Chapter Text
Chapter One
Samira Mohan lived an unconventional life.
At One and thirty she worked alongside a doctor, she was childless, and unmarried; scandalous and inappropriate in the eyes of the Ton.
She worked for Dr. Adams, physician to the Ton. He went about the nearby towns checking on expectant mothers and children, and, if need be, performing the occasional surgery. He was an older gentleman, nearing his 70th year, his wife long passed, and he had grown soft in his old age. It was probably the only reason she’d worn him down.
Her mother disapproved, of course, but her father beamed with pride.
A doctor of animals himself, he found pride in his daughter's innate interest in medicine. It was why he never regretted the move away from society and the prying eyes of the Ton.
His older brothers teased, called Samira a spinster in jest, but he knew they were proud of his strange little life. He knew they were jealous, he had had the opportunity to leave society. He was so low in the line of succession for Lordship or inheritance that Ranbir Mohan did not concern himself with it, caring even less when they had scoffed at his choice of wife: the youngest daughter of a far away lord that he had loved from the first moment he laid eyes on her.
And he loved their daughter equally.
Samira was the light of his life.
Samira, light of his life, was for all intents and purposes a doctor herself. She and Dr. Adams called her ‘nursemaid’ or ‘midwife’ when she was introduced to ease the mind of the patients. Independent women in the field of medicine still made common folk weary.
She had become exceptional at putting their minds at ease, helping find the pain and its causes, and speaking to them with genuine softness and care. It was easy for them to let her assist after the initial introduction and a show of her knowledge.
On occasion, she had delivered babies singlehandedly, which was the most fulfilling. On her twentieth birthday, she witnessed Dr. Adams perform a Cesarean and decided, no matter what, she too would study medicine and help women.
It had taken much bribing and a little persistence, but Dr. Adams had taken Samira as an apprentice a year later.
He had her read every book in his library. Brought her new and old medical text and books, quizzed her, and even let her practice on an old mannequin. Samira learned about medicines and surgical tools, of advances far and wide. She soaked it all up eager to increase her knowledge.
After two years of teachings and readings, Dr. Adams had her sit in on his appointments, had her recite diagnoses and possible treatments, going back and forth with her and treating her as the capable apprentice she was to him.
With her first delivery, he had let her do the post-delivery checks, guiding her through what she should feel and do. It had been the first time she had come in contact with someone else's body in such a manner. She knew ladies did not do this, and would perhaps faint at the sight of blood and so much skin, but Samira thrived. She was so sure of herself, going about the labor with ease, an ease that made her first delivery the sweetest one. She still kept up with the mother and her babe.
She had been working alongside Dr. Adams for three years now. The people respected her and sometimes sought her out when it came to medical advice for their daughters independent of him.
Her life was one in which she was more than content.
Unfortunately fate had a twisted sense of humor.
The letter arrived during an inconspicuous afternoon. It was delivered by a too strict carriage driver who huffed and puffed until her father came and took the letter himself.
It was a cream colored envelope with elegant writing. The wax seal was the one Samira knew belonged to her family. It took her father too long to read it and longer still to relay the contents of the letter.
He had fallen into his seat before they had managed to extract any information out of him. Some scandal, not detailed in the letter, had left her brothers scrambling for an heir to the family fortune. Samira and her mother had looked on with confusion.
“Baba, what does that mean? I have plenty of married cousins. Can’t one of them step up?”
Her father had shaken his head, his face ashen.
“Samira, sweetheart,” he said sadly. He looked over at his beautiful wife and read them the part of the letter that would turn their whole world upside down.
Her father had inherited the Lordship and was now the beneficiary to the Mohan name and fortune. However, as his only child, it was Samira that the inheritance truly fell upon. Unfortunately for her, as a woman she could not inherit the money or the name. The letter detailed that Samira needed to find a husband and bear a son. Or the crown would strip the family of its title.
She understood why her father looked terrified.
The title was what had allowed him to move away and live a comfortable life.
