Chapter Text
Small fingers of light dance through a crack in the curtains as the dawn breaks across London. The crisp spring air wafts in, gentle and soft, as the curtains sway ever so slightly in the floral breeze. Stretching out, the sheets are soft against his skin, as the gentle orchestral chords of his alarm sing out in the still room. The temptation to stay in bed, to resist getting up and facing the day is almost overwhelming, but he knows once he gets up, the cloak of sleep will fall to the wayside.
As he pads across the room in search of his clothes, and a light jacket just in case the weather turns, he flicks his gaze to the crack in the curtains, where he can see the greenery of the garden, the hedges that have been there since forever, and even an occasional bird flitting about the trees. The city springs to life even in the early hours, there’s always the faint hum of cars going past, despite living near Hyde Park. The big bay window of his bedroom that overlooks the garden is bathed in sunlight, even in the height of summer, at five in the morning, his room is always glowing.
Slipping silently out of the door, gym bag in one hand, keys in the other, Anthony makes his way down the front steps of the house, taking them two at a time in his haste. If he wants to make it to the boat sheds on time, he needs to hurry. When he finally gets there, the surroundings are mercifully quiet, no young, sleep-deprived teenagers loiter around in the early morning, their season has not yet begun properly, so they do not train as frequently.
Hauling his scull over his shoulder, Anthony makes his way to the pontoon, socks tucked into one short leg, water bottle in the waistband dangling precariously, oars in his left hand, fingers wrapped around the shafts.
The water of the Serpentine is glassy and smooth, it ripples when the hull of the boat sinks into it, disturbing the mirrored surface. Birds twitter in the trees nearby as Anthony checks the riggers one last time, and flicks the gates closed over the oars before twisting them shut and stowing his water bottle and spanner in the space behind his shoes. Few people are dotted around the park, the city is only just waking, and even the keenest of runners have not yet graced the banks of the Serpentine with their measured pace and running playlists blaring in their ears.
Perhaps that’s why Anthony likes rowing. Likes how still and silent it is, the solitary nature of the water in the morning as the bow cuts through the water, the trail of wake left as the stern glides along, gently moving in time with the rower. Of course in his younger days he rowed with teammates, but now, amidst the chaos of his family, it feels meditative almost to take some time for himself and shut the world out for an hour or two.
Sometimes, if he shuts his eyes he can remember precisely what it feels like for the boat to fly helter-skelter across the river’s surface, the energy of eight other boys around him, legs driving hard between the slides, strokes long and sure, each movement precisely measured and studied.
Most of all, he remembers the way it feels when water splashes at his back, the breakneck speed of the boat hurtling down the straight, each millimetre crucial, the synchronicity of eight boys moving in perfect harmony, a coxswain yelling as they drive harder, faster, longer strokes to propel the boat forwards.
Lazily, the boat glides across the water, Anthony’s long, sure strokes carving small divots in the water as the blades enter the lake. The rhythmic movement is ingrained so deeply into his bones, into his being, that Anthony almost doesn’t know life without it. It’s the thing that kept him afloat in those early years, when the grief threatened to strangle him. Even now, a decade later, the sting is less sharp, but there’s something that soothes him in it.
As he slides back up to the catch, Anthony takes a breath, and slowly lets it out, his hands inching higher, the blades dip into the water, and as if it’s the beginning of a race, anticipation builds in his body. Legs hit the board between the slides, and he flicks his wrists at the finish, before bringing his wrists square and straight as his arms stretch out over his legs and he begins the next stroke.
Backing down with his left, and taking a stroke with his right hand, Anthony turns the scull around and makes his way back to the shed. The sun is higher in the sky now, the early morning tranquillity evaporates like the mists on a cold morning. A bead of sweat trickles down his back, slowly making its way to the waistband of his lycra shorts.
Washing his boat with the hose and a sponge is somehow calming, the soap suds slipping off the boat onto the grass as it lies suspended on the boat stands. Oars up on the wall, and the boat safely on its rack, Anthony makes his way back. Walking through the park has always been something he cherishes. The birds flit about the trees, their song colours the foliage, as Anthony dawdles on his way home.
Once freshened up, and dressed, Anthony adjusts his blazer before slipping out of his front door and heading to the office. The day is going to be busy, Anthony is in a director’s meeting all morning then a client meeting in the afternoon before reviewing the agreements that linger on his desk. Not to mention Colin is coming to pick up the list of artworks for the auction, which has caused Anthony at least three headaches in as many weeks.
