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Sophie Baek was silent as she sat beside Mr. Benedict Bridgerton, their shoulders pressed together in the personal carriage that was really better suited for one person, not two. It was dark in the countryside; there were no streetlamps or windows to light the way, as one might be accustomed to in the city. The summer storm clouds smothered the stars and moon. With her willpower, she focused on the road ahead of them and avoided stealing glances at Mr. Bridgerton's countenance, as it would not do her any good. Sparkling memories of dancing and kissing did not belong to Sophie Baek; that was a fantasy. She was not a lady; she was a maid, and that was a truth she held to as the man from her fantasies lived and breathed beside her.
"Remind me of your name again?" asked Mr. Bridgerton.
"I did not give it," Sophie replied shortly. The silence between them remained anticipatory. She cleared her throat. "Sophie Baek," she said, glancing toward Mr. Bridgerton, who was smiling at her ridiculously. He had already been quite in his cups when he attacked Cavender in her defense. It was solely the horses' coordination that steered them in the proper direction.
"Well, Sophie Baek, we are only a few hours away from London," Mr. Bridgerton said. "But if you wish to continue sitting in silence, I believe we can stretch this ride out into eternity."
Sophie glanced up at the storm clouds; their silhouette against the dim starlight indicated they were low and churning. From what stars she could see, they had a distance to London. Scorpius and Sagittarius both hung low in the south, but not so low as they were in the city.
"We are not so near to London. Look at the constellations," Sophie said. "Also, it is going to rain."
"I do not think so," said Mr. Bridgerton.
"It is going to rain," insisted Sophie.
"It is not-" Mr. Bridgerton's face flinched as a raindrop fell upon it. "That was mist." The raindrops began to splatter down on them with a crescendo.
"And that?" asked Sophie.
"A collection of mist," said Mr. Bridgerton, stubbornly pretending she was not correct, based on the look on his face.
Thunder rumbled overhead as the heavens opened and began pouring frigid rain down upon them. The torrent of rain would turn the roads to mud and slush within the hour.
"I fear we cannot go any faster in this weather," Mr. Bridgerton conceded, loud in the rain. "I have a cottage not far from here. We can wait out the rain there." Then he made a pitiful whimpering sound, his hand going for his side beneath his coat.
Sophie was uncomfortable in the cold rain, but Mr. Bridgerton was pale and shivering, "Are you well?" she asked.
"I am well," Mr. Bridgerton beamed. "Excellent in fact."
"You are injured," Sophie determined.
"I am not injured," Mr. Bridgerton said. He winced and then rolled his eyes when he caught her gaze. "I may have earned a small bruise from my conversation with Cavender."
He was able to still steer the horses well enough for the time it took to reach his cottage.
"Here we are," said Mr. Bridgerton, passing by a sizable house.
"Is this your cottage?" asked Sophie.
"That is my stable," said Mr. Bridgerton. "My Cottage is further up the way." They turned past the stables, and the cottage appeared. However, calling it a cottage was an inaccuracy. It was a large country manor with sprawling gardens and Tudor-style windows.
"'Cottage' feels somewhat… misleading," said Sophie.
They parked the carriage out front of the manor-house, and Mr. Bridgerton dismounted first, groaning as he did so. He still offered Sophie his hand, ever the gentleman, to help her out as well. Sophie unhooked the horses from their lines and tugs to lead them into the stables while Mr. Bridgerton went to the front doors of the manor-house. He began knocking at the door.
"The Crabtrees should be here; they take care of the house and the grounds," Mr. Bridgerton called back to Sophie. He turned to see her with the horses. "You can leave them, I am sure Mr. Crabtree can stable them when he comes down."
"They're as cold and wet as we are," Sophie disagreed.
As soon as they were free, they seemed to know where to go next, galloping down the road and taking cover in the stables. Sophie lifted her skirts to trudge through the mud towards Mr. Bridgerton, who was trying to take shelter in the awning. He was wrapped up in his sodden jacket, shaking like a leaf. She noted that one of the bricks at the entrance had the words "My Cottage" engraved.
"You do have the keys to your own cottage, do you not?" asked Sophie.
"I do not need to carry keys," Mr. Bridgerton said. "Someone simply is here." Despite his smile, it seemed he knew how ridiculous it was.
How the upper classes managed to do anything, Sophie was constantly astounded by. While she did not enjoy being left without an inheritance and having to work as a maid, at least there was a degree of common sense and independence that came with working for a living. Those with inherited wealth not only tended to squander it but also often seemed incapable of basic tasks.
