Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
APRIL, 1813
THERE WAS SOMETHING ABOUT THE LONDON ATMOSPHERE THAT ELIZABETH FOUND OFF-PUTTING. Maybe it was the bustling nature of the ton's ladies and gentlemen, no doubt entertained by the most recent strings of gossip. Perhaps, it was simply the crowded architecture and lack of greenery, causing the noticeable decrease of singing birds and wind rustling through leaves. London was nothing compared to the lush countryside of Abingdon where Blackmore Hall, the Beaumont's ancestral home, resided. There, at home, she could run barefoot through the fields and dance under the afternoon sun, the soft blades of grass tickling the soles of her feet. Blackmore Hall was a haven, it was far away from the sharp eyes and ears of High Society — it was freedom. London was anything but freedom.
Or, perhaps, it was because Anthony Bridgerton, her fiancé, was in London as well.
Looking down at the scene below, her fingers nimbly moved along the violin's fingerboard while simultaneously sliding the bow up and down the strings. She played effortlessly and elegantly, her emotions seeping through her fingers and becoming intertwined with the sorrowful melody echoing from the instrument. Elizabeth knew her fate in London and she accepted it. Her fate was one of self-sacrifice for the ones she loved most. London, in and of itself, was not a place providing immense happiness.
Elizabeth, too entranced by her playing and the people milling about beneath her window, did not hear when her bedroom door creaked open.
"Elizabeth!" Frederica, the youngest Beaumont daughter, exclaimed as she threw herself on Elizabeth's bed, her golden curls landing above her head like a crown. The mattress released a soft groan under the newfound weight.
The sound of her sister's voice startled Elizabeth, causing her to flinch harshly. An inelegantly ear-splitting sound screamed from the violin, a result of her sudden and jagged movement, and tore through the Beaumont house. Immediately, she tore the bow away from the strings, ceasing any further unbecoming pitches to vibrate from the strings.
Unbothered by Elizabeth's fright and the foul sounds that were now lost in the afternoon atmosphere, Frederica continued in a sing-song voice, "Oh, Lizzie!"
Elizabeth dropped her violin from her chin, holding it carefully in her hands and turned towards her sixteen-year-old sister. As she did so, the skirt of her pale blue frock twisted around her ankles. "Yes, Freddie?"
"I ought to know, have you seen him yet?" She questioned eagerly, a lopsided smile twitching at her lips and her blue doe-like eyes widening.
"And who are we speaking of?" She asked, raising a brow. Although, Elizabeth knew who 'him' alluded to, for it could be none other than her fiancé. And her fiancé was one of the last topics she wished to discuss as of late.
