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Violet Bridgerton fought to keep her eyes open as she focused on the embroidery in her lap, having been lulled into rest by the usual sounds of Aubrey Hall coming alive. The faraway noise of the servants as they got on with their work, the crinkle of the days broadsheet as Edmund turned each page, and the click clack click clack of Anthony and Benedict’s toy soldiers as they played happily at her feet. Of course, there was also the matter of the little creature inside of her, sapping her energy as growing babies tend to do. She could not begrudge the little one his need; she would give the child everything in her if it meant he stayed safe inside her until it was time. It was a perfectly peaceful Sunday morning, and soon Violet found herself giving up the fight and allowing her tired eyes to close, if only for a moment.
She was convinced she carried another boy. Colin, they had agreed, if Violet’s instinct was correct. Clara, if Edmund’s belief they would have a daughter came true. Colin, Clara – no matter, this baby would simply be loved. Long had they tried to give the boys another sibling; twice since they began trying again had Violet woken to find blood on her sheets and a cramping in her stomach, knowing that their brief hope was gone. When her courses stopped a third time and the midwife confirmed she was again with child, while delighted beyond all measure, Violet found herself unable to dream of this new baby as she had with the boys. Anthony was her first pregnancy, and every night she drifted off to sleep with images of a tiny boy with dark hair and Edmund’s eyes, taking his first steps on wobbly legs, calling her Mama, and trailing at her skirts with want of lemon cakes and hugs. Every morning, she turned this way and that way in the looking glass, desperate to see her body transform as it made room for this tiny being that would change her life utterly. Edmund teased her, at first, and she teased him right back when her breasts began to swell and he suddenly found himself equally as fascinated with her new body.
She did the very same with Benedict, though with the added joy of imagining her first boy as a brother, her little Anthony becoming the very thing she spent a childhood dreaming about. A solid pillar of support, a confidant. A partner in mischief, if Violet knew her boy half as well as she thought she did.
It was different this time. Violet found she could not picture this one as clearly, though not for lack of trying. It was Edmund who noticed – it was always Edmund who noticed a change in her, for who knew Violet Bridgerton better than the man that crashed into her life all those years ago and showed her what it truly meant to be cherished. He had gently coaxed the fear from her one night as they lay together by the fire, planting light kisses on her shoulder, until her breathing steadied and she found her words.
‘I could see Anthony and Benedict so clearly when I carried them,’ Violet had said. ‘I dreamed of them so often that I would wake in tears, knowing I had months to wait until I could finally hold them in my arms.’
‘I know, darling’, said Edmund, fondly. ‘We share a bed.’
Violet smiled, despite herself. The fire crackled before them, and she found that here, safe in her husband’s arms, she could put word to the thoughts that had plagued her for weeks.
‘I am almost five months gone. I know in my heart that the early danger has passed, and God willing, we shall soon have another beautiful child to fill the nursery.’
‘Ten tiny fingers,’ said Edmund, kissing her hand. ‘And ten tiny toes.’
‘Don’t you dare, Edmund Bridgerton!’ said Violet, squirming away as he made to grab her feet for a kiss. ‘Stop!’
‘The rhyme must be completed, Violet!’
‘Stop! They’re too swollen!’
‘Nonsense, they’re perfect,’ said Edmund, as he finally met his target and peppered kisses on Violet’s stockinged foot. ‘Perfectly kissable.’
‘Fool,’ laughed Violet.
‘Your fool,’ added Edmund. ‘Now tell me, darling. Tell me why your eyes are weary. Let me help.’
And so, she did. Violet found that once she started to speak, she could not stop, and they sat before that fire for almost an hour, purging their worries into the flames.
Violet had admitted she could not picture this child as she had Anthony and Benedict. She could not give him a name, nor dream about his first steps, or imagine him toddling along behind his big brothers in the gardens. To give him those things, to make him hers – to do that and to lose him would be too much to bear; she did not think she could survive it.
‘I feel as though I’m neglecting him,’ whispered Violet. ‘By now we had named both of the boys. I’d already began stitching their birthday crowns. What kind of mother does it make me, Edmund, that I fear to even give my baby a name?’