Mr. Bridgerton continued to pound on the door before turning to Sophie, "Perhaps the Crabtrees keep a spare key somewhere." Then he began rifling through the bushes.
Sophie went toward the front window, which was unlatched. She opened it and climbed through. It would have been easier with a boost, given the window's height, but once her front half was through the window, she was able to tip her legs forward, and the rest of her tumbled into the parlor. She landed on her back, sat up, and went to find a candle and matches. Once both were acquired and a light was in her hand, she opened the door to the house, unlocking it from the inside.
Mr. Bridgerton was looking out into the rain, squinting and calling her name. He turned to see her when the door opened.
"How did you-?"
"I climbed through the window," Sophie said. "Servants are resourceful." She stepped aside to let him into the manor-house named My Cottage, and closed the door behind them.
The interior was somehow even more impressive than the exterior. Fine furnishings, a selection of art hung on the walls, and a grand fireplace in the parlor. Their every footstep echoed through the hollow home.
"We need to get warm," declared Sophie. "I shall build us a fire." She marched toward the fireplace and fell to her knees.
"You - you do not have to do the housework!" Mr. Bridgerton insisted, sounding scandalized at the prospect of a maid doing housework. "I shall do it!"
"Have you ever lit a fire before?" Sophie asked.
"It does not take a genius," said Mr. Bridgerton, lighting a match. He picked up a piece of firewood. "Wood, meet flame." Sophie lit the kindling with her candle as she watched the flame sputter out at the end of the match before the wood caught.
"A fire," Sophie said. "Needs kindling," she set it among the coals already in the fireplace, surrounded by fresh, dry wood. As expected, the coals heated and the fire took hold of the wood.
"Hm," said Mr. Bridgerton. "I see," he tossed his burned-out match into the flames.
They were both kneeling together before the flames, trying to be warm. Sophie knew the best way to stay warm was to wear dry clothing, but she also knew it was not her place to ask Mr. Bridgerton that. She could tell him that he needed to disrobe, that he would continue to shiver in damp clothing. Still, she did not find herself with the wherewithal to demand the son of a Viscount to disrobe, even if it was for his own health, which had little to do with the fact of her own curiosity, and more to do with the impropriety. She stayed focused on watching the flickering orange flames grow. She often spent long hours working on cold evenings in the warmth of the cinders, on her knees, embroidering or cleaning, with the only warmth and light she was afforded. Staring into the fire often gave her a sense of peace, one she needed in Mr. Benedict Bridgerton's presence.
In her periphery, she could see that he was staring at her. She could not help but glance in his direction to better view his expression, which was still indecipherable.
"Very well," she said, needing to abandon the comfort of the fire for her own well-being as well as his. She could set a fire in the servants' quarters; there would have been a kitchen for her to take refuge and warmth in. "Where are the servants' rooms?"
"That is where the Crabtrees stay," said Mr. Bridgerton, rising to his feet. He could do with more time in front of the flames. He was still tremulous as he rubbed his eyes. He still looked awfully pale. "You will be sleeping in a guest bedroom."
"That is unnecessary," said Sophie. "I am happy to sleep upstairs."
"If you knew Mrs. Crabtree, you'd know that she would not be happy with a stranger in her part of the house," said Mr. Bridgerton. "Follow me."
Sophie sighed sharply. This was exactly what she did not want: to be out of her place, to have more proximity to Mr. Bridgerton. In the servants' quarters, it would be easier to escape him.
Nonetheless, she followed behind him dutifully, even when he seemed to list and stagger up the stairs. He opened the door to a grand room. It had a fireplace, a large four-poster bed, carved wooden paneling on the walls, several large wardrobes, and a beautiful vanity.
"The bed is decent enough," said Mr. Bridgerton, as if the room wasn't one of the finest Sophie had ever set foot in. "And you are welcome to wear anything in the wardrobe." Sophie turned to him in surprise and then went to the wardrobe to see what was inside.
There were many nice gowns in pastel blues, purples, whites, and grays. Sophie nearly smiled at the sight of them, before she could not help but wonder how Mr. Bridgerton came into the possession of so many fine gowns. Did he often entertain women at this countryside home? She knew he was unmarried and seeking a wife, but there could be other women with whom he occupied his time.
"You did not mention there was a lady of the house. It would not be right for me to wear her clothing," Sophie said. She did not accuse him of being less of a gentleman with her words, but it would still provide her with the answers she needed.
