The Garden Party

A garden fete was not the sort of soiree that Henry Granville frequented. He enjoyed late night spring balls, picnics in the park, and all varieties of events where talented, enlightened minds could talk of art and beauty and life. Truly, his appearances at something so tame and mundane as a garden party were few and far between, but with his reputation as an artist whose pieces hung at Somerset, his attendance was met with much interest from the ton.

Edie had little doubt her uncle would return home with more than a few commissions under his arm.

As expected, Edie had received a very polite invitation from the Cowper's, but no one expected her to attend, and she had every intention of not going. Edie had heard rumours about the Cowper girl and her mother, and her interest in attending one of their parties was so low in the ground, not even the worms could find it.

Even her uncle hated the company of such people—so high but so foul they mistook their own foul stench for those below.

Which ignited a question an hour or so after he and Lucy had left—why attend when he had little tolerance for the more hateful and gossiping urchins of polite society?

Well, the answer was a strategic one, as it turned out. He was a man of status, and a reputable artist. To not attend such an event hosted by a family of such reverence as the Cowper's (the patriarch was the nephew of a marquis who was close friends with their demented king, so they say, and his wife had been the diamond of her season), it would be a very public, very obvious slight. Henry preferred to live quietly, and so he swallowed his irritation and took Lucy's hand and went to the damned garden party.

What Edie didn't know, was that one Benedict Bridgerton would be in attendance as well, and Henry very much needed to speak with him about what he had seen two nights previous.

Edie had always been a tad suspicious in nature, but it had been suppressed by her governess' insistence that proper, demure young ladies believed in honesty and honour and would only surround themselves with men of that nature. But, obviously, her suspicious tendencies had flared up with a powerful ferocity, and so she tended to avoid garden parties, and balls and gallery viewings all together.

It was only expected, she told herself. How could she be expected to be sweet and cajoling with her face, the mark of violence?

But, it did make her grin to think of one day showing her face at such an event, hosted by the scowling Lady Cowper and her (supposedly—Edie had never had the displeasure of meeting the girl, but Lucy kept her plied well with the current gossip) pinch faced daughter, just to see them squirm and struggle to be polite and welcoming. If they were not, she had no doubt the next portrait of the two would be laced with soft tones of humiliation. Afterall, her uncle had depicted her first and last lover as a donkey with buck teeth and a slack jaw in the man's own father's commission. His last commission from that fool, though Henry never begroaned the loss.

Ugly and shelved or not, Edie was still the daughter of a duke and commanded respect in public. Even if the strain between she and her father and brothers was of public knowledge, pride—especially pride in one's family—ran deep. To insult Edie openly, ostentatiously, would be an insult to a well connected and wealthy duke.

Alone in her house, Edie busied herself with another sketch—this time is was of the messy chaise lounge sitting across from her. A scarf, a spent tea service, and a pair of gloves rested upon it. Her teacup still had a bit of tea in it, and her little meal of cheese and fruit nearly gone. If she had gone to that damned garden party, she would have missed this lovely little scene before her. It was peaceful, at ease, not a trace of straight neatness, and lacking of the tension that came with perfection. It was simple, and it was oddly soothing, and Edie had to capture it.

Yes, I'd have missed this if I had gone, and Lady Cowper's tight, awkward smile is far less appealing than this, Edie thought. What was the appeal of a garden party, anyway? All fluttering fans and bright dresses, polite and hollow conversation, men retreating as soon as they were able to, their brandy and their cards rendering many of them drunk or penniless or both. (She didn't think any man alive knew what women talked about when they were not around.)

Well, Edie thought after a fashion, perhaps the food could be quite tasty, and it might have been enjoyable enough to see what was in fashion these days. And…perhaps enjoyable to hear a silly story or two from a mother about her children's upbringing, what endearing little adventures they'd undertaken in their short lives, or hear wives boast and groan and grumble about their husbands with equal measure of affection. And maybe it would have been fun to take their party to the pond and feel the fresh coolness of the water.

Had it all been different, had she made different choices or if God were kind, she might have played hostess to a garden party. Perhaps the ton would have preferred hers over Lady Cowper's, perhaps she would have had a husband to whisper to and…and.

With a weary sigh, Edie tossed her pencil down onto her lap, back falling against the cushioned seat behind her, her fingers rubbing at her aching eyes. But then she hissed with pain when her fingers dug too hard against the delicate scarred skin of her brow.

Sometimes, when she was feeling particularly melancholy, she visited these thoughts. The 'if only' thoughts.

If only she had been smarter, she might have been married by the end of her season. If only she had been married, she might have known what real love was like. If only she knew what real love was like, she would have thoroughly enjoyed having a man in her bed. She might have hosted garden parties and balls, her mother might have come to visit her, her brother Richie would have invited her to Granville House. If only…perhaps she'd be occupied with a child's cries, instead of these horrid, useless thoughts.

If only Thomas Haken hadn't been so angry and vengeful, she would not be sitting here thinking of a life that never was or ever would be.

Her entire existence might have been different, then. But it did not mean she would be happier.

