by Julia Quinn
“You’re out late,” he said, sitting beside me. He set his lantern down and brushed his hands against his work trousers, shaking off the loose dirt.
“Just thinking,” I replied.
He nodded, then leaned his elbows on his thighs and looked out at the sky. “Any shooting stars tonight?”
I shook my head even though he wasn’t facing me. “No.”
“Do you need one?”
I smiled to myself. He was asking if I had any wishes to be made. We used to wish on stars together all the time when I was small, but somehow we’d got out of the habit.
“No,” I said. I was feeling introspective, thinking about Charles and wondering what it meant that I’d spent the whole of the afternoon with him and now could not wait to see him again tomorrow. But I didn’t feel as if I needed any wishes granted. At least, not yet.
“I always have wishes,” he remarked.
“You do?” I turned to him, my head tilting to the side as I took in his profile. I know that he’d been terribly unhappy before he’d met my current mother, but that was all well behind him. If ever a man had a happy and fulfilled life, it was he.
“What do you wish for?” I asked.
“The health and happiness of my children, first and foremost.”
“That doesn’t count,” I said, feeling myself smile.
“Oh, you don’t think so?” He looked at me, and there was more than a hint of amusement in his eyes. “I assure you, it’s the first thing I think about in the morning, and the last before I lay myself down to sleep.”
“Really?”
“I have five children, Amanda, and every one of them is healthy and strong. And as far as I know, you’re all happy. It’s probably dumb luck that you’ve all turned out so well, but I’m not going to tempt any fates by wishing for something else.”
I thought about that for a moment. It had never occurred to me to wish for something I already had. “Is it scary being a parent?” I asked.
“The most terrifying thing in the world.”
I don’t know what I thought he might say, but it wasn’t that. But then I realized—he was speaking to me as an adult. I don’t know if he’d ever really done so before. He was still my father, and I was still his daughter, but I’d crossed some mysterious threshold.
It was thrilling and sad at the same time.
We sat together for a few minutes more, pointing out constellations and not saying anything of import. And then, just when I was about to head back inside he said, “Your mother said that you had a gentleman caller this afternoon.”
“And four of his female cousins,” I quipped.
He looked over at me with arched brows, a silent scolding for making light of the topic.
“Yes,” I said. “I did.”
“Did you like him?”
“Yes.” I felt myself grow a bit light, as if my insides had gone fizzy. “I did.”
He digested that, then said, “I’m going to have to get a very large stick.”
“What?”
“I used to say to your mother that when you were old enough to be courted, I was going to have to beat away the gentlemen.”
There was something almost sweet about that. “Really?”
“Well, not when you were very small. Then you were such a nightmare I despaired of anyone ever wanting you.”
“Father!”
He chuckled. “Don’t say you don’t know it’s true.”
I couldn’t contradict.
“But when you were a bit older, and I started to see the first hints of the woman you would become . . .” He sighed. “Good Lord, if ever being a parent is terrifying . . .”
“And now?”
He thought about that for a moment. “I suppose now I can only hope I raised you well enough to make sensible decisions.” He paused. “And of course, if anyone even thinks about mistreating you, I shall still have that stick.”
I smiled, then scooted over slightly, so that I could rest my head on his shoulder. “I love you, Father.”
“I love you, too, Amanda.” He turned and kissed me on the top of my head. “I love you, too.”
I did marry Charles, by the way, and my father never once had to brandish a stick. The wedding occurred six months later, after a proper courtship and slightly improper engagement. But I am certainly not going to put into writing any of the events that made the engagement improper.
My mother insisted upon a premarital chat, but this was conducted the night before the wedding, by which time the information was no longer exactly timely, but I did not let on. I did, however, get the impression that she and my father might also have anticipated their marriage vows. I was shocked. Shocked. It seems most unlike them. Now that I have experienced the physical aspects of love, the mere thought of my parents . . .
It is too much to bear.
Charles’s family home is in Dorset, rather close to the sea, but as his father is very much alive, we have let a home in Somerset, halfway between his family and mine. He dislikes town as much as I do. He is thinking of beginning a breeding program for horses, and it’s the oddest thing, but apparently the breeding of plants and the breeding of animals are not entirely dissimilar. He and my father have become great friends, which is lovely, except that now my father visits quite often.
Our new home is not large and all of the bedrooms are quite near to one another. Charles has devised a new game he calls “See how quiet Amanda can be.”
Then he proceeds to do all measure of wicked things to me—all whilst my father sleeps across the hall!
He is a devil, but I adore him. I can’t help it. Especially when he . . .
Oh, wait, I wasn’t going to put any such things in writing, was I?
Just know that I am smiling very broadly as I remember it.
And that it was not covered in my mother’s premarital chat.
I suppose I should admit that last night I lost the game. I was not quiet at all.
My father did not say a word. But he departed rather unexpectedly that afternoon, citing some sort of botanical emergency.
