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It was anything but a surprise to George when he heard a commotion in the hall which turned out to be something involving Billie. He loved his wife more than he could put into words, loved every single thing about her, but if Billie was one thing, it was the centre of attention (whether she wanted to be or not).
He stood up from his desk and made his way out there, to see Billie being carried into the library by a stablehand. George immediately knew what had happened, and rushed across the hall.
When he walked in, Billie was settling herself on one of the chaises, a cushion underneath her ankle. He dismissed the stablehand with a ‘thank you’ and the promise of some extra money added to his wages, and made his way over to his wife.
“What was it this time, Billie Bee?” He asked, kissing her quickly before settling himself on the chaise, his lap providing Billie with a pillow.
“Horse threw me,” She replied, looking up at him, “He wasn’t happy today, I should never have taken him out really, but I so wanted a ride and you were busy”
George raised his eyebrows. Billie rolled her eyes.
“Not like that, George. You know what I mean”
George chuckled, “I do, Billie Bee. Is it broken?”
Billie shook her head.
“The stablehand didn’t seem to think so, but you have a feel. You have so accurately determined whether I have broken my ankle before” She replied, alluding to the roof incident which had brought them together in the first place. When she looked back on that particular sprained ankle (there had been at least three since), she looked back on it with fondness.
Something she was decidedly not feeling for George as he prodded and poked and manipulated her ankle.
“Not broken, darling,” He concluded, binding the ankle with some thick ribbon Billie’s housemaid had brought down for the purpose, “just another sprain”
Billie smiled weakly. She knew she ought to be pleased that it wasn’t broken, but she had started imagining the sympathy and the breakfast in bed and George waiting on her hand and foot, and she found that she was rather disappointed by the news that all of that would, in fact, remain in her imagination.
As it was, George was rather obliging. He abandoned the work he was meant to be doing, sorting out accounts and whatever else his father had left for him to do whilst he was in London, and kept her company. She rested her head on his lap as he quietly narrated one of the only novels she had read in her adulthood and enjoyed - Evelina by Fanny Burney - the familiar prose providing her with some comfort, distracting her from the pain in her ankle.
It only took a couple of chapters for her to drift off to sleep, lulled into relaxation by her husband’s voice. George didn’t move, not wanting to disturb her. He simply stroked her hair with one hand and carried on reading the novel with the other, occasionally leaning down to kiss her forehead or her cheek. Billie was always in motion and, despite the circumstances which had led to it, George was always grateful for an opportunity to witness her in stillness.
In the couple of years since they had married, they had been very busy. What with Edward and Cecilia, and then having their first baby, it had been a wonderful whirlwind.
When a footman passed the door, George quietly asked him to get the nurse to bring their baby son down to the library. Little Arthur was nearing nine months old, and George felt he was rather a confident and doting father. There was nothing he liked better in the world than sitting with his wife, his son cradled in his arms. In the evenings, if Billie was back at Aubrey Hall, or if any of the Bridgertons found themselves at Crake, George would excuse himself and escape to the nursery, where he sat in the rocking chair at the window, his son in his arms, watching the world go by outside.
As he settled Arthur in his arms, being careful not to wake Billie, George felt utterly and completely happy.
Billie’s pregnancy with Arthur had been interesting to say the least. She hadn’t felt in the least bit unwell, hadn’t had unusual cravings, nor had she found herself particularly emotional. It was just the state of affairs, and she was perfectly happy being pregnant.
Until it stopped her doing things, of course.
She sat in the corner of George’s study, in the large armchair by the fire with a shawl around her shoulders. In her hands sat an embroidery hoop with what were meant to be flowers sewn haphazardly onto the fabric. Embroidery had never been something that Billie had excelled at, but at eight and a half months pregnant, she felt like she was the size of Crake, and she couldn’t exactly do her favourite things of riding and maintaining the estate. Even if she’d been physically able to, George wouldn’t have let her.
She loved that he was so protective, of course. It was terribly romantic and terribly attractive, but Billie was starting to feel a little smothered. She was only grateful that her mother hadn’t moved to Crake from Aubrey Hall.
“Oh bugger it to hell” she whispered angrily as she pricked herself with the needle, a small drop of blood making it onto the fabric.
George looked up from his letter to find his wife with her finger in her mouth, trying to stem the bleeding. He helped her to stand up briefly, and settled her back down on his lap, his arm around her waist to keep her steady. She curled up as best she could, and rested her head on his shoulder. Billie felt vulnerable in her incapacitation, such as it was, and there was nobody in the world other than George that she’d let see her like this.
