Chapter Text
Penelope was cursing. It wasn’t a habit she indulged in often—she prided herself on being a proper lady, after all, and an example to her children. With her husband more inclined to the occasional lapse in decorum, Penelope made a point of setting the standard.
But today was an exception. It had been over ten years since she last endured the searing pains of labor and childbirth, and the memory had faded enough to catch her unprepared. She cursed the distance to her bedchamber, cursed herself for forgetting how excruciating this was, and most of all, she cursed her husband—for not being home and for being less than careful.
Their daughter Felicity was only a few years away from entering society, and Elijah was poised to start his studies at Eton. Their little birds were spreading their wings, and soon the nest would be quiet. It was a bittersweet inevitability, one Penelope and her husband had begun to accept as they prepared for the next chapter of their lives.
But they had gotten too comfortable. Like Icarus, soaring too close to the sun, they had overstepped. And now the consequences were theirs to bear—quite literally for Penelope, at this moment.
“Eli!” she called from the library, struggling to rise. One hand gripped the arm of her chair while the other cradled her swollen belly. “Elijah!”
The sound of hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor, and moments later her son appeared. “Mama! Do you need assistance?” he asked, his voice bright with concern. With the poise of a young gentleman, he stepped to her side, offering his arm.
“I can manage, thank you, my darling boy,” she said, mustering a smile despite the strain in her voice. “But I need you to fetch someone. Your father should be back any moment.”
Elijah steadied her as she reached the doorway. She turned right, heading for her bedchamber, while he darted left, racing down the staircase in search of help.
The house, normally lively at this hour, was eerily silent. Elijah moved through empty hallways, his young face tightening with frustration as each room he checked yielded no one. At last, he pushed open the garden doors, hoping to find a servant outside.
A sudden gust of wind swept through, nearly knocking him off balance. The sunlight that poured in was almost blinding, forcing him to shield his eyes. Blinking rapidly, he took in the scene. Something felt... off.
The air was unusually warm, a stark contrast to the crisp chill November mornings in Mayfair typically brought. Elijah stood frozen for a moment, sensing that something had shifted—something he couldn’t quite name.
---
Elijah scanned the gardens, but it was empty. With growing frustration, he decided to cross the garden gate and check the house across the street. Featherington House, home to his aunt and uncle, the Finches, as well as his grandmother, Portia, was usually lively with his cousins running about. Yet today, it too was eerily quiet.
Disheartened, Elijah turned back toward Bridgerton House. As he crossed the street, he was startled by the sudden approach of a speeding carriage. It barreled toward him, forcing him to leap back, but not before he stumbled and fell hard onto the cobblestones.
The carriage screeched to a halt, and a footman jumped down in alarm, rushing to his side.
“Oi, are you alright, boy?” the footman—John—asked, pulling Elijah to his feet.
Elijah brushed off his clothes with a huff, irritation evident on his young face. “I’ll be fine, thank you. But my mother requires assistance.”
John blinked, confused. “Your mother?”
“Yes,” Elijah replied impatiently, glancing at the carriage. “Has my father arrived yet?”
“I wouldn’t know,” John said, studying the boy closely. “Who is your father?”
Elijah straightened, his tone sharp with disbelief. “Viscount Bridgerton. Has he not returned?”
John’s face went pale. He stared at the boy, now scrutinizing his features. The resemblance was striking—too striking. The sharp eyes, the defined cheekbones. He looked unmistakably like a young Anthony Bridgerton. But it couldn’t be. The Viscount was unmarried. Unless—no, surely not. This could spiral into something far worse than a simple misunderstanding.
Glancing around to ensure no one was watching, John made a swift decision. Grasping Elijah’s arm, he hurried him toward the servant’s entrance.
“What are you doing?” Elijah exclaimed, glaring as he stumbled alongside him. “Let go of me! I’m not some doll to be dragged about.”
“Let’s wait for your father here, shall we?” John said tersely, steering the boy inside.
“In the servants’ quarters? How is he supposed to find me here? My mother still needs help!”
“One thing at a time, boy,” John muttered, rubbing his temple as if trying to fend off a headache.
Elijah bristled at the casual tone. He wasn’t one to flaunt his title or demand formality, but there was something unsettling about the way John kept calling him “boy.” His irritation grew as he took a closer look at the footman. There was something oddly youthful about him—too youthful.
“How old are you?” Elijah snapped, narrowing his eyes.
John glanced at him sidelong but said nothing, instead turning his attention to the doorway. He had a situation to sort out, and it wasn’t going to resolve itself easily.
