As a cisgender, white, bisexual second son of a viscount, and as a gentleman landowner of multiple estates on the unceded ancestral homeland of the Celts and Saxons, I don’t see race. Of late, many of my acquaintances have expressed very great wonder at this. I set down my lived experience here in the hopes that it may serve as an example.
On the eve of the 1815 season, I attended my mama’s masquerade ball at Bridgerton House. Even as I entered the ballroom, members of the Ton recognized me, despite my attempts at concealment—I am taller than my brothers and exceedingly well built, and also I wasn’t wearing a costume and my mask was small.
A young lady curtseyed to me and said she had heard I was a devotee of Thomas Lawrence, a great master of portraiture who had recently exhibited at the Royal Academy.
“Oh, you like Lawrence?” I said. “Name three of his group compositions.” The lady gaped at me.
“I thought not,” I said, chuckling and moving towards the table piled high with sweetmeats.
Having refreshed myself, I turned and saw before me a vision: a lady of surpassing beauty. I will describe her now exactly. She was a young lady. Her dress was silver. Her mask, which was also silver, concealed parts of her face. I was drawn to her, like a footman to a barouche box.
I asked if she would honor me with a dance. She said that this would be impossible, as she could not dance. She was not like other young ladies! I desired to hear more of her charming eccentricities.
Outside on the terrace, the stars shone upon her beautiful visage, which had the same features as most people: a nose, a mouth, and two eyes. She was shorter than me, which brought little surprise, as I am very tall. Her hair was on her head.
The lady and I had traded more witty repartee. Then, I kissed her. The kiss caused waves of pleasure to surge through my body, and through hers too, I am confident. In a flash, I saw our future: We would wed. We would taste of love, even though I would never stop seeing my favorite ladies of the night. She would give me six sons.
But as the clock struck midnight, the woman gasped and ran from me, leaving me standing forlorn on the terrace, holding her glove in my hand.
I resolved to find her, to beg her hand. Though I have no title, I have a respectable fortune and lands, and frankly, she could do worse. But who was she? There were many eligible, age-appropriate ladies in the Ton.
Following the ball, I confessed this meeting to my mama.
“Benedict, my dear,” she inquired, “what color was the young lady’s hair?”
“Her hair?” I said. “It was the color of moon song, and the length of poetry.”
My mama further inquired, “But was it blond or brunette? Perhaps it was black, or auburn?”
“It was all of those at once,” I told her. “It was redolent of diamonds, and it contained the world.”
“There’s really only a few hair colors,” Mama said, with a touch of impatience.
I recalled how I had stared into the lady’s eyes, feeling that I could see straight to her soul.
“Benedict,” Mama interjected, “what color were her eyes?”
“The color of eternity,” I said.
Mama looked uncomfortable. “Look,” she said. “It is—not civil, perhaps, to inquire so—but what, uh, what was her, well, what color was her skin?”
“Her skin?” I asked. As is the fashion, the lady’s arms had been exposed, and I had admired her décolletage. “I do not recall.” Mama looked disbelieving.
“Was she—oh, how to say this—a child of… Europa? Or perhaps, of African ancestry? Did she hail from the great families of India?”
“Mama!” I said, shocked. “I did not ask this woman, ‘Where are you from?’ You know very well that to do so would be a micro-incivility. Or did you not read the pamphlet I gave you on the topic?”
“To be sure, Benedict,” my Mama said, hastily. “I read all of your pamphlets. But still, I thought you might have noticed her coloring, or any of her features.”
“Her mien was that of a goddess,” I said. “Her coloring I did not observe. I apologize if I was rather fixated on the contours of her mind. I beg your pardon that I was so taken by her ideas that I happened not to MEMORIZE her physical features.”
Mama suggested that we take a promenade and look for the lady in silver. It was a fine day, and we walked arm in arm, passing many ladies. None of them were wearing silver. Worse, none of them were wearing a mask. This was frustrating. My mother pointed to a lady in a lilac gown.
“Could that be her?” she asked. I peered at her. It was really hard to tell. Mama gestured at another lady, this time wearing yellow.
“Perhaps,” I said, sighing. Mama looked at me with an expression that, but for her great gentleness, I might have called rage.
“Those women are different, that is, they have different, ah—complexions,” she said. “Are you telling me you truly do not know one from the other?”
Oh, simple Mama! She had not enjoyed the benefits of as many pamphlets and lectures as I, and as such, I pitied her. These young ladies were more to me than their skin colors, their hair colors, their identities, their heritage, their family traditions, and their characters. I simply didn’t see those things. I couldn’t have even if I wished to. I am a humble second son, and when I look at a woman, I don’t see “race.” I see a soul.
And also, a means of having many, many sons.