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7: The Lover's Eye

Edie regarded herself in the mirror, tilting her head, wondering if the shape of her hips was too wide. Mama used to try to hide how wide her hips were, and so Edie was never without a shawl. Hips like that are for after a child or two, my darling, she had said. What was once an endearing annoyance, now felt dim and sad, because Amelia Granville was never quite the same mama after the Incident.

No, she thought, turning away from the mirror with a scoff. It had been a handful of years since she'd stopped that ridiculous habit of regarding her appearance and wondering what other people would think of it.

The opinions of marriageable men who regarded her, weighing her beauty and charms and deeming her worthy, were nothing to her.

Or at least that was the notion that Edie was quite content in believing. It was not as strong as it had been during her Season, but still, she was only human. What woman did not wish to have a man look twice at her and think she was someone he could see the rest of his life with? She had rare occasions to feel desired in her life after the Incident, and what she knew at twenty-six was that to be desired, to be wanted, to be needed was a powerful, heady thing.

Even though her heart had been broken, Edie still thought of those stolen nights with Roger, in the dim light, beneath the covers, where they'd explored and loved and were warm. It was not love, as she had soon found out, but those nights could not be shaken away, and part of her did not want them to be. Bitter memories or not, they were hers, and for a moment, she had felt loved and wanted.

How far she had come, from being a girl who rolled her eyes at her mother's fussing, and now a spinster who recalls clandestine lovers who had left her long ago.

God above it isn't as though I'm going to a ball to attract a husband, she thought with a scoff, pulling the chain of her locket taught so she would feel a gentle tug on the side of her neck. Henry had arranged a few new models for the evening, a coachman (shockingly lovely hands, he said) and a plump seamstress that Edie went to for new gowns. For that reason, she decided she would focus more on the male subject.

With a wry grin, she thought that Henry's studio was not the sort of place one would find a respectable husband. Even for her, one so famously ruined. The men were too free—they liked their drink, their gambling, their boxing, they fell in love with women as quickly as they came in the door, and just as quickly as one would leave, another lover would take her place.

That was not to say she hadn't had her fun at one time, but that had died a slow death that left her feeling empty for a rather long while.

But then, she knew one man would be in attendance tonight, one that every single mama in the Ton would claw, kick and maim to get their daughters close to him. Benedict bloody Bridgerton.

She had not seen him since that last ridiculous visit, but she found herself not facing his arrival with dread, but with an ease.

He was not her friend, goodness no. But he was not the stranger she had faced when he last came.

That visit had brought him down to earth with her, made him mortal, and that made him less terrifying. Benedict bloody Bridgerton was simply a man, a human just like she was with his own flaws. Because hers were quite obvious from a hundred paces off, Edie often felt too exposed, as though the scar that marred her face revealed every invisible imperfection in her nature.

It was somehow…comforting to know that one whom everyone believed to be so perfect, was, in fact, simply not. He could be angry, picky, defensive, arrogant. But softly spoken, and gentle too.

But she would not ever say she was excited to see him again. Actually, once that ridiculous tea had ended, she took great care to sketch a very detailed picture of a nosegay of daisies, intending on gifting it to him the next time she saw him, just to annoy him. But she decided not to.

An irritating gift or not, it would still be a gift.

It mattered little in the end. Benedict was not the first guest to arrive, but rather, it was Cat. Her dear, sweet Cat who looked so happy, her cheeks flushed and her brown curls were escaping the scarf she often wore. The news she brought would keep Edie enthralled for more than an hour, not even noticing Benedict's arrival, until his eye caught hers much later.

"I've got a man." Cat confessed in an excited rush. They were tucked away in the corner of the room, far enough that no one else heard Cat's news.

"What?" Edie gasped, jaw dropping. In all her time knowing Cat, she had never once mentioned a man, not even a handsome boy she saw in passing.

Cat beamed, reaching down to the pocket sewn into her dress. "His name is Joshua, he works in the bakery across the way and he says he'd been watching me for weeks. Too shy to even say hello, can you believe it?" Eagerly, she brought out her secret treasure, an ivory pendant, in the shape of a heart with a long chain attached. "He saved and saved all his earnings just to buy me this. Says he wants to marry me, Edie. Marry!" She clapped her hand over her mouth, casting her eyes about the studio to make sure no one noticed her elated chirp.

Benedict, Edith noticed (and only noticed because he was the only one who looked), looked up from his sketch with an incredulous brow, looking for a moment before returning to his work.

