Chapter Text
They start the Third Annual Bridgerton Family Summer Tournament rather earlier than usual - straight after Easter, in fact.
That’s an obvious move to make better sense of the timing, they decide. The baby is due around the same time late in the summer as Hyacinth was due, three years earlier, and Anthony is trying desperately not to get too fretful about that fact, not to worry about history repeating itself.
So - they shift the contests earlier, so that Kate can still compete in most of them. That means Colin and Benedict aren’t home yet, of course - and naturally Kate intends to forfeit the riding round, this year - and then, besides all that, Simon isn’t here to keep the scores as all these different participants dip in or out at this round or that.
It’ll be a chaotic sort of summer, in other words, but Anthony is fast learning that a chaotic Bridgerton summer is the best sort of summer - better by far than that summer three years past, certainly.
They begin with biscuits. That’s fitting, he thinks, because honestly this whole edition of the summer tournament feels to him like a celebration of his love for Kate, at this stage. So starting with biscuits, when he feels that biscuits are really where their love story began, strikes him as a very good move indeed.
She is the one who switches out his spices, on this occasion, and they end up inventing a sort of aniseed creation which is genuinely quite tasty yet not a patch on his preference for pepper.
That is to say - they’re objectively better biscuits. It’s a far more sensible flavour for a biscuit. But Anthony recognises, these days, that he’s at least as capable of sentiment as anyone else, and that his sentimental attachment to pepper biscuits is therefore here to stay.
He doesn’t sabotage Kate’s biscuit dough at all, this time around. He couldn’t rightly say why. He still enjoys teasing her and arguing with her and competing against her, in general. But he also loves her, and she’s with child, and he can’t think of any particularly funny or novel way to interfere with her biscuit making, so he settles for distracting her with kisses rather than actively sabotaging her.
Agatha arrives just in time to declare his aniseed biscuits the winner.
Eloise pipes up at that - but not to argue with the result, much to everyone’s surprise.
“I intend to keep the scores this summer.” She declares. “I must therefore ask you, Aunty Agatha, to tell me just exactly the points you wish to award.”
“You wish to be scorekeeper?” Kate asks mildly.
“I do.” Eloise nods with great dignity. “As the most proficient mathematician in the family, now that we have lost our usual scorekeeper, it is my duty to keep the scores.”
Anthony grins a little. He might argue with that, if Eloise were a little older. He might point out that Kate manages the household accounts rather adeptly, that he himself is competent with estate business and the family finances, that Benedict and Colin are both well-educated young gentlemen.
But he knows that Eloise wishes to emulate the great natural scientists, even though it’s not at all easy for a young lady to do such a thing, so he decides that, on this occasion, he had best leave her to take pride in her learning.
Agatha seems to agree with him. He watches her throw a wink towards him and Kate as she goes to sit down with Eloise and determine the scores.
It is, all things considered, quite a good start to the summer.
It’s only a shame that they now have such a surfeit of delicious but unsentimental aniseed biscuits.
…….
Anthony is not at all surprised when he receives a letter from town telling him of a new engagement.
He is rather taken aback, though, to receive word of two.
“Lord Fife has seen fit to tell us that he is engaged to Miss Cho and that some fellow by the name of Lord Debling has proposed to Lady Kenworthy, and she has accepted, and she’ll be out of her father’s house within the fortnight.” He tells his wife, in a fond sort of tone, as they set out on a rather careful and sedate morning ride.
He thinks it’s important that she still feels able to ride, where she can, despite the child she’s carrying. He knows it would be a fool who would try to tell Lady Kathani Bridgerton that an expectant mother ought to sit demurely inside and wait for the delivery.
“Your friend Fife has become a champion of unhappy young ladies? He thought it necessary to reassure us that Lady Kenworthy is in a good sort of situation?” Kate echoes, now, audibly pleased with the idea.
“It gets better. He has tried to dance often with Miss Smythe-Smith and attract her to the notice of other gentlemen, too. Oh - and he wouldn’t put us to the bother of travelling up to town for the wedding, when he knows your condition must be the central concern of our lives at present, but he hopes that he and the new Lady Fife might visit us here at a convenient moment in the autumn.”
“He knows about the baby?” She asks, as if surprised.
“I wrote to him and Simon and Dorset about the news as soon as I managed to discuss it with you. I hope that meets with your approval.”
“Yes. Of course. I’m overjoyed that you wanted to share it, honestly. Perhaps I would be correct in observing that you found it more difficult to actually confront the truth and discuss it with me than to share the news with all your friends?” She points out, wearing a wry smile.
“You’d be fully correct, of course. I love you. Any discussion of your health or any risk with you must naturally affect me more than the idea of simply passing good news to a friend.”
“I love you, too.” She tells him - matter of fact, strangely reassuring.
Silence sits a moment. The two of them are riding at a brisk walk, side by side, along a trail they have been known to take rather more quickly before now.
All at once, Kate pipes up with a new thought.
“Do you think we should start arguing over which of us loves the other more, at this stage? We must have some new competition in our lives while I am forced to ride everywhere so sedately.”
He laughs. “We’ll not compete over that, thank you very much. It’d be a hard fought battle and I’m quite certain we’d both emerge as sore losers. We must restrict our competitive efforts to the family tournament, I think.”
“That’ll be no fun if you keep letting me win. Don’t think I didn’t notice that you gave me an easy time of it with those biscuits.”
“Understood. I must compete with my expectant wife as fiercely as possible, and make her life a challenge in every possible way. Duly noted. My mistake - so naïve of me to think I ought to make your life comfortable and peaceful for the next few months.” He offers, all light and ironic.
She’s giggling quite continuously, now, as she reaches out to swat fondly at his arm. “Competitive and comfortable, please. Isn’t that how our marriage functions best?”
“I think it’s how everything about the entire Bridgerton family functions best.” He grumbles, but cheerfully so. “All the same, I do hear you. I ought not be overprotective of you. You still wish to have some fun, and to have me treat you as normally as ever I can.” He summarises.
“Exactly so. I do appreciate you fussing over me, truly - but I’ll go quite mad if you treat me as if I’m made from crystal for the next four months.”
“Very good. So - a light trot? Could an expectant lady who is a proficient rider perhaps handle this trail at a trot?” He suggests.
She answers by picking up canter, of course, and simply riding away in front of him.
Laughing, shaking his head, he makes haste to follow. There’s simply never a dull moment in his marriage with Kate.
……..
Spring spools into summer quickly that year. It’s perhaps the opposite of the sudden summer sadness he felt the first year after his parents died, he decides.
He’s not certain why this summer seems to come on so swiftly and so seamlessly. He supposes it must be in large part because of the child Kate is carrying, because he’s both nervous and excited at the prospect so he’s wishing all these weeks of waiting away as he looks forward to the whole business being over and done with - and God willing a healthy wife and child in his life - by the time summer turns to autumn. It’s like the anticipation of homecoming relief he used to feel in the carriage home from Oxford, perhaps, or that confidence that all will be better whenever he looks forward to being in Kate’s arms.
It’s like that, only the stakes are a hundred times higher.
He supposes it feels like a quick and easy shift from spring to summer because he’s home, too. It’s the first time since he was a young boy that he’s been at Aubrey Hall all through this period from Easter to true summer, and certainly the first time since he became Viscount. It’s a very wonderful time of year to be living the life of a quiet country gentleman, he realises.