The office is quiet, few people are in, save Anthony and a couple of the senior associates. Smiling politely at them, he heads to his corner office with its view of the Thames. The door closes with a soft click behind him, the half-frosted glass shielding him from the rest of the office. Later, when more of the office has settled in for the day he will leave it open, but for now, he likes to maintain the sense of calm from his morning exercise. Below him, the city is crawling with activity, cars flitting about like birds, while droves of people surge across the roads when the lights turn.
Turning on his laptop, Anthony wishes for perhaps the thousandth time that modern technology could simply turn itself on without the need to seemingly constantly run updates every five minutes. His assistant Kelly, assures him the laptop is top of the line, despite his grumbling to her. After all, she would know, she’s the one who pestered him to approve them for the whole office.
The director’s meeting goes well enough, the teams are hitting their budgets, and Anthony can see that the recent hires are settling in well enough to firm. There are of course, a few grumbles, not enough varieties of tea on rotation, and the slow, sometimes buggy software they all trudge through daily, but with a few tweaks Anthony knows things will be smoother.
Then they discuss the agenda for the next Birthday Morning Tea, a monthly excuse to have a mid-morning snack and for the directors to announce any important events or changes in staff as well as that month’s birthdays. It’s a long held tradition, one that started with Edmund Bridgerton, faltered as Anthony began to find his feet as a lawyer, then settled as he grew into his role. Even now, a decade later the sting of grief pierces through him every so often.
As he works away, sitting in the office he still thinks of as his father’s, Colin inelegantly wanders in, coffee and biscuit in hand, laughter trailing behind him.
“You really ought to decorate this office more you know,” he says, plopping himself down into the chair opposite Anthony.
“Hello to you too brother dear, I’m wonderful thank you for asking,” Anthony replies, ignoring his brother’s comment.
Imperiously, Colin waves away his eldest brother’s words, sipping at his coffee. “What’s the favour you wanted me to do for you anyway, why can’t you get one of your minions to do it?” he finally asks through a mouthful of biscuit.
Anthony hasn’t told him yet what it is, only that he can’t spare anyone else to do it. And it’s true, the artworks being sold are expensive, and while Colin is an idiot most of the time, he can technically read, and Anthony trusts him to do it properly. Besides, Benedict is away on holiday at the moment, or Anthony would have asked him. And he would have asked Daphne, but she’s five months pregnant with her third child, and it’s right in the middle of wedding planning season, so Anthony doesn’t want to try his luck with her either.
“A few of the art pieces in the library at Bridgerton House are being sold at auction, and I need you Colin, to make sure they all get there. I’ve printed out a list for you. They’re coming later this afternoon,” he reaches for the aforementioned list, and hands it to his slightly baffled looking brother.
“Why me? Why can’t mum do it?” Colin says as his eyes glance over the piece of paper.
“Mum’s in Cornwall, she left this morning, honestly keep up man,” Anthony rolls his eyes.
“Oh that’s right! Are you still picking up the kids from school then?” Colin asks, tapping away at his phone.
“Yes, that’s why I can’t do it either, not to mention Greg has football training after school and Hyacinth has decided she wants to try a new recipe she heard someone talking about, so they’re coming for dinner at mine,” he explains, tapping away at his keyboard.
Nodding, Colin sips at his coffee, the biscuit long gone.
“What time are they coming, do you know?”
“They said three in their email but I suppose it depends on the traffic,”
“I can do that, I’ll head there now, I can work on my blog from home,” Colin says easily, before taking his leave.
Anthony walks with him to the lifts, chatting away. His relationship with Colin hasn’t always been easy, the tension point when Anthony stops being his brother and starts being his father is a sore spot they used to fight over. It’s strange though, Anthony remembers the day Colin was born, remembers holding him in his arms, another little brother to run around with.
Somewhere in the months after Edmund died, a shift happens, and the easy nature of their brotherhood falters, and tumbles. Sometimes, Anthony wishes he could just be Colin’s brother, and not his father. That doesn’t stop him from worrying about him though, about all of his siblings really. The sleepless nights when Colin first decided to travel around Europe are burned into Anthony’s memory. Now though, he knows his brother will call him without hesitation if he’s in a pickle. Colin has grown into a fine young man, if a little oblivious at times, but a good lad nonetheless.
