Chapter Text
Eloise watched the end of her cigar glow orange in the gloom of Bridgerton House's gardens. The swing set she was balancing on was old and rickety – Gregory and Hyacinth had long since moved on from the thing, and now it existed solely as the place Eloise came to sit and brood. And smoke, of course. Mother would have her head if she saw her with a cigar inside the house.
She scuffed her shoes gently in the dirt and set herself swaying gently, taking a deep drag. The summer air was stiff and heavy still, uncomfortably warm. The tendrils of her hair were sticking to her neck, glued there hours ago by the stuffy air of the ballroom she’d only recently escaped. Her mother was still dragging her along to parties and picnics and dances, though lord knows why. No one wanted her, not really, except maybe for the attachment to her name, and she was interested in no one in return. Anthony could save himself some blunt if he only listened to her and stopped paying for endless new dresses, meant to entice her into attendance. Or maybe it was intended to guilt her into attending. Either way, it was a damn waste. No amount of dastardly chiffon was going to change that.
She blew out the smoke from the corner of her mouth in a jaunty fashion she’d been not-quite-practicing, the way she saw a gentleman smoking once when she’d snuck a glance into the gambling rooms they often set aside for men at parties. He’d perfected a single smoke ring too, but she’d been unable to replicate that as of yet, a fact that niggled at her.
It was odd, she thought. Outside, London was still teeming with life. It was only just past midnight, and for some, she was certain, that meant their day was just beginning. Innkeepers and deliverymen, bakers, and bow street runners. Ladies of the night, even. All just a few miles away. From the silence that encased Bridgerton House, you’d never be able to tell. There was perhaps the sound of carriage wheels on the road outside, the tap of the horse’s shoes on the cobbles, the slamming of a front door, but that was it.
Tonight, Violet had nudged her gently towards Mr. Stourbridge, a second son from a respected family. Stourbridge was meant to be an amateur historian and had apparently even had the success of his papers being published in some journal or other. He was a few inches taller than her, did not accidentally call her by any of her sisters’ names (which had indeed happened), and did not step on her foot when they danced the quadrille. His conversation was polite and even bordered on intelligent. Violet had been delighted by her match. And yet.
Nothing.
She wished Daphne and Simon had not absconded from the city so permanently. She wanted to ask Daphne questions. Though their marriage had unusual beginnings, as Daphne had confessed, there was one thing that was clear to anyone with eyes – Daphne was deeply taken with her husband. Besotted, Eloise would say. Disgustingly so. Daphne watched him when he talked, smiled when he did, gravitated towards him in a crowd, touched him gently, almost absentmindedly during idle conversation. Kissed him senseless when she thought no one was watching. (In her defense, Eloise thought they should have chosen a better setting for their moment than the breakfast room. Yes, it was generally empty during the day, but Eloise had left her book in there and was going to fetch it, and they’d left the door slightly ajar. She’d only paused a moment to watch.)
Anyway, Daphne loved her husband, clearly. And Eloise just couldn’t envision it for herself. Every time she tried to think about being with someone in that way, she could never make the picture stay in her mind. It remained fuzzy and unfocused and then slipped away from her, tauntingly. Her husband never had a face or a name. She’d spent a long time attempting to imagine herself in Daphne’s position, imaging some gentleman pushing her back against the dresser, hitching up her skirts, kissing her desperately, but the image remained resolutely of Daphne and Simon and she only ended up feeling slightly sordid for conjuring up that memory so often.
She wanted to ask Daphne how she knew. How she knew she loved Simon and if things like kissing and conversation were different when you were in love. If it was easier.
She shifted on the swing and sent it swaying in the opposite direction, side to side, feeling restless.
Eloise took another drag of the cigar, freezing when she heard the crunch of boots on the grass behind her. She turned, remembering Benedict’s fondness for catching her out here, and hoped it was him and not another less forgiving member of her family. Sure enough, the tall slender figure striding towards her was definitely the second oldest Bridgerton sibling, and she relaxed again.
‘So, he returns,’ she said when Benedict had settled himself in the swing next to her, stretching out his long legs in front of him. ‘How did you manage to avoid the crush this evening then? Mother was most displeased at your absence.’
