Chapter Text
Sophia Beckett had one friend in the entire world and her name was Genevieve Delacroix. She was the only person who spoke to her as if she were a woman deserving of respect. Not an underling, a disappointment, a secret who must be kept hidden. Every time Sophie visited the modiste’s shop, Gen greeted her with the same bright smile as she gave any of her high-born customers, but with even more honesty in her eyes. Over the first several weeks of the London season, they had caught one another rolling eyes at the frittering of the ton ladies enough times that a friendly trust had formed. Then, the first time Sophie had visited her shop on an errand alone rather than in tow with the Cowpers, Gen had locked up, invited her to the back room and lapsed into an altogether surprising Cockney accent as she revealed her true self and encouraged Sophie to do the same.
They were two of a kind, working women in hiding in their own ways. Gen posing as a French expert of fashion to dupe the empty headed mamas of the ton , when in reality she was an orphaned girl from Cheapside with fearless drive and a serious talent for couture. And Sophie, envious of Gen’s glamorous life, who was the worst of all things, a bastard, and was lucky that her benefactors had agreed to house her as their maid rather than turn her out into the street after her father died. He had been the Earl of Penwood and her mother was his maid. After her mother died in childbirth and she was left on the doorstep of Penwood Park, he had kept her as his ward, protected but not worthy enough to bear his name. She was a Beckett, not a Gunningworth, a name that she never learned the origins of, though a servant boy had once told her it was the name of her father’s favorite horse.
She had enjoyed some degree of luxury as a ward in the heath-ringed halls of Penwood Park. Her father ignored her entirely but a governess was procured to educate her as a lady. To teach her to read and write, speak Latin and French, pour tea, play the piano, and even dabble in mathematics. It was a lonely existence, with the only affection she received being an errant pat on the head from the cook or a servant, but it was the only life she had ever known and so she didn’t want for much more.
Everything changed when her father died suddenly, cut down in his prime as he sat reading in the garden one day. Then, at the age of sixteen, Sophie’s life took a turn for the worse. The inheritor of the earldom was her father’s distant male relation. So distant, Sophie couldn’t make heads or tails of how they were actually related and she suspected Lord Cowper couldn’t either, given how surprised he appeared through the whole turn of events. A sallow, pinch-faced man with a sallow, pinch-faced wife and daughter, Lord Cowper had attended her father’s funeral and stared down his nose at her as she stood for inspection along with all the staff of Penwood Park. No doubt he had learned of her origins through her father’s solicitor, and he seemed rather unsure of what to do with her. But his wife was ready to whisper in his ear. Eyes always cold and hair always pulled taut into a hideous basketweave arrangement, Lady Cowper proposed keeping Sophie on as a servant, just one more among many.
After the Cowpers swept back out to London, the Penwood steward informed her that the family would provide her with room and board in exchange for her service as a housemaid. It was a step back from the lifestyle she had enjoyed in her childhood, but she knew it was the best she could hope for, given the shame of her birth. And what else was she supposed to do? Leave the only home she had ever known with no name, connections or employable skills and try to sustain herself? Insulting as it may have been, it was the only path that made sense. To follow in her mother’s footsteps and serve as a maid to the new Earl of Penwood.
It wasn’t too awful at first with the new owners staying in residence at Penwood Park so infrequently. Sophie found a degree of pride in learning to clean and mend and cook. Caring for her family home, especially when the Cowpers were away, felt like caring for herself. The aristocratic part of her that was undeniably there, just not allowed to shine to its full potential. She also felt as if she were honoring the memory of her mother. She liked to imagine that she was dusting the same tables and folding the same linens as her mother once had - points of connection with the woman she had never known, but who had moved through the same halls once upon a time. She began to envision an oddly satisfying life spent at Penwood, where perhaps she could marry a man from the nearby village and return to him at night after her chores were completed for the day. She saw him as a farrier, someone with dark hair and crafty hands who was strong and sweet simultaneously. There was some kind of life to be had, the best a bastard could hope for, and it was those dreams that fueled Sophie through each monotonous day.