This news meant having to return to society and interact with the Ton. It meant Samira had to compete with all the young bright eyed, proper ladies for a husband. It meant she had to leave her precious profession behind and cater to society and a man.
Samira wanted to scream. She wanted to vehemently refuse and throw a fit. She contemplated running away. But one look at her parents was all it took for those thoughts to flee.
Her mother already looked defeated, having resigned herself to the loss of life as they knew it. Her father looked close to tears at the notion of his family name vanishing from society and his family suffering, because she knew he would never ask her to do this.
And that was exactly why Samira would do it. Because she knew he would never ask, would never demand it of her, regardless of the family's insistence or dire need. She took a deep breath, settling in her resolve, relinquishing the life she knew and loved for her family.
“Baba, when does the season start?”
The next week was full of chaos. Her father replied to his family with the news of Samira’s cooperation, detailing the need for a house to be prepped, appointments to be made with a seamstress and sending Samira's measurements ahead of them.
At first she had thought that maybe the Queen would decide she was too old to present but apparently that had been resolved. The Queen loved nothing more than a twist to make the season more interesting, so her presentation was set.
Samira had spent those days in a daze. Some would say in mourning, and perhaps they were right. She was in mourning, torn apart by the fact that she had to leave her life behind to secure her family’s future.
So she let herself mourn, let herself cry but never in front of her parents.
When the day finally came, it was sunny. The sun was unseasonably bright and there were no signs of rain; somehow that made the situation harder. Her parents, much to her surprise, were also sullen, as if they too were sad to leave the life they had made for her. Or perhaps they were preparing for the high chance of failure, of the likelihood that Samira would not find a husband. She could not say, but one way or another she knew failure was not an option.
Luckily for them, they arrived just the day before her presentation so she had no time to ponder or regret. Luckily for her, she also did not have to promenade and try to mingle a moment before she was required. She didn't think she had it in her.
A letter arrived late that afternoon and Samira was called to the tea room.
She took a deep breath before striding into the drawing room. Inside she found her mother, her father and a woman unknown to her.
“Samira,” her mother exclaims, rising to greet her and bring her over. “My girl, this is Lady Danbury,” she introduced the older woman. She was a handsome woman in a way that led Samira to believe she was a force to be reckoned with in more ways than one. She curtsied, but the woman lifted her elegant hand, the one not on her cane, under Samira’s chin, lifting her face.
“Oh Lady Mohan, you have a beautiful daughter.”
It was said with a sly smile and a raised brow.
“ Samira is my pride and joy,” the look in her mothers eyes makes her own fill with tears.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Danbury,” she said to break the small bit of emotional tension.
Apparently the two elder women had been childhood friends, and Lady Danbury had been so happy to hear of their family’s return to Society. She had promptly invited them to her ball and was eager to introduce her to her dear friends, the Bridgertons. It seemed her and the former Viscountess were close and she had a hand in the romance of the new Lady Bridgerton, married to her oldest son.
Samira sat and half-listened to the gossip until Lady Danbury excused herself.
“I have one more young soul to visit before the night is done,” she said to them but looked at Samira with a mischievous glint in her eye.
After she was gone, Samira all but dragged herself to bed, dreading what the morning held.
***
The knock came only five minutes late. The drink he had in his hand was still untouched and mostly for show. He placed it on the table, sloshing some of its contents.
Viscount Jackson Abbot waited for his friend to make her presence known.
He heard her before he saw her. The clacking of her cane across his floor was a familiar sound, a comfort in the darkness of the drawing room. She came by often to inquire after his well-being, to enjoy some tea and to keep him up to date with the gossip.
Lady Danbury always said it was because he was a great listener. But he knew it was because she wanted to make sure he hadn’t shuffled off this mortal coil. Not that she would ever admit it to his face.
“Abbot,” she greeted him with that sly smile of hers and a kiss on his cheek, letting him know she's been up to no good. The two shared a much more familiar relationship than the average person in the Ton.
“It's not like you to be late,” he teased as she took up residence on a nearby chair.
“I know, I know, but I was catching up with an old friend. Time slipped me by.”