‘Oh, Violet,’ said Edmund, with a comforting squeeze to her shoulder. ‘Do not grieve yourself so. You are not the only one who fears to hope.’
She blinked as the words registered. ‘You... you’re frightened too?’
‘Of course I’m frightened. Violet, my love, you are the one who must carry the burden of pregnancy. You are the one who must contend with the aching feet, and the kicking, and the labour pains,’ said Edmund. ‘My only job is to terrify every doctor in the Ton into providing you with the best service, and even then, I must trust your fate to God.’
‘I saw the devastation in your eyes, when you last miscarried, and I could do nothing to help you,’ he continued, voice soft and almost... far away. ‘I, too, had let myself imagine another newborn in your arms, a daughter perhaps. Or another son to be doted on by his brothers.’
‘To be roughhoused by his brothers, you mean,’ said Violet, with a smile. ‘Every day they find new ways to turn my hair grey, the little terrors.’
‘But we love them for it.’
‘Of course.’
Edmund sat straighter, turning so they could look into each other’s eyes. ‘And this one we will love just the same, and this time next year we will sit in this same spot, and we will laugh at ourselves for being such troubled souls.’
‘Do you really think so, Edmund?’ said Violet.
‘Would that I could promise you smooth waters from now on, my darling, but I cannot. All I know is that the two of us together are a force, and woe betide any trouble that tries to cross us.’
‘I love you,’ said Violet, the easiest words she had said all night. ‘I love you so.’
‘And I love you,’ said Edmund, helping Violet to her feet. ‘Come, let us sleep. Tomorrow is a new day.’
They made their way to their bed, but as Edmund began throwing each decorative pillow on the floor – a colourful nuisance, he liked to call them – Violet took his hand.
‘Wait,’ she said. ‘I have an idea.’
That night, Violet dreamed she was delivered of another healthy boy, with ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes. She could not remember fully, as her dream faded and the day began, but Violet would swear she had named him Colin. The staff made no comment, the next morning, when they found the Lord and Lady Bridgerton sleeping soundly in the nursery, each clutching a small boy to their chest.
--
‘Shhh, boys. Leave Mama to her rest.’
Violet smiled to herself as she listened to her bickering sons and the firm voice of her husband. Oh, how she could stay here forever, in this drowsy place between true sleep and waking.
‘Why is Mama so sleepy?’ asked Anthony. ‘It is not nearly bedtime yet!’
‘Carrying a baby is tiring for a woman, son. Your mother was much the same when she carried you and your brother.’
Violet’s eyes flickered open and she watched as Anthony scrunched up his brow in childlike confusion. ‘Why?’
Edmund noticed she was awake and gave her a grin. ‘Why don’t you ask her?’
‘Mama, you’re up!’ cried Benedict, as though she had returned from some long journey and not simply nodded off for a while, and he scrambled up onto the chair next to her. ‘Come to the lake with us?’
Violet smoothed his hair back and planted a kiss on his forehead, gesturing for Anthony to join them. Her eldest did so, though with a little more reservation than his brother. Almost seven, and on the cusp of being too proud to show he wanted kisses from his mother as much as his little brother. He was growing too fast for Violet’s liking.
Benedict shuffled over to sit on her lap, while Anthony squeezed in beside her, resting his head on Violet’s shoulder. ‘Do you feel better now, Mama? Papa says the baby makes you sleepy.’
‘Much better, sweetheart. What is this about the lake?’
‘We're having a picnic!’ said Benedict.
Edmund placed a cup of hot tea on the table in front of her. ‘I thought to take the boys down to the lake for the afternoon, allow you some peace and quiet. You’re welcome to join us, of course, if you feel quite rested.’
‘Come, Mama!’
‘Benedict, do you remember when we spoke about inside voices?’
‘I am inside, Papa, and this is my voice,’ said Benedict, with all the solemn logic of a five-year-old.
Violet chuckled, planting another kiss into his hair. ‘I would love to come, darling. Why don’t you go down to the kitchen with Papa and make sure Cook packs us some cinnamon loaf? It is the baby’s favourite.’
Benedict leapt of the chair with an energy Violet was quite jealous of and followed Edmund out of the room.