"And you want to marry him?" Edith asked, leaning back to look her friend in the eye. "This man who you've never spoken to before?"

"Oh I have spoken to him, Edie." Cat replied, her gleeful smile dimming a little. "He has the most adorable way of saying my name. 'Cat-tina'."

Edie's lip curled up a little, eyes rolling, as she tried to remember the last time a man's foolishness had endeared him so much to her.

"Only children and dull adults mispronounce your name, Cat."

At once, Cat's smile fell, and something in her eyes dimmed, but the joy refused to be snuffed out by the words of an embittered woman.

"Well I happen to like it. And you think a baker could afford this every few months?" Cat's thumb ran tenderly over the face of the pendant. It was, truly, a lovely piece, one that Edie knew a girl like Cat would likely never own twice. That brought another uncomfortable squirm to her gut. It seemed too much of an attempt for this stranger to buy Cat, like a milking cow. Or worse, a wife to use as a vessel for his own benefit. "Obviously I'm the only one he loves. He wouldn't squander this away." She smiled down at the piece, holding it with a reverence that Edie had only seen when she held a pencil.

"Or you're the only one to accept it." Edie's mind was too quick, her tongue too sharp, and at once, she regretted it. Cat's pretty face lost it's shine and Edie regretted being the one to remove it.

"Why must you take this from me?" Cat hissed, sharp brown eyes flashing up to Edie's. "I am so foolishly happy and you're…I…" her full lips pinched together as she cast her gaze elsewhere. "I finally have someone to be excited about and you're ruining it."

Edie drew back, too offended to think about the way her scar would deepen with her scowl. "Ruining it? You've spoken to him once and now you're planning marriage."

"Because he's kind and handsome and sweet."

"The best of them come off that way and then you stay with them for a few weeks and see why they're still single." He had been sweet at the start, the one who'd hurt her. Then she'd upset him and still lived with the scars.

"Not everyone is you, Edith!" It was not a shout, and the room continued on with the low tone of conversation and the smell of smoke and whiskey swirling through the air. She heard the crackle of the fire and the scratch of pencils on paper, the sound of joints popping as arms stretched out, a deep breath by the coachman as he held his pose. But those words struck her dumb as though Cat had screamed it, her world going still and yet whirling all at once.

All Edith wanted then, was to run. Far from this feeling, far from the eyes of her friend. But she was rooted to the spot, hurt slowly unfurling like a poison flower in her chest. Finally, she looked away, reaching for her glass of brandy to take a deep gulp. Her lips were still on the glass when she spoke, bitterness coating her words. "Yes, I am very aware of that, thank you, Cat." She tilted her head back and finished the rest of the glass off. "Or shall I call you 'Cat-tina' and earn some affection?" The word was said with all the poison Edith could spit, and though she knew it was foul, she could not muster much will to chastise herself.

Cat sighed and, in a gesture that stunned Edith, reached and curled her fingers around Edie's hand. They were warm and gentle, not squeezing too hard, and Edie's horrible heart squeezed, anger melting back into hurt, and then into shame. Cat would never have hurt her if she hadn't…he wouldn't have hurt her if she hadn't…

Slim, gentle fingers stroked over the back of her hand. Soft. Soothing.

Cat's hand was warm…a gesture of regret, one seeking forgiveness, of assurance perhaps. It was not one of retaliation, at least, not yet. But this was Caterina Rossi. Cat. One of the few people she could name her friend.

"Edie…" schooling her features, Edie turned back to Cat, lips pressed together, head held high. "I'm twenty-two years old, Edie." Cat said, voice firm. "And I've got nothing but aged hands, and a few too many grey hairs to show for it." She said, jaw set. Cat had never looked so angry at her. "My mum is already talking about arranging a match with the butcher's son. The dull one," she leaned closer at that, as though it were some great scandal. And, to Cat, it was. "The one who wet himself only two years ago. Do you have any idea how embarrassing that is?"

This time, Edie didn't recoil. She clenched her jaw, tilted her head, and stared at her friend for a long moment until she realized who she was speaking to. Edie knew how embarrassing it was to have someone deem you so unlovable that they had to find low hanging fruit to pair you with.

Then, Cat's face lost the mask of anger, and her vulnerability shone through every pore. "Joshua is good. He's handsome, and sweet, with a good job. I can't ask for more."

But you can, Edie wanted to say. Cat was so beautiful, so clever, so kind. She deserved a good man, a man who didn't gamble or drink more than he could afford. A man who did not take on whores, a man who didn't beat her, a man who loved her talent and encouraged it. Joshua was a stranger, and Edie wished she could meet him and determine his worth before her friend settled for him.