Things carried on that way for years until Cressida Cowper, Lord Cowper’s daughter and only child, approached her third London season still unmarried and without a lady’s maid to serve her. Somehow Lady Cowper had managed to blame Cressida’s failures in the marriage mart upon the hair techniques and ironing skills of the half dozen lady’s maids Cressida had churned through, and now none would apply for the vacant position. That was the spring the Cowpers seemed to remember Sophie’s existence and plucked her out of Penwood Park to join them in London. It was a marvel how Lady Cowper, or Araminta as Sophie referred to her, always spoke to Sophie with such treacly sweetness in her voice and simultaneous burning contempt in her eyes. Between her training as a lady and her service as a maid, she could cobble together the skills needed to wait upon Cressida for the season, addressing her every passing need and outfitting her in ridiculous gowns and hairdos in the hopes to attract a wealthy suitor.
Sophie had tried to see it as an adventure. She had never been to London before and the whirl of the season was staggering, but with an undeniable beauty. Crowds all dressed in their finest, the drawing room of Cowper House laid out for elegant teas and the dining room set for elaborate dinner parties. Every week brought an assortment of invitations to balls and musicales and garden soirees, each necessitating its own elaborate and themed garment. That was how Sophie began visiting the modiste’s shop with such frequency, and it was where she met the first woman who ever looked at her and saw a whole person.
But the happiness that her modiste visits granted her could not overshadow the bitter realities that awaited her in Cowper House. Lord Cowper was so disinterested and Cressida so self-involved that Sophie was largely left at the mercy of Araminta. What started out as curt orders soon turned into cutting insults and then physical acts of retribution for perceived offenses and failures. She was slapped, pinched and tripped. Her hair was pulled, her meals denied and she was locked into closets whenever Araminta decided some small household mishap was her fault. And it was always her fault. The other staff never intervened, too scared to invite wrath upon themselves. She knew that she was the chosen scapegoat for all of Araminta’s frustrations and insecurities. Being the same age and of distantly shared blood, Sophie wondered if Araminta imagined her to be an alternate version of Cressida herself, one upon whom she could visit all of her seething punishments without guilt or scandal.
As the months wore on, Sophie considered running away several times. But she feared the only life that awaited her was one on the streets. She could only be hired as a maid by another noble house with a letter of reference and that was certainly not something she could obtain from the Cowpers. So she endured, reminding herself that the season would come to an end eventually and she could ask to be returned to her life of quiet servitude at Penwood Park. She took comfort in her visits with Genevieve and developed a new hobby, losing herself in the ton’s most infamous gossip sheet, Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers .
As she read about scandal after betrothal after scandal among the social tier of her employers, Sophie imagined that she was one of them with nothing better to do than be dressed, feted and courted by an array of handsome, titled men. This world was so close to hers. She moved within it, watched it spin around her, felt the pull of it in her half-noble blood. It was just out of reach on the other side of the windowpane. But Lady Whistledown gave her a clear glance through the glass. Toward the end of the season, the repeat headline news was of the impending masquerade ball hosted by the esteemed Bridgerton family. Lady Whistledown dedicated an inordinate amount of column space to the Bridgertons but Sophie could understand why. With such a large brood of beautiful and eligible sons and daughters, incredible wealth and a reputation that never failed to rebound from scandal, they seemed to be a jewel among the families of the ton . She had passed by Bridgerton House on a number of occasions and never failed to marvel at its proud brick facade climbing with fragrant wisteria. She had only ever seen the Dowager Viscountess and her daughter-in-law the new Viscountess when out on errands with the Cowpers, and found them to be kind and beautiful women who seemed wise to Araminta’s true nature but never failed to be genteel.
The thought of a midnight masquerade, an evening of mystery and magic, was an intoxicating escape from her daily reality and Sophie found herself swanning through her chores more often than not, twirling around with linen baskets as she imagined herself in the arms of a masked gentleman. She had been doing just such a thing when Araminta had spotted her, boxed her ears as punishment and ordered her to take Cressida’s costume back to the modiste for more alterations. Cressida would be attending the masquerade as a mermaid and this was the third time she had decided that she wanted to change the length of the fins on her skirt. Keeping her face steely and ignoring the burning pain in her ears, Sophie nodded, gathered the costume and made her way through the city, grateful for the temporary break.