I don’t know that plants have emergencies, but as soon as he left, Charles insisted upon inspecting our roses for whatever it was my father said was wrong with his.
Except that for some reason he wanted to inspect the roses that were already cut and arranged in a vase in our bedroom.
“We’re going to play a new game,” he whispered in my ear. “See how noisy Amanda can be.”
“How do I win?” I asked. “And what is the prize?”
I can be quite competitive, and so can he, but I think it is safe to say that we both won that time.
And the prize was lovely, indeed.
When He Was Wicked
I will confess that when I wrote the final words of When He Was Wicked, it didn’t even occur to me to wonder whether Francesca and Michael would have children. Their love story had been so moving and so complete that I felt I had closed the book on them, so to speak. But within days of the book’s publication, I began to hear from readers, and everybody wanted to know the same thing: Had Francesca ever had that baby she so desperately wanted? When I sat down to write the 2nd epilogue, I knew that this was the question I must answer . . .
When He Was Wicked:
The 2nd Epilogue
She was counting again.
Counting, always counting.
Seven days since her last menses.
Six until she might be fertile.
Twenty-four to thirty-one until she might expect to bleed again, provided she didn’t conceive.
Which she probably wouldn’t.
It had been three years since she’d married Michael. Three years. She’d suffered through her courses thirty-three times. She’d counted them, of course; made depressing little hatch marks on a piece of paper she kept tucked away in her desk, in the far back corner of the middle drawer, where Michael wouldn’t see.
It would pain him. Not because he wanted a child, whic
h he did, but rather because she wanted one so desperately.
And he wanted it for her. Maybe even more than he wanted one himself.
She tried to hide her sorrow. She tried to smile at the breakfast table and pretend that it didn’t matter that she’d a wad of cloth between her legs, but Michael always saw it in her eyes, and he seemed to hold her closer through the day, kiss her brow more often.
She tried to tell herself that she should count her blessings. And she did. Oh, how she did. Every day. She was Francesca Bridgerton Stirling, Countess of Kilmartin, blessed with two loving families—the one she’d been born into, and the one she’d acquired—twice—through marriage.
She had a husband most women only dreamed of. Handsome, funny, intelligent, and as desperately in love with her as she was with him. Michael made her laugh. He made her days a joy and her nights an adventure. She loved to talk with him, to walk with him, to simply sit in the same room with him and steal glances while they were each pretending to read a book.
She was happy. Truly, she was. And if she never had a baby, at least she had this man—this wonderful, marvelous, miraculous man who understood her in a way that left her breathless.
He knew her. He knew every inch of her, and still, he never ceased to amaze and challenge her.
She loved him. With every breath in her body, she loved him.
And most of the time, it was enough. Most of the time, it was more than enough.
But late at night, after he’d fallen asleep, and she still lay awake, curled up against him, she felt an emptiness that she feared neither of them could ever fill. She would touch her abdomen, and there it was, flat as always, mocking her with its refusal to do the one thing she wanted more than anything else.
And that was when she cried.
There had to be a name for it, Michael thought as he stood at his window, watching Francesca disappear over the hillside toward the Kilmartin family plot. There had to be a name for this particular brand of pain, of torture, really. All he wanted in the world was to make her happy. Oh, for certain there were other things—peace, health, prosperity for his tenants, right-minded men in the seat of prime minister for the next hundred years. But when all was said and done, what he wanted was Francesca’s happiness.
He loved her. He always had. It was, or at least it should have been, the most uncomplicated thing in the world. He loved her. Period. And he would have moved heaven and earth, if it were only in his power, to make her happy.
Except the one thing she wanted most of all, the one thing she craved so desperately and fought so valiantly to hide her pain about, he could not seem to give her.
A child.
And the funny thing was, he was beginning to feel the same pain.
At first, he had felt it just for her. She wanted a child, and therefore he wanted one as well. She wanted to be a mother, and therefore he wanted her to be one. He wanted to see her holding a child, not because it would be his child, but because it would be hers.
He wanted her to have what she desired. And selfishly, he wanted to be the man to give it to her.
But lately, he’d felt the pangs himself. They would visit one of her many brothers or sisters and be immediately surrounded by the next generation of offspring. They would tug on his leg, shriek, “Uncle Michael!” and howl with laughter when he would toss them in the air, always begging for one more minute, one more twirl, one more secret peppermint candy.
The Bridgertons were marvelously fertile. They all seemed to produce exactly the number of offspring they desired. And then perhaps one more, just for good measure.
Except Francesca.
Five hundred and eighty-four days later, Francesca stepped out of the Kilmartin carriage and breathed the fresh, clean air of the Kent countryside. Spring was well under way, and the sun was warm on her cheeks, but when the wind blew, it carried with it the last hints of winter. Francesca didn’t mind, though. She’d always liked the tingle of a cold wind on her skin. It drove Michael mad—he was always complaining that he’d never quite readjusted to life in a cold climate after so many years in India.
