Chapter: When love comes to town – Teaser

Dowager Viscountess Violet Ledger(nee) Bridgerton at Bridgerton House

Having summarily dismissed all her beloved yet unruly children from the morning room in total disgrace, Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton closes her eyes, sighs deeply, puts her weary head down, on the extended and stylishly dressed mahogany table, and weeps.

' Oh, Edmund. Edmund. Why?'

The words that should have followed fail to make it past the Dowager's lips.

She is reliving the day Edmund approached her and her father as they finished their promenade and were making their way to the tea rooms. She smiles as she remembers how low he bowed, then clicked his heels in standing upright once more and greeted them both with that sweet winning smile of his and then proclaimed that he had come into town specifically with them, or rather with Violet, in mind.

She can see herself, even now, shuffling closer to her father's side as Edmund asks permission to accompany them for tea and cakes. And feels, as she did then , the tingle of excitement when her father nods, gently eases her arm out of his and excuses himself with some nonsense about errands for Lady Ledger as he hands over her arm to Edmund's…

The Dowager's reverie is interrupted.

She hears a gentle yet cautious knock, just before the squeak, of the heavy morning room door opening, reaches her ears and Gregory's anxious face peers in.

Without looking up, his Mother takes in two long deep breaths. Carefully and deliberately , she says, 'Whoever you are, I think it best if you turn round and leave, right now, as previously instructed, closing the door just as quietly behind you.'

Gregory scans the room: his eyes light up when he sees his book lying open on top of the settle next to the fireplace. He takes one silent step into the room and suspends his right foot in mid-air, ready to move on, he looks at his Mother and hesitates.

His foot lands lightly on the carpet. Without realising he expels air through his pursed lips.

He freezes.

With her head still resting on the table, and speaking far more calmly than she actually feels, the Dowager moans then says, ' I shall count to ten… and if you are still here then, know with absolute certainty that this means there shall be no cookies whatsoever, for a full fortnight and also no horse riding at all with or without your siblings,' she clears her throat and pauses for what seems like an eternity before adding an irritated, 'Gregory!'

Astonished, Gregory looks to the door, then again to his book.

The Dowager counts, 'One, two…' and pauses.

Gregory pauses too to assess his chances, and just as his Mother is counting, ' Five, six…' he scampers to the settle, snatches up his book and dashes out of the room to the sound of a very terse, ' Eight, nine…'

Fast on the heels of an almost bellowed, 'Ten!' and closing the door ever so softly, stopping only to regain his breath and composure, Gregory squirms at the sound of a rare hair-raising scream that can only have come from his Mother: something he has come to understand she does when she is desperately missing his Father, even though it is twelve whole years and more since his passing.

Being barely six years old when his father died, Gregory struggles increasingly to recall details of his Father's face and character, what made him happy, or even how he sounded when he laughed.

His strongest and most treasured remaining recollection is being hugged and squeezed and carried off to bed, listening to his father's chest resonating as he sang or hummed.

This makes Gregory feel so sorry for his youngest sister, Hyacinth, born shortly after the Viscount's passing: she has no such precious personal memories.

He shivers, recalling how it feels every time to hear how much absolutely everyone else, Bridgerton or not, dearly, dearly loved and respected Viscount Edmund Bridgerton. It is this fact that occasionally, as had happened this morning, makes him jealous and grumpy at best and cantankerous and rude at worst.

Silently, he vows to do better. He knows from his siblings, his Mother and all the Nannies that his Father would expect that much of him, at all times.

Walking purposefully up to his room he quickly swipes away unbidden tears in case anyone should see, then sniffs and reminds himself that soon he will be an Eton man: Eton men do not snivel.

Meanwhile, behind the door, the Dowager is mopping her eyes and stealing herself to rescue and resume her day. She ends her conversation with her late husband in the usual manner, with one hand on her gold picture locket, the first gift Edmund ever gave her, and tortures herself, yet again, saying, 'My darling. Did you have to leave us so soon? I miss you so, my love. What can I do?'