"And Edie," Cat began, her voice little more than a whisper, eyes glimmering in the candlelight. "You are my best friend, the only friend who knows how much I long to be an artist." Edie's eyes softened, her belly aching with the need to take that sad look away from Cat's beautiful blue eyes. "I long for your support, more than I long for my own mothers'." Her laugh was watery, and Edie could not deny her any further.

The fingers of her free hand ran across her legs, the soft material of her skirt pleasant beneath her fingers. Cat was her dearest friend. The thought of her going away to marry some stranger made her want to scream, but if the stranger was one she wanted?

No, he'd be a stranger still. Neither of them could count on this Joshua fellow to be a good, kind, doting husband.

But then, what if he was? What if he was one of those rare men that promised a life of love and could actually give it, free of charge? It was so terribly romantic, and in the deep dark selfish part of Edith's soul, she recognized what she felt as envy. But it was not the pure kind of her girlhood, one where girls saw their friends live their happy ending, and remained green until their own came along. Rather, it was the envy of a woman who was certain an ending such as that would never come.

And it shamed her. The ugliness of the flesh was one thing, but how could she hold her head up high if she were a rotten woman with a heart made of anger and jealousy?

Cat had never once been cruel to her. She had always let her rant and rave, always took her prickly moods with ease and never told her it could be worse. When Roger, (the wretch who teased her with the promise of happiness), destroyed her healing heart, it had been Cat to soothe her wounds, to tell her he was nothing and not worth her tears. Together, they had drunk in the daylight, painting and sketching the silliest and most lewd depictions ever to grace the eye, and hid away in the dark until Edie's heart found joy in the daylight once more.

Cat was good, and cheered her on even when it had only gotten her heart broken. Even now, if Edie took interest in a man, she had no doubt Cat would do all she could to ensure her happiness.

Tears stung her eyes, and Edie quickly brushed a little droplet away before anyone could take notice.

"You're my best friend, too." She confessed, reaching her free hand to wrap around the one that still curled around her own. "I don't know this fool, trying to take you away, but I promise I won't say anymore. But I will hurt him if he is the cad I fear he is." Cat scoffed at that, a smile tugging at her lips.

"I hate to ask, but you're the only one with any kind of talent around here."

It was an hour later that found Edie sitting at a desk, carefully stroking her brush over the ivory face of the pendant, trying to depict this Joshua's eye. Edie found the custom silly, walking around with an eye of all things, painted on your pendant. Edie thought there were better ways of walking around with a reminder of your lover, but had to admit this silly piece of jewelry was the most practical.

As the green eye slowly began to form, the deeper her heart began to sink. It was not that she resented Cat's happiness, or that she wished it away. But this just reminded her that everyone was moving forward, leaving her behind with her broken, jagged pieces.

All those she counted as friends would soon get closer to the alter, their bellies would grow round and then their hands would hold the hands of a child, rather than paint brushes or pencils. Edie, for all her pains, rather loved her life. She loved creating—loved the joy of creating something beautiful out of nothing, putting her dreams to paper, immortalizing a person's image, even if it was an unhappy one.

She only wished she had someone to enjoy life with. To share joy, to spend her days at their side, knowing their nights could be together.

Edie brushed away a few errant hairs with the end of her brush, shaking the thoughts away. Perhaps she didn't have a husband, or even a lover, but she was not unhappy. Her happiness was only a different kind than what Cat's was growing into.

As she leaned back, tilting her neck to an uncomfortable looking angle as she regarded her work, Benedict followed the movement with his eyes. It was fascinating, watching her work. Her hands made the smallest of movements, diligently paying attention to detail, and it wasn't until she was near to done that she drew back, inspecting each stroke and shade with a critical eye.

He had never been able to do that—he watched each line as his hand made it, frowned as an image began to form, because no matter how he tried, it never looked right.

But Edith, she was so…sure of her art, so relaxed, at ease to let her hands make what she envisioned. He could not help but watch her. In fact, he watched her a bit more than he would care to admit, and found himself admiring her hands, small and delicate holding her brush in one hand, and what appeared to be a pendant in the other.

He was foolishly perplexed by what she was doing until she handed the piece back to the woman he always saw her speaking with, whose name he could not remember. When the other woman smiled and turned her back on Edith so she could tie the necklace back, he realised what it was.

