The Bridgerton Eight

Cherished Birthright & Unwavering Pride

Monday—November 23th, 2020

The birth of Simon Hastings, heir to Global Hastings, was met with great enthusiasm and celebration. And mourning. Mrs. Hastings was slowly taken by a drowsiness that proved lethal and thus little Simon had to grow up without a mother.

He was immediately placed under a caretaker, fifteen-years-old Evanora St. Clair, and barely had any contact with his father. When Simon turned two, Mr. Hastings showed up for an impromptu visit surprising both Simon and Nanny Eva. Mr. Hastings had crouched beside his son, who was building an asymmetrical castle with a set of blocks on the floor, and felt pleased with his growth. Simon was a sturdy boy with dark hair and big blue eyes.

"What are you building there, son?" he had asked the child.

Simon smiled and pointed.

Mr. Hastings looked up at the nanny. "Doesn't he speak?"

She shook her head. "Not yet, sir."

Mr. Hastings frowned. "He's two. Shouldn't he be speaking?"

"Some children take longer than others, sir. Maybe," she suggested, "he just doesn't have anything to say."

Mr. Hastings didn't look convinced, but he had patted his son on the head and went back to his office.

After two more years of silence, however, he wasn't so sanguine. "Why isn't he talking?"

"I don't know," said Nanny Eva.

"If you'd been doing your job correctly, he—" Mr. Hastings jabbed an angry finger in Simon's direction—"would be speaking! He's four years old, Goddamn it! He should be able to speak."

The boy watched the exchange with interest.

"He can write," Nanny Eva said quickly. "He's very good with written words."

"A fat lot of good writing is going to do him if he can't talk." Hastings turned to Simon, rage burning in his eyes. "Talk to me, damn you!"

The boy shrank back, his lower lip quivering.

"Mr. Hastings!" Nanny Eva chastised. "You're scaring him."

Hastings whipped around to face her. "Maybe he needs scaring. Maybe what he needs is a good dose of discipline. It might help him find his voice." He advanced on his son. And then—

"No!"

Nanny Eva gasped.

Mr. Hastings came to a halt.

It was the first time they'd heard Simon's voice.

"What did you say?"

Simon's firsts balled at his sides, and his little chin jutted out as he said, "Don't you h-h-h-h-h—"

Mr. Hastings's face turned deathly pale. "What is this?"

Simon attempted the sentence again. "D-d-d-d-d-d—"

"My God," Mr. Hastings breathed, horrified. "He's a moron."

"D-d-d-d-d-d-d-don't you h-h-h-h-hit—" Simon took a deep breath—"me."

Hastings sank onto the nearest chair. "What have I done to deserve this?"

"You should be giving him praise!" Nanny Eva admonished him. "Four years you've been waiting for him to speak and—"

"And he's an idiot!" Hastings roared. "Global Hastings is going to go to a half-wit. All those years praying for an heir, and now it's all for ruin." He stood up. "I can't even look at him," he declared before he stalked out of the room.