Today, however, she has a codicil. Intent on tugging at the bell-rope to summon her housekeeper Mrs Wilson, she strides over to the beautifully crafted black and white Italian marble mantelpiece that she and Edmund had fallen in love with on their first riviera honeymoon.

Instead of pulling the bell-rope, the Dowager watches as her hand is drawn to the cool mantlepiece top and glides tenderly along its full length aping the way Edmund's hand would have done, especially when there was a blazing fire in the hearth and he had an announcement to make , or, far more likely, a joke he wished to share after supper, or on those occasions when everyone else was about to go up, or were already abed, and the room became theirs again, and his stroking of the marble became a secret invitation to her to sit with him by the fire and…

The thought of those days, those happiest and most tenderest of times brings a large lump to the Dowager's throat. She lifts her hands and begs, 'Dearest, please. Tell me what to do.'

King Karl II's family castle in Mecklenburg-Strelitz, Germany

Queen Marianne, wife to King Karl II is distraught. So much so that she is making her way, with as much haste as she can muster, from her private sitting room in the East of their castle to her husband's private study, on the West, in a most unqueenly manner.

In short, Queen Marianne is running! Skirts up, head down.

In her hand she clutches a letter received less than an hour earlier, as a matter of urgency, from the ailing Reverend Mother Superior of the newly extended convent built recently by the King on the edge of the royal family estate.

Behind Queen Marianne are two of her most trusted Ladies-in-waiting dutifully trying to keep up but, unfortunately, falling further and further behind.

At the bottom of the steps leading to her husband's study, Queen Marianne pauses to take in air and to dismiss the guards coming down the steps towards her before launching herself up the eighteen steps two at a time. Half way up she calls out their secret French emergency phrase to get King Karl's attention.

'Adolphus, Cherie. Adolphus, c'est moi, Leonnie.'

By the end of her third repetition the Queen is on the top step as the study doors fly open. The Ladies-in-waiting have barely reached the bottom step before collapsing as King Karl II helps his wife step inside and firmly closes the doors.

Inside Queen Marianne thrusts the paper into the Kings hand and flops on to a chair, exhausted.

He reads.

Your esteemed Majesties

It is with much regret that I write to advise that this message is my last in service to yourselves on this earth before I go to meet my maker.

It is this fact that gives me both strength and licence to write.

I pray God the Father will also forgive my breaking the bond of privacy in revealing this information to you

Your daughter, Princess Aurora has thrice made a petition to join us here at the convent. Her youth and your considerable patronage have permitted us to deny her thus far without ill-conscience

However, our creed states we may not deny any applicant a fourth time. Most importantly, your Majesties should know, the creed specifically precludes us from, declining on the basis of class or royal lineage.

Among my final prayers, I continue to beseech Our Lord in Heaven for a just solution for all involved in this matter.

I send my love and Adieu to you both.

May God the Father, Lord Jesus and the Holy Ghost continue to protect and guide you, always.

Respectfully yours, Reverend Mother Superior

King Karl II puts the letter on his desk before seating himself closely beside his Queen , his great love and trusted great friend, and cupping his hands together with hers.

He kisses both her hands and cheeks as he says,' You were, and you are right, my dear. We cannot tell Aurora what to do, but we are indeed very fortunate in that we have the opportunity to send her somewhere she has always wanted to visit and will enjoy enormously, whilst we two pray dutifully and fervently that it will help bring about what needs to be done.'

'There is one more thing, dearest,' Queen Marianne whispers.

'And that is?' the King asks.

'You and I, my dear. We two shall finally have some time for one another.'

Dowager Viscountess Violet Ledger(nee) Bridgerton outside Bridgerton House

Once outside Bridgerton house, the Dowager finally closes the door on the morning, intentionally leaving a myriad of thoughts behind, in the hope - vain though it is - that Lady Agatha Danbury, her highly perceptive, dearest friend does not catch on and realise something is very much amiss.