The rest of the day goes past in a blur, and before he knows it, Anthony is on his way to pick up the children from school. Gregory is eager to show off his new football boots, yet unworn on the pitch, they are a pristine white (an unwise choice, but Anthony is hard pressed to begrudge his youngest brother much these days).
As Anthony and Hyacinth stand on the sidelines, his phone pings with a text from Colin.
Col: They took the paintings like the list said, and one of them said that someone from the auction house would send us a preview of the catalogue before the auction, and you’ve been invited to go and view them beforehand as well.
Ant: Great, did they give a date for the viewing?
Col: should be in the email from the auction house, it will come in the next couple days apparently.
Ant: I’ll keep an eye out for it, thanks again for making sure everything went smoothly.
Col: Surely a pint is in order as a thanks?
Ant: Maybe, we’ll see.
The practice ends, and Anthony is alerted to the importance of hurrying along as he chats to some of the other parents when Hyacinth is tugging on his sleeve.
“ Come on !” her tugs grow more insistent with each passing second.
“Just give me a minute Hy,” his tone is gentle, he can’t help it, even if she is being a little rude. All her life he’s had a soft spot for her. For those big doe eyes, and her bouncing curls, the giggle she lets out when she’s proud of herself for something, for the way she curls into his side when she’s ill, or the way she can still fall asleep in his arms if he holds her for long enough. When she was born, she was the bright spot in a long dark period, and even after eleven years, she’s still a bright spark in his life.
“It was lovely to see you Mark, and you too Chelsea, I’ll see you next week,” he gives his gracious goodbyes and walks off, Hyacinth tucked into his side, and Gregory chattering away in front of them.
The recipe is an easy one, and with some gentle supervision, Anthony lets Hyacinth and Gregory loose in his kitchen. He does not relent on the knife despite their promises to be careful, he cannot let them handle the sharp blades he keeps in his kitchen. It tests their patience, the recipe, the slow subtle caramelisation of the shallots in the pan as they slowly get darker, jammier, sweeter. The smell wafts through the house, and though he knows by morning it will smell stale, Anthony cannot help but relish in the sheer delight of having it saunter through the hallway, and out of the cracked open kitchen window by the sink into the garden. He remembers the golden halcyon days of his childhood where walking down the street back home was a game, trying to guess what his mother was cooking for dinner. This moment, with two of his favourite people, feels like that.
“All right, now you’ve got to add the capers to the shallots,” he instructs from his perch on the barstool by the breakfast bench.
Diligently, Hyacinth tips them in, if a little eager and her head tilts towards the pan, curious. Slowly, Anthony makes his way to the stovetop, and takes the wooden spoon from her hand to stir the caper and shallot mixture. The shallots are golden brown, caramelised to perfection and Anthony knows it is only a matter of minutes before everything comes together.
The pasta is soon cooked, and once they have diligently poured the held back cup of pasta water into the pan, and everything has come together, Anthony takes a serving fork and twists the noodles on the tines, expertly gathering them together before putting them in the bowls his mother insists he needs because “pasta tastes better when you eat it out of a shallow bowl that’s almost a plate but not quite.”
Even though he is loath to admit it, his mother is right, and the pasta does somehow taste better in the bowls that aren’t quite proper bowls but aren’t entirely plates either.
“Do you like it?” he asks between mouthfuls.
Hyacinth nods, her mouth full of pasta, and too polite for once to talk through her food.
“It’s really good Ant,” Gregory grins, the faintest traces of tomato staining the edges of his lips.
“I’m glad you like it, maybe we can make it again some time?” they nod vigorously, too focused on their pasta to prattle on.
Once both of his youngest siblings are tucked in the bunk beds they insisted on, Anthony once more takes his perch on the bench in the kitchen and opens his laptop to fire off a few more emails before his eyes refuse to stay open any longer.
At the top of his Outlook is an email from the Christie’s art department lead, one Kate Sharma with the subject line “ Auction Catalogue & Preview Invite ”. Heart racing, Anthony skims the list, not really paying any attention to the details, just making sure all seems in order. Nothing catches his eye as unusual, despite it seemingly being longer than he thought it would, he chalks it up to the captions, detailed descriptions of the work, its condition, and the value. Before he can think too much about it, Anthony fires off a reply, confirming his attendance at the viewing and approval of the catalogue.
A weight feels lifted from his shoulders then, the artworks have been an ongoing source of at least three headaches, and to finally have them go to auction, and for a charity auction no less, is an overwhelming relief.