He fully intends to spend the spring here every year in future - or at least, every year that they can avoid obligations in town and the tail-end of the London season.
They manage a few rounds more of the tournament, in these spring-turned-summer weeks before the boys arrive home - an odd hodgepodge of indoor and outdoor activities, some suitable for the season and some decidedly not, all bundled together on the basis that they are convenient for Kate to partake in.
So there’s the needlework round, in which Anthony’s KB is a little straighter than last year, and in which Edwina takes the prize. There’s a new addition of the domestic arrangements round, in which a person has to take inventory of the cold larder and then suggest an economical but interesting menu for a hypothetical dinner that night.
Shockingly, Kate wins that one. She doesn’t even have to produce the soufflé she decides upon as her centrepiece, only tell the judges it ought to exist, but everyone is so overwhelmed by the thought of soufflé that it’s an easy decision.
Really - soufflé? Anthony is still trying to decide whether scrambled eggs are an acceptable addition to a dinner menu.
After the soufflé comes the sun, and a strawberry picking round. This has been added in order to help the younger ones have more opportunities to join in. Gregory and Hyacinth tear quite cheerfully around the fruit fields and, when everyone’s harvest is weighed out, Gregory actually takes the victory with Eloise close behind.
Kate insists that she’s still perfectly able to bend down to pick a few strawberries, and Anthony knows better than to argue with her. Didn’t they establish, just a few weeks ago, that he ought not be overprotective during her pregnancy?
So he doesn’t try to interfere with her fun. He simply sticks close to her while they’re out picking the fruit, so that the two of them can manage an uninterrupted conversation, yes, but also so that he would be close enough to aid her if she should get overheated or feel faint or become sore from all this activity.
He’s growing into quite a competent sort of husband, these days, if he does say so himself.
……..
As soon as the boys arrive home from Cambridge and Eton, the whole family plays at Pall Mall to celebrate the late Edmund Bridgerton.
It’s one of their better Pall Mall games, Anthony decides, just a few minutes in. It has got off to a most unexpected start with Colin and Edwina evidently forming an alliance against Benedict. It’s an unusual sort of alliance, as Bridgerton family alliances go. Eloise is the only one of the girls who often chooses Colin and Benedict for her co-conspirators. But it makes sense, he decides easily. Colin has always been close with Daphne. Daphne and Edwina are inseparable. Therefore, evidently, Edwina is feeling perfectly at ease with her elder brothers, these days, too.
She’s not a particularly good Pall Mall player, as it happens. She’s still less fond of sporting pursuits than most of the rest of the family, and there’s nothing wrong with that. So this alliance seems to consist almost entirely of her distracting and obstructing Benedict with her ineptitude while Colin streaks ahead to vie for victory.
“I don’t know whether to be pleased that Colin and Edwina are evidently in cahoots, or whether to reprimand him for using his sister’s poor gameplay to his advantage like this. It would be more gentlemanly if he tried to set her up for some success.” Anthony mentions to Kate, rather fascinated by the whole situation.
She snorts out a fabulously undignified laugh. “Pall Mall is no time for chivalry, husband. And I think you need have no concerns on that score. Did you know he brought little gifts home from school for all his sisters, Edwina included?”
“He did? I never heard a thing about it.”
“I think he didn’t wish to draw attention. I only know because Daphne and Edwina told me this morning. They are all very impressed with his generosity, I hear, and think him quite the best brother in the world - except you, of course. Benedict may have some catching up to do.” She says ruefully.
It’s Anthony’s turn to laugh now. “I don’t even know where to begin with such a situation. Colin is trying to buy his siblings’ loyalty? Do we believe that to be a matter of gaining some advantage in the tournament, or does he actually think love can be bought? Should I speak with him on the subject? I would have him understand that treating his sisters kindly must be more important than buying them gifts.”
“I think you’re fretting without cause, Anthony.” She tells him - level, uncritical, just helping steer him right. “He bought them a few toffees and hair ribbons and suchlike from the village near the school. He didn’t spend all his allowance, and he’s not causing trouble. He probably remembers it as something your father used to do, I suppose?”
“Yes. He did often bring gingerbread home at Christmas, or bring our mother flowers.” He recalls.
It’s not really the way Anthony himself has taken to being Viscount. His approach is more about spending time with the people he cares about, being dutifully attentive, trying to spread love and joy and fun. He’s not so inclined to buy material objects for people.
Well - apart from Kate, he realises, thinking of sheet music and riding habits and an entire corgi called Newton. But Kate is an exception, isn’t she?
All the same, he decides, it might be perfectly fine and well if Colin should inherit that particular way of performing familial love from their father. In fact, Anthony rather likes the idea that they have all inherited slightly different traits and habits from each of their parents, that the whole assorted lot of them are truly the legacy of the late Lord and Lady Bridgerton.
In fact, with his mother’s legacy in mind, he strikes out in a new direction.
“I’ve a fancy to put Edwina back in the game. What do you say, sweetheart? Shall we fight for the newest member of the Bridgerton family a few turns?”
“She won’t be the newest for very long now.” Kate points out, patting at her stomach.
“Exactly. All the more reason to see if we can get her an unlikely sporting victory today. She must be nervous that the sister who has always been something of a parent to her is about to become a parent in truth, no?”
“She’s apprehensive about it.” Kate allows. “You’re right - it’s a sound idea. Let’s see if we can win her a Pall Mall game.”
They set to it with some considerable determination. Anthony starts by taking Colin out of play, hitting his ball off into the trees. Kate matches him, manages to get Benedict’s ball sunk in the mud in the other direction.
Anthony kisses her for that, loudly and passionately and publicly. He thinks a loving husband should kiss his wife rather demonstratively when she’s just taken out her long-time rival in the family tournament and helped the underdog along the way.
They turn their attention to the rest of the girls, now. Francesca is hard to put off - she’s a plucky and determined sort of child. When they manage to get her ball caught amongst tree roots, she resurges just one turn later. Eloise, too, is canny and not so easily distracted as Colin.
Daphne seems to have caught onto the plan, though. Even she seems to have decided she might set aside her competitive spirit if it helps her closest and newest sister along. She and Kate gang up on Eloise together, and Anthony manages to hit Francesca’s ball into the long grass.
And then - then - Newton himself saves the day. He actually dashes across the field to nose Edwina’s ball through the final wicket.
“No! Absolutely not! That can’t be allowed!” Benedict protests, stumbling out of the trees with mud all up his ankles.
“I see no problem.” Daphne says, infuriatingly bright. “I do believe Newton was simply confirming the winner.”
“We certainly can’t be displeased at the dog. Fair’s fair, I say.” Colin concludes.
And - well - if even Colin is prepared to admit defeat - Colin who had the early lead for so long - then certainly, the decision is made.
There’s a pause. For a moment, they all stand around congratulating Edwina, offering her hugs and cheers and fussing over Newton.
And then, all at once, Francesca pipes up with a dangerous point.
“I say - there are still points awarded for second place, are there not?”
All hell breaks loose as every Bridgerton rushes towards their ball, their mallet, their next wicket. Anthony joins them because, frankly, he might quite like to come second - or to have Kate come second.
