Chapter Text
The Heart Doesn’t Forget
Chapter One
1803: Detenus
When one thinks of prisoners of war, soldiers and sailors usually come to mind. One rather different type of ‘prisoner’ during the Napoleonic period, however, consisted of British citizens who found themselves in France when the Peace of Amiens broke down in May of 1803. Those who found themselves trapped in France by the outbreak of hostilities were mostly upper class British citizens who were in France either on business or vacation when the peace broke down. Referred to as detenus (detainees), or sometimes ‘travelling gentlemen’, they came from politics, law, clergy, medicine, or academia, and often had their families with them.
- David Markham, The Waterloo Association
April 1803
Benedict was six years old when he first picked up a paintbrush, and he never put it down. Art was in his very soul, so when he was sixteen and his arts teacher Alexander Poirier from school offered to bring Benedict along to France to tour museums between terms, he begged his parents to go. Edmund and Violet Bridgerton wanted their son to explore his artistic side. They had always indulged his requests for supplies and tutors. They proudly displayed his works in their home, so they were excited at the prospect of Benedict getting to opportunity to study art abroad.
But at the same time, trouble was brewing. Tensions between Napoleonic France and Georgian England were simmering and war was on everyone’s lips.
France and England had been at war almost always from the beginning of time, but war weapons were getting more dangerous and Napoleon couldn’t be trusted.
Alexander Poirier was also a bit of a question mark. He knew Benedict well from school, and Eton only trusted the best. Still, he was a stranger at the end of the day, potential mentor or no. At first they tried hiring Poirier as Benedict’s tutor for the summer, but Poirier had his plans and he would go to France with or without Benedict.
Sending Benedict to France was a difficult decision and a risky gamble, but the opportunity to improve upon his skills and learn about the masters was too great to pass up. So with great reluctance, the Bridgerton family gathered at the docks to bid Benedict a farewell.
“Promise me you won’t take your time in France for granted,” Edmund urged his son, keeping a sharp eye on his other children playing.
The children were a little oblivious to what was happening with their brother. The situation had been explained to them, but they didn’t seem to quite realize yet what it really meant for Benedict to leave for several months.
Benedict would miss them.
“I won’t take it for granted, Father,” Benedict vowed. He gave a half-hearted smile and Edmund pulled his son into a hug. “I’m going to miss you.”
“Not too much,” Edmund squeezed his son tight. “Your family will always live on in your heart, and the heart never forgets.”
Pulling back from the hug, Benedict smiled at his father and then looked over towards his mother. Violet was weeping in her father’s arms, Lord Charles Ledger having come to see his (secretly favorite) grandson off.
“Benedict,” Anthony caught Benedict’s attention. He grasped his brother’s shoulder, “Don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll take care of everything here.”
“I’m sure you will,” he laughed and slapped Anthony’s arm teasingly. “What would summer be without Anthony Bridgerton crowing about his superior duties? This summer away will be a blessing.”
Anthony swatted at Benedict but he dodged it and took his own seat. The boys began tussling until Edmund cleared his throat and fixed them with a glare.
Benedict said his goodbyes to his sisters and kissed baby Gregory on the head. The girls told them exactly what presents they wanted him to bring back and Benedict chuckled and told them he would see what he could do.
“It’s not fair,” Eloise crossed her arms. She had had a miserable pout all morning. “Why can’t I come with you?”
Benedict bent down, “Because you and I would have too much fun. It's simply wouldn't be fair to the others. "
“Promise you’ll write to me every day?”
“I promise.” He pulled her into a hug and whispered, “I think I’m going to miss you most of all.”
He felt her tears fall upon his jacket.
“Oh, my Darling boy,” Violet was the next to bid her son farewell. “Do be careful.”
“I promise, Mother,” he embraced her. “I’ll come straight home if there’s any sign of trouble.”
“If you need anything at all – money, a trip home – simply write and we will provide.”
“Don’t you worry, Mother. Before you know it I’ll be back home and showing you the fancy Parisian fabrics I brought you.”
