《innuendo || benedict bridgerton》Chapter Forty-One

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"We are always here if you need us, dear. Do not hesitate to reach out." Violet whispered into Madeleine's ear, holding her tightly. She pulled away and cupped her cheeks.

"You are incredibly strong and you are going to get through this, do you hear me?"

Madeleine nodded, tears pricking at her eyes as she pulled the woman into another hug. Violet smiled sadly and squeezed her before pulling away, watching as the girl retreated to the carriage. Violet turned to her son, taking his hands in hers.

"I love you, dearest, so much. You two will be just fine." She squeezed his hands and he nodded, hugging her.

"I love you too, Mother, thank you." He whispered sadly, letting go and following Madeleine to the carriage.

Madeleine sat inside, staring at the floor with her hands clasped together. Her knee bounced up and down anxiously, something she could not seem to stop doing since the miscarriage. Benedict sighed softly and placed his hand gently on her knee, stopping her movements.

"How are you feeling?" He asked softly, watching her with concerned eyes. He knew it was a stupid question, he could feel it he moment he said it. She did not answer, continuing to stare at the floor with a distant look in her eyes as the carriage pulled away. He took her silence as an answer and sat back, leaning his head against the wall behind him.

The two sat in silence for the remainder of the ride. Benedict kept his hand on her knee, glancing over at her every so often. He was worried, there was no denying that. He knew that Madeleine had a tendency to pull away from people when she was hurting, and he knew that it was what she was doing in that moment.

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The carriage pulled up to Aubrey Hall after nearly an hour, Benedict grabbing their bags as they walked inside. Madeleine walked slightly ahead of him, taking off her shawl as they entered.

"Are you hungry? I can make us something to eat if you would like."

She shook her head, keeping her gaze downcast. He sighed softly, watching as she turned and walked to the library. It hurt him deeply to see her like this, and even more so to not be able to help her out of it.

His whole life, he had been able to help people. He had been told it was a natural ability of his, to cheer people up with his jokes and his foolish antics. He knew that would not work this time, and he knew he could not help her if she did not let him. He ran his hand through his hair, setting the bags down in their room and retreating to the painting room.

Art had always been able to help him to express his deepest and darkest emotions, but not this time. He felt as though every painting he attempted was simply another match thrown into the fire of the grief burning in his core. Every painting seemed to ignite an ember in the flames that threatened to swallow him whole.

He stood up, throwing his easel to the ground in frustration as hot tears rushed down his cheeks. He hurled his brushes across the room, droplets of water flying in the air. He sobbed weakly as he slid down against the wall, hitting the cold floor beneath him.

Across the house, Madeleine sat in the library tucked between aisles of books, tears welling in her eyes. She stared down at the book in front of her, the corner of the page folded neatly. She had book marked the sonnet, intending to one day read it to her child.

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Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

O no! it is an ever-fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come:

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

She sobbed in frustration as she tore the page out of the book, her tears falling on to the paper and smudging the ink.

"Love is indeed time's fool." She whimpered, crumpling the page in her hand and throwing it across the room. She shoved the book off of her lap, pulling her knees to her chest as she weeped. What was once her favorite sonnet was now vandalized with lies and deceit, the horrid truth written between the lines of blind naivety.

Love was not unshaken by tempests as the poem claimed, love was cruelly murdered by grief and painted red across the wall in the griever's blood.

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