If you were to ask anyone in the ton about the Lady with a Fan, even an errand boy could give you an answer. That's the name Anastasia Bridgerton had built for herself to protect her family after their father's passing. As the oldest sister and twin...
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Night fell gracefully upon the streets of London, ignoring the brewing storm within the Bridgerton household. The silence that blanketed her home etched a solitude in her heart. She missed hearing the clatter of stone against her window on such sombre nights. Nicholas had long departed to the East, albeit being rather reluctant to do so. His absence had left the girl with an odd sense of loneliness. Perhaps she had grown too reliant on his company.
Anastasia released a tired sigh, turning to the ticking master clock in her bedroom. Her spirits seemed to dwindle every moment she spent alone in this house. Unwanted thoughts and anxieties fought a war in her mind, pushing the girl to question ever having spoken out at all. Maybe If she had held her tongue, the awkwardness in the house would never have formed.
Another sigh escaped her lips as she slipped out of bed.
I should probably avoid alcohol tonight... I've had too much as of late...
She wandered through the lantern-lit halls, eyes drifting past the multitude of paintings as she recollected a fond memory for each one. The paintings of her brothers and sisters hung near the staircase. Paintings of their parents hung directly across the stairway.
The most special paintings of them all... paintings of herself and her father, were hung in a room near the west wing.
They were one of her most treasured keepsakes. Of the many things Edmund had been forced to do by his daughter's hand, the only thing he loved had been her dedication to commissioning a new painting every year on her birthday. The room of paintings had a variety of 18 frames in total, each depicting a new chapter of their life together. They were one of the few keepsakes she had preserved after his passing. During her most difficult times, she remembered cuddling in the corner of the room, gazing at every portrait as if they were the last string that held her together.
Well, almost every portrait.
The girl still couldn't bring herself to look at their last picture together. Especially since it had been commissioned a mere month before his passing. Every time Anastasia looked at the painting, her body would fade a little deeper into the darkness. She longed desperately to reach through the strokes of colour, fingers itching with the urge to grab the grinning child by the shoulders and scream the future in her ear, hoping at least one of them would get their happy ending.
Unfortunately, her story was no fairytale, and she was powerless, as life liked to remind her time and time again in a cruel cycle of doom.
That trauma played a huge role in her hesitance towards Nick. She felt her body shudder at the thought of reaching happiness with him, only to have it snatched away by some twisted game of fate. She knew that if he left, she had no power to stand back up again. Honestly, Anastasia still wondered how she had done it the first time.