George placed the embroidery on the floor next to the chair, and took Billie’s hand in his, gently kissing the spot on her finger where she’d hurt herself. Billie was not a careful creature, he’d known that long before she’d become his wife. It still pained him, though, to see her in any form of discomfort.
Before she’d fallen in love with him, romantic was the last word Billie would have associated with George. In reality, though, she was convinced he was the most romantic and devoted of husbands, and that she was the luckiest of women. She knew she was clumsy and she knew he worried about her, but she also knew that George would always look after her. No matter the situation, no matter how stupid the injury, George would always be waiting with a kiss and some sympathy.
They stayed like that, curled up in the chair as happy as can be, talking quietly about everything and nothing, discussing baby names even though they were sure they would call the baby Arthur if it was a boy and Helena if it was a girl. They were only disturbed by Wheelock when the Earl and Countess arrived back from London.
Billie and George walked out into the hall slowly, their arms around each other’s waists, still in their own little world. The minute they were greeted by the Earl and Countess, Billie was back as her rambunctious and vivacious self, and George watched as the discomfort and pain melted away, and he knew that his company had gone a long way to making that happen. If he achieved nothing else in his life, knowing he had made Billie Bridgerton Rokesby’s pain lessen or disappear, knowing he made her happy and made her feel better, would be more than enough for him.
Billie was a rare creature, he knew that. She was rare and beautiful and lively and kind and clever and charming and irritable and absolutely perfect. He thanked his lucky stars every day that he was the one who got to share her life, that he was the one that got to wake up next to her every morning and got to fall asleep next to her every night. Billie was his life, and it was the best life in the world.
When he’d married her, George had been fairly sure that Billie was unbreakable. After all, it was her miraculous ‘not breaking of her ankle whilst falling out of a tree’ that had brought them together.
Now, four and a half years and two children into their marriage, Billie had finally proved him wrong. He’d just happened to be passing the open library door at the right moment, just caught a flash of fabric as Billie had fallen from the ladder after reaching just a little too far. He hadn’t been quick enough to catch her, but he had been at her side mere seconds after she’d hit the ground. She was still conscious, which was good. She wasn’t bleeding as far as he could see, which was good. When he felt her arm, though, she almost screamed, and even he could tell it was broken.
He shouted for a servant to call the doctor, and went about making Billie comfortable on the chaise. Whenever Billie was injured to a point where she couldn’t move, it was one of the library chaises that they gravitated towards. There was enough in there to occupy her whilst she was unable to go out of doors. The doctor arrived promptly and bound her arm and put it in a sling, telling her not to use it for a number of weeks.
“You are to take it easy, Lady Kennard. You must rest”
George chuckled to himself as the doctor said this. Despite being the family doctor for both the Rokesbys and the Bridgertons for a number of years, treating numerous Billie injuries, he still hadn’t grasped that sitting still was not a particular pastime Billie was fond of. She agreed to it, though, in her shock from what had occurred.
The doctor left, Billie breaking down into shocked tears the minute the door shut behind him. Billie did not often cry, somewhat priding herself on the fact, but it was all she could do to release the shock in her body. George pulled her close, being careful of her arm, his lips on her forehead.
“Oh darling,” George whispered, “you’re alright, let it out”
Eventually, the gut wrenching sobs became sniffles, and Billie looked up at her husband.
“How on earth am I going to ride down to the farm like this?” She asked, sitting up a little straighter. George smiled brightly.
“There’s my Billie Bee,” he replied, “and you’re not, I’ll take you down on my horse if you really desperately need to go down there”
“Can’t I go down on the little buggy? I’m sure I can manage the reins with one hand?”
“I don’t doubt it, darling, but I’d feel much better if I took you myself, but that is only if there is an emergency-” Billie huffed at this “-because you need to be resting”
Billie did not look pleased at this, but conceded. She stood up on shaky legs and held out her good hand to her husband. He took it, and followed as she led him up to the nursery.
Since her last major injury, Arthur had been joined by Miss Helena Rokesby, who was swiftly approaching the six month mark. Billie only realised as she walked into the nursery that she wouldn’t be able to carry her daughter around for quite some time. Her face obviously fell at the thought, because George was quick to settle her into the rocking chair, propping Helena up in her lap against her good arm. He pulled up a little stool from across the room, and settled Arthur on his knee, the little boy now an inquisitive and naughty two and a half year old.