The next few days are a blur, with his work piling up, and the auction looming, Anthony has little time to think of anything apart from sleep, and the pile of papers on his desk in the office.
Finally, after a week that hits him like a ton of bricks, Anthony attends the preview. Artists and prospective buyers mill about, wandering through the maze of walls and paintings. Other objects are on display too, a diamond ring set against a blue velvet case, the stone sparkling in the light. A glass ornament draws a few people near it, as the light catches on the facets of the figurine. As he wanders around, checking the art on the walls and observing people, Anthony almost doesn’t notice the softly worn gilt edge from years of fingertips glancing over it. Almost doesn’t see the way the paint flecks catch on the frame, the shine of the paint, that familiar shade of burgundy curtain that’s imprinted on his memory.
As his gaze flickers over the wall, and he notices it, Anthony stops stock still.
There, in the frame that is as much part of Bridgerton House as the colour blue, sits the last painting his father did before he died.
Wildflowers in a clear wine bottle, the shine of the glass, an unmistakable Edmund Bridgerton signature style. Long-stemmed daisies, and lily of the valley, a sprig of lavender, its petals almost fluttering in the breeze. It comes alive, Anthony can almost touch the wine bottle, can almost feel the window ledge of the study he still thinks of as his father’s.
The painting is set in the study, a still life of a sprig of flowers Edmund picks one sunny day for Violet. The deep burgundy of the curtains that still decorate the study colour the background in that all too familiar colour. The shadow from the wine bottle that Anthony knows took his father weeks to perfect. It’s hung by itself, the 40cm x 50cm oil on canvas shining with a light that seems to emanate from the painting itself. Sometimes, when he is feeling particularly morbid, or angry at his father for dying too young, too soon, the painting feels like a memento mori the way the flowers are perhaps just on the edge of wilting. And though no skull or hourglass adorns the table, the frailty of life is ever present in the piece for him. There is something about the way the shaft of light shines behind the clear glass of the bottle, the way the flowers are positioned just so. The tight brushstrokes that make the painting come to life, Anthony remembers each one, remembers the progress his father made as Violet grew more pregnant, and Edmund more eager to complete it before Hyacinth came.
In his confusion, Anthony doesn’t notice the elegant woman that comes to his side, all smiles and long, clean lines of fabric.
“It’s a beautiful piece isn’t it?” her voice, like silk or velvet, breaks him from his confused haze.
“It’s one of the artist’s best, I think,” he says, turning his gaze to hers. The woman’s eyes are what make his heart race first. A deep chocolate, flecked with what looks like gold, but he can’t be sure. She is the most beautiful woman he’s ever met, inky black curls tumble down her shoulders, in perfectly shiny waves. The sleeveless cream pantsuit she wears perfectly complements her skin, contrasting against the bronze expanse of her shoulders. A scent lingers around her, something floral and sweet, suffused with a clean, crisp undertone.
“Ah, so you’re an admirer of his work I take it,”
“Something like that,” he smiles wryly, unsure why he doesn’t just tell her.
“I’m Kate, by the way, Kate Sharma,” her hand extends to his.
“Lovely to meet you Kate, I’m Anthony, Anthony Bridgerton,” his palm touches hers, it is soft against the calluses of his skin, her hands are warm.
In what looks to be something like surprise, her mouth drops open in a small ‘o’.
“You— you donated this piece?” her hand drops from his.
“I did, it was part of a few that we decided to donate for the auction, but,” he pauses, trailing off, not knowing how to broach that if the piece sells, and ends up in someone else’s house, his already cracked heart will shatter. The value of the piece is not that much he knows, after all, his father’s works were mainly for friends or family. But this , this piece that has been a cornerstone of his life for a decade, to part with it is more painful than he can imagine.
“If you’re apprehensive about how well it will sell, let me reassure, you, there’s been quite a lot of interest in it already, we think it will create quite the buzz on Friday next week,” she gestures around them, as if to indicate that all the people milling about are there for the fragment of Anthony’s life that hangs on the wall. Truthfully, he doesn’t quite know how to break it to her about the painting, Colin’s mistake, any of it really, but it’s imperative the painting gets back to Bridgerton House as soon as possible. If anything, the one thing he wishes for is to spare everyone the wrath of his mother, who Anthony cannot imagine will be pleased if she hears about this. Although, Colin is her favourite at the moment, so perhaps she won’t lay into him the way she did when Anthony made his first mistake after Edmund died.