John scanned their surroundings until his eyes landed on Humboldt. Catching his attention with a sharp, meaningful look, he subtly gestured toward the boy standing beside him. Humboldt, a steadfast presence in the Bridgerton household since Edmund and Violet’s marriage, turned to the child—and froze. For a moment, it seemed as though he had seen a ghost. A ghost in the form of a young Anthony Bridgerton.
“We have a situation,” John murmured, his voice low.
“That’s... one way to put it,” Humboldt managed, his voice tight and uncertain.
“The boy is claiming Viscount Bridgerton is his father,” John continued, leaning in closer to ensure his words went unheard by anyone else.
Humboldt went rigid. The Bridgertons were a pillar of Mayfair society—wealthy, influential, and respected. But like any family of prominence, they weren’t without their share of whispers, secrets, and the occasional scandal. In all his years of service to the Bridgertons, however, Humboldt had never faced anything quite like this .
“As much as I’d like to believe otherwise, I fear the boy may be telling the truth,” Humboldt admitted, his tone resigned.
Before either man could act on this revelation, they glanced down to address Elijah—only to discover he was gone.
---
Elijah couldn't take it anymore. The two men were clearly jesting, pretending not to know who his father was. How absurd, he thought. Frustration bubbled up as he resolved to help his mother himself.
He bolted up the stairs, determined to ensure her well-being, when faint voices from the drawing room caught his attention.
“I am marrying the Diamond,” came his father's unmistakable voice.
“What if the Diamond is Eloise?” someone quipped, a hint of mischief in their tone.
Elijah didn’t wait to hear more. Breathless from running, he burst into the room, cutting through the lively atmosphere.
“Finally, you’re home, Papa,” he said, panting as he made his way to Anthony. Relief flooded his young face, and without hesitation, he moved to embrace his father.
But the room fell into a stunned silence. Conversations halted mid-sentence. The music ceased as though someone had yanked the strings from a violin. Eloise, caught off guard, stepped on Gregory’s foot yet again, eliciting a sharp yelp. Somewhere in the corner, a teacup slipped from its saucer and shattered against the polished floor.
Anthony froze. As Elijah reached out for a hug, the Viscount instinctively stepped back. His expression was unreadable, a mask of bewilderment and something darker beneath.
“What is the meaning of this?” Anthony demanded, his tone clipped, his posture rigid.
Elijah recoiled, wounded by his father’s response. Anthony’s stoicism was a known trait, but he had always been warm with his family—especially in private. This coldness felt like a slap.
The silence thickened, hanging in the air like an unspoken storm. All eyes darted between Anthony and the boy who stood before him, so alike in stature and features.
Before anyone could answer, the footmen John and Humboldt appeared in the doorway, their faces a mix of alarm and guilt. Clearly, they had known more than they let on.
“I apologize, my lord, for the lack of announcement,” Humboldt began hesitantly, his voice unsteady. “It seems the young man is... claiming to be your son.” The words hung in the air like a thunderclap.
John, sensing the growing tension, quickly chimed in, attempting to soften the blow. “I found him fallen in the street. Our carriage nearly ran him over. He must’ve hit his head and become confused.”
Elijah looked around the room, his sharp gaze taking in each face. He recognized them all—his father, his grandmother Violet, his uncles Gregory and Benedict, and his aunt Eloise. Yet something felt wrong. They all seemed so... young. None of their children or spouses were present, which was strange for a Bridgerton gathering. And then there was his father, casually announcing his intent to marry, when Elijah knew he was already married.
“I am not confused, John,” Elijah said coolly, his tone carrying a confidence that startled the footman. John blinked, taken aback, as he realized he’d never introduced himself to the boy. It was a detail only he would notice, but it sent a chill down his spine.
Elijah continued, his voice unwavering. “You must be confused if you don’t know who I am.”
Anthony’s piercing gaze was locked on the boy, his mind racing as he analyzed every feature. The hair, the eyes, the nose—all painfully familiar. The boy’s resemblance to him was undeniable. Anthony’s jaw tightened as he assessed Elijah’s age, estimating he was around 11 or 12. His mind reeled, dredging up memories from over a decade ago—a time he’d rather forget.
It was not a proud chapter of his life. His father’s death twelve years ago had left him reeling, and in the turbulent years that followed, he’d been reckless. The alcohol-fueled nights, the fleeting paramours... he’d been young, and perhaps far too careless one time or another.
The thought struck him like a punch to the gut. Could it be possible? Had one of those indiscretions resulted in a child?
