Julia Quinn - When He Was Wicked With 2nd Epilogue (Bridgertons)

She was sorry he had not been able to accompany her on the long ride down from Scotland for the christening of Hyacinth’s baby daughter, Isabella. He would be there, of course; she and Michael never missed the christening of any of their nieces and nephews. But affairs in Edinburgh had delayed his arrival. Francesca could have delayed her trip as well, but it had been many months since she had seen her family, and she missed them.

It was funny. When she was younger, she’d always been so eager to get away, to set up her own household, her own identity. But now, as she watched her nieces and nephews grow, she found herself visiting more often. She didn’t want to miss the milestones. She had just happened to be visiting when Colin’s daughter Agatha had taken her first steps. It had been breathtaking. And although she had wept quietly in her bed that night, the tears in her eyes as she’d watched Aggie lurch forward and laugh had been ones of pure joy.

If she wasn’t going to be a mother, then by God, at least she would have those moments. She couldn’t bear to think of life without them.

Francesca smiled as she handed her cloak to a footman and walked down the familiar corridors of Aubrey Hall. She’d spent much of her childhood here, and at Bridgerton House in London. Anthony and his wife had made some changes, but much was still just as it had always been. The walls were still painted the same creamy white, with the barest undertone of peach. And the Fragonard her father had bought her mother for her thirtieth birthday still hung over the table just outside the door to the rose salon.

“Francesca!”

She turned. It was her mother, rising from her seat in the salon.

“How long have you been standing out there?” Violet asked, coming to greet her.

Francesca embraced her mother. “Not long. I was admiring the painting.”

Violet stood beside her and together they regarded the Fragonard. “It’s marvelous, isn’t it?” she murmured, a soft, wistful smile touching her face.

“I love it,” Francesca said. “I always have. It makes me think of Father.”

Violet turned to her in surprise. “It does?”

Francesca could understand her reaction. The painting was of a young woman holding a bouquet of flowers with a note attached. Not a very masculine subject. But she was looking over her shoulder, and her expression was a little bit mischievous, as if, given the correct provocation, she might laugh. Francesca could not remember much of her parents’ relationship; she had been but six at the time of her father’s death. But she remembered the laughter. The sound of her father’s deep, rich chuckle—it lived within her.

“I think your marriage must have been like that,” Francesca said, motioning to the painting.

Violet took a half step back and cocked her head to the side. “I think you’re right,” she said, looking rather delighted by the realization. “I never thought of it quite that way.”

“You should take the painting back with you to London,” Francesca said. “It’s yours, isn’t it?”

Violet blushed, and for a brief moment, Francesca saw the young girl she must have been shining out from her eyes. “Yes,” she said, “but it belongs here. This was where he gave it to me. And this”—she motioned to its spot of honor on the wall—“was where we hung it together.”

“You were very happy,” Francesca said. It wasn’t a question, just an observation.

“As are you.”

Francesca nodded.

Violet reached out and took her hand, patting it gently as they both continued to study the painting. Francesca knew exactly what her mother was thinking about—her infertility, and the fact that they seemed to have unspoken agreement never to talk about it, and really, why should they? What could Violet possibly say that would make it better?

Francesca couldn’t say anything, because that would just make her mother feel even worse, and so instead they stood there as they always did, thinking the same thing but never speaking of it, wondering which of them hurt more.

Francesca thought it might be her—hers was the barren womb, after all. But maybe her mother’s pain was more acute. Violet was her mother , and she was grieving for the lost dreams of her child. Wouldn’t that be painful? And the irony was, Francesca would never know. She’d never know what it felt like to hurt for a child because she’d never know what it was to be a mother.

She was almost three and thirty. She did not know any married lady who had reached that age without conceiving a child. It seemed that children either arrived right away or not at all.

“Has Hyacinth arrived?” Francesca asked, still looking at the painting, still staring at the twinkle in the woman’s eye.

“Not yet. But Eloise will be here later this afternoon. She—”

But Francesca heard the catch in her mother’s voice before she’d cut herself off. “Is she expecting, then?” she asked.

There was a beat of silence, and then: “Yes.”

“That’s wonderful.” And she meant it. She did, with every last bit of her being. She just didn’t know how to make it sound that way.

She didn’t want to look at her mother’s face. Because then she would cry.

Francesca cleared her throat, tilting her head to the side as if there were an inch of the Fragonard she hadn’t yet perused. “Anyone else?” she queried.

She felt her mother stiffen slightly beside her, and she wondered if Violet was deciding whether it was worth it to pretend that she didn’t know exactly what she meant.

“Lucy,” her mother said quietly.

Francesca finally turned and faced Violet, pulling her hand out of her mother’s grasp. “Again?” she asked. Lucy and Gregory had been married for less than two years, but this would be their second child.

Violet nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say that,” Francesca said, horrified by how thick her voice sounded. “Don’t say you’re sorry. It’s not something to be sorry about.”

“No,” her mother said quickly. “That wasn’t what I meant.”

“You should be delighted for them.”

“I am!”

“More delighted for them than you are sorry for me,” Francesca choked out.

“Francesca . . .”

Violet tried to reach for her, but Francesca pulled away. “Promise me,” she said. “You have to promise me that you will always be more happy than you are sorry.”

Violet looked at her helplessly, and Francesca realized that her mother did not know what to say. For her entire life, Violet Bridgerton had been the most sensitive and wonderful of mothers. She always seemed to know what her children needed, exactly when they needed it—whether it was a kind word or a gentle prod, or even a giant proverbial kick in the breeches.

But now, in this moment, Violet was lost. And Francesca was the one who had done it to her.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” she said, the words spilling out. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“No.” Violet rushed forward to embrace her, and this time Francesca did not pull away. “No, darling,” Violet said again, softly stroking her hair. “Don’t say that, please don’t say that.”

She shushed and she crooned, and Francesca let her mother hold her. And when Francesca’s hot, silent tears fell on her mother’s shoulder, neither one of them said a word.

By the time Michael arrived two days later, Francesca had thrown herself into the preparations for little Isabella’s christening, and her conversation with her mother was, if not forgotten, at least not at the forefront of her mind. It wasn’t as if any of this was new, after all. Francesca was just as barren as she’d been every time she came to England to see her family. The only difference this time was that she’d actually talked to someone about it. A little bit.