"Those dresses belong to my sisters, and they are old. They will not mind," said Mr. Bridgerton, smiling broadly. "We both need to get out of these wet clothes, or else we fall ill."
"Oh," said Sophie. "Thank you."
Mr. Bridgerton's smile faded, and he seemed to look around the room, dazed. "I am going to bed." He tried to make for the door, but seemed to be uncoordinated as he did so. Perhaps this was because of the alcohol, but it could also be a consequence of the cold or his pain. She did not believe he merely had a small bruise. His expression was one of pain.
"Your injury," said Sophie. "I can make a compress, if-"
"Thank you, but I assure you it is nothing," Mr. Bridgerton said. "Goodnight." He managed to make it to the door before he staggered and collapsed, as his legs no longer could support him.
Sophie rushed to his side. He looked very unwell indeed, pale and gray. Ignoring propriety, she touched his forehead and found it very clammy, even without the chill of the rain.
"I'm fine," Mr. Bridgerton attempted to insist, but he could not gather enough coordination or strength to push Sophie away.
She pulled his coat aside and stared in horror as his entire right side was stained with dark red blood, nearly black by how sodden his shirt and undone waistcoat were.
"Mr. Bridgerton, you're bleeding!" she exclaimed.
It was so much blood — too much blood. Mr. Bridgerton needed a doctor, but how could she fetch one at this time of night, with the storm? They were completely isolated from the rest of the world, which meant that Benedict Bridgerton's life was in Sophie's hands.
Dedicated to her task, she unbuttoned his shirt swiftly and pulled it open, exposing his pale stomach, smeared with blood. The blood-soaked shirt clung to his skin as she pulled it away. She found the source of the blood to be a jagged cut along the bottom edge of his ribcage. She had remembered he had fallen on a broken bottle in his scuffle with Cavender. The glass must have sliced through his waistcoat, shirt, and skin. She pulled away the rest of his clothes, inspecting him and rolling him on his uninjured side to be sure there were no other injuries she was missing. Thankfully, there were none.
Sophie bundled up his already blood-soaked shirt and used it as a makeshift compress to staunch the bleeding. "This will hurt — forgive me."
Benedict Bridgerton groaned in pain as she pressed on his injury, but it was necessary to reduce the loss of any more blood. He must have been bleeding for quite some time, the ride and the rain making it harder for his body to heal. Sophie was not unaccustomed to occupational injuries. Labor often resulted in damage, and it seemed public hospitals were places of certain death. Many workers could not afford a private physician and therefore learned as much as they could. Sophie knew from her own experience that if the blood wasn't stopping hours after the initial injury, the injury needed a more permanent closure.
"Hold it down," she ordered him, placing his own hand on the injury. Thankfully, he seemed to have enough wits remaining to obey.
She untied her apron and ripped it apart, leaving the broad white stretch of cotton that made up the band at her waist. Then she used that to wrap around his waist; it was slim enough that she was able to get a good knot on the tie, fastening the makeshift tourniquet over his injury.
Sophie was accustomed to carrying groceries, laundry, and buckets of boiling water. Compared to that, hauling Mr. Bridgerton to his feet was not so difficult. He was much taller than she was, but he was fit and lithe, so he was easier to carry. His arm was slung around her shoulders, and she had to hold onto his side and back to keep him steady. His skin was like ice, and so pale. She would know guilt for the rest of her days if this injury took his life.
"You need stitches," she told Mr. Bridgerton, guiding him to the bed — it was the nearest flat surface. "I'm going to find some supplies. Don't move. And don't — please don't die, Mr. Bridgerton."
"Call me Benedict," he said, slurring his words.
She set him on his uninjured side and rushed out of the room. Sophie had to go to the well to haul in water, finding a metal bucket that she filled to the brim as rain battered her. Bucket full, she made her way toward the servant's quarters, where she was certain to find what she needed.
Sophie had a list in her mind—soap and water to clean away the blood and give her a better view to work. Thread and needle to sew the skin closed. Benedict was already in his cups and quite ill from the cold rain and loss of blood, which did not make her task easier, but perhaps would make him too delusional to remember the pain. There were remedies that Sophie had become accustomed to. A servant did not often have access to opium poppies and their medicines. But several plants helped alleviate ailments. Willow bark in a tea often helped with pain. The first time Sophie's hands cracked and bled, Irma had given her a salve of comfrey and oat to help heal the skin. Of course, to make such salves and tinctures would take months, which Sophie didn't have. She hoped that the Crabtrees were as fond of their remedies as Irma.