Somewhere on the terrace, he thinks, he can hear Mary and Agatha laughing.
Well - so they should laugh. So his parents would laugh, too, if they were here today.
Indeed, he’s having such a jolly time he almost forgets, just for a few minutes, about the ordeal Kate must undergo in three months’ time.
…….
The most impressive sporting performance of all, that day, must be Kate riding him that night.
She’s very very pregnant, at this stage. She still has the better part of three months left to go before her time, they think, but as she’s normally quite a slender lady her shape has already changed quite dramatically and she’s finding the impact on her mobility and energy quite significant. For some few weeks, now, Anthony has mostly been inclined to offer his services with his mouth, if they want to try a bit of bedsport together, rather than expecting her to do too much of the work.
But tonight, it seems, she is determined. They’ve scarcely been kissing two minutes when she pushes him in the direction of the bed.
“What can I do for you?” He asks, wondering whether she means to lie next to him and have him use his hand, perhaps, for a change.
“You can lie there and fuss over my tits.” She recommends robustly. “I want to get on top.”
“Are you certain?” He asks, and wonders about adding something on a theme of overexerting herself but then thinks better of it. He must practise not being overprotective, mustn’t he?
He must allow his strong-willed wife her accustomed freedom.
Indeed - he must enjoy their dynamic as it works best, rather than allowing his fear of losing her to ruin it. A fool he’d be, if he wasted three months of marriage on fretfulness, simply because he’s fearful of her bearing this child.
She evidently is certain that she wants to be on top. She doesn’t argue about it in words, on this occasion, doesn’t drag them both to start sliding down the silly slope of arguing about her health. She simply does it, simply straddles him and gets herself into that familiar position, completely enveloping his cock.
“I’ve missed this.” He dares to admit, reaching up to toy with one of her breasts.
He’s not at all certain how he feels about having her pregnant stomach right in front of him like this. He wants to fuss over it, to adore the idea of her growing their child inside of her.
But, in all honesty, he’s still apprehensive.
What of it? He’s only human.
He finds a sort of compromise, skimming his hand over that new curve occasionally, but not allowing it to dominate his awareness or their intimacy. She seems to like it well enough, moaning as she starts moving slowly, ducking down occasionally for a kiss.
Even after all these years, there’s still something exciting about Kate riding him. It still gets him all hot and bothered like nothing else he’s ever known, either before marrying her or since.
He’s keen to make the most of it today. They might not manage such a thing again for a few months, he supposes. So he’s determined to hold eye contact as long as he can, to run his hands all over her body, to memorise each and every noise she makes.
She is, by his estimation, about two-thirds of the way to climax when she starts a perfectly level conversation with him.
“I do think we could do this more often. I’m still managing perfectly fine.” She declares.
“Hmm - fine fine, or truly fine?” He asks.
She laughs, pats fondly at his arm. “Well enough. It’s worth it. My hips are tiring quicker than usual, and my back is sore, but such inconveniences are entirely outweighed by being in my favourite place in the world.”
That’s pleasing, he decides. Her favourite place in the world is sitting atop his cock. He rather likes that.
“I intend to remember you said that and tease you about it later.” He tells her.
She laughs a breathy sort of laugh and starts moving a little faster.
This is just one of the very many benefits of having an affectionate and intimate relationship with his wife, he decides. There’s simply no capacity for teasing and earnest conversation in the middle of the act unless a man is exceptionally comfortable with his bedmate.
He supposes he wouldn’t have known he wanted such conversations, before he met Kate.
He stops engaging with such thoughts, then. He’s starting to get a bit too distracted for thinking. He decides to play with her and tease her with his hands and lips more than his words, for a few moments. He sits up somewhat, manages to claim a kiss, toys with bucking his hips up off the bed underneath her, too.
Oooh. She likes that.
He does it again. A few more firm thrusts up and into her, his hands scooped around her hips all the while.
“Yes. That. Please - more.”
He’ll tease her for that later, too. She’s normally a very capable conversationalist. But for now he makes haste to do as she asks, thrusts up into her from underneath for all he’s worth. His feet are pressing desperately into the mattress, trying to get enough purchase to have his hips move faster, harder, more urgently against her.
She’s more or less gone still, now. She’s just kneeling above him and allowing him to do the work, and he rather likes it that way. He rather likes the idea that he’s servicing her while she’s all tired and achy from carrying their child around.
She’s there. She’s sinking right down around him, and he’s bucking his hips just a couple more times before he falls apart, too.
Then it’s over, and she’s slumping sideways off him, rolling awkwardly into a more comfortable embrace.
“Here. Better?” He asks, shuffling sideways, trying to allow more space for her to feel all ungainly about her stomach.
“Perfect.”
“Well satisfied?”
“Certainly. You?” She asks, poking cheerfully at his upper arm for no apparent reason.
Hmm. Maybe his wife just likes his arms.
“Very well satisfied. We could still do that quite often, I think, if you kneel there above me and let me do the work.”
“Don’t you think that would rather defeat the object of that position?” She argues. “You like it because you like to think of me riding you, no?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes, in gallop or when taking a jump, a rider has to stand up off the saddle and simply let the horse move beneath them.”
She’s snorting with laughter, hugging him rather exuberantly, pressing kisses to his neck and chest all the while.
“Please - you must never again make such a precise riding metaphor about our marriage bed, Anthony.” She tells him.
It’s a bit of a mixed message, he thinks. She’s all giggly and warm and fond, even as she’s telling him that he’s not to do it again.
He tries his luck. “What - because you dislike it, or because you like my riding metaphors so much you might burst from sheer arousal?”
She laughs even harder. “Both. Neither. I hardly know. I only know that you’re vexing me.” She offers, in a warning sort of tone.
“Aha. I understand, I believe. That sort of vexation - the sort which reminds us both that you love me and are glad to be married to me.” He concludes, with absolute confidence.
“Yes. Exactly that.”
Hmm. He has a feeling they’ll both sleep well tonight.
…….
To mark the anniversary of Kate’s father’s death, they hold a water throwing contest.
It seems a good idea at the time Anthony comes up with it. The weather has been uncommonly warm lately. He is trying to lean into the spirit of love, irreverence and unconventionality Kate has always told him her father typified. So, obviously, he thinks a family of aristocrats throwing cups and buckets of water at each other in hot weather is the ideal way of marking the occasion.
They end up forming teams - informally, at first, but it soon becomes a clearly established rule of the contest. Anthony starts it, by declaring out loud that no one will douse his heavily expectant wife in cold water, thank you very much. But she’s not willing to sit out this round, so naturally he swears that he will defend her and be her knight and shield throughout the contest.
She thinks that’s hysterically funny - her knight and shield - and next thing he knows, all the rest of the family are teaming up, too. Francesca and Eloise are clasping Hyacinth by the hand while Eloise declares that the young ladies need no masculine assistance, thank you very much. Colin joins forces with Daphne and Edwina. Benedict takes Gregory under his wing, starts whispering hurriedly about what their strategy ought to be.
Then, of all things, Mary is striding onto the field.
“I’ll join you in defending Kate, if I may.” She calls out to Anthony.
“Certainly. You’d be most welcome. We ought to aim for Colin first, I think.” He suggests, in a quieter voice.
