The Bridgertons Happily Ever After - By Julia Quinn Page 0,86

Francesca, and Gregory . . . Well, that simply made it all the more perfect.

There was a knock at the door, and Nanny Pickens poked her head in. “The girls would love to see Her Ladyship,” she said to the midwife. “If she’s ready.”

The midwife looked at Violet, who nodded. Nanny ushered her three charges inside with a stern “Remember what we talked about. Do not tire your mother.”

Daphne came over to the bed, followed by Eloise and Francesca. They possessed Edmund’s thick chestnut hair—all of her children did—and Violet wondered if Hyacinth would be the same. Right now she possessed just the tiniest tuft of peachy fuzz.

“Is it a girl?” Eloise asked abruptly.

Violet smiled and changed her position to show off the new baby. “It is.”

“Oh, thank heavens,” Eloise said with a dramatic sigh. “We needed another one.”

Beside her, Francesca nodded. She was what Edmund had always called Eloise’s “accidental twin.” They shared a birthday, the two of them, a year apart. At six, Francesca generally followed Eloise’s lead. Eloise was louder, bolder. But every now and then Francesca would surprise them all and do something that was completely her own.

Not this time, though. She stood beside Eloise, clutching her stuffed doll, agreeing with everything her older sister said.

Violet looked over at Daphne, her oldest girl. She was nearly eleven, certainly old enough to hold a baby. “Do you want to see her?” Violet asked.

Daphne shook her head. She was blinking rapidly, the way she did when she was perplexed, and then all of a sudden she stood up straighter. “You’re smiling,” she said.

Violet looked back down at Hyacinth, who’d dropped off her breast and fallen quite asleep. “I am,” she said, and she could hear it in her voice. She’d forgotten what her voice sounded like with a smile in it.

“You haven’t smiled since Papa died,” Daphne said.

“I haven’t?” Violet looked up at her. Was that possible? She hadn’t smiled in three weeks? It didn’t feel awkward. Her lips formed the curve out of memory, perhaps with just a little bit of relief, as if they were indulging in a happy memory.

“You haven’t,” Daphne confirmed.

She must be right, Violet realized. If she hadn’t managed to smile for her children, she certainly hadn’t done so in solitude. The grief she’d been feeling . . . it had yawned before her, swallowed her whole. It had been a heavy, physical thing, making her tired, holding her down.

No one could smile through that.

“What is her name?” Francesca asked.

“Hyacinth.” Violet shifted her position so the girls could see the baby’s face. “What do you think?”

Francesca tilted her head to the side. “She doesn’t look like a Hyacinth,” Francesca declared.

“Yes, she does,” Eloise said briskly. “She’s very pink.”

Francesca shrugged, conceding the point.

“She’ll never know Papa,” Daphne said quietly.

“No,” Violet said. “No, she won’t.”

No one said anything, and then Francesca—little Francesca—said, “We can tell her about him.”

Violet choked on a sob. She hadn’t cried in front of her children since that very first day. She’d saved her tears for her solitude, but she couldn’t stop them now. “I think—I think that’s a wonderful idea, Frannie.”

Francesca beamed, and then she crawled onto the bed, squirming in until she’d found the perfect spot at her mother’s right side. Eloise followed, and then Daphne, and all of them—all the Bridgerton girls—peered down at the newest member of their family.

“He was very tall,” Francesca began.

“Not so tall,” Eloise said. “Benedict is taller.”

Francesca ignored her. “He was tall. And he smiled a great deal.”

“He held us on his shoulders,” Daphne said, her voice starting to wobble, “until we grew too large.”

“And he laughed,” Eloise said. “He loved to laugh. He had the very best laugh, our papa . . .”

London

Thirteen years later

Violet had made it her life’s work to see all eight of her children happily settled in life, and in general, she did not mind the myriad tasks this entailed. There were parties and invitations and dressmakers and milliners, and that was just the girls. Her sons needed just as much guidance, if not more. The only difference was that society afforded the boys considerably more freedom, which meant that Violet did not need to scrutinize every last detail of their lives.

Of course she tried. She was a mother, after all.

She had a feeling, however, that her job as mother would never be so demanding as it was right at this moment, in the spring of 1815.

She knew very well that in the grand scheme of life, she