She cupped the side of his face with her hands and pressed a kiss to his forehead.
His grandfather was next.
“I’m sorry I won’t be around for the summer hunts this year,” Benedict said.
Charles Ledger smiled, “Well then, perhaps we can train up your brother into a better shot finally.”
“Grandfather,” Anthony groaned.
Charles chuckled and pulled Benedict into a hug, “Now you enjoy yourself, but not too much. Those pretty Parisian girls couldn’t possibly withstand the charm of a Ledger man. Try to limit the number of broken hearts you leave behind.”
“I make no promises,” Benedict winked.
Then he turned to the last member of the family, a very upset looking Colin.
“I want to go traveling with you,” Colin sniffed, the young boy clutching his father’s leg.
Benedict smiled and bent down, “We’ll go traveling together when you’re a bit older.”
“Can’t you wait until I am? You’re going to go off on all these adventures before I even get tall.”
Benedict paused and then had an idea.
“Colin, what does a traveler need most?” he asked.
Colin wiped his nose on the back of his hand, “A love of adventure?”
“Er… besides that. Something more practical.”
The little boy thought hard, “A compass?”
Benedict grinned and pulled a silver compass from his breast pocket. Uncle George had given it to Benedict when he heard about the trip. Engraved on the back was Benedict – July 4, 1787.
“Here,” Benedict placed the compass in Colin’s palm. “I can’t be a proper adventurer without my compass. So you hold onto that until you are big enough to come traveling with me. Will you keep it safe?”
Colin nodded, then jumped on him with a hug. Benedict held his brother tight until he heard the last call for boarding.
“You need to get going,” Edmund pried Colin off Benedict. He pulled Benedict into a hug of his own, then clapped him on the shoulder, “I’m proud of you, Benedict. Always know that.”
And as Benedict boarded the ship, he had to pause and take one look back at his family.
He got the queerest feeling, like he would never see them again.
May 23, 1803
Poirier and Benedict had come back from a lovely day at an artist studio, learning under an artist friend of Poirier when they received the letter.
I inform you, Sir, of the decree of the government of the republic, dated the 2nd of Prairial, in the eleventh year of which a copy is underneath.
Consequently, within the space of four and twenty hours from the present notification, you will be so good as to constitute yourself prisoner of war, at the house of the Town Major of the City of Amiens.
I tell you before hand that no pretext, no excuse can exclude you, as according to the British laws, none can dispense you from serving in the militia.
After having made this declaration, within twenty-four hours, you will be permitted to remain prisoner upon parole.
In case that you have not made your declaration within twenty-four hours, you will no longer be admitted to give your parole; but you will be conducted to the central point of the military division that will be fixed upon by the Minister of War.
I salute you
“I don’t understand,” Benedict frowned at the page. “What does this mean?”
Alexander Poirier looked up at him sharply.
“It means we have to get out of here before they get us.”
They left Paris in the dead of night. There hadn’t been time to secure fake passports. There hadn’t been time to do anything but grab their luggage and leave.
The plan was to sneak to the coast where they would bribe a ship to smuggle them home. Originally, they were meant to go home via Cherbourg but Le Havre would have to do in a pinch.
They hurried their horses along the dirt road when they were stopped. There were patrols searching for English trying to escape and Benedict and Alexander had fallen straight into the trap. Two men in uniform on horses blocked the road ahead.
“Well, well,” the taller man spoke in French, “what is it when have here?”
“Runaways it seems,” the shorter one replied. “What’s your story? Running from conscription?”
Alexander glanced at Benedict and answered in French, “Pardon me, Gentlemen. My son and I were heading home to Le Havre.”
But the taller man chuckled, “Your French is very good, Englishman. But there’s no denying that accent.”
“Thought you could smuggle yourselves home?” the shorter man laughed. He looked Benedict up and down, “You know this one would be good on the battlefield for France.”
Benedict gripped the reins of his horse, “I would never fight for Bonaparte.”
“You might not get a choice,” the shorter man warned. “Now, show us your Passports.”
Benedict watched Alexander reach into his satchel only to whip out a pistol and fire it at shorter man.