She was sorry he had not been able to accompany her on the long ride down from Scotland for the christening of Hyacinth’s baby daughter, Isabella. He would be there, of course; she and Michael never missed the christening of any of their nieces and nephews. But affairs in Edinburgh had delayed his arrival. Francesca could have delayed her trip as well, but it had been many months since she had seen her family, and she missed them.
It was funny. When she was younger, she’d always been so eager to get away, to set up her own household, her own identity. But now, as she watched her nieces and nephews grow, she found herself visiting more often. She didn’t want to miss the milestones. She had just happened to be visiting when Colin’s daughter Agatha had taken her first steps. It had been breathtaking. And although she had wept quietly in her bed that night, the tears in her eyes as she’d watched Aggie lurch forward and laugh had been ones of pure joy.
If she wasn’t going to be a mother, then by God, at least she would have those moments. She couldn’t bear to think of life without them.
Francesca smiled as she handed her cloak to a footman and walked down the familiar corridors of Aubrey Hall. She’d spent much of her childhood here, and at Bridgerton House in London. Anthony and his wife had made some changes, but much was still just as it had always been. The walls were still painted the same creamy white, with the barest undertone of peach. And the Fragonard her father had bought her mother for her thirtieth birthday still hung over the table just outside the door to the rose salon.
“Francesca!”
She turned. It was her mother, rising from her seat in the salon.
“How long have you been standing out there?” Violet asked, coming to greet her.
Francesca embraced her mother. “Not long. I was admiring the painting.”
Violet stood beside her and together they regarded the Fragonard. “It’s marvelous, isn’t it?” she murmured, a soft, wistful smile touching her face.
“I love it,” Francesca said. “I always have. It makes me think of Father.”
Violet turned to her in surprise. “It does?”
Francesca could understand her reaction. The painting was of a young woman holding a bouquet of flowers with a note attached. Not a very masculine subject. But she was looking over her shoulder, and her expression was a little bit mischievous, as if, given the correct provocation, she might laugh. Francesca could not remember much of her parents’ relationship; she had been but six at the time of her father’s death. But she remembered the laughter. The sound of her father’s deep, rich chuckle—it lived within her.
“I think your marriage must have been like that,” Francesca said, motioning to the painting.
Violet took a half step back and cocked her head to the side. “I think you’re right,” she said, looking rather delighted by the realization. “I never thought of it quite that way.”
“You should take the painting back with you to London,” Francesca said. “It’s yours, isn’t it?”
Violet blushed, and for a brief moment, Francesca saw the young girl she must have been shining out from her eyes. “Yes,” she said, “but it belongs here. This was where he gave it to me. And this”—she motioned to its spot of honor on the wall—“was where we hung it together.”
“You were very happy,” Francesca said. It wasn’t a question, just an observation.
“As are you.”
Francesca nodded.
Violet reached out and took her hand, patting it gently as they both continued to study the painting. Francesca knew exactly what her mother was thinking about—her infertility, and the fact that they seemed to have unspoken agreement never to talk about it, and really, why should they? What could Violet possibly say that would make it better?
Francesca couldn’t say anything, because that would just make her mother feel even worse, and so instead they stood there as they always did,
thinking the same thing but never speaking of it, wondering which of them hurt more.
Francesca thought it might be her—hers was the barren womb, after all. But maybe her mother’s pain was more acute. Violet was her mother, and she was grieving for the lost dreams of her child. Wouldn’t that be painful? And the irony was, Francesca would never know. She’d never know what it felt like to hurt for a child because she’d never know what it was to be a mother.
She was almost three and thirty. She did not know any married lady who had reached that age without conceiving a child. It seemed that children either arrived right away or not at all.
“Has Hyacinth arrived?” Francesca asked, still looking at the painting, still staring at the twinkle in the woman’s eye.
“Not yet. But Eloise will be here later this afternoon. She—”
But Francesca heard the catch in her mother’s voice before she’d cut herself off. “Is she expecting, then?” she asked.
There was a beat of silence, and then: “Yes.”
“That’s wonderful.” And she meant it. She did, with every last bit of her being. She just didn’t know how to make it sound that way.
She didn’t want to look at her mother’s face. Because then she would cry.
Francesca cleared her throat, tilting her head to the side as if there were an inch of the Fragonard she hadn’t yet perused. “Anyone else?” she queried.
She felt her mother stiffen slightly beside her, and she wondered if Violet was deciding whether it was worth it to pretend that she didn’t know exactly what she meant.
“Lucy,” her mother said quietly.
Francesca finally turned and faced Violet, pulling her hand out of her mother’s grasp. “Again?” she asked. Lucy and Gregory had been married for less than two years, but this would be their second child.
Violet nodded. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t say that,” Francesca said, horrified by how thick her voice sounded. “Don’t say you’re sorry. It’s not something to be sorry about.”