“Aren’t I your old friend?” he mocked in jest, a small smile breaking out over his tired features; features he rarely took in, hating what he saw in the mirror.
“As if I’m not allowed or able to have more than one. But I am here to personally invite you to my ball,” she said as she rose and sauntered over to him, the heavy cream and jeweled toned invite glaring at him. He exhaled heavily, not ready to argue with her again about why he would in fact not be attending, like he had not last year and all those years before.
“And this year I will not take no for an answer. “ She pinned him with a look telling him that he knew better than to protest.
“I don’t mean to be crass but, my dour boy, you are not getting any younger. You need a wife, and you need a male heir or else the crown will take what you've built. In fact, the Queen already thinks you dead, so you need to show your lovely face to her and the Ton to quell those rumors. And what better place than the ball of your dear, old friend? Where you’ll see the faces of all the new Ladies of the Ton?”
“I don’t think I want to take a girl barely out of her leading strings as my wife,” Abbot grumbled at the prospect. But he knew she was right, he needed an heir.
“Of course not, but there are ladies still waiting years after their presentation looking to marry. Take one of them and settle this business. And if you fail to show up, I will string you up by your remaining toes.”
He couldn't help but bark out a laugh at her threat. She gave him a stern look in return, but he saw the amusement in her eyes at making him laugh. He reluctantly agreed.
They spoke a bit more about her famous ball and how her favorite family, the Bridgertons, were doing.
Abbot was pleased to hear about Anthony and his new wife; that the eldest Bridgerton was happy. Poor man had been thrust into adulthood and the viscount role so abruptly, it was anyone's guess how he’d coped.
Not to mention he had failed to be there for Anthony, like his father Edmund, had for Abbot. He himself had been in the throes of grief. He regretted abandoning the boy at that time, regretting hiding himself behind his losses.
Because even years later, their loss hurt. Only dulled, slightly by age.
He did his best to honor his late wife, Sharon and their child, a little girl they had named Antonia that she had lost her life trying to bear. He celebrated Sharon's birth date and their anniversary. Even that tragic day he lost them both, as it would have been his girl's birth date.
He did his best to keep living life, he kept to his business. He spent a lot of time in nature, it suited him. But he also knew there was no denying what Danbury said; if he died with no heirs, everything he’d worked for would be given to the crown to do with as they pleased. His staff would be let go, and underpaid at their next employment, should they find any; his farm hands too, and anyone who counted on him to survive.
After his dear friend left, he sat in the darkness and pondered, even though he knew what he was going to do. Abbot would not go easy into the night.
***
Samira waited in the foyer with the other mamas and their daughters. All so much younger than her and it made her more nervous. She could barely remember the morning, much less what she was wearing. She knew it was a pretty white thing, similar to what she saw the other girls wore, but Samira felt like she was floating.
She felt a ringing in her ears, and heard the rushing of her blood.
This was it. This was truly the end of her former life. After her presentation her fate would be sealed. It took everything in her to quell the panic. She thought of her family, of the reason she was doing this, and remembering helped strengthen her resolve.
When her moment came, she walked towards the Queen with her head held high. She could almost hear the whispers as they took her in. They knew she was older than the other young women, and knew they had never seen her before.
“Miss Mohan, where have you been hiding that pretty face,” came the Queen's rhetorical question. Samira simply bowed deeper.
And just like that it was done. Well at least this part. They still had the first ball of the season, Lady Danbury's famous ball. But all Samira wanted to do was sleep.
The rest of the day went by at a snail's pace. She knew she would have no suitors. Men of marrying age rarely came to presentations, they would wait to see the debutantes at the Balls and steal a dance with the one that caught their eye.
Although she was not looking forward to the reason for the ball, Samira was excited to attend one. She has never had the pleasure of being old enough to attend when her parents had made the journey years ago. This would probably be her first and last ball. It left a bittersweet feeling in her chest.
Her mother wanted her to join them on their walk, so they could be seen together as a family but Samira had convinced her she needed rest if she was to last until the night, and she needed to look her best after all right?