“By all means. I’ll follow your lead. I haven’t a clue what I’m doing, to be clear - I only know that Miles would have wanted to watch me join in.”
There’s a beat of silence, at that. Just a moment while they all take in her words. It’s almost the first time Anthony has ever heard his mother-in-law speak of his father-in-law, and it’s most uncommon for her to join in such boisterous family games, too.
But this morning, he finds he can see that she’s Kate’s mother in truth, even if not by blood. He finds he’s rather proud of her pushing herself beyond what comes comfortably to her like this, challenging herself to live up to the more bold and unconventional young woman she plainly used to be - and the distinctly audacious woman she raised, too.
Is a man allowed to feel proud of his mother-by-marriage? He hasn’t the foggiest clue.
No - hold on - he knows the answer to this one. This is the Aubrey Hall, and at Aubrey Hall, a man may feel whatever the hell he likes.
“Well said, Mary.” He tells her plainly. “I do believe I’m rather proud of you, if you’ll permit me to say such a thing. Here’s to my late father-in-law, hmm?”
He toasts thin air with his cupful of water - and then launches it directly at Colin’s face.
At that, water starts flying everywhere. Edwina is drenching her mother before anyone can so much as blink. Benedict and Gregory are trying to outflank the girls, while Eloise runs rings around Daphne.
Ten minutes later, everyone bar Kate is soaked to the skin.
Good. That’s exactly the outcome Anthony was hoping for. His wife is just damp enough around the edges that her hair is starting to frizz and curl at her ears, but is otherwise in fine form.
The rest of them are drenched, still flicking water at each other sporadically as they make their way back to the house.
…….
By the second half of the summer, the tournament and Kate’s condition are becoming rather incompatible.
There’s a contest of seated tennis again, this year, just to ensure she can still take part. Yet again, mysteriously, the Lord and Lady of the house face each other in the first round and spend several hours simply sitting and talking whilst they hold rackets and occasionally lob a ball.
Anthony really must thank Agatha, later, for such a remarkably well-rigged draw.
The following week sees the riding contest, and on this occasion, Kate doesn’t even attempt to take part. Anthony wins it easily, thanks to the very many tricks he’s learnt from her over the years, but as he rides across the finish line he’s rather distracted by the longing look in her eyes.
She’s plainly yearning to be on horseback, too.
Well - he doesn’t see why she shouldn’t take a gentle sort of ride, even if she’s in no state to be leaping into the saddle or competing, these days.
When the victory scones have been eaten and the celebrations concluded, and when the rest of the family starts wandering up to the house, he steers her very deliberately back towards the stable.
“What’s this?” She asks him, audibly puzzled. “I don’t think I’m the correct shape for a quick round up against a stable wall.” She jokes lightly.
He kisses her for that. To be sure, it wouldn’t be practical to lift her onto his cock, wedged up against a wall, at this stage. But kissing is still perfectly possible, and he won’t have her thinking he’s any less enthusiastic than usual about intimacy with her, just because intimacy has become a little logistically challenging, in recent weeks.
And when they kiss peters out, and he pulls away, he tells her what they’re really doing there.
“We’re taking a ride.” He announces.
“We are? Is that wise?”
“Well - you are taking a ride. I know you’re averse to mounting blocks as a general rule, but I think a lady who’s eight months along with child might make an exception and climb carefully into the saddle.” He tells her - half suggestion, half stern warning.
“Seven and a half, by my reckoning.”
“Kate -”
“I suppose I could probably get into the saddle if I swallowed my pride and used a block.” She concedes, frowning.
“I’ll lead your horse.” He explains now. “Or - I’ll walk next to your horse, and I’ll lead it if you let me. I know you need no such assistance but I’d do anything to reduce the risk of you having an accident.” He tells her, knowing there is no need to dissemble about such a thing.
Sure enough, she doesn’t judge him for his fretfulness. She simply presses a kiss to his cheek and walks into the tack room.
Well, then. It would appear she doesn’t dislike this idea.
She chooses quite a different horse from her usual type, he notices - a sturdy cob, not a very athletic beast, mostly kept for the older children to learn to ride on.
He wonders if her rather pedestrian choice of mount stems from consideration for his nerves or apprehension about her own physical capabilities. It’s been rather odd, in recent weeks, watching her relearn her relationship with her own body, watching her learn that admitting to tiredness and still having the household’s respect as a most capable Viscountess are not mutually exclusive.
It gets stranger still. She only picks up the creature's bridle from the peg, and gestures to him to follow with the saddle.
He’s rather impressed with her good sense, this afternoon, he decides. Of course, her good sense is one of the reasons he first married her - but this is a different sort of good sense entirely.
Lady Kathani Bridgerton is learning self-preservation. There’s something he thought he’d never see.
They make quick work of tacking up her chosen cob, and manage a light conversation all the while about where they might go. She’s visibly glowing at the thought of being out on horseback, even if this is not her preferred horse, even if it’s hardly going to be a daring expedition. She hasn’t been riding for a little over a month, at this point, he believes.
If this careful adventure is a success, he hopes she might be able to ride right up until the baby is due.
Watching her negotiate the mounting block is quite funny, he decides. She normally eschews such assistance. But today she climbs carefully to the very top step, so that she can all but step straight into the saddle.
“My hips have grown out of the habit of doing this.” She notes, dry, as she settles into her seat.
“I believe you made your life harder than it needed to be by choosing such a broad-backed horse.” He points out.
“But he’s a steady beast, and that’s most important today.” Most important for her sake, or his, or maybe both.
He nods, sets to faffing with her stirrups for her. That strikes him as the sort of thing which must be one of his husbandly duties, today.
He doesn’t quite lead her, as they set out. He walks by her side, to be sure - close enough to jump to attention if she should require assistance - and he’s holding a lead rein all looped up in his hand as a precaution in case it should be needed later on.
A sort of comfort blanket lead rein. As long as he’s holding it, he hopes, it won’t be needed at all.
Anthony was never very closely, personally involved in teaching his siblings how to ride, and that suddenly strikes him as a shame. There’s something quite peaceful about walking beside a horse and a loved one. And he has rather enjoyed reading with Eloise, or encouraging Francesca to practise playing the pianoforte.
He resolves that, when this child Kate carries is old enough to learn to ride, or when Gregory or Hyacinth should express any interest in the skill, he’ll be by their side, every step of the way.
“It’s very lovely to be out. Thank you for making it possible.” Kate tells him, sudden, reaching across to pat fondly at his hair.
Hmm. That’s a new mark of affection for a new situation, and he finds he rather likes it.
“I can’t see that I did very much at all.” He protests now, because of course he does. “You’re clearly in no need of my assistance, and you got yourself into the saddle just fine.”
“You know full well I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.” She argues robustly. “There is far more to it than the question of simply whether I can sit in a saddle and walk in a straight line.”
“I know.” He agrees, level - soothing, he hopes, but also leaving her space to keep speaking.
She does. “If you weren’t here I simply wouldn’t have the confidence to attempt it. I’d be too worried about my physical capabilities, or about causing you and Mary and all the children to fret, or about what might happen if there were an accident. And - well - it’s mighty strange to be so huge with child when I spent all my youth thinking I might never have a baby of my own. I think more than anything the reason I have not ridden in some weeks is out of a sort of - of fear that I’d be upset at riding slowly and carefully like a child. But riding slowly and carefully is much more enjoyable with you for company.”