Benedict smirked and reached out an expectant hand for the cigar Eloise was holding. She gave it to him with an eyebrow raised and he chuckled. ‘And I am sorry for that. I was at my art club. I need not attend absolutely every social event this season, you know.’
‘You spend an awful lot of time at this art club,’ Eloise sniffed. ‘And you needn’t remind me of the benefits of being a male. I’m well aware that you can pick and choose which events hold your interest.’
‘Ah, but I’m also older than you, Sister, which is another advantage.’
‘Yes, well, if I am your age and still unmarried I shall be considered on the shelf, practically a social leper, so no one will care whether I go anywhere at all, which is another thing entirely.’
Benedict inhaled slowly and then let out a steady stream of smoke. ‘Is there not a certain freedom in that?’ he asked slowly.
‘There’s a difference between freedom and complete abandonment, brother,’ she snapped, sticking out her hand for the cigar. Benedict passed it to her reluctantly, shrugging.
‘I was just trying to make you feel better.’
‘Well, don’t.’
‘Duly noted.’
They settled into silence for a few minutes, passing the cigar between them, until Eloise sighed. Benedict cut her a quizzical glance.
‘You are too young to sigh like that, sister.’
‘You weren’t at the ball tonight, so you weren’t witness to my suffering. Mother has got it into her head that Mr. Stourbridge would be a perfect match for me.’
‘Stourbridge, the historian, is that? Well, at least he’s not simple. Or old.’ Benedict cocked his head to the side, ‘I was in his older brother’s year at Oxford, the Baron. Nice family. Never met the brother much but by all reports, he’s an affable fellow.’
‘Yes, yes, I know all that,’ Eloise said wearily. ‘That’s why Mother is so excited. He’s just come back from his tour and is apparently looking to marry.’
‘That’s practically catnip where mothers are concerned,’ Benedict chuckled.
‘Quite,’ Eloise said shortly.
Benedict paused, stopped by the sharpness of her tone. ‘You didn’t like him? Was he part of this evening's sufferings, then?’
‘He was perfectly nice. We talked about the history of the Greeks. He danced with me twice and I did not disgrace myself. He’s even perfectly nice to look at. He has that fluffy blonde hair that all the other girls seem to covet.’
‘And?’ Benedict prompted gently.
‘And Mother looked so damn hopeful all evening. I couldn’t stand it. It made me feel awful. He might come call tomorrow and then I shall have to go on a ride with him and it all just feels so pointless. I just cannot bring myself to do it. And yet I know if I wrote down a logical list of things I would like in a husband, he meets almost all of them. I should find him interesting, should I not? I should welcome the match, shouldn’t I? And yet I don’t!’ She let out a frustrated growl.
Wordlessly Benedict handed her back the cigar. It was burning low now, practically finished with. She took a last drag and then flung it to the floor, where Benedict ground it out with the heavy heel of his boot.
‘You have a mistress, do you not? What was it like with her? The modiste?’ Eloise asked suddenly.
Benedict was startled into a bark of laughter. ‘She and I stopped seeing each other months ago. We weren’t suited in the end.’
‘Are you seeing anyone now?’
She saw Benedict’s shoulders stiffen, just a little. She knew she was bold to talk of mistresses so brazenly, but really, she and Benedict were well past that point by now, surely.
‘Yes,’ Benedict replied. ‘I have someone that I see regularly.’
‘And are you happy with them? Are you attracted to them? How do you know that? What does it feel like?’
Benedict snorted, which was not the reaction Eloise was expecting. He tried to hide it by rifling in his coat pocket and drawing out another cigar and his lighter. The spark of the flame lit up his face, and Eloise could see he was smiling, his eyes crinkled with amusement.
‘Yes, I am attracted to them. And I am happy. I am quite the happiest I have been in a while,’ he answered eventually when the cigar was orange and glowing.
‘Did you know right away? That you, uh….’ Eloise lost a little confidence here, but attempted to plow on regardless. ‘that you… desired…uh…’
Benedict smiled, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards. ‘Actually, no. It took me a while to warm up, I suppose. But I did like them immensely first of all. We share similar interests.’
