Moments || Benedict Bridgerton

Chapter 2: Moments from a tragedy

They say tragedy comes in threes, and it indeed visits you and your son as such in a very small window of time—one very sad autumn. While the family you married into often seemed plagued with health issues of various kinds, this is still a massive shock.

Johns's cough gets progressively worse over the next few weeks, and, once his parents are struck the same way, he is moved up to the big house to be monitored by the trusted Dr Smith. However, despite the doctor's valiant efforts, they all become gravely ill in frighteningly rapid succession.

James Darby is only four and a half years old when he loses three-quarters of the only family he knows and loves - his grandfather, the viscount, his grandmother, the viscountess and his father, John - all to the dreaded consumption. He is just glad you, his beloved mama, are spared. It also means he becomes Viscount Darby before starting school, even though his father never even got to use the title.

Being a widow at 25 is not something you had ever envisaged; neither is inheriting a country estate and various assets. Well, they are inherited by your son, but for all intents and purposes, they will be your custodial concern for at least the next fourteen years.

Mostly you grieve for your son - his whole world turned upside down so young. Your personal grief is muted and subdued. The loss of John's friendship hurts you more than losing him as a life partner or lover. When someone you have known since childhood dies, it always feels like something is missing.

Your husband John was an only son, and, it turns out, his son is the same. You never managed to conceive another child.

In truth, you never even conceived one together. The more James grows up, the more that fact is staring you right back in the face. Not that John or anyone else ever suspected. But dear god, you know a Bridgerton if ever you saw one. And James is unmistakably a Bridgerton with his chestnut hair and blue eyes. He barely has any of your physical traits or features, but you don't mind. Somehow it is your greatest comfort to watch a miniature copy of the man you truly love growing up. But also your greatest source of guilt. By rights, neither of you should have any claim over the Darby estate. Yet here is your future secured and no living relatives to challenge it.

One message of condolence of the many you receive jogs your heart the most. It's in beautiful handwriting and accompanies an arrangement of all your favourite flowers. I am so sorry for your untimely loss. You are, always were, and always will be in my thoughts. It's not signed, but it doesn't need to be; you know who it's from.

***

"Mama, is papa in heaven?" James asks you over dinner a few weeks after the funeral.

"Yes, darling. Papa, grandma and grandpa are all in heaven. But they still love you very much," your heart aches as you watch his little mind processing the idea.

"I won't get to see them again, will I?" His voice is quiet, and he looks so sad. You pull him into your lap and drag his plate next to yours so you can eat while cuddling.

"One day, darling, a long way into the future, you will see him again," you assure, "and he will give you the biggest hug because he misses you every day. Until then, just remember papa loves you very much and is watching down on all the good things you do. And the naughty things, so don't be too naughty," you whisper and blow a raspberry onto his neck to lift his spirits as much as you can.

"Stop it," he giggles, pushing you away and spearing some food onto his fork.

You smile, content to see his appetite back after a few weeks of barely eating.

"Mama, I don't think I will go to the same heaven as papa and grandma and grandpa," he says after a pause to chew and swallow.

"Of course, you will, darling," you confirm quickly.

"I mean, I don't think I will go to the same bit of heaven," he says, his mien thoughtful. "I will be somewhere else, but maybe I can visit them?"

"Whatever do you mean, James?" Sometimes, you forget this child is only four years old with the intriguing and imaginative things he comes up with.

"I don't know; I just don't think they will be there," he says with a shrug. "You will be, mama, of course. And my sisters. Not my brother, though."

"What sisters? Brother? James, what are you talking about?" you look at him, utterly bewildered.

"I will have sisters and a brother one day," he insists, "and some of them will be there in heaven when I arrive."

You frown at your child and his unshakable belief in something that makes no sense. It's not like he even has any cousins he could be mistakenly referring to either. He has been through so much in the last few weeks that you don't want to question or refute his arguments, so you just let the subject drop.