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Yearning

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Your father was the best man I’ve ever known - Anthony Bridgerton (my contribution to Anthonyweek)

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‘You and the eldest Miss Sharma can’t seem to stay away from one another’ - Daphne Bridgerton (Also known as ‘I can’t colour to save my life’) 

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Hands - A Sketch (part i) 

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Anthony Bridgerton in India, c. 1820 (part III)

He saw her again. Sooner than he would have liked.

And almost did not recognize her for how different she looked when not silhouetted by the harsh, Indian sun, but lit up by the soft, golden light of expensive chandeliers.

He had been happy standing at the edge of the room, wearing his best suit for the night, tumbler of bourbon in hand as he had watched Thomas Dorset mingle generously with the tittering girls of the Maharajah’s court. Guests milled about the enormous gilted room— almost as grand as the royal rooms back in England, drinks in hand and jewels glinting as they caught the light, a magnificent display of wealth. It was an impromptu soirée, as Maharaja Krishna Pratap had so generously put it, to honour his foreign guests and to give them a semblance of English normalcy, for them to find their bearings in an unknown place. Anthony had been pleasantly surprised to think that expensive soirées formed, in Krishna Pratap’s generous mind, a usual part of English nobility evenings but he had not complained. It would not do him much good to question the kind gesture especially when it was arranged in his honour, he realized as he had opened the flap to his ostentatious invitation. Thomas had only laughed when Anthony had screeched out a frustrated: “But we only live across the courtyard! He could have only sent a message with the footman.”

“He simply likes to do things right.” Dorset had offered as he had sucked at a plum and winced at the tartness. Anthony had scoffed but had taken out his best clothes anyway, ones which had not been ruined by travel.

And here, he was therefore, lingering in the shadows like he often did in the English ones, even though he knew none here and was not in constant fear of being called out if only to make pleasant small talk. Anthony learnt that somewhere in between Oxford and the time that his father accepted the kind offer of the Duke of Westham to send Anthony to India if only to experience an alternate life in the Orient, he simply felt better if the spotlight was away from him and on some other hapless fellow. And seeing how it was to be Dorset in this occasion, he had not minded at all. Until he had seen Dorset stand up from the sofa where he had been sitting in the midst of his admiring female followers to greet the older woman who had chosen to join the small group, followed by two girls—one quite younger than the other, almost a girl but with quite a pleasant face. The other seemed to be quite grown and a fine statuesque woman, but regrettably her head was turned away from Anthony, talking with the younger girl by her side. She was a lot darker than her companions but somehow much more radiant and Anthony found that he could not look away. The soft light made the embellishments on her dress sparkle as she swayed and Anthony suddenly had a desire to go up and talk to the woman if only to see her face and learn her name.  

“Anthony!”

He almost startled at his own name called out from across the room and saw Dorset waving enthusiastically at him—never a good sign. The woman and the girls too had turned to look at him and that was when he saw her, looking at him curiously, face slightly furrowed albeit pleasant as she had not recognized him yet. And yet, he recognized her immediately. Ironic, considering she had been the one in shadows and he in the light during their first encounter. And then, as he emerged into the light, she saw the glimmer of recognition light up in her eyes and a furious blush tinge her dark cheeks and that had lighted a fire of satisfaction in the pits of his heart as he stalked up to the small gathering. Her face looked stricken and as Anthony had smiled his most charming smile at the women, waiting for Dorset to introduce him, he had watched her out of his periphery. He relished that the embarrassment made her twitch and her eyes flit nervously, looking for an escape out where there was none. And suddenly, he felt quite happy at this fortuitous opportunity that had arisen and he sent a prayer of thanks to the old Maharaja for his kind arrangement of the evening soirée. He would so enjoy this evening, indeed.

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Kanthony Happiness.

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Girl in front of a mirror, c. 2022

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Girl in a flower field, c. 2020

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Anthony Bridgerton in India, c. 1820 (part II)

“I heard there might have been a mishap in the morning, my dear Mr. Bridgerton— Heard you had wandered a bit too close to the zenana than was proper?” Maharaja Krishna Pratap looked entirely too amused as he lazed on the divan, smoking contentedly at the hookah beside him, dark twinkling eyes fixed on Anthony even as the latter’s hand froze on the way to his mouth. He heard Thomas Dorset let out a sudden soft cough beside him, but Anthony had the suspicion that it might have also been a soft laugh disguised as a cough. But the Maharaja was unperturbed as he waited for Anthony’s answer even as Anthony stupidly held on to the oily cookie, wondering about the most proper way to answer the question, without exposing too much about the humiliation that he had suffered in the process. It almost seemed as if the Maharaja was discussing about the many breeds of his pet bloodhounds with him, wondering if Anthony had a particular favourite among them; and definitely not about the way Anthony had been near decapitated by a chit of a girl. At least Anthony would have a suitable answer to the former question about dogs.