“Then we must do it every Thursday between here and your delivery.” He declares.
She laughs, as he hoped she would. He knows she must remember that regular Thursday commitment to shooting lessons which defined last summer.
“Every Thursday. I’ll hold you to that.” She agrees.
Silence sits a moment, and Anthony is content to let it. He’s content to simply be, to enjoy time spent out of doors with his wife.
“This reminds me of the time you rode out to meet me on my way home from Oxford - do you recall it?” He asks at length.
She laughs. “Of course I recall it. The memory of that day is rather precious to me.”
“Me, too.” He takes a careful breath. “In truth, I believe it’s the day I first started to fall earnestly in love with you. Now that I have learnt to call it love, I think I understand that better than I did at the time.”
“That’s a sweet thought.” She tells him, reaches out to ruffle his hair again. “I suppose for me that is perhaps the day that my love started to mature into - into a real, solid sort of love.”
“Oh? It - that - I mean -” He pauses, cheeks flushed, tries not to stammer like a schoolboy. “You loved me before that, in some way?”
She doesn’t speak for a moment. He glances up at her, finds her staring at the horizon, biting her lip.
“Kate? Are you well?”
“Entirely well. Just attempting to decide what to say.” She explains, audibly self-conscious.
“Would it help if I listed some good news?” He offers. That’s a thing they sometimes do for each other, still, when necessary.
She laughs a surprisingly light laugh. “No, thank you. The mere offer is enough to help me along, I believe. So - there is something I would tell you, but you’re not allowed to pity me. You mustn’t find me pathetic.” She warns him.
That’s an echo of other conversations they’ve shared, he notes. He recognises it well. So he nods, squeezes lightly at her calf, throws an easy smile her way.
“I fell in love with you the first night we met.” She announces - brittle, careful, determined as hell. “Or - well - perhaps it wasn’t love love. Can love at first sight ever truly be love? But I was drawn to you from the very first. Within minutes I’d resolved that I would marry you.”
He swallows hard. Somehow, still, it surprises him every time she shows him such a depth of devotion. He simply can’t imagine what he’s done to earn the love of such a remarkable woman.
“I’m only sorry I was in no state to fall in love, back when we first met.” He explains now, resting that hand on her calf. “I couldn’t even imagine loving anyone, that night. But as to the rest, I believe we are perfectly in accord. I was certainly drawn to you from the very beginning, and quickly resolved to marry you. That is all true for my part, too.”
“You’re trying to tell me you’d have loved me at first sight, if you could.”
“Yes. Exactly. I can certainly imagine that I would have done, if I’d not been so overtaken by grief.”
“Well I certainly have no complaints. We’ve ended up in a rather happy situation, haven’t we?”
“Oh - more than palatable, would you say?”
She laughs, as he knew she would. There’s something remarkably affirming about marriage with someone who laughs at all one’s most predictable jokes.
“I’m taking you on another honeymoon when this baby is born and we can be spared from caring for the children for a week or two.” He announces.
“Oh - one honeymoon was not enough for you?”
“Certainly not. And I did rather spoil the ending of it, I recall. We must have another to make up for it. I think even whilst the children are still young we might easily manage the occasional week around the fields and sights of England, no?”
“I suspect Mary and Agatha would gladly gift us such an opportunity again next year, if you would like.” She agrees.
“Very good. An annual honeymoon tradition.”
“Biennial. We won’t be going anywhere this year.” She points out, with a gesture to her stomach.
“But we must make it annual thereafter, I think. An annual honeymoon routine would be just the thing to follow our annual family tournament.”
“I could agree to that.”
“Dear me. You really must be tired, if you’re agreeing with me so easily.” He teases.
She laughs, ruffles his hair yet again. She seems to have quickly grown fond of that gesture, he notes - perhaps a more appropriate echo in this context, this afternoon, of the way she usually scratches at his scalp as they kiss.
Hmm. He suppose such a thing will become part of their new Thursday routine, over the next four to six weeks.
“I do earnestly intend to travel to India with you when we can be spared from home for a longer trip.” He tells her now. “Not to wish our lives away, of course - but when this little one and all its aunts and uncles are grown, we must make grand plans like that.”
“Gladly. A tour around India with minimal carriage travel. A fine idea.”
He laughs. “I can certainly cope with spending a considerable number of hours in a carriage as long as I have good company and am very motivated by the trip.”
“Just as I can evidently cope with riding very slowly when I have good company and am very motivated by the excursion.” She points out, with a wave at the path before them.
He grins. “How long are we to stay out here? Have you any other duties to attend to this afternoon?”
“Nothing pressing. I’ll ride for as long as you have the patience to walk with me.”
“You’d best be careful what you say - we’ll be out until midnight.”
In fact, he decides, this could be a healthier sort of night time walking ritual than the ones they used to share.
…….
The next couple of rounds of the tournament are sedate, indoor sorts of activities, thank goodness.
There’s a dog training round, in which each person must have Newton perform a trick, and the judges award points based on how impressed they are.
They’re not at all impressed by most. They’re moderately impressed by Kate and by Eloise.
They are, somehow, very impressed indeed by Anthony asking Newton to shake his hand in exchange for a piece of ham.
Who knew that all these months discreetly feeding ham scraps to his wife’s dog could come in useful?
He’s actually leading the competition, somehow, which is a rather unexpected development. Benedict and Kate are close behind him, of course, but all the same - Anthony’s in the lead.
He doesn’t suppose it will last. He’s still a cynic, more or less, even if he’s quite a sociable and sentimental sort of cynic, these days.
…….
He goes into the flower arranging round in quite a bright frame of mind.
He has a considerable lead in the tournament. He has, too, the implicit good news that Kate is not in labour. That’s a silly thing to regard as news, perhaps - but considering her due date aligns so closely with the date his mother was due to have Hyacinth, and given that did not turn out at all as planned, he’s rather relieved on every single morning he wakes up to find that Kate hasn’t gone into labour early.
It’s a silly, superstitious concern to have, perhaps. Just because his mother had one child early doesn’t mean his wife is somehow cursed to repeat history.
But fear is often illogical, isn’t it? So he forgives himself for his fretfulness, as best he can, and takes a seat next to his wife at the flower arranging contest.
“I beg you might tell me how to do this competently.” He whispers to her, hurried, gesturing to the scissors and vases on the table. “I’m always glad when you or one of my siblings wins the contest, of course, but since I am in the lead this year…”
“Certainly - we must have you win.” She says, as if it’s so simple.
“I don’t wish to win unfairly, of course. That wouldn’t be sporting. I am the Viscount - I ought to -”
“You ought to spare me the speech about duty and learn how better to arrange flowers.” She argues, all sharp and bright as he loves her best. “Come on, then. I’m no expert, but I believe it is important to have some variety of heights and shapes and textures. Last year I recall you stuck many of the same flowers in a vase.”
“They were pretty flowers!” He protests. “They were the same colour as our suite, if you remember.”
“Oh - that explains a great deal, I suppose. But all the same, there must be some variety. Think of the way our suite includes different colours and textures. Reflect on the colour palette you chose for our suite in town, perhaps. That was well done. You’re capable of artistic pursuits when you put your mind to it.”