As a cool breeze grazes and colours Violet's cheeks, and fresh air rushes past her ears, her sense of calm and well-being trickles back in. When the breeze quickens, nips at her nose and stings the corners of her eyes, it is Violet, not the Dowager, who laughs out loud.

In her head she hears her Father's calming voice, 'Beauty, remember there is a lot to be said for a ramble when one needs to restore the mind, the soul and the heart.'

She takes the next turning into the promenade walk. It is the nearest and closest in ilk, to an open expanse of fields with a cerulean sky shaped like a dome as treasured and beloved throughout her childhood.

Gusty winds and falling, dancing leaves allow her mind to drift back there and into her first encounter with Lady Danbury.

After her three full turns of the inner pathway, in delicious solitude, she is interrupted by the Thompson twins wriggling and crying loudly, in unison, as their patient Nanny ,Arlette, frantically tries to sooth them by jiggling their perambulator.

The Dowager's maternal nature pulls at her to give assistance.

Violet urges her to move on and keep walking.

Violet wins.

She leaves the Promenade arena and makes her way towards the row of shops where Madame Delacroix works and lives.

Several strong blasts carry off wind induced tears before Violet has the chance to bring her handkerchief into service. Thankfully, not too far up ahead, the Modiste's salon sign sways wildly and the squall forces Violet up close to the ice shop, face to face with its windows where she huddles in, in order to avoid the imminent eruptions.

Through partially steamed up panes, Violet observes customers enjoying each other's company whilst their mouths fizz and flinch from the impact of their chosen flavoured ices.

Just as there is a lull, Violet resolves to bring Gregory and Hyacinth here again, and soon. Holding on to posts for support she makes her way to the Modiste and is looking inside at a window display when a large, ornate carriage drives up. In the salon's reflection, Violet spies a handsome gentleman's face with the kindest of eyes, eyes that look somewhat familiar. She turns and sees he is alone. She squints and briefly raises her hand to shade her eyes by cutting out some of the thin sunlight distorting her view.

The gentleman is looking straight at her or through her. The Dowager turns back.

Her mouth gapes.

Her heart wrestles between sheer disbelief and sharp delight.

The carriage moves on.

Everything goes black.

Throne room, Buckingham House

Queen Charlotte is perturbed. This is surely good news, not completely good granted, but, from her perspective, it is scope for some hope. For certain, no one expected this after all those years.

Ultimately, it is fantastic news.

And yet Brimsley lies weakened , as if asleep, on the floor of her throne room.

She takes out one of her favourite snuff pots and beckons one of the footmen.

'Try a little of this. It's very strong.'

The footman bows and backs off. When he reaches Brimsley's prone body he turns and looks back at his Queen.

Her response is terse and impatient, 'Kneel down.'

He does.

'Closer!'

He shifts. ' Ease open, the lid, take a pinch of the powder and wave it slowly under his nose.'

The footman raises his eyebrows.

'Do it man,' Queen Charlotte insists, 'Now!'

The footman obliges. Brimsley follows suit and splutters.

Queen Charlotte smiles, relieved.

Brimsley's head rolls from side to side. His lips move. Only the last word is coherent.

'Maj…esty.'

Queen Charlotte nods. This too is progress, of sorts. Cause for more hope.

'More snuff, ' she commands pointing at the footman.

Looking around she searches for a footman she vaguely recognises and orders him to go for the doctor, her doctor, and with due haste.

She searches amongst her Ladies-in-Waiting for someone with a modicum of practical common sense. Her mind casts back to the chefs in her former home in Germany. No matter the ailment or problem, chefs always seem to have had a useful solution. She snaps her fingers at the footmen near the door.

'Quickly, one of you must go to the kitchen, explain the matter to chef and ask her to come here as soon as possible.'

They bow.

