Chapter Text
Adrien hunched slightly, laser-focused on the scene in front of him. The grounds were, in fact, far better than his previous subjects. He would not admit this aloud. He also, initially, did not intend to admit that he was unsurprised to find the grounds more fruitful to paint, because he had seen this same image before, so very long ago.
This was, perhaps important to note, not the first time Adrien had been to Bridgerton House, though it should be considered that there were certainly fewer children running about. This particular factoid was brought to the forefront near immediately upon arriving, in the form of one Violet Bridgerton, who upon seeing the man, had greeted him with surprising warmth and remarked that he looked well. The ragged clothes and general air of unkemptness aside, he supposed he did look remarkably better than he did in 1797. The general state of wretchedness was gone, the anger quelled, the fire quenched. Yes, he was remarkably well, all things considered.
Adrien had ignored Benedict’s questioning look following that particular interaction, instead motioning for the younger artist to lead the way.
That was how he found himself in front of an easel, brush in one hand, capturing the image of a gazebo, wreathed in flowers, the sun hitting at just the right angle to cast the perfect shadow. Benedict was a few feet away, similarly set in front of canvas, brush angled, capturing some other scene. That other scene being the gazebo, with the inclusion of Adrien himself. A painting of a painter painting a painting. How alliterate.
Adrien was, for all accounts, fully engrossed in his work. Ragged blue jacket hung over a bench, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, cravat loosened ever so slightly, though not nearly enough to be considered indecent. Spectacles pushed firmly up on the bridge of his nose. A spare brush stuck behind one ear, and Adrien bore an expression of pure concentration. He was content.
It was because of that contentness, that when the sound of footfalls began to reach hearing distance, he did not initially look up to examine the newcomer.
The young man was unmistakably a Bridgerton. Brown hair, blue eyes, fair skin, and the sort of symmetrical features that made portraitists' lives considerably easier. He had Benedict's coloring, though little of his brother's particular expression, where Benedict often looked as though he knew a joke no one else had been told, this one looked as though he was genuinely interested in hearing it. There was something remarkably open about his face, made more so by the easy smile upon seeing the two artists. Yes, he was unmistakably a Bridgerton.
The newcomer did not immediately address Adrien, instead sauntering over to Benedict and peering over his brother’s shoulder. There was a brief moment of silence until, “Interesting painting.”, the man’s expression, one of glee, gave it away that he was not interested in the gazebo on the page.
Benedict turned his head slowly, “Colin.”
Adrien, finally tearing his attention from the oils and brushes and canvas, turns at the sound, finally noticing (or, more explicitly, finally taking a good look at) the newest addition to the garden. Colin Bridgerton, he filed the name away to match the face.
Adrien placed his tools down carefully, wiping his hands on a rag, paint-stained and clearly not the color of its creation, that hung from his pocket. Benedict, spurred by etiquette trained into the three of them, steps between them, “Colin, meet Vicomte Adrien-Henri de Montfaucon. Vicomte, this is my brother Colin.” he introduces the pair.
Adrien extends a hand, “The pleasure is mine, Monsieur.” He shook the younger Bridgerton’s hand firmly, but released it soon after.
“Vicomte… French, clearly. Where are you from in France, if you don’t mind the question.” Colin asks, tone quizzical, but clearly interested. “I have been to Paris, and Marseille, but I don’t recall meeting anyone by the name Montfaucon.” He’s fishing for information, clearly.
Adrien, pausing, takes a moment to answer, as if weighing the correct response. He had to give an answer, it was only polite, but what version of the answer was almost just as important as giving one.
Eventually, “I spent most of my youth in Paris, though my family had a number of estates dotted around the country.” A short pause, “No, you wouldn’t have met anyone by the name of Montfaucon. None living, at least.” There’s an expected moment of silence at the answer, as both Bridgerton’s go through that loop of ‘how to respond’, before Adrien takes mercy on the poor English Aristocrats and continues, “Do not worry about finding a polite response, it was long ago, and a long time coming.” He goes back to his painting, unbothered by the flash of wide-eyed astonishment.
Colin, emboldened by the seemingly unbothered response, forges on, “I did come across the name though.”
“Pardon?” Adrien turns, setting his brush down and fully entering the conversation at this point, “In what context.”. His sudden interest in something other than the gazebo takes both Bridgerton boys by surprise.
Colin blinks before responding, “There was a gallery I attended, and one of the paintings on display was titled ‘Montfaucon at the Scaffold’-”
He doesn’t get to finish his sentence before Adrien stills, like a spooked deer, and interrupts, “That one… Tends to be embellished with every recreation.” Adrien hums, “It is shoddy work.”
Colin is confused. Benedict is confused. The only person not in this state of bewilderment is Adrien himself, who is very much aware of why the response elicits such bewilderment. Eventually, Benedict, who has sat through Adrien’s art lectures at this point, breaks the silence, “Why?”
Adrien huffs, eyes locked on the gazebo, hand painting with the finesse of decades of experience. Then he answers, “It’s inaccurate. It’s biased. It doesn’t tell the full story. The coat is the wrong shade of blue. Take your pick. It is shoddy work.”
Benedict responds almost immediately, “You said yesterday that art couldn’t be incorrect. Why is this piece any different?” Then, “It bears your name, you don’t like that, I assume that you are the subject.” He trails off.
Adrien hums, but doesn’t confirm nor deny the fact, rather he starts down another path, “It was… a bloody time. Year 2 was not a pleasant time in France’s history.” Adrien eventually answers, brush strokes becoming harsher, wider. Benedict can see his grip on the handle tighten.
Benedict watched Adrien, hand movements restrained, but tense. The strokes had become heavier, less deliberate, the careful precision replaced by something almost violent. Whatever ‘Montfaucon at the Scaffold’ depicted, it had not merely embarrassed the man beside him, it had hurt him.
“If you intend to stare, Monsieur Bridgerton, at least do so at the painting.” Adrien directs at the second son.
Benedict did just that. Colin had the expression of someone who had realized that he had stumbled upon something that he was not supposed to know. Adrien continued painting. And for once, no questions were asked. Small mercies, perhaps, for everyone involved.