“Benedict! Go!” he yelled as the shot man fell from his horse.
Without a second thought, Benedict broke his horse into a run. He could hear behind him a whistle blow, shouting in French, and a struggle, but he didn’t look back.
Then there was another shot and perfect silence.
Benedict knew that Alexander wasn’t ever going to catch up.
The trek was hard, but it was easier with only one. He slept in the treeline and occasionally charmed a farmer’s daughter into a hot meal and a night in the barn. Benedict managed to convince an innkeeper one night to give him a room, board, and different clothes in exchange for Benedict’s fancy clothes, gold pocket watch, and a handful of francs. He bathed only once in river and he obviously didn’t stop to shave. Benedict made it to Le Havre looking nothing like the posh artist that had landed in Cherbourg.
It took a while, but Benedict managed to find a ship that would smuggle him to Glasgow where he could find refuge with Aunt Georgiana and Uncle Nicholas. They would get him home.
He didn’t see the dockmaster press a few coins into the palm of the First Mate.
Right before they were to set sail, French soldiers boarded the ship for a “surprise inspection.” Benedict tried to hide, but they found him in a barrel of apples in the galley.
He was desperate, so he tried to offer to pay them off, but that only ended up with a fist to the face. Benedict was thrown in the back of a cart and he watched in despair as the coastline and his road to freedom faded into the distance.
June 1803
Dearest Father and Mother,
I am safe in Valenciennes where they have brought me. However, I am a prisoner of war and not at the liberty to return home at this time. I am on parole d’honneur which means they consider me a gentleman and a gentleman would not breach his honour by breaking his word when they vow not to escape. I imagine prison is in store for those who do try.
The restrictions are not so terrible, though I am not allowed out past 10 in the evening. I have been allowed to take my own lodgings and have found refuge with another English family, William Chalford and his wife and children. There are not many English my age around, but those English that are here have formed a little bit of a community. We have been allowed to form clubs and mingle with the upper class French. I have even been to a ball or two. Mother, you always said you wanted me to get better fluency at French. There’s no better way I suppose in getting that than how I’m getting it now.
Unfortunately, I may have to take on work as my purses are running low. I would never ask you to break wartime restrictions and smuggle funds to my person.
On an unrelated note, please find the attached address of a dear friend of mine.
Please worry not too much about me. I am safe and making the best of my imprisonment. It’s given me a lot of time to practice my art, and I am using the Chalfords as my models. You’ll find enclosed a drawing I have done of Mrs. Chalford.
Hug the little ones for me, and keep faith that I will be home soon.
Your Loving Son,
Benedict Bridgerton
A few weeks later, a large sum of money was smuggled from Kent to Benedict’s “friend” in Valenciennes whom Benedict happened to go visit the next day.
December 1803
Just when Benedict and the Chalfords had found themselves comfortable in Valenciennes, they received the order that all detenus were to report to Verdun.
It was burdensome to pack up everything and hit the road. The road was hard for William’s young children, but generally the English moved as a mass exodus and helped each other out.
Benedict earned a little money selling pencil sketches of family members on stops for rest. At least that was one thing that they couldn’t take from him. They may have stolen his possessions, confiscated his funds, and had his letters read before posting, but they couldn’t take the simple art of drawing from him.
At one toll in the road, a pompous French solider selected Benedict for a random search and stomped all of his drawings into the mud. He nearly hit the man. It was only a shake of the head from William and the memory of his mother’s embrace that stopped him from compromising his chance of ever feeling that again.
The French welcomed the English to Verdun as it did wonders for the economy. The English poured money into the town to make their stays as comfortable as possible. Many other towns even begged to have the English sent to them.
Napoleon did have to personally step in when the price gouging got a bit too much. He threatened to relocate the English when he learned that rent went from 36 francs to 300 francs.
It was reasonably comfortable to live in Verdun for the English. They had clubs, horse racing, gambling, theatre, and numerous other distractions. It was a pleasant place to live.
…But it still wasn’t home.
