Chapter Text
The ending of the previous chapter, unsurprisingly, marked the end of one era of Adrien’s life, and the beginning of another. For one, he did not pack his bags and hightail it for America. Or any other continent. Second, at least, for a little while, he stayed in England. He did not shy away from society because of the off chance some English aristocrats had enough time to dig into events from twenty years prior. And he, to both his surprise and perhaps the even greater surprise of one Penelope, began a friendship with the woman who not a month prior had nearly sent him packing across the Atlantic Ocean.
There was also the case of Benedict. This relationship was certainly not something Adrien had ever thought he would get to experience, and yet, here it was. He was happy. Even after a second round of vaguely threatening conversation from Anthony was not enough to quench that happiness. Though, it had raised the question of legality. Which was how Adrien and Benedict found themselves outside Adrien’s childhood home in Paris, France.
Some context is probably required. Sodomy had been decriminalized in 1791, legalizing same-sex acts between consenting adults. Now, socially, not so much, but the point stands that nobody was going to the noose for it anymore.
That was, ultimately, how the two found themselves standing before the Montfaucon Estate. Just one more astounding revelation in the conga-line of revelations that had come one after the other in the past week or so. Apparently, twenty years is enough for public opinion to change, because nobody has attempted to arrest or execute the former Citizen Montfaucon. The same press that slandered his name now heralded his return. Whoda thunk?
The Monfaucon Estate needed work, that much was true, but it was in shockingly good condition. The grounds were overgrown, but not to the extent that it resembled a jungle. Rather, the fences and some of the more beaten paths had some overgrowth, but the main walkways were remarkably intact.
Upon entering, there was no dust on the bannister, but also nobody else present in the general vicinity. Paintings and portraits of various Montfaucon members lined the walls. The displays were free of grime and the grunge of the passage of time. It was as if Adrien had stepped into a timecapsule.
And so began the lengthy task of renovation, restaffing, and in general making the place liveable again. But, with Benedict by his side, not a task that Adrien dreaded. One more task, and then he can begin to live again.
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Adrien woke to a loud rapping sound emanating from the doorstep. He did not get up immediately, instead groaning and rolling out from under the covers. A muffled grumble, sleep addled and incomprehensible, from Benedict beside him.
Dressing slowly, making his way down the stairs, one hand on the bannister, he runs all the people who knew of his return through his mind. Nobody close enough for a house call this early in the morning.
This was why one Adrien-Henri de Montfaucon experienced the equivalent of a sucker punch when he opened the door and was met with the visage of one Amelie de Montreuil standing in all her glory on the doorstep.
“Twenty-two years.” Her tone is deathly calm as she steps inside, poking a finger into Adrien’s chest. “Twenty-two years with no letters, no contact, not even an obituary to know if you were still breathing or if you had drunk yourself to death.”
Adrien, to his credit, kept his composure, mostly. The scowl on his face was not one of genuine anger, but rather the expression he had always bore when interacting with his old friend. He blinked slowly, banishing the sleep from his eyes, “Good to see you too, Amelie. Missed you. Why are you on my doorstep at six in the morning?”
“Twenty-two years, de Montfaucon. And I had to learn that you returned to France through newspapers?”
Adrien shrugged, giving her a helpless shrug, “I have been busy. I was going to get around to it, eventually.” A pause, “I take it you are the reason the Estate was in such good condition upon arrival?”
He cocks his head at her.
The cold anger in her voice seems to melt away at that, “We had no body to bury, nor any promise that you would ever return. It was the closest thing to closure I could get.” She explained, “I missed you, Adrien. I understand why you left, why you had to leave, but exile doesn’t mean cutting contact like you did.”
At this, the scowl turns into a genuine grimace, and Adrien shoots Amelie an apologetic look, “The first few years abroad were…. Not conducive to communication. I did write you, I just… never got around to sending them.”
Amelie laughs at that. Frankly, she probably should have expected that excuse. Even in their youth, he was never good at timely written responses.
“Adrien?” Benedict’s voice drifts down from above as the man himself comes down the stairs. “Who is it?” He’s inquiring about the caller, and thankfully not far enough down the stairs yet to see the despairing glare Adrien shoots Amelie.
Amelie, in response, just raises an eyebrow at him. Adrien stares back, unimpressed, before responding, “Someone I would very much like you to meet.” in a tone that somehow both conveyed pleasure at seeing such an old friend again, and annoyance at the timing of the encounter.
“Old friend?” The friend in question mouths. That is not graced with a response.
The scene Benedict’s eyes are greeted with is a funny one, and likely a mite concerning, to any who don’t quite know the history clashing here. Adrien, with the expression of an irate ferret, and a woman he’d never seen before, looking between Adrien and Benedict, as if realizing she’s seen this story before, and is most definitely putting events together.
“Benedict, meet Amelie de Montreuil, my ex-fiance and closest friend. Amelie, Benedict Bridgerton-”
Amelie turns between the two before facing Adrien with an unamused expression, “Twenty-two years, no contact, and you come back with an attractive new beau and no courtesy.” A pause, “I can’t blame you, but I do wonder how you of all people managed that.”
Adrien blanched, the irate ferret expression graduating to that of an offended ferret, and went to respond.
“Ex-fiance?” Benedict cocks an eyebrow.
“It was an arranged contract. Anyone with eyes could see it wasn’t-” Adrien starts, but finds himself cut off.
“Anyone with eyes, besides your own, apparently.” She turns to Benedict, “A pleasure to meet the man capable of making Adrien a kept man. Have you discovered his habit of-”
“And that’s enough of that.” Adrien jumps in, before clearing his throat, gathering some semblance of put-togetherness, “Amelie, would you care to join us for a day of perfectly acceptable
conversation, that notably leaves out any particularly egregious childhood stories?” Adrien asks, with almost a theatrical amount of formality.
Smiling properly for the first time in this entire conversation, Amelie responds, eyes alight, “Why, I would love to, Vicomte de Montfaucon.”
And that is where this particular story, my dears, ends.