'Be sure to advise her that I command she should stop whatever it is she is doing. Inform her it is for Brimsley.'

They bow, again.

'Well?' Queen Charlotte asks,' Why are you still here? Both of you shall go! If she has some remedy for one of you to bring whilst she looks for others, one of you can return with the first.'

They bow.

Queen Charlotte bellows, 'Go!'

They quiver and leave.

'Finally!'

A Lady-in-Waiting Queen Charlotte does not recognise appears by her side.

'If I may your Majesty?'

'Yes, girl?'

'My mother would always turn people on their side.'

Queen Charlotte looks askance. The 'Why' on her tongue remaining unsaid. ' Go on.'

'It stops people from choking, your Majesty.'

Queen Charlotte looks from Brimsley to the very young Lady-in-Waiting. ' Go on! Get on with it, girl.'

'Yes, your Majesty.'

As Brimsley is turned onto his left side, a variety of liquids spill from his mouth. The young Lady-in-Waiting cleans up and steps back, satisfied with her efforts. She curtsies to the Queen and watches Brimsley.

The throne room door swings open to reveal chef, the two footmen, and two kitchen maids.' Your Majesty,' chef says, half-curtsying.

Queen Charlotte replies, 'Yes, yes!', points to Brimsley and edges even closer.

As chef approaches Brimsley, she says, ' Well done, whoever did this. Good work.'

The young Lady-in-Waiting blushes and resumes her position to the rear of the other, more senior, Ladies-in-Waiting who scowl as she goes by.

Chef orders one footman to prop Brimsley up and the other to sit back-to-back with him so that he remains upright. Chef snaps her fingers, and the two kitchen maids come forward. She takes their bundles from them and the maids sit close on either side of Brimsley who now looks like a huge puppet with glazed, unseeing eyes.

Chef nods and mumbles, ' Good, his cheeks are warming up.' She turns to Queen Charlotte, 'Tis shock your Majesty.'

Chef wraps the fabric bundles tightly around Brimsley and the kitchen maids.

Queen Charlotte raises her eyebrows. Apart from Reynolds bringing out clothing to protect the King's dignity all those years ago, no-one had ever done this sort of thing during her husband's numerous episodes. She makes a note to command the Royal Physician to speak to chef and others to discover what other treatments might be useful, and not just for King George.

Chef is speaking again: Queen Charlotte pays obvious attention. ' Shock leaves a body without warmth; we need to replace that as soon as possible.'

Brimsley starts to mumble again. He even tries to stand. His supporters struggle but manage to keep him in place. Brimsley looks up and tries to apologize.

Chef stands, 'Your Majesty, I think Brimsley can be taken to his quarters now. A long sleep will serve him well.'

'Good, Queen Charlotte responds, 'Thank you for your swift response, Chef, we shall speak further on this, another time.'

Queen Charlotte perches on a nearby chair, raises a finger and whispers to Brimsley, ' I cannot be a perfect Queen unless you are there, exactly five paces behind me, at all times, eager to advise how I can do the things that I am not permitted to do.'

Brimsley's face breaks into a faint smile.

He nods.

Tears fall.

The Queen stands and turns to the footmen in the room, all of whom are clearly greatly concerned. ' Fetch him to his quarters, gently. Keep me informed of his progress. Be sure to watch over him this night.'

All the footmen bow, 'Yes your Majesty,' they chorus as one.

Once they have removed Brimsley, Queen Charlotte dismisses everyone else, sending them either to the kitchen or waiting room for a strong cup of tea.

She cannot cope with anymore moping, right now. She also needs a moment to herself to imagine and contemplate how she might have reacted if George had gone to war and she had been told he was dead, only to find out many, many years later that he had been held captive and treated badly all this time, and now he had recently been released. Sick and confused, yes, yet alive.

She curses the abominable, so-called Emperor, Napolean.