December 25, 1803
Eloise woke with a jolt on Christmas Morning. Her eyes fell on her desk where Benedict’s letters were neatly stacked.
He had written her – while not every day as promised – but as often as possible. Benedict told her of all his adventures in Paris, Valenciennes, and later Verdun. The family would crowd around a read every letter no matter who it was addressed to. Mother said it was because Eloise was only six, but she suspected her mother needed the comfort. Every time a letter appeared, they all hoped and prayed that this time would be the time he was writing to tell them he could finally come home.
But Eloise didn’t need that hope anymore; she knew what was to happen today.
Whenever asked what she wanted for Christmas, Eloise’s answer had always been consistent: she wanted Benedict home. She had hoped, prayed, begged, and pleaded everyone to fulfill her Christmas wish. And she had never been let down at Christmas before.
Her door flew open and she saw Colin burst in.
“Come on, El!” he cheered. “It’s Christmas morning.”
Eloise grinned, took his hand, and they sprinted downstairs.
Colin had also been using his Christmas wish for Benedict to come home. Truly they couldn’t be let down on two Christmas wishes?
But as they skidded to a halt in front of the Christmas tree and their gathered family, there was one figure still missing.
Eloise burst into tears.
Violet raced forward to comfort her daughter but Eloise raced off. Not liking the crying, little Gregory also started to cry. Daphne and Anthony huddled around him and tried to soothe him. Edmund scooped Francesca into his arms and held her as she realized Benedict was still gone.
And as Colin watched his broken family, he vowed in that minute that one day he would bring Benedict home.
April 1804
Dearest Grandfather Ledger,
It’s hard to believe that it has been a whole year since I left England. I never imagined that that parting would be so final. Every day I pray that the war ends or that we are at the very least allowed to go home.
There have been whispers that the younger men will have a protest, demanding the right to go home if they swear that they will not join the army upon coming home to England. I think the idea is nonsense, if the British government really wants to, it will ignore those papers signed under duress in France and send us right back to fight. I will however go to the protest this Thursday afternoon as a few of the friends I have made here are going.
Mother has written to me of your poor health. Please stay strong. I know they say once you cough blood, it’s the end, but I know you are strong as an ox. You will overcome this. We will overcome this.
I have to overcome this.
William says he has found me an artist to mentor me, so I hopefully will gain some more skill. I also must admit that I have been finding myself in the company of an English Rose or two. A few Verdun Violets too.
Ugh, that is so wrong to say when your mother is named Violet.
I hope to be home in time for the new baby to be born, but if not, tell mother and father that I recommend the names Henry or Hyacinth. Mrs. Chalford has the most beautiful hyacinths in her garden. They remind me of the ones at Aubrey Hall.
How I wish to smell the blooms of Aubrey Hall again.
I will overcome this. I simply must.
Sending you my love,
Benedict Bridgerton
Benedict Bridgerton had made a mistake. Honestly, what had he been thinking going to a protest in France of all places? They only ever ended in violence.
The French hadn’t taken kindly to the whole English protest. Especially when it was a bunch of potential soldiers trying to get the liberty to go home. The protest was supposed to be peaceful, but one thing led to another and now the whole street was brawling.
“Benedict!” one of his friends shouted across the crowd. “Let’s go home!”
He nodded dumbly and tried to squeeze through the crowd. He had to dodge punches and swinging clubs. The whole crowd was pushing from every angle so it was almost impossible to get anywhere.
“English pig!” a Frenchman yelled.
Suddenly a man grabbed into Benedict’s pocket and snatched up his passport – which he was required to always carry. Instantly Benedict grabbed it back and the two men struggled over it.
Then there was a loud RIP! Benedict went stumbling back and he looked down at his passport. The only things that remained on the page was his nationality of being British, his date of birth, July 4, 1787, and only the part of his name reading Ben.
Before Benedict could reflect on the consequences of this, a French soldier swung a club at his head.
CRACK!
Benedict went flying back and his head landed on the stone pavement.
Then blackness and nothing.
That was the day the letters stopped arriving from Benedict.