old married couple sitting at the fire with their many, many children.
“Where were you riding, this morning? You said you would take me back to London but you were riding the other way as if the devil himself was on your tail. You looked quite distracted - I thought you would run me down.”
He swallows hard. He can tell her the honest truth. He must. That’s the way forward, here - honestly admitting to his emotions, and holding onto no regrets.
“I was riding to Aubrey Hall to lay a posy of flowers on the place where we fell in the mud playing pall mall.” He concentrates on saying the words, sounding them out carefully and crisply. As long as he thinks of each individual sound, he can’t be swept away on a tide of emotion. Kate’s safe, it turns out, and there’s no use fretting any more.
“I think I’d have done the same, if I believed you were lost at sea.” She says simply.
That’s it. That’s the moment he breaks, lets loose in loud, heaving sobs.
It’s silly. He’s being a fool. She’s safe, and they’re getting married, and there’s no need to cry about it like a child now.
But all the same - he is crying. He’s weeping so violently he thinks it must be a little frightening for her, frankly. He doesn’t remember sobbing so loudly even as a boy. Here are twelve years of pent-up grief, culminating in all the events of the last twenty-four hours. He could no more stop crying now than he could fall out of love with Kate. It’s as if his instincts have suddenly realised it’s safe to weep, now that the danger is past and he’s simply sitting quietly with the woman who accepts him as he is.
He fights for breath, manages to get the storm to subside a little. He’s still tearful, yes, but at least he can make an attempt at coherent speech.
“I do apologise.” He says, as formally as he can manage under the circumstances. He’s not sure whether most Viscounts are in the habit of weeping in front of their Viscountess.
“There’s no need.” She says, leaning into his side, lending him her reassuring warmth. “We are already quite adept at laughing together and dancing together and arguing together. I think it will do us good to learn to weep together, too. It will make for a strong marriage.”
He considers her words as he hiccups slowly back to quietness. A strong marriage - isn’t that what he’s been seeking, all these years? The sort of marriage he might be proud of? He thought that was something to win through status or duty, once upon a time. But now he thinks Kate is right - a happy and successful marriage built on trust and love seems far more the thing.
He doesn’t expect to become a man who weeps frequently. Indeed, he hopes not to be, because he hopes he won’t have too much cause to weep. He certainly can’t imagine giving way to another outburst like this any time soon.
But if he were to feel emotional, once in a while, that would be fine too. That’s what Kate is telling him, he understands, with her words about strength built on expressing whatever they are feeling together.
Well, then. Time for a little more honesty.
“I know we ought to be going back to London so you can tell your sister you’re well, but I don’t really want to leave.” He admits, rueful, his voice still rather damp.
“Really? You are not looking forward to a lengthy carriage ride together discussing our engagement and sitting too close and catching up on lost time?” She asks.
He jumps to his feet at that. She’s right - several hours closed in a carriage with her does sound like a rather lovely thing. He can recover from the emotions of this morning as well on the road as he can sitting here.
And besides - the sooner they get back to London, the sooner they can announce their engagement. He’s rather looking forward to that part.
He’ll bring her flowers when they’re back in London. That’s what he decides, now, sudden and yet utterly logical. He never gave her flowers in all the months he loved her. He never even considered it until he thought she was dead and wondered about laying some in the mud for her. Suddenly it strikes him as the perfect illustration of everything he got wrong, everything he’s ashamed of, every way in which he is disappointed with his dysfunctional courtship of her.
But he’ll do better. He’ll love her more openly, more honestly, more extravagantly - but softly and tenderly, too, all at once. He’ll love her loudly and quietly, in public and in private. He’ll be the most adoring husband in the whole of high society.
Kate will make it easy to be affectionate, he thinks, if she keeps looking at him like that.