“I’m sorry, your Majesty.” He finally croaked out, shame roiling within him as the encounter flooded into his mind: the dark face looking down at him in disdain even as he had felt the familiar jolts of desire in the pits of his stomach at the way her wild curls swirled around her exposed face, “I did not know that way led to your zenana. I was simply looking for an arbour to read my book in peace.”

“It is easy to get lost here.” The Maharaja agreed good-naturedly, pulling spiritedly at the hookah again, the loud gurgle interrupting his speech, “It was not your fault. And it was not Kate’s fault either that she tried to hurt you.”

“Kate?!” Anthony was not entirely sure that he heard the Maharaja right. An English name that was entirely too familiar to his ears but there had been no fair English Rose that he had sighted as he had stood there in front of the imposing red sandstone pillars, sparkling in the sun. He had an uncertain realization: “Is that her name?”

“Well, it will be easier for you to remember your near-killer then, Mr. Bridgerton, will it not?” The Maharaja now looked positively jubilant as he pushed back into the pillows of his settee, hand tearing off a Muscat grape from the fruit tray and popping it into his mouth. “Considering that you will be seeing her quite often, now that you are to be a part of my royal court for some time.”

Anthony entirely did not appreciate the chuckles that the Maharaja let out at a joke that only he seemed privy to. Thomas too seemed to be busy in his own thoughts, leaving Anthony to sit awkwardly in his own silence, stewing over the name of the mysterious woman—

Kate.

She had not been much older than him but even a clumsy shooter like Anthony knew that her aim had been indeed impeccable and perfect, the tension in her hand just enough for the arrow to hit and harm her target, if not kill him. And somehow, that stung his delicate pride. He had spent hours on private lands in Kent trying to hunt and perfect his aim with guns that could rival those of the King’s marksmen themselves and yet, here was this native girl with nothing but a crude bow and arrow who had just as easily managed to bring him to his knees, made his heart stir for the first time and even as she had walked away with scornful shake of her head, made Anthony’s heart thud with emotions that he was not entirely sure that he wanted to recognize. And yet, he could not get the name out of his head even as he could not forget the woman herself—

Kate.

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Anthony Bridgerton in India, c. 1820

Of all the scenarios that Anthony had predicted himself in when he had descended the creaky wooden drawboard after five tumultuous months at sea, he had never imagined one in which he would be standing quite still, staring straight towards the shining tip of an arrow quite explicitly intended to pierce through his skull. The girl cocked her head at him darkly as she had stared back at him from behind the weapon with her dark eyes, quite alluring as they shone in the sunshine and Anthony almost regretted the fact that the rest of her face was covered in the delicate muslin cloth, hiding away the rest of her from his eyes. In any other case, Anthony would have waxed some glib words to steal her breath away like he always did in those sparkling English balls, making the marriage-minded mamas and their equally ambitious daughters to break out into superficial peals of laughter. But something within him told him that it would not go down well in this case – maybe, it was a desperate primal need of self-preservation. It had not even been a month.

She muttered something in the native language and he felt panic grip his throat. “Money?” He made a wild guess as his eyes desperately roved around her face, hoping to understand anything so that he could preserve his life. “I might have some.”

“Move back.” She called out gutturally – the familiar words laced with a thick accent which almost made it impossible to comprehend. But Anthony did as he scrambled back on the hot marble, leather boots slipping unceremoniously as he retreated back into the marble pillars behind him. He watched as the girl lowered the crossbow but kept her hands in position, ready to shoot at the first impromptu movement, watching him closely, almost like a feral cat. A tigress.

She must not have known who he was. That was the only explanation he could come up with in the dark haze that clouded his brain – the Indian sun burning into his still sensitive skin and eyes as the two of them had stood there on the expansive courtyard with huge towering red sandstone buildings surrounding them, silent but for the distant calls of the peacock from the forests behind the palace, staring at the other, watching cautiously, sizing the other up. Anthony felt a tiredness seep up from deep within him as well as an irrational anger. Where was the stupid Thomas Dorset when he needed him the most?