Maybe she would have married a cruel man, a drunk, a whoremonger, a gambler. Mayhaps she would have given him children under the bludgeoning of force, never knowing that a marriage bed was not meant to hurt and leave her wishing for her mother's arms. Maybe she'd have hated children, resented the little creature blinking up at her, screaming at her, needing her constantly…And then, maybe after a lifetime of toil, her children would turn away from her and towards their father, and she would be left aching and alone with nothing but an aged body and empty home for company.

It was useless to think of the 'if only' thoughts, but Edie still entertained them when the mood took her. Life might have been better, and it might have been worse, but it was what it was.

She sat here with her sketches and paintings, her brushes and colours, while other women sat about a tea service.

If anyone ever asked, (and no one ever did), Edie would adamantly insist she enjoyed her life, and she would speak the truth. It was only…different to what she'd always thought it would be. And, if anyone ever asked, (and no one ever did), she would never admit it was a lot lonelier.

Benedict Bridgerton never realized how good a liar he could be until now.

Certainly, as a boy he had not always told the truth, but those were often boyish follies and trysts that none cared too much for to make note of. Certainly as a man of seven and twenty, his attendance at Henry Granville's parties were of more interest, especially if the rest of the world found out about the unrepentant acts of depravity and scandal that went on within those finely decorated walls.

Speaking of depravity…well when he thought of it, it, while shocking, hadn't looked to the vile, unnatural way he had been warned some men got up to with each other. Because, really, that's what it was. It was unnatural. Wrong. A law abiding man would report the indecency at once. But Benedict could not fathom reporting the scene he'd witnessed, because it held no rage or fear, and neither lust nor a sense of filth.

Rather, it had been an embrace…it had looked to be love, a touch longed for and accepted with such fervour that Benedict had left the scene inflamed.

He had never known such desire had existed, and had never seen it so desperate. If he wanted someone, he pursued them, and most often, they chased him back, a dance so fluid and easy that he'd perfected it before he was twenty.

But never had he seen something so…raw. So real, and deep and charged with an erotic desire. But it was not wholly carnal—there was something made of the heart there, a connection that he'd never known, pushed into want in it's purest form.

But for all his fascination with what he'd seen, Benedict could not deny he was still confused.

And he deemed it sheer coincidence that he'd spotted Henry Granville across the garden, conversing politely with their hostess, the ever smiling or scowling, Lady Cowper, her reportedly unpleasant only daughter standing at her side, softly fluttering her fan.

Benedict's mouth felt full of sand, and he took a hurried gulp of lemonade, feeling the sweet drink hit his suddenly empty stomach.

He had departed Henry's home as soon as his…activities, with the two beautiful women had reached their natural conclusion. Truly, he liked to sleep beside his lovers, but unease had gripped his heart in a vice once the haze of pleasure had faded away. So, he'd risen and dressed and left well before either dawn or Henry could locate him. He felt like a wretch for leaving the two ladies, asleep and content and sated as they were, to wake alone and bare.

Men and their secrets were a delicate thing. His own brother guarded his mistress' name with a ferocity that was mild compared to others'. He'd heard many a rumour of men who had killed to protect their reputation, who had sequestered lovers with their bastards, paid off coachmen to take them to their secret apartments, who had silently borrowed money from others to pay off debts. All done with the utmost secrecy, mostly to protect an image acquired from generations of honorable men who passed title down to their honorable sons.

This secret, though, this secret could mean imprisonment. Ruin of his entire family. It could kill.

What might Henry Granville do to protect it? He thought of poor Edith Granville, so abused she was that she hid from the world. What might he do to protect his niece, whom he loved so dearly?

He'd attempted to avoid the man, but his attempted proved useless and Henry Granville found him a quarter of an hour later, soon after his mother had left him to introduce Eloise to a friend of hers.

"Mr. Bridgerton." The soft, smooth voice of Mr. Henry Grandville had never filled Benedict with such apprehension before. His little sister was stepping into the marriage mart, and Benedict knew far better than Anthony, that Daphne's success in this season would set the stage for all his other sisters. He has the means to destroy Henry, but Henry too had the means to destroy the Bridgertons.

The thing was though, Benedict had no burning desire to harm the other man. Shocking as it might have been to witness such an act between two men, he held no malice towards them. No disgust.

"Mr. Grandville." Benedict replied amicably, tapping his fingers on the side of his empty punch glass.

"Splendid party."

"Indeed." He offered the older man a tentative smile. At once, Benedict became aware of just how tense Henry's shoulders were, his defences raised with all the subtly of a gentleman. "Er, listen, Bridgerton, about the other night…"

Benedict saw his opening, and immediately put Henry's fears to rest. "What about it? I do not believe any thing of note occurred."

A heartbeat to confusion led to Henry's face splitting into a beaming smile. "Well, then."

"Only…" Truly he had meant to let the matter rest, to let what Benedict had seen be forgotten. But question after question gripped his mind, and one jumped out among the rest as wholly unique and without any explanation he could conjure. "How can you expose your niece to such…acts. I cannot fathom letting my sisters sleep under the same roof."