“About that—,” he abruptly starts, not sure how to broach this but needing to spit it out somehow “I don’t really know what the process is to recall something before an auction, but this piece, well it’s not for sale. My brother, Colin who was there when they came to pick up the art pieces, wasn’t paying attention, or something, and, this wasn’t meant to be included,” he finishes lamely, not sure he’s made a great case for himself, or Colin for that matter.
A look of surprise flashes across Kate’s elegant features, and Anthony desperately wants to retract the words, to swallow them back down, but he can’t. They’re out there now, and there’s nothing he can do about it.
“I’m really sorry Anthony, but the auction is too soon for us to be able to recall the piece,” she shakes her head, her eyes tinged with what could be regret, or something else, Anthony isn’t sure, “If it gets passed in, there might be a chance for you to be able to get it back, depending on whether a bidder changes their mind or not. If it sells, you’ll have to talk to the buyer, and see if you can strike a bargain with them and maybe offer them something else from your collection, but we will have to cross that bridge when we get to it, I can’t guarantee anything, I wish I could,” she finishes, her eyes soft, brow furrowed as she talks to him.
“Thank you,” he says, holding her gaze, “the painting means a lot to my family, and if we have to negotiate to get it back we will, even if it’s not worth as much as some of the other pieces in this auction, it would mean the world to see it home safe,” he says, holding her gaze as much as he dares.
“Well for your sake, I hope it gets home safely, Anthony,” she smiles softly at him before continuing, “did your father paint this? I’m assuming that’s who Edmund Bridgerton is,”
“Yes, it’s from about a decade ago now,” Anthony hesitates, not sure if he can, or should tell her, but he finds it a little easier now, talking about Edmund Bridgerton, “he um, well it was the last thing he painted before he died actually,” Anthony thinks he can hear his voice crack, but he hopes it’s subtle enough that Kate won’t notice.
“Oh, Anthony I’m so sorry,” a frown mars her face, briefly before something that looks like understanding flits across her elegant features, “Listen, I’ll see what I can do for you on the day of the auction, but I can’t promise anything, you may have to figure a backup plan out, because I’m not sure who the auctioneer is yet, and they may well be a stickler for the rules on the day. I’ll give you my phone number just in case, and I’ll let you know who the auctioneer is ahead of time and if I think you have a chance if the work gets passed in and the reserve bid isn’t met, does that work?”
Relief floods Anthony’s body, though he knows this is not a solution to the very large problem he now has, he knows at the very least, there is something he can do to fix this. Handing his phone over to her, he watches as she quickly types in her name and phone number before saving the contact for him. Her fingers brush his when she hands the phone back, and a thrill of something runs through him. Looking down at the contact card she’s made, it reads ‘Kathani Sharma’.
“Ah so that’s what Kate is short for then” he grins at her, feeling grateful she gave him her name.
“Yes, my family thought it would be easier if I went by Kate in England, but Kathani is my real name,” her soft brown eyes are piercing, and Anthony thinks he could easily get lost in them for hours.
“Thank you,” his heart skips a few beats as his eyes bore into hers.
“You’re welcome, Anthony, now I have to go mill about, and answer everyone’s questions, but text me if you need anything,” she pats his shoulder, and Anthony’s skin tingles for a few minutes after her hand is gone.
The suggested photo that pops up as he makes sure the contact is properly saved is nothing short of breathtaking. It must be from her LinkedIn, it’s a professional photo, the collar of a blouse just visible in the frame, her hair falling down in a straight curtain around her shoulders. Quickly, he shoots her a text to confirm his phone number to her.
Anthony: hey, it’s Anthony Bridgerton.
Kathani Sharma: hello. I meant what I said before, text me if you need anything. I’ll let you know who the auctioneer is tomorrow, I have a feeling it’s Sam but I will confirm and get back to you.
Anthony: Great, thanks again Kathani :)
Kathani Sharma: You’re welcome :)
When he gets to his car, he immediately rings Colin.
“Brother! How are you? How was the viewing?” Colin’s cheery voice comes through the phone.
“Hello Colin,” Anthony’s voice is stony.
“Cheer up would you? Why do you sound so glum anyway?”
“Would you care to tell me why dad’s painting was given to the auction house?” There is silence on the other end of the line.
“You said the artworks in the library! And I might have been a little hungover at the time, but that list was a couple of pages long!”