Genevieve could see in her eyes how poorly things were going at the house and treated Sophie to a glass of sherry while she slowly picked at Cressida’s costume. No one else was in the shop so they allowed themselves to relax and speak freely. A copy of the latest Whistledown was on a table and Sophie sank into the upholstered chair beside it, idly leafing through as she sipped her drink and watched Gen sewing.
“This masquerade is the talk of all the ton ,” she sighed wistfully.
Gen nodded. “It is. You should see some of the mad costumes the ladies are demanding. Lady Eton wants me to dress her as an Eton mess. Can you imagine?”
Sophie snickered. “Are you going to do it?”
“Of course,” Gen shrugged. “If they pay me enough I’ll do whatever they want. It’s an opportunity to showcase my talent.”
“Only you could make someone look beautiful as a ‘mess’.”
Gen smiled. “You’re sweet.”
“Lady Eton will be sweeter.”
The two of them could not contain their laughter. If there was ever a source of endless amusement, it was observing the peculiarities of society women, and both of their professions gave them front row seats. Quieting again, Sophie rubbed her ears and continued to pore over the gossip sheet.
Genevieve broke through her thoughts, asking quietly. “How have you been? How are things…at home?”
Sophie met her concerned gaze and returned a weak smile. “The same. I will try and convince Cressida that the fins are perfect this time. I’m sorry to keep coming back here for this.”
“I enjoy the excuse to see you.” Gen’s tone grew serious. “You know you can come to me any time. For anything.”
Something tugged in Sophie’s chest, so unused to having someone to turn to. She appreciated that her friend recognized her burdens, even if there was nothing she could do to alleviate them. “Thank you, Gen.” She sniffed to keep tears from forming, then reiterated her hopes aloud. “After this ball the season will wind down and then I hope to be free of them. For the cold months at least. If I’m truly lucky, perhaps Cressida will land herself a husband at the masquerade and then I’ll be sent back to Penwood forever. She can poach a new lady’s maid from her husband’s staff. She’d never want me around in her married life.”
Genevieve smiled. “Well for your sake, I hope it does work out that way.”
“Yes, only pity the gentleman.” Sophie smirked. “Maybe even one of these poor Bridgerton brothers.” She gestured to the paper she held. “That’s who she’ll be aiming for. She’s always talking about them.”
Gen’s ears perked but she turned back to her sewing. “The Bridgertons? I think her chances with them are unlikely.”
“Yes, they seem to have taste.”
They both chuckled again.
“They are kind hearted too. They’ll see right through her.” Gen explained, then murmured almost as if to herself. “Especially Benedict.”
“Benedict?” Sophie raised a brow at the familiar name. “He’s the one all eyes are on. Eldest bachelor now that the Viscount is married. The catch of the season according to Whistledown .” She skimmed her eyes over the sheet once again and sure enough, discussions of the upcoming masquerade were peppered with mentions of his name and repetitive reminders that he was the ‘number two in an illustrious family’.
Genevieve kept her head down, focusing intently on her sewing as she spoke softly. “He is a good man. He’ll make some lady very happy one day.”
Sophie knew her well enough to suspect something from her tone. “Do you know him?” When all she did was blush, she pressed her further. “Gen?”
Sophie was inexperienced with men but knew the basics of the marital act through servant gossip and a rather lascivious book she had discovered in the Penwood library. She also knew from her time with Genevieve that her friend was quite the opposite of inexperienced and enjoyed dalliances with men from every walk of life. She was a bohemian, a dabbler in the demimonde and Sophie sat in awe of her courage and freedom. To know that Gen spent her days earning her own money and spent her nights associating with the most eligible men in London was a lifestyle entirely beyond her comprehension.
Gen relented, looking up with a wry smile. “We were…acquainted for a time. He has a very good heart. Sensitive. Talented. He’s a catch indeed but I doubt he cares that he’s been named top prize by Whistledown . He’s probably miserable at the thought of attending this masquerade.”