Anthony straightened, preparing to speak. He needed answers—immediately. Preferably without an audience, but discretion was a luxury seldom afforded in Bridgerton House. Since the matter had already been revealed, he braced himself to continue the spectacle.
Before he could open his mouth, a sharp slap landed on the back of his neck.
“Anthony Bridgerton!” Violet exclaimed, her frustration sharp and cutting through the air. “All this time, you endeavored to make me feel guilty for chastising you over your reckless lifestyle, suggesting that I should be more understanding—and now, there is a miniature version of you roaming about Mayfair!”
The room erupted into a whirlwind of reactions. Benedict turned his head, stifling a laugh with minimal success. John and Humboldt exchanged uneasy glances, doing a better job of keeping their amusement in check. Eloise was frozen in awe, visibly grappling with the logistics of how an unmarried man could have a child. Meanwhile, Gregory, closer in age to Elijah, observed him with curiosity and intrigue.
Anthony, however, was appalled, his carefully curated composure crumbling by the second.
“Clearly,” Anthony began, his voice tight, “there has to be a misunderstanding.” But his words carried an undercurrent of desperation; he was pleading more with himself than the others. “Young man, would you kindly introduce yourself?”
Elijah’s expression wavered, a shadow of sadness flickering across his face. How could his father not recognize him? The man who had always been a steady figure in his life now looked at him as though he were a stranger.
Maybe John was right. Maybe he was confused. Could his entire life—the love of his family, his home, his memories—be nothing more than a dream? The thought stung, but he held on to what he knew.
“I am The Honourable Elijah Bridgerton,” he said firmly, his voice carrying an air of dignity that belied his age. “Son of the 9th Viscount Bridgerton and the Viscountess Bridgerton.”
His words hung in the air, silencing the room. Even Violet, mid-breath to deliver another rebuke, could not move.
Anthony felt something shift within him—a strange, inexplicable sense of familiarity and unease. The boy’s declaration was sincere, his confidence unwavering. And yet, the very idea of having a legitimate son seemed less plausible than the thought of a bastard from his wilder years. After all, no Viscountess Bridgerton existed in this moment, nor could one have existed a decade ago.
Before Anthony could respond, Elijah stepped closer, his voice softening but laced with quiet desperation. “Please, Papa. No more games. Mama needs you.”
The plea cut through the tension, striking Anthony with a pang of guilt. The boy’s conviction, the way he said Papa with such affection—it couldn’t be a performance, or could it? How could this be anything other than some fantastical misunderstanding?
Anthony cleared his throat, his voice betraying the conflict in his heart. “Where... where is your mother, Elijah?”
The boy’s shoulders sagged slightly, as though relieved to have finally been heard. “She’s here, at Bridgerton House. She’s in pain, and she needs your help.”
The room collectively inhaled, the mystery thickening by the moment. Anthony’s mind spun as he tried to process the impossible situation unfolding before him. The boy’s every word made less sense yet somehow struck deeper. Violet, too, seemed torn between disbelief and an inexplicable instinct. She took a hesitant step closer to Elijah, her face softening despite the chaos in her mind.
“Elijah, dear,” Violet said gently, her voice trembling, “what year were you born?”
Elijah blinked, clearly surprised by the question. “I’m surprised you’d ask, Nana. You’re always so good with birthdays. Mine was just a couple of months ago—I was born in 1818. I just turned twelve.”
Violet’s eyes glistened with unshed tears when he called her ‘Nana’. She was still grappling with the impossible thought that this boy, this stranger before her, could truly be her grandson—one from a time that hadn’t yet come to pass. The idea felt like a weight pressing on her chest, as though her heart knew something her mind wasn’t ready to accept.
But as she looked more closely at Elijah, the impossibility of it began to fade, replaced by an aching sense of familiarity. It was as though she herself had slipped backward through time, back to the days when Anthony was a young boy—his features, his posture, even his mannerisms—they were exactly the same. Elijah was Anthony through and through, captured in the body of a child who was not yet born in her time.
“1818?” Eloise broke the silence, her tone sharp with skepticism. “That’s absurd. We’re in 1814. For you to exist, it would have to be at least…” She paused, calculating quickly. “…1830.”
Elijah frowned, now visibly unsettled by her response. “But it is 1830. Although,” he added, glancing out the window, “this is a rather strange November morning.”
Anthony’s stomach churned, his rationality warring with the growing feeling that something extraordinary was happening. “You think it’s November 1830?”