The Crabtrees' part of the manor was neat, comfortably furnished, and well-organized. Sophie would have to apologize to them many times for how she ruined the neat, sanctified order of their working and living spaces while searching for sewing supplies and any ingredients of medicinal value. She searched, finding among what she assumed were Mrs. Crabtree's things a small collection of sachets of herbs and jars of tinctures. She recognized the comfrey-and-oat salve by smell and gathered willow bark and chamomile to help Benedict with the pain. She gathered clean kerchiefs and rags and put as many supplies as she could in the pockets beneath her skirt. Bucket full, she hauled all of her supplies upstairs, to the guest bedroom where Benedict still lay.
He had not stayed on his side; he was now tossing and turning, moaning out of what may be pain or delirium. Sophie started the fire in the room. It was not a kitchen fire; it did not have a hook for a bucket or a brace for a pot, so Sophie made a space in the fire with a poker and set the bucket directly into the flames.
She returned to Benedict — Mr. Bridgerton's side. Sophie felt his temperature and found him to be warm and cold at the same time. Warm skin beneath a clammy sweat. He was beginning to develop a fever despite the chill. The willow bark would help, but he needed to stay warm. And the wound needed to be closed before she gave him willow tea, as she knew from experience, it made bleeding easier. She felt for his pulse, as she knew that blood loss could weaken the heart. As she touched his forehead and felt the fluttering pulse at his throat, he blinked up at her blearily. He looked at her like he was trying to figure out who she was, and then his expression softened.
"Kiss me," he whispered.
"What?" she found herself asking. "What did you say?"
He didn't reply, seeming to fall back into whatever fever dream he was experiencing. He was delirious and out of his mind with illness, Sophie reminded herself. Which meant she had work to do.
Sophie efficiently made quick work of the rest of his clothing. It would not do him well, freezing to death instead of bleeding to death. She took off his boots, pants, and stockings, leaving him in only his short drawers. If she put her mind to the work, it did not even register that she was undressing a gentleman. It was no different from disrobing her other charges in the past, when she was a ladies' maid. The room was warming up from the flames, and hopefully, he was warmer now than in the cold, sodden garments.
The water was now at a rolling boil, so she used the poker to grip the handle of the metal bucket and ease it out of the fire toward the washbasin, where she had a bar of soap and a rag. Half of the boiling water went into the washbasin, and the other half was left to sit in the bucket near the fire. She soaked the rag and lathered it with the soap bar. Then she joined Mr. Bridgerton on the bed, and undid the bindings of his tourniquet, pulling away his thoroughly blood-soaked shirt to see the damage on his side. It barely oozed fresh blood, which would have to do — certainly it was bleeding less than before.
She cleaned the dark smears of blood from his skin, work lit only by the candle on the nightstand and the flashes of lightning outside. Thunder roared, and Mr. Bridgerton panted and moaned in pain as Sophie focused on her work. The stench of iron filled the room as Sophie dipped the bloody, soapy rag into the washbasin, wrung it out, and then applied a fresh lather before cleaning more skin.
Once his skin was clean of blood, Sophie took out the sewing implements. She had never sewn human flesh before. However, she told herself it would be no different from mending a shoe. She had even grabbed a leather needle, as she knew the curvature would make an easier stitch through flesh than the flat needles for fabric. The sturdier silk thread, too, would hopefully keep his skin closed rather than snapping under his movements. She threaded the needle with steady hands, slippery still with water and soap. Then she brought the needle to his side. The moment the needle punctured Benedict's skin, he winced and seized in pain and tried to move away from her.
"Lie still — stop moving," she ordered him, but he continued to writhe.
Sophie had no other alternative than to force him still with her own body. She rolled him onto his back with strong, sure hands and then swung a leg over his waist, pinning him to the bed by sitting on him. It was an entirely indecent and inappropriate position, and yet, it was effective. With her on top of him, Benedict stilled.
With him not moving, Sophie made the quickest work she could with the stitches. It did not feel like mending a shoe at all; his skin was too soft and too pliant and far thinner than leather. As she pulled the sutures closed, the skin stretched, and the wound wept blood gently. She dabbed it up with the damp, warm cloth. She was nearly bent in half, leaning to get a better look in the low light. She did not let herself retreat from her task out of discomfort or revulsion — Mr. Bridgerton was in a far worse situation than she was.