His confidence buoyed by that, he sets about making an attempt. He chooses purple as the basis of his arrangement again, this year, but tries to find different kinds of purple flowers, at different heights, with different shapes.
He bundles a few of them together in his hands, makes an arrangement which he hopes looks naturalistic.
That’s the sort of word a poet might use to mean messy, isn’t it?
“What do you think of this?” He asks Kate simply, shoving that handful of flowers into his vase.
Oh. They don’t entirely fit. He has perhaps got a bit excessive about scooping up purple flowers, here.
“I think it a fair start.” She says, in a tone which is evidently supposed to be encouraging.
But - a fair start. That’s not going to win him anything, is it?
“There are too many for the vase.” He notes. “I ought to take some out.”
“And then you ought to replace others with a different colour, or with some simple filler like this.” She holds up something white and almost fluffy. “Again - think of the suite, perhaps. Shades of cream and gold against the purple.”
He does his best. He really, really does. He makes his bouquet a bit less bulky, swaps in some more neutral colours, some little textured flowers to fill the space as he sees Kate and Edwina and Daphne doing.
Of course - he could just have copied one of them, couldn’t he? He could have been tactical about trying to maintain his lead, by copying the young ladies he knows are good at arranging flowers.
Only none of them is using purple, so really, why would he want to?
Kate’s piece is based around roses. He supposes he can approve of that - roses are quite a romantic sort of flower, he understands. Daphne has a number of different kinds of flowers, and is explaining to Mary that they were her mother’s favourites, and Anthony finds that he is quite impressed that she even knows which flowers their mother used to prefer.
Edwina is going for a more monochrome sort of piece, pink with white filler, not unlike Anthony’s purple offering - only better.
He tries a last few desperate finishing touches. He removes a couple of big globe-shaped purple flowers which he thinks are dominating and look a bit gawky. He squats down low next to the table, tries to see whether his piece looks approximately symmetrical in shape and bulk from all different angles.
He really really wishes his mother were here now. She’d be most entertained at the sight of her eldest son competing so earnestly over flower arranging - he’s certain of that much.
At last it’s over. Their time is up. The judges are doing a careful lap of the room, looking at all the entries, whispering quietly to each other.
“I can’t bear the tension. We must start on our tea.” Anthony suggests to Kate in a stage whisper.
“We can’t drink the celebratory tea before the judgement.” Eloise chides him, in an even louder whisper.
She takes her role as scorekeeper and general patroller-of-fun rather seriously, it seems.
It’s time. The judges have judged. They start from the bottom of the pack, declaring that Hyacinth shows promise and that Colin has done better than Eloise.
Anthony thinks it a miracle that Eloise even entered, so he sends her a cheering smile all the same.
The middle of the pack is as expected. Francesca is competent but unmemorable, because she doesn’t greatly care to spend time with flowers when there is a pianoforte in the room. Benedict’s piece is perhaps not quite up to his usual artistic standards.
But then, at the sharp end of things, it all turns out rather unexpected. Anthony actually beats Edwina to third place. Kate is in second, and of course Daphne wins.
He tries to listen to the judges’ comments. They’re proud of Kate for attempting such a flamboyantly romantic piece, they tell her, and they feel it’s the kind of bouquet which wouldn’t look out of place in a drawing room in town. Daphne must win by consequence of the emotional significance and artistic prowess of her offering.
Anthony’s struggling to focus on it all, really. He’s a bit preoccupied with hissing his apologies to Edwina.
“I didn’t set out to beat you. Not really. I’m only looking to hold my lead in the overall tournament.” He protests quietly.
She laughs. “You set out to protect your lead without actually beating anyone. Of course - I see how it is. No harm done, Anthony. I do believe I’m rather pleased that my sister has made a flower arranger of you.”
He supposes that’s a fair point. He might argue with the details, perhaps - he thinks it is marriage to Kate which has made him wish to be a man who arranges flowers when the occasion demands it, rather than Kate who has turned him soft and floral, or anything so simplistic as that.
But - well - Edwina is only eleven. Perhaps the complexities of a loving marriage are something they might explain to her in due course, not this afternoon.
For now, he decides, he had best kiss his wife’s cheek and then bring her a cup of tea.
He knows she could get her own teacup, expectant or not, but he’s inclined to do it for her if she’ll allow it.
…….
Something miraculous happens, little by little, in the later stages of Kate’s expectancy.
She starts allowing people to assist her, starts resting voluntarily, even starts sometimes asking others in the household for help.
It’s only a matter of small things, to begin with - that cup of tea on flower arranging day, those weekly rides with Anthony, more often asking Mary to see to the menu for dinner. But one tiny step at a time, these things grow and gather momentum until she can most often be found in that sitting room in the suite, of an afternoon, attending to the household accounts or even reading a novel with her legs up on the sofa.
Strangest of all, Anthony finds himself increasingly keen to sit quietly there with her, rather than volunteering himself to be the person who rushes around attending to everything she is currently asking others to help with. He takes his lead from her in leaning more on Mary, who seems glad to be asked, seems quite lively and keen to act as the lady of a large household for a little while until the Viscountess is back up and on her feet more actively.
Evidently these years spent in this household have done her some good, as well, rather than only her daughters.
He doesn’t dare to ask Agatha in plain terms to help run the household, because she’s not actually a Bridgerton by blood or by marriage, but she takes it upon herself to oversee the gardens and the upstairs maids and a few other bits and pieces besides. She declares to Anthony, one unremarkable day in August, that she intends to stay through to November at least if she may. That will give Kate a couple of months to recover her strength, she suggests.
Anthony agrees that Agatha is very welcome to stay that long - that she’s always welcome and is truly part of the family, in fact - and tries not to laugh at the entire situation.
He’s heard people suggest, before now, that Agatha is one of the more intimidating matriarchs of the ton, but personally he thinks she’s quite the most affectionate grande dame he’s ever met.
She just shows her affection by judging family contests and ordering gardeners around.
Anthony himself, meanwhile, does come up with a few other ideas to make their lives easier. He quietly sends to that agency he used in town for another maid for the nursery, and Kate watches it happen without complaint. He tells the steward to do as he thinks best regarding the harvest this year, to bother him as little as possible about the whole business and spend money on any equipment or staff which might be necessary.
He’ll take a personal interest in the harvest again next year, he swears he will, just as long as his wife makes it through childbirth unscathed.
By the end of August, the birth must be imminent, and Anthony and Kate have scarcely left the suite all week.
It’s not what he thought a dutiful Viscount must look like, three years ago. But now, he understands that it’s perfectly possible to love his family and hide in his suite hovering over his wife while she’s heavily pregnant. The two are not mutually exclusive.
Even while the anxious parents are much absent, the house does not fall apart. The children do not forget how to love them.
Indeed, the children fuss over Kate almost as much as Anthony himself does. He expected that Edwina and Daphne might drop in from time to time, perhaps. Edwina is still very close with Kate, and both the elder girls have already decided they wish to marry for love one day, and have large families of their own children, and live out a rather stereotypical image of the household they have grown up in, these last few years. So he’s not surprised that the two of them often drop in to sit and sew or read with Kate for a while.