But soon her mother’s maids came in to help her dress. They had picked a soft pink gown that made the bronze of her skin glow. Her hair was elegantly coiled off her neck with a simple set of jewels. She and her mother had decided to go simpler, as to not put off suitors or discerning mamas in the hope that she looked less threatening, more approachable.
When it was done, Samira took one last look at herself in the mirror.
The matching gloves were a few shades lighter than her dress, her skin sparkled from the oils they put on her, and her hair shinned. Her eyes were bright despite her apprehension, and she smiled at herself. Regardless of what the night would bring, at least she felt pretty.
***
Jack Abbot could not believe he was actually at a ball.
He had been a young man the last time he had been to one with the purpose of finding a wife. He had been so relieved he had found Sharon that first season. He wasn't sure he would have lasted another season with all those mamas vying on behalf of their daughters for him and his title.
So when he had spotted his Sharon in the corner, a wallflower amongst the thorned ton, he had gravitated towards her like a moth to a flame. After one dance with her, he knew in his soul his search had ended before it had really even begun. He proposed and they married before the season had ended.
He was lucky. They had gotten along well, each quiet and content to sit and read independently, or him read and her while she embroidered. It was an easy marriage, quiet and calm; a partnership.
Though they fulfilled their marital duties, they went years without a child; yet, it had felt a miracle when she had come to him with a swaddle to tell him the news.
It had been a difficult pregnancy for her. Her morning sickness went on for weeks, and she remained bedridden for most of her nine months.
He had read and asked his colleges to send him anything they could about labor. He was a surgeon, had worked on farmers and soldiers alike, but he had no knowledge on the bodies of expectant mothers. So when she had gone into labor, Jack had felt utterly useless.
She had labored for hours, then nearly two days, but the babe did not want to come.
The last time he had seen her with life in her eyes, she had told him she loved him and that she was sorry. Her apology had nearly destroyed him. He held her hand when the doctor had managed to pull their girl from her but it had been too late for them both. Sharon got to hold her, and he held them for an infinite moment.
They were lucky to share that one moment, all three of them together, before her eyes closed, never to awaken again.
He cleared his throat as the memory resurfaced, and had to shake himself before making his way towards the dance floor where all the debutantes would be waiting. He chose to arrive a bit later than the rest to avoid making small talk with the overeager early birds. Now he had no worries of that as everyone was buzzing, getting ready for the first dance of the night.
As always, the ballroom was filled to the brim. The Danbury Ball was the true opening of the season and everyone who was anyone was in attendance.
If he was going to find a bride, this was his best chance at spotting her.
Jack wasn’t overly optimistic. Just from a glance, most of the women were far too young, too bright eyed, and much too eager. He was an old man by their standards and a widow to boot. The only thing he had to offer was the security of his title; which certainly couldn’t be balked at, but then again, why would they settle for an old man when the Ton had a plethora of young, eligible bachelors.
Jack tried not to focus on his own self pity and made an effort to really look at the women. There were a few familiar faces in the crowd, daughters of men he knew, though he better recognized their mothers. He circled the dance floor as the first song began, it was a charming song, lively and sweet.
The color this season appeared to be a soft blue, as half the debutantes and eligible ladies were in some variation of it. Perhaps that was why she stood out.
She stood by the edge of the dance floor across from him, her bronze skin glowing against the soft pink of her gown. Tendrils of dark curly hair framed her face, the rest of her hair pulled back in an elegant up do, leaving her delicate neck on display. Her face stopped him short, breath seizing in his chest. He had never seen her. He would have remembered. There was no way he would ever forget her.
She was beautiful. Perhaps the most beautiful person he’d ever seen.
His eyes remained trained on hers, observing her, taking in her far away stare, the polite smile on her face. A smile that seemed more a mask than a genuine smile. She looked bored too, and sad, he noted with a frown. Why is she sad?
He is so focused on taking her in, he fails to see the older woman pull up behind her, staring at him, Lady Danbury.
The two make eye contact, and she gives him a wicked smile before turning away. The woman was a wonder and a mystery.