They sat there as a little family of four until lunchtime, when Billie knew she had to go downstairs and face the music. She knew that her wonderful mother-in-law would smother her with sympathy and affection the minute she saw her, and Billie knew it was going to be stifling. The Countess of Manston meant well, and Billie adored her (she had named her daughter after her, after all), but sometimes it was a little much. George obviously sensed this, and took her hand as they walked into the drawing room. He didn’t let go until they left, squeezing her hand every now and then, letting her know he was there and ready to intervene should she need it. He knew she wouldn’t, but he also knew she’d appreciate having him there.
She showed him how much she appreciated it, as best she could with a broken arm, that night.
She hadn’t wanted to wear the blasted dress in the first place. It was a death trap as far as she was concerned, far too ostentatious and overdramatic for her tastes, but both her mother and the Countess had insisted. The Earl and Countess of Manston had a Duke and Duchess coming to stay as part of a house party, and everybody had to be dressed in their finery.
George was already ready when Billie was getting dressed, and he watched with amusement as she and her ladies maid fought with the dress to get it on. It was not Billie’s style at all, nor really her colour, but her mother had ordered it for her and therefore she had to wear it. Billie had thought her mother had known her eldest daughter’s tastes by now, considering she was approaching thirty and a mother of two, but it seemed not.
As it was, Billie was walking down the stairs, George not far behind her, the hall quiet and empty. She was three steps from the bottom when the train got caught under her feet and sent her down the last three steps, landing at the bottom in a crumpled heap of woman and dress.
George hadn’t had time to move by the time he heard the resigned laughter coming from his wife, who was still laying at the bottom of the stairs, dress piled on top of her. He knew she wasn’t seriously hurt from that alone, and so he took his time. When he reached her, he picked the fabric up from across her face between his thumb and forefinger, and deposited it on top of her legs. Billie looked up at him and burst out laughing again, which in turn made him laugh. He sat on the second to bottom step, head in his hands as he laughed and laughed until his cheeks were aching.
Eventually, he helped Billie up and helped her sort out her dress, and noticed a little limp as she walked. He quietly asked a footman to put a stool under the table by Lady Kennard’s place for dinner, so she could rest it. It wasn’t the usual kind of comfort George liked to provide Billie with when she was injured, but he knew full well that his mother would not let them slip off to the library for half an hour so they could sit in each other’s arms, putting the world to rights, George stroking Billie’s hair and kissing her forehead. Instead, he simply caught up to Billie, who was almost at the drawing room, and pulled her into a little alcove. He kissed her passionately and quickly, leaving her utterly breathless.
“Feel better?” He asked, smirking.
Billie could have slapped the look off his face, but she smiled nonetheless.
“Much, thank you”
George nodded and took her hand, and together they made their way into the drawing room, and told the story of Billie’s trip down the stairs, making everyone roar with laughter once they were sure that Billie wasn’t hurt (she proved she wasn’t by attempting to dance a reel with Edward, much to everyone’s amusement).
George had watched quietly from the sidelines, watching his wife stun everyone in sight.
When they went into dinner, Billie thanked him for getting the stool placed under the table with a simple smile. He responded with a subtle wink, and the knowledge that Billie was comfortable. Whilst it had been an intensely amusing situation, he had still worried about her. He was glad nobody else had seen the incident, because he knew that the worst injury would have been to Billie’s pride. She came off as invincible to other people, especially those who knew her casually but not intimately, and to be seen doing something so stupid, however accidentally, would have caused her mental anguish. George knew her too well to assume otherwise.
Luckily for him, though, and for her, he had been the only one to see it, and Billie knew that George wouldn’t bring it up in front of anyone else who hadn’t been in the room when they’d told the story.
It was good ammunition for private teasing, though.
Pall Mall was always a vicious game when Billie Bridgerton Rokesby was involved. George, and indeed the rest of the assembled Bridgerton-Rokesby family, had thought and indeed hoped that she would calm down with age. As he watched his nearly forty year old mother-of-four wife walk across the lawn with great intent, the Mallet of Death in her hand, George realised he’d been deathly wrong. Sat on the lawn with three of his many children was Andrew, back at Crake with Poppy and his still-expanding family.