Eloise gasped. ‘Is your lady an artist too, then?’
‘No,’ Benedict answered simply, sucking on the cigar. They lapsed into silence again and Eloise leaned back on the swing, tilting her head to stare up at the moon, bright and round in the night sky, stark white against the velvety blackness.
Benedict’s voice interrupted her thoughts. It had lost all trace of the laughter from before. ‘I suppose I cannot explain it, Eloise, not fully. It’s meeting a person and wanting to hear whatever next comes out of their mouth, it’s being fascinated by the way they look and every expression on their face, it’s wanting to touch their skin just to feel closer, it’s a need that seems to almost settle in your stomach, pulling you forward. There’s no reason for it. It just is.’
Eloise gripped the rope and pulled herself upright slowly, glancing over at Benedict. He was staring at the sky too, up at the few stars that had managed to poke through the London smog. He was deadly serious. She had never heard him talk like that.
‘Well,’ she said finally, ‘I’m certain no one has ever made me feel that way.’
Benedict turned to look at her, his gaze surprisingly piercing. That, added to the boldness of his speech, made her squirm in her seat.
‘Really? Not anyone at all?’
She frowned, suddenly irritated. Was he just rubbing it in her face? What he described sounded wonderful. A tad strange yes, but she was drawn to the intensity of his description. She would give anything to feel like that about someone, to break up the dullness and drudgery of the season, to have something exciting happen to her, to feel just a fraction of what her brother evidently had experienced. Perhaps she was just not fated to do so.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ she replied firmly, before adding somewhat cattishly, ‘Certainly not Mr. Stourbridge. He’s just so…. so predictable.’
‘I understand.’
‘Do you? You are not being pressured into marriage, after all.’
‘Not at this current moment, but I suppose my time will come,’ he said quietly. ‘And it will be just as predictable and I shall like it just as least as you.’
Eloise harrumphed in reply. There was a long silence. She watched as Benedict blew a perfect smoke ring, three in succession, up into the evening sky, and rolled her eyes.
‘Of course you can do that. I have been trying for months. Life is simply not fair.’
Benedict smiled. ‘You’re never predictable Eloise. Practicing blowing smoke rings in your spare time? What’s next, gambling? Breeches?’
Eloise sniffed. ‘I did get Colin to teach me a little of Risk before he left, and I have asked Mother if I may wear breeches, even just around the house, but she refused.’
‘Of course you did,’ Benedict laughed.
It was getting late, but neither of them made to move back into the house. Eloise doubted she’d be able to sleep in the heat anyway, would only lay in bed tossing and turning and getting all twisted in the sheets.
‘You know Eloise; I believe you are my favorite sibling.’
She snorted. ‘Don’t let Colin hear that, he’d be highly offended.’
‘I’m serious.’ And he sounded it. His voice was low and almost… somber. Eloise frowned.
‘Well, I appreciate it.’
‘Because you’re my favorite, I’d like to tell you a secret. You mustn’t tell anyone, alright?’
Eloise nodded vigorously, confused at the turn in the conversation, but always ready for moments like this. ‘I am excellent at keeping secrets. Just ask Penelope.’
Benedict smiled and exhaled a stream of smoke into the sky. He watched it unfurl slowly and disappear, and when he spoke he wasn’t really looking at her.
‘You asked me earlier about my art club. Certainly, I go there. We practice life drawing and landscapes and work on oils and charcoal and other mediums. But there is more to the club than that. It’s a gathering of like-minded individuals, I suppose.’
He paused and hauled in a breath. Eloise was on the edge of her swing seat.
‘Lots of the members have formed... relationships… with each other. It’s a free place and no one quite pays mind to what happens in the rest of the society when we are together. It’s a reprieve and a stimulant all at once. I have a friend there, a fellow painter.’
Eloise saw him swallow.
‘We are together, he and I. As more than friends. I like to talk with him, we can talk for hours and not run out of things to say, and he makes me laugh endlessly. And yes, I desire him also.’