When the final stitch was done, pulling the thread through the flesh until the two edges met, Sophie tied off her sutures and cut away the excess. She put the needle and thread aside on the bedside table. She cleaned away the few streaks of blood that remained from her work and reached for the salve of comfrey and oat. She opened the glass jar and scooped out the salve onto two fingers, gently setting a heavy layer over his injury. It would help with the pain and ensure the wound healed well. She rubbed the excess into her own hands, her knuckles perpetually dry and cracked from laundry and washing.
To finish dressing the wound, she placed a clean, folded cotton cloth over the injury and reused the waistband of her former apron to fasten it in place. Satisfied with the cleanliness of her work and the fact that Mr. Bridgerton seemed to be soothed, she moved to dismount from her place atop him so she could get to work on brewing him a tea to help with the pain and the fever. She planted a hand onto the mattress and shifted her weight. Almost immediately, Benedict's hand reached up blindly, catching hers and holding it in place.
"Do not leave me," he begged, trying to look up at her. "Do not leave me again… my lady."
Sophie's stomach dropped and swooped for a moment at the thought that he recognized her, that he knew she was the elusive Lady in Silver he had spent weeks searching for. She felt excitement and terror at the prospect. But as soon as those thoughts rushed through her, pragmatic reason followed. He was delirious with his illness, from the fever and the cold and the injury and his own intoxication. His ravings were him in a dream, perhaps dreaming of some other lady entirely who left him. It was foolish for Sophie to assume that she and the one night they danced together still haunted his dreams, even though those moments were preoccupations of hers.
Although she wondered how he had not yet considered that his Lady in Silver was not a lady at all, surely, she had not done such a good job at her disguise. She knew nothing of dancing and was entirely out of place at the Bridgerton masquerade ball — her out-of-place-ness being the thing that drew him to her, according to Mr. Bridgerton. He had taken off her glove and held her hand — he had kissed it. Had he not felt the calluses from years of work, entirely unladylike? Had he not noticed the cracks and scars from burning her hands with lye while doing laundry for so many years? Now he was gripping that same hand fiercely, like it was something precious rather than a well-used tool. She did not understand how he could look at a maid and see a lady, especially now, when she had no gown or mask to hide who she was.
"I need to make you tea, Mr. Bridgerton," she said, trying to sound as professional as possible while straddling a man who was ill and vulnerable. "It will help with the pain and the fever." She felt profoundly guilty for how her eyes could not help but take in the trim of his waist and the breadth of his shoulders. He was pale, clammy, and sweating, yet she appreciated his figure.
"Please don't go," he asked pitifully.
"I will not be far, Mr. Bridgerton," she assured.
Her words did not soothe him. His face was contorted in something like misery. Had the Lady in Silver, her disguise, truly made him so miserable and fraught with longing? Whatever he was yearning for, it was not Sophie. It was the fantasy he had created for himself. The moment they shared was like the stars — beautiful, magical, and intangibly out of reach for those who lived in the world as it truly was.
He was weak. Sophie could have easily torn her arm away from his grasp and pushed herself away from him. She should be doing that. But she could not. He looked so sad, so confused, trying to look at her through whatever haze of illness and dream was disorienting him. She opted for a gentler approach — indulging the addled man with his fantasy.
"I won't leave, Benedict," she said. "I'm sorry that I left before."
"You won't go?" he sounded hopeful and awed from such a simple concession. "Promise?"
"Yes," she said. It felt cruel to lie to an ailing man, but he would not remember these words in the morning — if he lived to the morning. "I promise."
Benedict let go of her hand, and she was able to dismount from him, easing herself off the bed entirely. She pulled the sheets and duvet out from under him. The bloodstains were mild, and he needed warmth. She tucked him into bed, pulling up the duvet and sheets to his chin to ensure he was warm. An unbidden and intense urge to touch him overtook her. She felt at his brow, which was still warm and damp with frigid sweat. Then her hand trailed upward, feeling his hair, curling from the drying rain. It was the slow, satisfied smile that stretched across his face that reminded Sophie of her own ridiculousness, and she snatched her hand away to her chest.
"I will make you tea now," she declared — for her benefit more than his.
The dried willow bark and chamomile flowers were steeped in the remaining boiled water. It was not a kettle, but it would have to do. She found a drinking glass in the guest room and filled it with the medicinal tea, bits of flower and bark pulp still floating in it. Nevertheless, she took it to Benedict. He stirred as she approached.
"You need to drink," she told him.
He made an abortive move to sit up, so she set down the glass to help ease him upright onto the headboard. He winced and grimaced in pain as he moved, but managed to lean back enough that he could drink. She brought the lip of the glass to his mouth and tipped it back slowly. He drank in big, gasping gulps. Tea dribbled down the edges of his mouth and chin, splattering on the duvet beneath his chest. After he drank half the tea, he made a sound of protest, and Sophie eased the glass away from him. He was panting for breath.