He should have seen it coming, really, what with it being called the Mallet of Death. One of Andrew’s children - Mary, he thought - had grabbed the handle of the mallet as best she could, and had sent the very heavy and hard head of it straight into Billie’s ankle. She’d stifled a scream as so not to frighten her little niece, but she made a face at Andrew which said she was in a lot of pain. He quickly beckoned George over, who wrapped a hand around Billie’s back and led her to a nearby tree, around the other side of it so they were out of sight. Billie sat down gingerly, screaming into her fichu which she’d ripped off her body and shoved into a ball in her hand to muffle the noise. The mallet had caught her right on the ankle bone, and she was sure it was more painful than childbirth.
“The worst thing is I can’t even be cross. She’s only two, bless her, she had no idea what she was doing,” Billie said, jumping into her train of thought halfway through, “if it had been Andrew I could be screaming at him, but no”
George smiled weakly, sitting down beside her. She rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes, taking in the peace and relative quiet before the Pall Mall match started.
“Are you going to be alright to play, Billie Bee?”
Billie sat up straight quickly and looked at her husband like he’d grown another head.
“Of course, George,” she replied, “Don’t be ridiculous. Miss Pall Mall over a trivial thing like this, you must be joking”
George smiled. It had been a test, and Billie had proved that she was absolutely fine. That wasn’t going to stop him keeping her to himself a little while longer. Any time stolen with Billie was time well spent, as far as George was concerned. They’d been married for fifteen years, and every day he was sure he loved her more. He didn’t know how it was possible, but it seemed to occur all the same. He knew he was a sap, and his constant chatter about Billie and the children at his club exposed him to much ridicule, but he didn’t care. He reckoned that there was no other member of his club as happy in his marriage as him. He was one of the rare few who didn’t take a mistress, for a start.
Marriage to Billie was wonderful, noisy, joyful, chaotic bliss. As the children (13 year old Arthur, 11 year old Helena, 8 year old James, and 5 year old Louisa) barrelled towards them, shattering the relative quiet, George knew there was no place he would rather be. He loved his wife, he loved his children, he was at home surrounded by his family. If he had dropped down dead in that moment, he would have died happy.
The Pall Mall game went pretty much as expected. It was Arthur’s first ever match, against his parents, Uncle Andrew, Aunt Poppy, and Uncle Edward. This did not mean, though, that any of them let him come anywhere close to winning. Billie was just as competitive as always, and she and George secretly conspired to not let Arthur win, just as they’d conspired against Andrew and that awful girl whose name they could not remember all those years ago.
It was an utterly joyous event, and they all groaned like little children when the Countess called them in for tea.
It had occurred just a couple of weeks into their marriage, and had happened in seconds. One minute, a man was walking over to Billie to ask her to dance. The next, she was saying no and he was getting handsy. Then, George intervened.
“Do you mind? That’s my wife”
In milliseconds, George was laid out on the floor having been punched in the face with quite some force.
The man was dragged out of the ballroom, and Billie was on her knees by George’s side in an instant. She helped him up, and they made their way to the library, escorted by their host, a footman dispatched to get a steak for George’s cheek.
Then, the door was shut and they were left alone, and Billie flew into George’s arms.
“I’m quite alright, Billie Bee,” he said quickly, removing the steak from his face for a second so he could kiss her, “I shall simply be bruised for a week”
“You really are very irritating, you know” Billie replied, smiling fondly.
“I know. That’s why you married me, isn’t it?”
“Of course, darling”
George put the piece of steak down on the plate it had been brought in on, and wiped his face with the napkin provided with it. He picked Billie up and placed her down on the chaise, and kissed her soundly. In the few weeks since they had married (and the few weeks of their engagement), George had discovered that there was nothing he liked better than kissing Billie. Now, when she was all sympathetic and pliable in his hands, he realised this was how he liked her best.
“Are you really very sorry for me, darling?” He asked, kissing along her jawline.
Billie was so distracted she couldn’t answer.
The bruise that had appeared by the following morning was astonishing.
And it didn’t disappear for weeks.
The last little patch of yellow around George’s eye took a month to disappear, and Billie had almost forgotten what he looked like without the bruise.
That was the worst injury George ever got, throughout the whole course of their long and happy marriage.
In his old age, George looked back on the few weeks when Billie had applied poultices and ice and had treated him a little bit like a china doll with great fondness. It was the first real time he had seen the gentle, quietly adoring Billie that she had grown into a bit more as she’d gotten older, as she’d matured, as she’d become a mother. He loved her just as much at the end of their marriage as he had at the beginning.
Looking back on his life, George realised one thing:
He had never loved anything or anyone as much as he loved Billie Bridgerton.