Luckily he is interrupted by an old friend.
“Well if it isn't Lord Abbot,” comes the familiar voice of one Anthony Bridgerton.
Abbot turned, taking in the familiar yet foreign sight of the young man before him. Anthony had grown into his features, he was handsome and tall. But that didn’t surprise him, what did was the beautiful woman on his arm.
“Lord Bridgerton, “ he replied in kind, a smile breaking over his face as they took each other in. There was a brief moment of tension before the two hugged, wordlessly forgiving each other for their neglect. They separated and, with a proud look on his face, Anthony turns to the beautiful woman next to him.
“Jack,” he begins, turning his body to hold hers closer. A shocking display of affection in the Ton.
“This is my wife, Kate Bridgerton,” he beams as he looks at her with nothing short of utter adoration. The new Lady Bridgerton was stunning, dark bronze skin and kind eyes that glowed with what could only be described as love. The two looked so happy together.
Something in Jack's heart clenched with a buried need that was making itself known after so long. He swallowed it down, instead basking in the joy his old friend was enveloped in.
There was no doubt in Jack's mind that they loved each other, such a rarity for those like them. That is to say, those of them who married for money, for status and most of all for duty. He envied them.
“It is a pleasure to meet the new Lady Bridgerton,” he said with a small bow.
“Please call me Kate,” she replied with a bright smile. He bowed his head in acknowledgement and acceptance.
“And what is the recluse Viscount Abbot doing at the Danbury Ball? It's been years since anyone has seen you in society.”
It was said in both jest and with genuine curiosity. It had been years, so long that he had a moment of anxiety before climbing into the carriage.
With a deep breath, Abbot decided to tell them a partial truth.
“Lady Danbury threatened me with bodily harm if I refused another invitation.”
This caused them both to laugh, both intimately familiar with her antics.
“Yes, Lady Danbury is not one you defy, especially when threatened.”
They continued with polite conversation fit for the setting, nothing real was exchanged, just idle gossip. It wasn't until Lady Danbury herself sauntered over that the conversation shifted.
“Look at this,” she looked at the three of them, her signature smile on display, something akin to adoration in her eyes. "How are we enjoying the night,” she asked the trio as another song began its tune.
“You throw an amazing ball,” Anthony beams.
Jack agreed, politely accepting a drink he would not finish.
More polite conversations were had as people came by to greet them. Old friends stopped by to invite him for a drink or cigar or even a game of poker. He accepted all invitations, even if he never plans to attend.
The night continued in this way, passing slowly. Dances and couples drifted across the ballroom floor in a swirl of color. He made sure to look at each woman in the face, giving them each individual attention, giving them each a real effort. A few of them were brave enough to hold his eye but never for long; those he considered more than the others.
He also knew that the mamas talked as they walked around themselves. ‘Lord Abbot must be looking for a wife,’ ‘finally’ ‘he's been alone for so long, he's getting old’ and so on until he had to tune them out.
The gossip didn't bother him. The Ton liked to talk, it's what they did best. He knew he enjoyed hearing about it from time to time, even he received the infamous Lady Whistledown gossip page.
In his search of meeting the eyes of every eligible lady, he never made eye contact with that beautiful woman in pink he saw earlier. He found his eyes wandering, searching for her, curious as to the shade of brown of her eyes. But she had disappeared, almost as if she had been simply a figment of his imagination.
He was suddenly desperate to look into her eyes. Would she hold his gaze or look down? Something told him she would meet him head on.
It was perhaps half way through the evening when Jack decided to step outside for a breath of fresh air.
He felt the cool breeze of the summer night on his face and closed his eyes. He enjoyed the quiet of the night, the music and chatter a distant echo.
But a struggle, heavy breathing and grunts shattered that peace. His curiosity led Jack to follow the sound.
He rounded the corner past the bushes and trees and stopped in his tracks at the sight that greeted him.
Two men, one on the ground, blood coloring his white shirt, the other crouched with a knife in hand.
And the beautiful woman, pink dress stained red, trying to stop the man's bleeding.