"Edie is not like your sisters, Bridgerton. She has lived a life, your sisters are just getting ready to start theirs." Henry spoke with a sterner tone than Benedict had ever heard, but he was not deterred.

"But she was. Like my sisters, I mean."

Henry seemed to think on this for a moment before speaking. "Once." He finally replied. He looked towards Benedict once more. "I do not know your sisters personally, Bridgerton. But Edie would have withered away had she married any of the men who had vied for her attention during her first season." Benedict opened his mouth, but Henry spoke first. "Edie…she was made for love, Bridgerton. And it is my greatest sadness that she might never know it. But people are cruel. Even when they attempt to be kind. Kindness has a certain sharp edge to it."

"Indeed." Benedict replied softly, thinking once more of the woman with the horrible scar on her face. She was cantankerous, defensive, rude and secretive. But there was a reason for that, he realized then. He wondered who she might have been seven years ago, before.

"You ask me how I can…expose my Edie to my debauchery and for that, I have no real answer to give. Perhaps all my answers are selfish in nature. But Edie is not a soft girl."

The two were silent a moment, the din of the partygoers swirling in the air, soft music uttering delicate notes that contrasted starkly with the nature of their conversation.

"I certainly hope this new understanding does not make light your visits to my studio, Bridgerton."

Benedict smiled. "Couldn't keep me away."

A woman of Edith's station had occasion to grow up with enough servants to tend to her every need—from tending to her hair to making sure her clothes were in good order. While her uncle was in no way destitute, he was a second son and he preferred not to live as lavishly as his elder brother did.

That found Edith Granville readying herself for bed on her own. It was a rather long and boring routine, and sometimes she missed having a lady's maid to attend her. Sometimes, if her hair was being particularly difficult, she would call for Lucy or Isabelle to help. But she had gotten rather proficient at this chore, and there was a silly sense of pride in that.

But once her hair was brushed back, falling down her back in a loose plait, her dress and stays discarded and her nightgown pulled on, there was a knock at her door. Without prompting, Henry entered a moment later, jacket tossed aside, his sleeves pushed to his elbows, fingers stained with paint. It was a quieter night in Grandville House, many having been tired out by the spectacle that was the Cowper's garden party. Henry had returned hours before, but by the noise outside her window, she ascertained that most of the ton was only now stumbling back to their beds.

"Hello, my dear."

"Hello. Is something the matter?" She asked, sitting straighter in her bed, closing her sketch pad.

"No, no." Henry assured as he stepped into her room, closing the door behind him. "I only wished to say goodnight."

Edie rose a brow. "That doesn't usually require closing off the door."

"No." He stepped forwards, sitting at the foot of her bed, one large, warm hand patting her leg through the covers. "Lord Ashby was at the party, today. He asked after you, and mentioned perhaps making an appointment to take tea with you in the coming week." Edie's stomach dropped, her heart stuttering in her breast at the mention of the old man Henry seemed so keen on pushing her to.

"Uncle..." she sighed tiredly, plopping book down beside her.

"Edie…" he replied, gently inching up the bed to sit closer to her. There was a look on his face, one of such softness and concern that she wanted to turn away from him. She already knew this was not a conversation she wanted to have. "Lucy and I…we shall not be around forever."

"And you wish to push me off on the first available man so you will not have to worry yourself over me." She concluded, only a little bitterness in her words. That was exactly what he wanted, though he'd much rather live forever so he would never have to push her to wed. But this was the world they lived in—women married or else they were destitute, ripe for any man's dishonourable, cruel intentions.

Henry only sighed but he did not tell her she was false. They both knew that at it's the most rudimentary way, she was correct. "You cannot own property. And you said so yourself, your brothers may not wish for you to live with them, and you would be a burden eventually." Edie was silent, the harsh truth choking her. "You are not without worth and merit. What happened with that wretch does not take—"

"Do not speak of that." She cut in quietly, her voice cold and sharp.

Once more, Henry sighed, looking away from her stony face. He had tried for years to make her see that life was not over simply because her beauty had been marred. Her mind was sharp, her heart had passion, her hands had talent. But it seemed that while she realized she had value, she refused to see that she could still marry, still have a family.

It had been a mistake to bring up Lord Ashby, the old man who had four grown sons. He had hoped by presenting an initial repulsive option, it might warm her heart to another, softer option.

Finally, Henry sighed, sensing the conversation had died all together once he tried to reference that day. In truth, he did not like to recall it either. He'd had the carpet ripped out as soon he as he could, hardly able to stomach the sight of the blood. Even then, that room was marked red, even without the stain on the floor, and as soon as he was able, he'd secured them another home.

"Alright my dear." He hummed, gently patting her shoulder. "Sleep well." He left the room without another word, the door closing softly behind.

Edie sat still for a long while, until her eyes ached with the desire for sleep. She stared out at nothing, but her thoughts raced. Sometimes she thought of the Incident and felt strong, in an abstract, distant sort of way. If she heard of such a horrific act, she would have thought the victim strong.

But to think of the details, to think of how afraid and hurt she'd been…she wondered how she still stood on her own feet. Perhaps she wasn't strong at all.