“Colin, that artwork isn’t for sale,” he keeps his voice calm, despite wanting to scream, “Listen, you know how much it means to the family, to your mother. The auction house lady said there was a chance we might be able to get it back but we can’t get it back before the auction, it’s too late. I will tell your mother about this, when she gets back from Cornwall, but don’t tell her before she gets back, I want her to have a nice time with her friends,”
“I— I am sorry Ant, I truly didn’t mean to do it,” Colin pauses, and Anthony can hear the regret colouring his voice. “I just- I wasn’t thinking, and I thought you meant all of the art in the library, and after I lost the list, I thought you’d be mad so I just went with what I was convinced you’d said,” he trails off, and Anthony can hear the lump forming in his younger brother’s throat.
“I know Col, that doesn’t mean I won’t tell your mum though, but I’ll see what I can do to soften her before she gets to you, alright?”
“Thank you, and I am sorry, truly,”
“I know Colin, I know,”
The day of the auction comes quickly, quicker than Anthony remembers time being allowed to travel really. He muses that it must be his age showing as he parks in the lot behind the auction house. A few of his friends are there, interested in buying art pieces to decorate their homes, though they do not know that his father’s last work is for sale.
Walking in, he greets Bert Fife, a school friend of his who married one of Daphne’s friends, Maggie Goring. Anthony remembers being sceptical of their connection, but as soon as he saw them together the first time, he knew it was real.
“Bert! How are you? How’s Maggie doing? She must be about six months along now?” He says genially, shaking his friend’s hand.
“Maggie’s great! The last scan we had they confirmed that baby is perfectly healthy, and growing right on schedule, we’re so excited!” Joy glimmers in his friend’s eyes, and Anthony is taken aback with how much Bert has settled into his life now, an expecting father, doting husband. It suits him Anthony muses, that sort of joy has always been his greatest wish for the people he cares about.
“That’s wonderful! Have you picked out things for the nursery yet?” Anthony asks, folding his arms over his chest.
“We’ve picked out so many things I think the baby is going to be set for life at this rate,” Bert laughs.
“Speaking from experience, you can never have too many clothes, I promise you, you’ll be amazed at how many things a baby can get dirty,” Anthony smiles.
“How are you anyway?” Bert asks, his eyes trained on Anthony.
“I’m good, work has been busy, and the family keep me on my toes, as usual. That’s why I’m here actually,”
“Oh don’t tell me, did Eloise get an idea in her head about a piece in the auction?” Bert guesses.
“No, actually, Colin accidentally gave them a piece he shouldn’t have and now I have to get it back somehow,” Anthony says, flicking his eyes around the room.
“Not one of the Monet’s I hope,” Bert says, his tone light.
“Worse actually if you can believe it. One of dad’s,” he forces himself to keep his tone neutral, to not let the panic through that he knows lingers in the back of his throat, in his racing heart, in the tension that suffuses his shoulders.
“Oh fuck ,” Bert says softly, his eyes crinkling in sadness. Of all of Anthony’s friends, Bert has been the one who understands the most. Apart from Simon of course, but he hates his father, whereas Bert loves his. “Does Violet know yet?”
“No, I don’t think so, I told Colin to let me tell her, but who knows. I’m waiting for her to come back from Cornwall first actually. She went on a week-long spa retreat with some friends of hers,”
“Fair enough, I wouldn’t want to spoil Violet Bridgerton’s holiday either,” Bert jokes.
“Yeah I’m not going to spoil it if I can help it,” he sips at the water he swiped from the table by the entrance earlier, distracting himself with the way it slides down his throat. Looking around, he spots Simon and waves him over to where he and Bert are standing.
“Hastings! Good to see you old man! How are the kids?” Anthony asks, hugging his friend.
“As if you didn’t see them three days ago, but they’re great as usual. Bert! How are you? How’s Maggie?” Simon asks, turning to Bert a wide smile adorning his face.
As the three of them prattle away, exchanging notes on babies, and nappies, Anthony thinks back to when they first met at Oxford, as three young lads with bleary eyes and gangly limbs. He rather thinks it would be a shock to those boys they were back then to know where they are in life now. To know that they’ve made it, they got real, grown up jobs, and they’re happy. In truth, he thinks the Simon of nearly twenty years ago would be baffled by how far he’s come, from that frankly idiotic argument he had with his father before he died, to the father he’s become.