How curious, to ask a woman such as Edith Granville to paint a lover's eye. The story was that it was a scorned lover who did that to her face, and he found himself somewhat offended on Edith's behalf. It was not particularly kind to ask a woman who had been so harmed by a lover to paint a lover's tribute. And yet Miss Granville returned the smile, the scar on the left side of her face deepening a moment before she pressed her lips back together, reducing her joy to naught but a grin.

She was all contradictions. Soft slopes and curves, jagged edges that cut anyone who dared to come too close. Known for the most revolting reasons, and yet the creator of beauty.

To him, she was cold, prickly, downright ungracious. But she was also…gentle in her work, the kind of woman who did something kind for her friend, even when the task could only have brought painful memories.

It was a long while before he realized the hands of the model he was drawing, more reminded him of the soft, careful hands of Edith Granville, hands of a woman capable of inflicting pain, and yet chose to create.

Once the foolish eye was done, Edie sat back and regarded the models, her fingers itching to draw, but her mind was blank. The slope of the coachman's shoulders and the tilt of his long neck did not rouse her, and when she became curious, she cast her eye towards the plump seamstress—who was not as much of a stranger as Edie would like—and still the same. Her body wanted to draw, but her heart was not there.

It was with Cat, who had returned home almost as soon as her pendant was finished, leaving with a grateful smile and a promise to take tea with her in the coming days. Edie was not optimistic, and had a horrible sinking sense that her friendship with Cat was forever changed.

Even as a debutante she had known friends fell away like leaves when one acquires a husband. Your friends were his, and your friends were ghosts, only seen on a select few occasions when your husband could show up without being a nuisance, like weddings and balls or even a funeral.

Instead of indulging in her desire to create, Edith sat back and watched the others. Her head was swimming, and she had no qualms about watching Henry over his shoulder, his talented hands sweeping over the paper with confident motions that captured the grace of the models before him. Even as a girl, Edie had loved watching her uncle draw, and had loved being his model even more.

But Edith hadn't sat for an artist since the Incident, and she planned on keeping it that way. That hadn't stopped the papers from imagining and describing her, but it was not the same as seeing her. To read it, you would think her face had melted off like candle wax, and that eased her a bit. Let her legacy be ambiguous, one child say that she was a monster, while another say she had the scars of a mortal. She planned to be infamous, until she was something of a legend.

"You ought to add some shading there, just under her bosom." She spoke gently, regarding her uncle's drawing of the plump seamstress.

But instead of taking the advice, he turned to her and said, "You know there are sketch pads and pencils abound, many of them free. You can shade her bosom yourself." From Henry's other side, Benedict tried and failed to hide his amused chuckle.

"Inspiration has failed me this evening I'm afraid. My fingers itch for it, but my mind is otherwise occupied."

Henry hummed, using his middle finger to smudge the charcoal, creating a shadow down the seamstress' thigh. "I know you have letters to reply to, why not get started?"

Edie rolled her eyes with a huff. "I opened one and the first line was asking if I would mind painting Helen's portrait."

"All the wit my poor brother had to offer, skipped over your brothers entirely and went to you." Although she loved her brothers, Edie had to agree. Strong, dependable Richie was a thrall to his wife's whims, and sweet, considerate Willie was falling slowly into madness for his Helen. Soon enough, she'd have two brothers who avoided her to make their wives happy. And of all bloody things, Willie wanted her to help him win Helen's heart.

"Oh no, no, uncle, it gets worse. Not only does he want me to paint the likeness of a girl I have never met, he also wants my permission to pass off the piece as his own. Helen finds artistic talent a great virtue, apparently."

Henry laughed at that, and her eye caught the smile that had formed on Benedict's face as well. A little prickle of annoyance rose up in her belly, irked that he had heard, but then she wasn't making an effort to be quiet. Really, what did it matter? Benedict didn't seem the sort of man to gossip. He dallied in illicit affairs, so he seemed to have a knack for subtlety.

"Poor boy is in love." Henry paused a moment, and then, to Edie's horror, he turned to Benedict, mirth shining in his blue eyes. "You ever do something so foolish for love, Bridgerton?"

Perhaps there was a god because Benedict had been in the middle of a drink of wine, and was so startled by the query that he inhaled some. Edith didn't want to know about the Bridgerton's and their many suitors, about their beautiful, perfect lives and their beautiful, perfect paramours. She read enough about it in Whistledown.

But Henry did not let Benedict's choking coughs deter the conversation, much to her aggravation. "Our Edie here once brought the son of her father's cooks a sweet cake. Her own, saved from afternoon tea." He looked to be about to continue, but Edie cut in, her cheeks starting to warm.