All at once, Queen Charlotte feels compelled to visit the King. She desperately needs to see him, to hold him and to kiss him.

She stands abruptly and tugs vigorously at the bell-rope to summon a footman.

The door barely opens before she begins walking out, issuing instructions, as her heart beats fast and furiously. Under her breath she hears herself say, 'Please let him still be alive. Please. Oh please.

As she approaches the doors, they swing open and there he stands, the love of her life all charm and happiness walking towards her, arms wide open bidding her to come to him.

For the first time in her life, Queen Charlotte swoons.

Chez Madame Delacroix, La Modiste

Crumpled on the ground, immediately outside her salon, Madame Delacroix sees a bundle of blue woollen and fur Pelisse she knows belongs to the Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton. Such a beautiful garment, it had given her such pleasure and satisfaction in making it.

'Mon Dieu,' she exclaims as she opens the salon door fully and kneels beside the Dowager.

'Viscountess? Ca va bien? 'Allo?', she listens to the Dowager's breathing and attempts to turn her body so that her face is shielded from the crowd.

A deep, kindly, concerned voice asks, 'May I be of assistance?'

Without looking up, Madame Delacroix replies, ' Mais, bien sur, Lord Debling. Bien sur.'

Taken back Lord Debling bends one knee and is about to place his arms under the Dowager's when Madame Delacroix adds, 'I shall take your hat and cane, Lord Debling.'

Another, grander carriage draws to a halt immediately outside the salon.

The onlookers shift so that they can retain their peak viewing.

Lady Danbury's coachman calms his horses, springs quickly to the ground, opens the carriage door, and helps Lady Danbury to step down next to Lord Debling.

'Ah, Lord Debling, do allow me to gather the Viscountess' accessories, leaving you free to focus solely on lifting her.'

'Very well, Lady Danbury,' Lord Debling replies,' Look! She stirs, let us make haste and spare her blushes.'

'Most considerate, Lord Debling, come, I shall hold the door,' Lady Danbury says, quietly adding, ' Madame, do flatten her skirts, if you can.'

Madame Delacroix is visibly impressed as Lord Debling bends and scoops up the blue bundle as if they were mere feathers and graciously carries the Viscountess to the rear of her salon, out of reach of prying eyes on long necks - denying them further

tittle-tattle titbits – and ever so gently, lays the Dowager, on the gilded ruby velvet chaise- longue.

A few minutes later, a tiny feeble voice speaks, from the chaise longue, 'I saw Edmund today. I saw my one true love, Edmund.'

Lady Danbury's brow furrows, 'Viscountess. Did you hit your head in the process of falling?'

The tiny feeble voice replies, ' No. No. I saw Edmund, then I fainted. That is all.'

'That is all?', Lady Danbury repeats, 'Curious. Can you sit up?'

Dearest Gentle Reader,

Yesterday a slight change to the usual Post-Marriage Mart season of autumnal walks and visits to the various ice and coffee houses arose that many of the Ton saw, apparently, but could not explain.

The matter of the fallen Dowager was dealt with by such efficiency and economy of fuss that the incident already seems to be fading from memory.

The active participants involved can be utterly relied upon to be of such high standing and integrity, and therefore so discreet, that no further comment has reached my ears, at this point in time.

In all honesty, I expect no details from those quarters.

Rest assured that as soon as I , Whistledown, know what actually befell our sweet, capable and much beloved Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton, leading to such uncommon behaviour, then you too will be advised.

Sweet dreams, Viscountess, your secret is safe.

However, one other question remains unanswered.

Whilst all those caring members of the ton at the scene clearly recall seeing Lady Danbury helping Dowager Bridgerton into the carriage, it appears that none of the crowd, not one, saw Lord Debling, hero of the moment, leave the Modiste's salon...

at least, not during daylight

One has always wondered why such a charming gentleman; the very essence of good health and finance, and manners, is still without a suitable wife.

Curious wouldn't you say?

Lady Whistledown

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