He did not turn to look at her, his gaze seemingly fixed somewhere in the middle distance. There was stunned silence until Eloise eventually was able to open her mouth.
‘Oh.’
And then, ‘How wonderful. That you feel that way. That you found a partner like that.’
She heard him pull in a shaky breath, but then he turned and he was smiling again.
Eloise’s throat suddenly felt very dry for some reason. ‘How did--? I mean when did?’
‘How did I know I liked him, or that I liked men?’ Benedict filled in. Eloise nodded stiffly to indicate the last question.
‘It’s not really a tale for your ears, but I suppose I was introduced to the idea and I found that it did not repel me, and he and I were already friends. It felt natural.’
Eloise nodded. ‘May I ask if you still… like women? I’m sorry, I don’t know how any of this works.’
‘I do. I wasn’t faking my earlier attractions.’ He shot her a smirk, closer to the expressions she was used to seeing on Benedict’s face. ‘I find that my palette has just widened, is all I suppose.’ He punctuated that with a wink.
This made Eloise giggle, which caused Benedict to break out into an answering grin. The cigar in his hand was forgotten, burned down, and he ground it out next to the previous one.
‘I hope Mother doesn’t notice the charred holes in the lawn.’
‘it is just as well no one comes out here anymore,’ Benedict chuckled.
‘Indeed.’
More silence, but fuller now somehow.
‘Eloise.’ She looked up from the grass and met her brother’s brown eyes, the exact shade as her own. ‘I hope you find the same connection as I have one day. I believe it will be obvious when it happens. You may only need to…. widen your own tastes, perhaps?’
He raised a single dark eyebrow at her and Eloise felt her face flood with heat. She attempted to answer, to protest, but all that came out was a strangled sort of groan or a gasp. Benedict only smiled softly and pulled himself to his feet.
‘After all, there are as many pretty girls in London as there are handsome men, and I would hate for you to miss out sister dearest. Now, if you don’t mind, I will be going to bed. Don’t stay out here too long, will you?’
Eloise managed to shake her head. Benedict nodded, smiled again, and then turned to leave. He got a few paces across the garden before Eloise recalled her voice and called quietly after him.
‘Thank you, brother.’
He turned to give her a small sort of salute and then strode back towards the house, to the servants’ door she had originally sneaked out of, and disappeared.
Eloise sat on the swing seat and began to twist the ropes above her head together, pushing herself in circles with the toe of her boot. She used to do this all the time when she was younger, loved the gentle build-up, the exciting release, and the dizziness that came with it.
Benedict’s words felt permanently lodged in her brain. She had always thought women beautiful, but didn’t everyone? And she was certainly always more interested in what women had to say than what would come out of a man’s mouth next, that was for certain. And it was true, she had collected a not inconsiderate amount of carefully hidden postcards and prints of the Lady Hamilton, but that was because she was so daring and unconventional, was it not? She had always admired the softness of some ladies' skin, the pink in their cheeks, when forced to socialize at balls. She frequently stood back and watched fascinated as they swept their hands while talking and fluttered their fans with dainty fingers, pink rosebud mouths pursed or tilted into a soft smile. It was only logical that the men fell at their feet. She quite understood. She had never been able to replicate it herself, but she understood. Was that all it was, understanding?
For experiment’s sake, she conjured the image of Daphne and Simon again (apologized in her head again) and then imagined herself in Daphne’s place, up against the dresser, but instead of a man’s hand at her waist, she imagined a lady’s smaller one, imagined a light nimble frame pressing against hers, delicate fingers cupping her chin, soft red lips on her neck. Eloise’s stomach fluttered.
The foot she’d been using to twist herself stumbled and abruptly the swing unraveled. Eloise was thrown into orbit, the breath whipped from her lungs until the ropes untwisted with a final jerk. She was left gasping, clutching on to the rope, her palms stinging.
Oh, god.
Perhaps Benedict had the right of it. Perhaps she had been looking in the wrong places.
Perhaps this was worse than she could ever have imagined. And yet, perhaps it was better too.
She had a hypothesis to test now. An answer to find. And after all, there was nothing she liked better than that.