Elijah nodded, his gaze earnest. “Yes, Papa. And Mama thinks the baby is coming. You need to make haste.”
---
No one could quite say how much time had passed between Anthony collapsing unceremoniously in the middle of the drawing room and his eventual awakening. Then again, the concept of time itself had become rather tenuous since Elijah had arrived.
When Anthony finally opened his eyes, his first thought was a hopeful one: perhaps it had all been a bizarre dream. But as his vision cleared and the boy’s familiar features came into focus, reality set in.
Elijah was still there.
Anthony sat up abruptly, the room spinning slightly. This had to be dealt with—quickly and privately. “Elijah,” he said, his tone even but firm, “let’s go to my study to talk.”
The boy nodded without argument, trailing behind Anthony as they left the drawing room. Elijah couldn’t help but take in his surroundings. Everything about the house was familiar, yet different in subtle ways. The rugs were less worn, the walls a slightly different shade. When they reached his father’s study, however, the differences were glaring.
The room felt suffocating—overwhelmed by the stale smell of spilled liquor, dusty books, and candles burned down to their stubs. Elijah’s nose wrinkled slightly. How, he wondered, did his father manage to accomplish anything in this space?
Anthony gestured for Elijah to sit on the couch, while he took the armchair opposite. The Viscount leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, trying to keep his expression calm and neutral.
“You can be honest with me,” Anthony said, his voice careful. “I’m not going to judge you. Is your family in need? Does your mother… need money?”
Elijah blinked, genuinely taken aback by the question. “I suppose Mama always needs money,” he replied, puzzled. “She goes through ridiculous amounts of paper and quills.”
His innocent tone softened Anthony’s sharp edges for a moment, but Elijah’s expression quickly turned serious. “She’s not here, is she?”
“Not in this house, I assure you,” Anthony answered flatly, unwilling to entertain the idea further.
“You don’t believe me.” Elijah said, his voice steady but laced with quiet disappointment.
Anthony studied him in silence, his mind a cacophony of doubt and questions. Every logical fiber of his being told him this couldn’t be true. But as he looked at the boy the part of him that relied on instinct began to waver.
Still, one thought kept him tethered to skepticism, holding him back from crossing the line into belief.
“Time traveling aside,” Anthony said dryly, scoffing at the absurdity of the idea. He folded his arms across his chest and fixed Elijah with a pointed look. “You claim to be my heir, but I’ve always intended to name my firstborn son after my father, Edmund.”
Elijah hesitated, then nodded thoughtfully. “You did, Papa. Eddie was the first. He’s with Papa Edmund now, so I was told. We visit them in Aubrey Hall.”
Anthony’s heart ached at the thought. Did he and his wife lose a child? The idea was so painful, it nearly took his breath away. The loss of his father had already shaped so much of his life, and Hyacinth’s difficult birth still haunted his thoughts. The mere possibility of having lost a firstborn son—a child he would never get to hold or watch grow—left him devastated. He could feel the weight of that sorrow, the grief of a son never known, pressing on him heavily.
But as much as he wanted to dwell in that sadness, there was something far more immediate: the boy standing right in front of him, eyes filled with something desperate, something that spoke of a need only Anthony could address.
Anthony pushed the sorrow aside for the moment, reminding himself this child—his son, perhaps—needed him now.
“I heard you say you’re marrying the ‘Diamond,’” Elijah began, his young voice carrying a hint of curiosity and a touch of skepticism. “Are you courting Mama yet?”
Anthony blinked, caught off guard by the boy's straightforwardness. “I’m not,” he replied with a slight chuckle. “The Queen hasn’t chosen the diamond yet.”
“Why is the Queen picking your wife?” Elijah asked, tilting his head, clearly unimpressed.
“What?” Anthony spluttered.
“I thought it was something you decided yourself,” Elijah clarified, as though explaining something obvious.
“Well, it is,” Anthony said, attempting to maintain his composure. “It’s just... the Queen’s choice is like a filter. It ensures I get the best.”
Elijah frowned, unimpressed. “That’s kind of silly, really.”
“It’s called strategy,” Anthony retorted, his tone defensive.
Elijah, however, was unfazed. “Mama lived across the street from you, but you had to wait for the Queen to name her a diamond to court her? Silly.”
Anthony froze, the words hitting him like a bolt of lightning. Across the street? His mind raced. There were only two possible debutantes that could fit that description. It couldn’t be—could it?
He turned to the boy, his voice suddenly cautious. “What’s your Mama’s name, Elijah?”
“Penelope Bridgerton,” Elijah said matter-of-factly.