Most days, Anthony can scarcely believe it himself, with how boisterous and boyish they all were to how settled they’ve become, especially Simon, who used to be known as “four pint Basset” because after four pints he would start dancing on tabletops. But now, Simon is refined, drinks red wine and goes to prenatal classes with Daphne, takes the children to daycare in the morning, is up reading them stories in the evening. He’s a changed man, and Anthony privately thinks it’s for the better. Even Bert, who was always pretty placid, but if you got enough beer down his gullet would start laughing and telling absurd jokes. Now, he’s a family man, dedicated to his wife and yet unborn child who he’s already doting on.
“I heard what happened with the painting, Anthony that’s awful,” Simon stage whispers to Anthony.
“ Ah , I take it Daphne told you then?” He turns to him.
“After Colin told her, yeah,” he pats Anthony on the shoulder.
“Do you want us to bid on it?” Simon asks, as Bert throws Anthony a sympathetic glance.
“That’s a good idea actually Hastings,” Bert adds, nodding, “between the two of us, we’d probably be able to get it back for you, and I know I owe you one,”
The thought of his friends doing this for him is overwhelmingly considerate of them, and Anthony feels a little floored. On one hand he desperately wants to accept the help his friends are offering, and yet, on the other, he feels as if he can’t possibly accept their offer. After a few moments, he caves and accepts, though he caveats that if either of them win, he will pay them back whatever the sum is. Begrudgingly, they accept his terms and before any of them know it, the painting is being displayed at the front of the room.
“So this is our second to last piece of the evening ladies and gentlemen. Painted in 2014 by Edmund Bridgerton, oil on canvas. Entitled Wildflowers and Wine, measuring about 40 x 50cm,” the auctioneer’s tone is level, factual as he lists the qualities of the painting as if it were nothing more than a picture. It always amazes Anthony how clinically they describe things, how the humanity of the painting is stripped away, that the emotion the brushstrokes hold is inconsequential to the bidding war. Idly, he wonders if anyone else in that room would read the painting the way he does, full of emotion, the love for a wife colouring each brushstroke, each sketch he made before the painting started.
“Bidding starts at one thousand, do I hear two thousand, yes, two thousand five hundred?” The auctioneer drones, his tone not shifting, but somehow the words that flow from his mouth entrance the bidders, and soon there are more than a few paddles in the air. The price keeps climbing and before he can register who in the room is bidding, it has hit fifteen thousand pounds. A bidder on the phone keeps the price soaring, and soon the battle is between Bert, Simon and the mysterious caller. Before the price can get too out of hand, the auctioneer begins to wrap up the sale, counting down the few remaining seconds before he bangs the gavel down, ending the last fifteen minutes of torture Anthony has endured. The piece sells for thirty thousand pounds, a price Anthony is unsure of, but the money goes to charity, so at the very least he thinks they will be grateful for it, even if it does leave him confused.
Simon wins the bidding war, and the relief that floods through Anthony’s bones is nothing short of refreshing. It’s a strange sensation for him, to ask for help from his friends, and though he thinks he might have been able to bid on the work himself, he’s grateful nonetheless.
“Thank you, both of you,” he whispers to his friends, as the next bidding war begins over a porcelain vase decorated with blue flowers and vines.
After they head out, Anthony sits down in his car, exhausted. Pulling out his phone, he shoots off a text to Violet, dreading the conversation he knows he needs to have with her about Colin’s mistake. For all his plotting to tell her at the right time, somehow she already knows what happened, though Anthony is grateful he doesn’t have to break the news to her that the painting is lost forever. Just before he can drive off, his phone rings. It’s Kate.
“Hey Anthony, how are you?”
“Hi Kate, I’m well thank you, how are you?”
“I’m good, running around like a headless chicken today, but good. So, just in case you weren’t at the auction, I thought I would call and let you know that the painting has unfortunately sold. Listen, I might be able to bring the buyer in so you can have a chat with him and maybe offer a compromise, or another piece, does that sound doable?” The words rush out of her, as if she’s in a hurry, or short of breath.
“Well I’m glad you called actually. The good news is that I know the buyer, and I can pay him back the money for the painting once the paperwork’s gone through and everything. It should be easy to do a private sale for it right?” He can’t help but smile when he hears the short intake of breath on the other side of the phone, can’t help imaging the loose curls that might be fluttering down her shoulders.
“Oh that’s wonderful news! I’m so glad it went well for you. Yes a private sale should be easy enough to organise, but you may want to wait a while, just so the first sale can properly go through, and the paperwork can be filed the way it needs to be,” her voice is soft, and it’s all Anthony can do to restrain his overactive mind to only imagine the way her hair might feel, or the way her eyes sparkle.