Sophie frowned, imagining he must be a dour sort of fellow regardless of how good and sensitive he was. “I don’t know how anyone could be miserable about a masquerade. A beautiful ball but one where you don’t exchange names.” Her eyes grew misty imagining it. “A place where you can hide in plain sight and no one needs to know who you truly are. Just don a costume and you could be anybody.”
She stared at the swirls of the ceiling decorations while her mind wandered off into what she imagined the Bridgerton House ballroom looked like. Grandeur, candlelight, and everyone equalized by anonymity. Masked strangers dancing beautifully, arm-in-arm. Whispered flirtation, no inhibitions. She didn’t realize she had slipped into a daydream until Gen suddenly called her name.
“Sophie,” she smiled, setting aside the mermaid costume. “I’m done here but there’s a dress in the back room I’ve been working to finish. Would you model it for me so I can make sure it’s just right?”
It was an odd request. Gen had never asked her to model anything before and she had an army of dress forms, but she wouldn’t refuse her friend. It was undeniably exciting. She followed her into the back where she revealed the most beautiful gown Sophie had ever seen. It was a costume, or should have been, because it was in the style of dresses that had been popular two generations prior. With a tight bodice billowing into a hooped skirt, it was made entirely of a shimmering silver fabric that sparkled like the night sky when angled in the light. As Gen carefully fitted it onto her, Sophie’s fingers trailed over the intricate details. The silver gemstone trim along seams of the waist and the sleeves, silver lace overlays and the silver ribbons of the corseted back. Some embellishments were pinned and had yet to be sewn on, but it was already stunning. Genevieve guided Sophie back to the main room and helped her up onto the dais before the mirrors. She held her breath, dazzled by what she saw before her. She looked as if she had been draped in stars.
“Gen,” she gasped. “It’s so beautiful. Whose is it?” She imagined that whichever lady wore the dress to the masquerade would be the envy of all the ton .
“Well, that’s the thing.” Genevieve orbited around her, pinning here and tucking there. “It’s one of my own designs and I haven’t shown it to anyone yet. Just you.” She stood behind and rested her hands on her shoulders, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “It’s yours Sophie. For a night at least.”
She balked, certain she had misheard. “What?”
Gen squeezed her shoulders. “You want to go to this masquerade, I can see it plain as day. And you deserve to go. You’ve earned one night of happiness.”
Sophie’s eyes began to dart, her mind reeling. Her friend was being too indulgent, too fantastical. How on earth would she attend the ball?
“Gen, no. I couldn’t possibly…”
“Just wait until the Cowpers leave, come here and I’ll dress you.” She explained, calm and matter of fact as if this wasn’t a ludicrous undertaking. “Bridgerton House is a short walk away. Guests won’t be showing invitations so that they can hide their identities. All the ladies have been talking about it. You could slip right in.”
As her friend smiled at her in the mirror, a spark flickered within. When she outlined it all, it did seem rather simple. The masquerade was not a place for bastard maids and her attendance would be nothing short of trespassing. But with everyone’s identity kept secret and in an opulent costume, would anyone be the wiser? Was she really daring enough to chase a dream for one night? If she could borrow Gen’s dress and a fraction of her courage, it was beginning to seem plausible. Except…
“But I…the Cowpers will be there.”
“Yes,” Gen nodded. “But Sophie won’t.” She stepped away to pluck a silver demi-mask from the variety she had on display. Jeweled and feathered, it matched the dress perfectly. She stood behind Sophie once again and lowered the mask over her eyes, holding it in place. “Look there.” She nodded at their reflection, whispering insistently in her ear. “Who do you see? Sophie the housemaid? Or a beautiful debutante?”
Sophie stared at the image before her, breathing shakily at the odd sensation of not recognizing herself. She had never been dressed in something so fine, nor so flattering. With the mask obscuring half her face, she could no longer see the tired, lonely eyes that stared back at her every morning in the mirror. She didn’t look like a maid and she didn’t feel like a maid. Genevieve had woven magic into the dress and it was proving powerful enough to transform her right before their eyes.
Gen grinned, knowing her persuasion had succeeded. “You said it yourself: you could be anybody.”
With a novel feeling of hope swelling in her chest, a slow smile spread across Sophie’s face. She had suffered as Sophie Beckett long enough. She was ready to be anybody.