"I was seven, uncle." Edie deadpanned, shifting on her feet to avoid Benedict's eye.

"Making the act of love even more memorable. You ever know a seven year old to be so generous with her sweets?" He asked the Bridgerton, his smile wide.

"My younger sisters would never." Benedict confirmed, an air of awkwardness about him at being told the meaningless piece of Edith Granville trivia.

"A seven year old knows nothing about love. At that age I was convinced that giving him a sweet would mean we would be together always." But alas, like Edgar, her husband at age five, he had eventually disappointed her.

"A practice run, my dear." Henry suggested, turning back to his easel. "Anyhow, the point still stands, we all do foolish things for love. You gave up your sweets, and your brother wants to pass off your work as his own."

At the reminder, Edie scoffed. "If artistic talent is an endearing to her as William seems to think, how unhappy do you think she will be when she finds out he has all the talent of a wet cat with a paint brush? Would the lie anger her enough to leave him?"

"Well, what if they're married?" Henry asked, turning again to look up at her. He was in regular contact with Lady Amelia, and she frequently relayed the accounts of her sons, Richard and William, and so he knew that Lord and Lady Granville expected a marriage proposal soon enough, especially with the social season starting. It might have been his older brother telling him these things, but Henry knew his brother blamed him for what had happened to Edith and so communication was non-existent between the two.

"I don't believe someone would marry a man purely based on his artistic prowess." Benedict chimed in, brow raised, a curious grin tugging his lips at the thought.

To his surprise, Edie agreed, quite eagerly. "Exactly! There are many qualities one looks for in a spouse—position, wealth, property holdings. William wants me to be a partner in his wooing of this woman, and I refuse."

At her reply, Benedict found himself quite befuddled. She seemed to hold no regard for love in her notion of marriage, which was quite revolting in his view. Why marry and shackle yourself to someone you could barely tolerate, if not for love? If you did not hold them above the rest with some amount of reverence?

His bit of charcoal lowered, his body turning towards the younger Granville. "What of character? Of honour? Of falling in love in the natural way?"

Something about his tone must have irked her, because she turned towards him, lips set in a scowl. "That is romance, sir, not marriage."

"Why must the two be separate?" he challenged.

Edith's brow rose, wondering how a man—a year her senior—could be so foolish. "They need not be, but very often are. Love and marriage are separate, Pointy. Ask ten men if they love their wives, I wager at least half of them say not, two or three of them say they value the company, and the remainder say they love them dearly."

"That's…that's simply horrible. Do all women consider this when finding a husband?"

"The smart ones do." She countered, drawing back, tilting her head. "As do the men. When your nagging mama foists you upon young debutants, do you not consider their merits as a potential wife?"

"No!" Benedict cried, but then he considered her question. True, he had no intention of marriage for the time being, but when his mother introduced him to a woman, listing off her talents and achievements, he did consider them. But foremost in his mind for an ideal wife, was one he could love. One who shared his interests, one who made him happy. Her status be damned. "Love in a marriage must be present, else one may have a miserable life."

Henry leaned back, his face the picture of awkwardness but also of one who was determined to see the ending.

"Pointy, I am not denying that love between a man and wife can exist, I am simply saying that that sort of love is rare, few and far between. And I shall not ask my uncle to weigh in because that would be rude and answer a question I do not wish to have answered." Edie knew what his marriage to Lucy was—one of convenience, one that knew lovers and did not mind it. However, she did not wish to out her uncle and aunt for the sake of winning an argument.

"I must say I do very much love Lucy. She is my dearest friend." Henry voiced, raising a stained finger. However, neither Edie nor Benedict noted him.

"That is a very bleak outlook on marriage, I must say."

"Once you're married, please do send me a letter, I should very much like to be proven right."

"Ha!" Benedict scoffed, turning back to his easel. "That shall never happen, Miss Granville, for I intend to make the woman I love, my wife."

Edie was already turning back, walking towards the entrance of the studio, her bed calling for her. "Mmm, right I forgot Bridgerton's were above the reality. I look forward to your letter, Pointy." She hummed as she made her exit.

Once she was gone, Benedict's ears were burning red from the spar, and could not help himself from grumbling, "My name's not 'Pointy'."

Can you tell I'm heavily inspired by Taylor Swift? First half of this chapter was inspired by All Too Well and the entire story is inspired by Goldrush by Taylor Swift :D