They hang up after going over some more details, like what the auction house can do while the painting is yet to be given to Simon, and how they can repair any damage to the frame or paint itself before giving it back to Anthony.
Steeling himself, he turns the car on and heads to Bridgerton House.
“Hello,” he calls out as he swings the front door open and unlaces his shoes before putting them down by the door.
“In here,” comes Violet’s slightly muffled reply from what sounds like the blue drawing room.
Walking in that general direction, he treads the familiar steps to the drawing room, expecting to see his mother pacing, or sitting down on one of the sofas, knitting, her needles softly clicking. What he comes upon is entirely unexpected, Violet Bridgerton is reading a well worn copy of a novel Anthony is convinced the family library has never housed.
“Hello dearest,” she greets him as she puts the book down and opens her arms for a hug. Briefly wrapping his arms around her, Anthony brushes each cheek with his, and sits down.
“You know how Colin mistakenly put Father’s painting from the library up for auction?” He begins, not knowing how to tell her any of it, but understanding she needs to know.
Silently, she nods her assent.
“The bad news is that it sold,” he pauses, “the good news, is that I ran into Simon and Bert and Simon is the one who bought it,” Violet’s brow furrows in confusion. “They both offered to help in any way they could, and that felt like the most useful way. The thing is though, we have to wait for the first sale to go through, but I spoke to the auction house woman and she said it should happen soon. They can also have the work cleaned for us, there are flecks of paint on the frame, so they’ll fix those too,” he says, a little breathless, and nervous.
Violet nods, twisting her hands through her skirt before her gaze finds her son’s and she speaks. “I’m glad you could sort it all out dear,” she seems distracted, in an odd way Anthony finds himself grateful for it, if she was sharper in that moment perhaps she wouldn’t give him such grace. After all, despite his pretty tight corralling of seven siblings, she does always manage to find something he’s done wrong.
“You seem distracted today. What is it?” He asks, bracing himself slightly for whatever she might tell him.
“Well, I…” She hesitates, but Anthony flashes her what he hopes is an encouraging smile. “My trip to Cornwall was, eventful shall we say, and, there’s no other way to say this but I didn’t go with Susan and Lydia, I went with someone else,” she trails off, her gaze searching Anthony’s.
“That’s great, did you make a new friend I haven’t heard about?” He asks.
“Not exactly, I went with someone I’ve been seeing for the past little while,” the words spill from her as if she can’t hold them anymore, as if they’ve been kept in for too long.
“I see, and do we know this gentleman?” Shock winds its way through his body, settling into his racing heart, but at the same time, he’s rather happy for her. Eleven years is a long time to grieve, and though the knife twists in his heart rather frequently, he knows his mother must be a little lonely. Her circle of friends is rather large, it's true, but at the same time, Anthony knows it’s not the same. After all, since his ill-timed fling-that-wasn’t-really-a-fling-and-they-should-have-communicated-about-it-but-didn’t with Brigitte, he understands the importance of needing steady support.
“He’s, well he’s Agatha’s brother and his name is Marcus,” once more the words tumble from Violet’s lips all in a rush, and Anthony can only just make them out.
“As long as you’re happy Mother, that’s all that matters,” he says evenly, only just digesting that Agatha Danbury has a brother.
They chat some more, before Anthony realises the time, so he takes his leave from his mother and heads home, making the excuse that he has to be up early in the morning so he can’t stay for dinner.
As he slides on his shoes in the entrance hall, he hears a muffled voice coming from the drawing room. Thinking Violet might be calling for him, he walks back slowly. Then he hears it.
“COLIN BRIDGERTON!” His mother’s voice rings out.
“How could you possibly think that artwork was for sale? You know how much that piece means to the family, to me ,” she hisses, her voice quieter now, but no less menacing. There must be some muffled, indistinct —to Anthony’s ears at least— reply from Colin, before Violet continues a tirade the likes of which Anthony has almost never heard levelled at any of his siblings, let alone Colin who is often his mother’s favourite when Daphne is too busy, or speaks out of turn.
Softly, he walks back to the front door and leaves, shutting it as quietly as possible before taking the steps two at a time in his haste to make it to his car.
Before he can think it through for more than the few seconds it takes for the idea to appear in his head, he shoots off a text, his heart hammering in his chest. He puts his phone down, and heads home before he can rescind the invitation, or think about the words he chose to use.