But he is surprised to see Eloise suddenly developing an interest in children. She actually sits with her hand on Kate’s stomach, at one point, frowning in concentration as she tries to feel the baby move. Colin shocks him, too, by bringing Kate a rather jumbled bouquet of flowers he has blatantly picked from the garden while Agatha was not looking.
Benedict is the best surprise of all. Late one afternoon, when it’s raining but not quite storming outside, he brings Anthony a rather large measure of brandy for no apparent reason.
“What’s all this?” Anthony asks, frowning at the drink.
“Thought you might be in need of a drink to steady the nerves. Still no sign?” Benedict asks, now looking between Kate and Anthony.
“Nothing as yet. The midwives believe it might be sometime next week.” Kate offers now.
Benedict nods. “Right. Well. I’m glad I came, then. You must be growing quite mad with all the waiting.” He says to Anthony directly.
Anthony shrugs carefully. “I’m not the one who must actually give birth. I’m perfectly well.”
“Fretful as hell, then?” Benedict surmises.
“Not as worried as I thought I’d be.” Anthony concedes, and it is more or less the truth. “It’s kind of you to check.”
Huh. When did he become a man who could cope with his younger brother fussing over his nerves and his health? Isn’t that something which he used to find quite distressing, back when their parents first died?
Benedict is still standing there. He’s still looking between the two of them, still evidently not ready to leave the room.
“Will you stay and share this brandy with me? It could certainly make two drinks if we split it.” Anthony suggests now.
“No. No, thank you - there’s a painting I would finish work on before I return to Cambridge next month. I did only drop in to wish you both well, honestly.”
“Thank you.” Kate offers - more graceful than either Bridgerton brother, evidently.
“I suppose I also wanted to say that - that all will turn out well, brother. I really believe that.” Benedict offers now. “I know you’ll be a fabulous father as you have already been to all of us, in such various ways. A man who has learnt how to parent his sixteen-year-old brother as well as his infant sister must be more than ready for fatherhood, I’ll say. This is a very lucky child.”
And - Anthony finds that he can even accept it, more or less, with only a slight self-conscious stiffening of his jaw.
He hugs his brother a moment, watches Benedict say a few words to Kate and then leave the room.
And then he turns to his wife with a cheery sort of question.
“Do you remember, once upon a time, we spoke of learning not to count your worth in snotty skirts or mine by how closely I resembled my father?” He asks.
“I recall similar conversations on a couple of occasions.” She agrees, patting at his knee.
“Hmm. Well - we seem to be doing a sound job of that, don’t you think? I’ve not heard you protesting that you ought to be dealing with Hyacinth’s lost shoes all day, and I do believe I just allowed Benedict to tell me I’m a competent father.”
“Yes. I think you have it right.”
“Jolly good. Not inclined to argue with me, sweetheart?”
“Not on this occasion. I’m too exhausted, honestly. I’ll argue with you at great length - and take joy in doing so - just as soon as this little one is not weighing me down.” She says, stroking fondly at her stomach.
He joins her a moment in that. He is thrilled about impending parenthood, and these days, he thinks the thrill is mostly outweighing the fear.
Or - thrill and fear are alike, perhaps. Excitement and nerves are very similar. He’s feeling both, and the fear is not conquering him, and all will be well.
He has almost - almost - become a person who believes that.
…….
Kate insists on taking part in the music round.
Anthony thinks she’s barking mad - but he also thinks she’s the most wonderful woman on this earth, to be clear, so he’s not about to actually stop her.
“Are you certain you wish to get up and about just to play the pianoforte amongst family?” He asks her simply.
“It’s not just a matter of playing the pianoforte. This is our anniversary, and the final contest of the summer - and besides, it’s not exactly an active pursuit. I may as well potter around the music room just as I have been pottering around our suite these last few days. I’m only very expectant, not unwell.”
He knows better than to keep arguing with that. She’s evidently made her mind up.
So it is that the two of them do join the whole family for the music contest. Kate even competes, in a manner of speaking - not a whole Beethoven solo this year, as her hips have been lately too sore for extensive practice on a pianoforte stool, but she does accompany Anthony’s attempt at singing a short piece.
It’s one of their better performances, he decides. All that time practising together in her little music room in town last winter evidently paid off.
Perhaps they might spend a lot of time practising their music together after the birth. That’s the sort of thing she might feel up to doing not too long after the delivery, but when she’s still too tired for long rides, perhaps? That’s a restful indoor activity new parents might try?
He’s starting to dare to plan beyond her giving birth, he finds. He’s quietly confident that they’ll take that second honeymoon next year. He truly does believe that they might sit together on the pianoforte stool, perhaps two or three weeks from now.
He can just glimpse that relief he’ll feel, in the near future, just as soon as she’s safely survived childbirth.
The judges agree that it’s one of the happy couple’s better performances, it turns out. They award them first place, and Anthony’s quite convinced that’s a biased decision simply to hand him the overall victory. It’s plainly an exercise in making him and Kate happy when she’s so close to her time.
But the whole family seem content with the scores, and Benedict even describes it as a well-deserved victory, so evidently there’s nothing to be done but to eat some fruitcake and laugh at Hyacinth and Gregory’s antics.
He’s just chewing on a mouthful which seems to be mostly marzipan when he hears Kate gasp, feels her clutch firmly at his upper arm.
“What? What is it?” He asks, tries not to spit raisins. “Is it -?”
“Yes. I think so. Nothing to worry about - it is about time.” She points out.
He nods. “Yes. About time. Nothing to worry about. So - let’s get you back to the suite and call for the midwives, hmm?”
That’s the plan. He knows that’s the plan. He is entirely capable of adhering to the plan.
They tell Mary and Agatha what’s happening. Then they have to tell all the children, of course, that it seems Kate’s time has come and they need to retire back to the suite.
And - no one screams, or faints, or seems dizzy with fear. Anthony finds that strangely reassuring, actually. In a household which has reason to be fearful of childbirth as a whole - a household in which every last one of them knows that childbirth can be dangerous - not a single person looks visibly nervous about what is to come.
He takes a great deal of strength from that, as he walks Kate slowly back down the hallway. He tries to focus on breathing, on walking, on keeping a careful eye on her. She is the one who is giving birth. He ought to focus on that, rather than subsiding into his own panic.
Of course - she’s doing just the same for him. She’s looking at him as if far more concerned with his health than her own.
“Are you well?” She asks him, because naturally she does.
“Honestly, I’m not too frantic. How are you?”
“Fine. That first twinge hurt something awful - I see why ladies say this is a bit of an ordeal. I simply want to get it over and done with, I believe. But - I’m fine in myself. I’m not too petrified. I really believe we can do this, Anthony.”
“Yes. I should say so.” He agrees, with a robust sort of hug even as they keep walking.
Silence. He takes a few more steps, decides he ought to think of something to say. He knows that this will only be more horrific if each of them is left with their own thoughts for too long.
“I might wish I’d had a moment to take a sip of tea before this all started. I suppose my mouth will taste like fruitcake for the next day or so, now.” He muses, carefully light.
She laughs, as he knew she would. “I do believe you may call for tea while we wait and I pace and suchlike. There will likely be no sign of a baby for a few hours yet. Tea might do both of us some good.”
“Tea is always the answer.”