He blinked up at her blearily once more. A smile stretched across his face, "You're still here." How he managed to look so handsomely charming while ill seemed to be a contradiction solely for Sophie's torments.
"I am here," Sophie agreed, mortified by the fondness in her own voice. "As promised."
"I missed you," Benedict told her solemnly. "I couldn't find you."
"I'm here now," Sophie reassured.
"Don't leave again," Benedict whispered. He sounded despairing and vulnerable with his request. "Please don't leave me again."
"I will stay by your side until you are well, Mr. Bridgerton," promised Sophie. She urged the cup towards his face once more. "You need to drink. The tea will help."
"But then you'll leave," he said sadly. Surely he could not be so despondent in the absence of his dream lady to neglect his health?
"Please, drink, sir," she said, feeling desperate.
"Kiss me," he requested.
Sophie had nearly convinced herself that his earlier request had been delusional nonsense, or her own mind playing tricks on her. But this was the second time Mr. Bridgerton had requested such a thing.
"Excuse me?" Sophie asked, refusing to believe her own ears. Surely, she was misunderstanding him.
"Kiss me, and I'll drink," he said.
"That's ridiculous," Sophie said. "You are ill. You could die if you do not drink."
"I will die," Benedict Bridgerton declared, "if you do not kiss me."
"I find your fever and your injury to be far more likely demises," Sophie said.
"Please. I can't stop thinking about it — you — your lips," Benedict said.
He did not know what he was saying, Sophie insisted to herself. He was feverish, intoxicated, delirious from pain and sickness, and half-asleep. Surely, he was merely dreaming that she was the Lady in Silver, which perhaps she was, but he didn't know that. He was merely seeing the illusion of her face over, well, her face. It was a preposterous situation to be in. But Sophie's life seemed to be made up of preposterous situations.
"If I kiss you, will you do as I say?"
"Yes," Benedict Bridgerton said. "Please."
It was the easiest way to ensure he did not die of his own stubbornness. She could play into his delusion if it meant she could work to further his health. Sophie leaned down and pressed a short kiss to his lips. His mouth was cold, and while he tried to kiss her back, his body was too weak for him to really reciprocate before she pulled away. He had a dazed, pleased expression in her wake, nonetheless. And she could not deny the shiver across her own skin. She just forced herself to ignore it.
"Now drink," she ordered.
She put the tea to his lips, and he drank it dutifully, until the last dregs were all that was left. Then Sophie refilled the glass and made him put down a second one. He seemed to be soothed by the tea. Perhaps the fever and the pain were finally beginning to subside. After the second glass, he seemed to shift less; he was sleepy and quiet rather than desperate and delusional. He curled up into the pillows and settled. Sophie stayed kneeling at his bedside, watching the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, until she was sure he was in a comfortable sleep.
As the excitement of his injury passed, Sophie suddenly felt cold. The rain had soaked through her dress down to her undergarments, and she was shivering herself despite the fire and the heat in the room. She was tired, as well, the absence of urgency seeming to sap her body of its last reserves. She knew she ought to tidy the room, but she was so cold, and her arms and legs felt leaden. She needed to get out of these clothes.
Sophie glanced at Benedict Bridgerton, unconscious on the bed. He was unlikely to stir now that sleep had claimed his body. She found a nightgown and a dressing gown among the things left by the sisters Bridgerton, and quickly and efficiently stripped out of her uniform, stays, and underclothes, putting on the warm, dry clothes. She put the laundry to be done in a neat pile by the flame so that it would dry. She undid her hair, wrung it out, and braided it. Then she situated herself in the upholstered vanity chair beside the bed. She wanted to rest, but she could not abandon him during his illness. And, well, she had promised to stay.
She glanced out the window at the lightning and thunder outside, rain pattering and running in streaks against the paned glass. It was still hours yet to dawn. She turned back to Benedict, eyes locking again on the rise and fall of his chest. Comforted by the steady breathing and the certainty that he was sleeping peacefully, her own eyes drifted shut beneath the weight of her exhaustion.
She was woken by thunderclaps several times during the night. Each time she awoke, she checked on Benedict to be sure his fever was coming down. He seemed less ill with every waking, his skin no longer clammy or feverish, color returning to his cheeks. The storm passed just before dawn, and Sophie settled back into the chair she was sleeping in to close her eyes to rest one last time before the morning truly came.