That left Violet and her eldest boy, and she had not missed Anthony’s sudden sombre mood. Violet shuffled slightly in the chair, as much as she could with her protruding stomach, and pulled Anthony closer. ‘What is it, sweet boy?’
‘It’s only...', started Anthony, as he fiddled with the hem of his shorts. ‘I’m sorry I made you tired, Mama. We shouldn’t have done that.’
Violet blinked. She had no idea what her son was talking about, though he looked contrite, nervous, like he did whenever he was caught in mischief. ‘Anthony, whatever do you mean?’
‘Papa said you were sleepy because of the baby, and that means I must have made you sleepy too! And Benedict!’
‘Oh,’ said Violet, recalling Edmund’s words from earlier. She kissed Anthony on the cheek and suddenly found herself never wanting to let him out of her arms. ‘Oh, darling. You are the sweetest boy in the whole world. You have nothing to apologise for.’
‘But -’
‘But nothing. Listen to me now. When a woman has a baby in her belly, the baby needs to take a lot of things from her body to grow. You are much too small to understand this yet,’ said Violet, smiling at Anthony’s indignant huff. ‘When you were in my belly, you did make me sleepy, and you made me hungry, but most of all you made me happy.’
Violet watched as Anthony took this in, his little brow furrowing, until eventually he laid his head on her chest, and said, ‘If you’re sure, Mama.’
‘I am sure, darling, so you mustn't worry anymore,’ said Violet, feeling a soft movement in her belly. ‘Oh!’
Anthony’s head shot back up. ‘What is it?’
‘Your baby brother wants to say hello. He’s kicking.’
‘Kicking?!’ said Anthony, scandalised. ‘He kicked you?’
‘Yes, would you like to feel?’
‘No! Baby, you should not kick Mama, that is unkind!’
Violet stifled her laughter; somehow, she did not think Anthony would take kindly to it, his tiny fury being so great. ‘Anthony, it’s fine.’
‘It’s not! When I kicked Benedict last week you send me to bed with no supper!’
‘Yes, I did, because you kicked your brother out of anger,’ said Violet calmly. She had not imagined the conversation would take this turn. ‘You know better.’
In truth, Anthony’s rare fit of anger after Benedict won their game of marbles had shocked her. Violet and Edmund rarely had to raise their voice to their boys, despite their penchant for mischief and roughhousing, but one thing they would not abide was violence. Although, clearly, they needed more practice at being firm; Violet and Edmund passed each other on the way to the kitchens that night, both holding a plate of what looked suspiciously like Anthony’s favourite lemon cakes. They shared a knowing smile; their boy’s wobbling lip and teary-eyed apologies would win them over every time. They would have to be careful about that, they both knew, or the Bridgerton children would one day get away with murder. Something to worry about another day, they agreed, as they found themselves sneaking their boy his supper.
‘The baby is only saying hello, Anthony, it’s alright,’ said Violet, rubbing a soothing circle into his back. ‘And it’s not really kicking, I suppose.’
‘It’s not?’
‘No, love, it’s more... fluttering. Here,’ said Violet, taking Anthony’s hand and resting it on her belly. ‘Can you feel?’
Anthony giggled. ‘I can feel it, Mama!’
‘He’s saying hello.’
‘Hello,’ said Anthony, loudly. ‘Can he hear me?’
‘I like to think so,’ said Violet.
Anthony leaned closer, so that his mouth was almost touching Violet’s bump. ‘My name is Anthony Edmund Bridgerton and I am almost seven years old. I am your brother, and we have another brother, Benedict, but I’m older, and he can’t ride a horse yet.’
This time, Violet couldn’t keep her laughter at bay, though thankfully her boy was too busy regaling the baby with important facts – including the colour of his new kite and the rock he managed to skim a whole six times – to notice his mother’s giggles.
Violet let her head fall back on the chair and smiled, listening to Anthony’s chatter. He was a good boy – perfect, if she did say so herself – and as she caught the echo of tiny footsteps racing down the hall, no doubt with a picnic basket full of goods, Violet could only thank God for smiling on her so.
Violet Bridgerton was tired, and remained plagued by the niggling worry that would remain until the babe was here, hale and healthy, but as she strolled through the gardens that afternoon with her two perfect sons and her loving husband, she thought she may just be the luckiest woman in the world.