That’s a well-established truth of the Bridgerton marriage, after all.
Another pause. She’s the one who next picks up the conversational slack, this time, turning to him with a cheeky grin as she opens the door to the suite.
“I promise I’ll time it better if we have a second child, one day. It’s quite unforgivable, I believe, that I have started my labour pains just as you -”
She breaks off, wincing, clutching at his arm again. Clearly, then, that was another.
And then of course, being Kate, she picks up immediately where she left off.
“It is unforgivable that I have interrupted your victory celebrations.” She concludes now. “We must have you win again next year to make up for it. Or - I don’t know - perhaps we might have a second celebration of your victory and our anniversary, some weeks from now, when I’m not trying to push our child out into the world.”
He laughs a careful laugh, because he knows that is the response she’s expecting. He nods, agrees carefully and neatly that they must indeed have another celebration later, and tells her that he’ll see to getting some tea sent up so she can keep her strength up while they wait for the main event.
He doesn’t send a servant for the tea, on this occasion. Maybe that makes him a poor husband. Maybe he ought to sit at Kate’s side more constantly.
But he simply needs to go and see to it for himself, he finds. He needs to stride down the hallway, needs to spend some of his energy on frantic movement. He’ll just be a few moments, and then he’ll feel more settled and able to be calm and patient at Kate’s side.
Sure enough, he does feel a very little bit better once he has personally seen to the tea tray.
There follow some of the most wonderful and terrible hours of his life. He and Kate spend the rest of the afternoon and into the evening alternately sitting and pacing, drinking copious amounts of tea, attempting to keep each other’s spirits up with their usual patter of conversation.
The first midwife arrives. Everything seems perfectly in order, she tells them.
Anthony believes her. He’s scared out of his wits, to be clear, but he finds that he does actually believe all is as it should be.
In fact - he’s almost starting to believe that he’ll still have a wife by the end of this, as well as a child.
…….
By the time evening turns to night, there are three midwives and a physician on hand, and Kate is in labour in earnest. Her pains are coming quick and close together, and she’s all sweaty and swearing like a sailor, and Anthony is absolutely convinced he’s never found her more beautiful.
He sits at the side of her bed and invites her to squeeze his hand as hard as she needs or wants or dares. It’s a better sort of vigil, he decides, than sitting outside this room while his mother breathed her last, all those years ago.
There’s something rather more optimistic, he thinks, about this particular example of new life being born into the world.
No one asks him whether he’d prefer to leave the room, whether he’s aware that it’s not the done thing for a father to be present at the birth - at least not amongst the nobility - and he’s grateful for it.
He simply can’t imagine leaving this room now.
The midwives seem quite relaxed about the whole thing, and that helps, he finds. The physician is an odd, gruff sort of man, but Anthony can forgive him for that. Sometimes a man is gruff for his own private reasons and there’s no need for anyone to judge him, as long as he does what must be done.
It might be before midnight, still, when one of the midwives crows that she can see the baby’s head. Or it might be after. Or it might not matter, honestly, when this child is born as long as it’s born safely and Kate is healthy and the Bridgerton world goes on turning.
Suddenly, all at once, Anthony finds that it will. That he’s absolutely confident the world will go on turning. That he truly believes this birth is going smoothly, and will go smoothly all the way to its conclusion.
In fact - it’s not just the anticipation of relief at work, tonight. He’s not simply looking forward to having this over and done with, some minutes or hours from now.
He’s actually optimistic. He genuinely believes in a bright future.
It all happens very quickly, in the end. From the head appearing to an entire baby appearing is just a few short minutes - or so it seems to him. No doubt it seems like agonising hours to Kate. He really must buy her a great deal of sheet music, he decides, when all this is through.
But now, suddenly, he’s holding his child in his arms.
“A healthy girl.” One of the midwives announces.
A healthy girl. And Kate, exhausted but smiling, at his side.
He understands why people have children now, he decides. He feels such a jolt in his belly as he looks down at his little daughter - not unlike the visceral joy he felt when he first realised he’d properly fallen in love with Kate, perhaps. It’s such an all-consuming warmth and energy bubbling up inside of him.
“Congratulations, sweetheart.” He says to his wife. He thinks that must be the correct place to start, under such circumstances.
She laughs a tired sort of chuckle and stretches out her arms towards him, blatantly reaching for the baby.
He hands over their daughter, and then hands over himself, too, frankly. He half-collapses against her side, hugging them both as best he can.
“I’ve a name in mind, if you wish to hear it.” Kate tells him, carefully nonchalant.
He grins. He knew she would have. They’ve never spoken of it, naturally, because he’s the last man on earth who would ever tempt fate by discussing a name for a child not yet born.
But he always knew Kate would be ready for such a moment as this.
“Go on, then. I’m sure I’ll approve.”
“I’m certain you will. It’s quite an obvious and uncontroversial sort of choice I think.”
She pauses a moment. She strokes at their daughter’s cheek, as if checking that the name suits her, takes a breath as if gathering her strength for one last push.
“Agatha.” She announces, solemn - not unlike the way she once proclaimed her love for him, he decides.
“It’s perfect.” He says, because it is. A nod to the woman who brought them together, but also to his parents’ ridiculously large, alphabetised family. A name which commemorates those they’ve lost but without actually saddling a young girl with a dead relative’s name.
Agatha. Her namesake will be so heartily embarrassed and yet also moved, he realises - and indeed he thinks that makes the name all the more fitting.
“I love you.” He says now.
“What - me or the baby?” His wife asks, sharp.
He laughs. “Both. Everyone. I think I love all the world, tonight. I’m so very joyful and relieved and honestly rather euphoric.”
“Good. That’s as it should be. I love you and the baby, both, too, as it happens.” She sighs. “I’m delighted, of course, but also - we must never do this again.”
He smiles softly at her. That’s a fair sort of conclusion, he thinks. He wouldn’t complain if little Agatha were a precious only child. He wouldn’t complain, either, if they had another seven, or anywhere in between.
But not eight. Eight is a ridiculous number of children, thank you very much, and yet he loves his late parents all the same.
The physician encourages Kate to get some rest. Anthony takes a more extreme approach to fussing over her, of course - he orders her to get some rest, but to drink some tea first for her health, and then to rest, and to tell him what she would like for breakfast in the morning.
About three minutes later, he’s finished fussing, and he actually allows her to lie down and close her eyes. He keeps baby Agatha cuddled close against his chest, wonders whether to go out and introduce her to the family just yet.
No. He doesn’t wish to be the sort of Viscount who runs from his wife’s delivery bed immediately to crow proudly about his offspring. He’d far rather sit here, and rest by Kate’s side a while, and watch over her.
He sends one of the midwives to announce baby Agatha’s existence to the household, in the end. He’ll take her out to make an appearance before the family tomorrow morning, perhaps, while Kate is still recovering.
He doesn’t need to rush urgently to such things now. There is more than enough time ahead of them for family and love and the celebration of good news.
Indeed - he’s feeling uncommonly optimistic, tonight. For the first time in three long years, he has absolute confidence that all will turn out well enough, whether he and Kate live five more years or fifty, whether they have one child or seven, whether theirs is a long and happy marriage or whether one of them outlives the other by decades.
Somehow or other, come what may, their love will endure.