Chapter Text
Like everyone else, Eloise Bridgerton was fifteen years old when she learned who her soulmate was. It was one of those things that every teenaged girl looked forward to, like their debut. Not Eloise, though, she didn't care for the idea of either. She found it quite ridiculous, the idea that the course of her life would be decided by a name tattooed on her shoulder. It was an absurd concept to her and she despised how obsessed the world was with it. It did not feel fair to have such little control over her own life.
See, your soulmate could be anyone. She had heard terrible stories of women being forced to move across the country to marry their soulmate, a man they'd never even met. Being sent off with the promise of happiness, but not knowing aything of what would greet you, was terrible like nothing else. While Eloise knew she would not suffer that fate in particular, not by the will of any Bridgerton, the idea scared her beyond belief. She wanted to be able to find love on her own, not have it decided for her.
Still, she was curious about what name would appear. That indeed was a universal feeling, she was sure. Even though she was afraid of the little mark and what it would mean for her life going forward, perhaps it would be an interesting discovery.
"I bet it will be a prince!" her sister said excitedly. Daphne, being older than Eloise, had already received her tattoo. It had the initial and surname of some duke-to-be on it, who she had heard of only vaguely -- some college friend of Anthony's, which was a concern for everyone who'd heard the news. Anthony especially.
"A prince?" She snorted. "I would drive him mad. Let us hope not, for his sake."
It was nearing midnight, she knew. She had the sleeve of her dress rolled up so they could read the tattoo when it showed up.
Daphne clapped her hands, more excited than anyone else had been about the prospect. While Eloise was not interested in such matters of love, her sister had always been a hopeless romantic. "Well? Who do you hope it is, then?"
This question caught her by surprise. Really, she wasn't sure. It wasn't something she had considered in-depth, having been so worried about a bad outcome that she hadn't thought about what a good outcome would even be. "I'm not quite sure," she admitted. "I suppose someone intelligent, who treats me well."
"That's what *everyone* wants; what else?"
She shrugged. "I suppose, based on what everyone has told us, I will know it when I meet h-."
She shrieked. "Eloise!"
"Huh?"
Daphne pointed at the uncovered skin that the name was supposed to be written on. "T Sharpe!" She then spelled the name out, waving her hands around in excitement. "Gosh, his handwriting is beautiful. Perhaps he had a tutor as we did." She was already theorizing, of course.
Eloise's stomach did a somersault. "T Sharpe," she repeated, testing how the name sounded being spoken. "What do you reckon the T stands for?"
She hummed, thinking. "Perhaps Thomas? Thomas Sharpe? Tobias?"
"Maybe. Do you still have the mirror? I'd like to see." She wanted a momentary distraction, before she had to face her feelings about the issue. She would put it off for a bit and admire this man's supposedly neat signature.
Daphne handed the mirror to her sister. "I am so happy for you," she said. "Do you know of this man yet?"
The name really was written quite well as far as signatures go, she agreed. The writing was loopy without being too grand, neat without looking boring. She only hoped his personality was as good as his penmanship. She set the mirror down. "No, I do not believe I do."
"Let us imagine what he is like, then. When you meet him, you can tell me if we are correct. Tell me... do you think he has seen your name yet?"
"I would doubt it. I would think, unless he lived terribly far, he would have sought me out by now. We have a recognizable name, you know."
"My Simon has yet to," Daphne argued.
"Well, he is known for being quite rakish, is he not? And he has known Anthony since childhood. It must be an awkward situation. He will change, of course, but he has not had the time to yet."
She nodded. Reminders of this had never fazed her. "That is fair. What do you hope he looks like?"
"I do not care what he looks like, Daff. I just hope he's well-read and knows how to hold a proper debate."
- – — • — – -
It had actually been a little more than a year earlier when Theodore Sharpe had gotten his tattoo.
As was tradition on such an occasion, he had stayed up until midnight with his best friend. He looked forward to the prospect of knowing. He had his hopes on who it was, of course; pretty ladies in town who he thought it would be fun to fall in love with. The truth was, though, he woud not be upset no matter who it was.
He did not typically tend to trust whatever God or Fate had in store for him, but this had been well-documented enough that he supposed the tattoo must be correct. Everyone he had asked always said good things, telling the story of how they had met their soulmate and fallen in love. Theo supposed he wanted to fall in love someday as well, but it was not a top priority.
"I hope it's Catherine," his best friend said. Joeseph had only just turned fourteen, and had yet to get his tattoo, so he'd been living vicariously through Theo as they waited for midnight. "For me, I mean. Not you."
He shrugged. "I know you fancy yourself in love with her, but do you really think it's going anywhere? It sounds like she doesn't even want to be your friend. No offense and all."
Joeseph shook his head sadly. "You are cruel to me, Theo. It is not a passing phase. Just you wait! Her fifteenth birthday is in a few months. It will be my name that shows up."
"I will be elated for the two of you if that turns out true," he said. It was honest, he would be very happy for his friend, but he had his doubts. Catherine had never shown him any interest. He was a bit delusional when it came to her.
"As will I when, in a few minutes, I see Cassandra's name pop up in your tattoo."
Theo flushed. "I- I don't like Cassandra in that way!" he insisted. "Stop bringing that up. It is not as funny as you think it is."
"It is funny," he insisted. "You just have a stick too far up your ass to understand humor when you hear it," he teased.
Theo rolled his eyes, but he smiled just a bit. Joseph could be a prick sometimes, but he was hilarious when it came down to it. "Imagine if I'm Catherine's soulmate," he joked.
"Don't speak that into existence! You bastar-" He stopped, eyes widening. "Sharpe. Your tattoo."
Theo snapped to attention. "Yes? What does it say?"
"You're gonna hate this..." He let out a nervous laugh. "E Bridgerton."
"Bridgerton?" he asked incredulously. "One of the Bridgerton girls from Mayfair?" He had never met one of them personally, but living in Bloomsbury, he had certainly heard of the family. They were rich, he knew, and in the cicles he frequented they were seen as quite pretentious. He would not judge too harshly without meeting her, but a Bridgerton was the last person he would expect to be his soulmate.
"It must be. Do you know any of them?" He asked. All their lighthearted attitude had vanished. The boys were teenagers, sure, but they understood the importance and the scandal of this.
Theo shook his head. "No, of course not. I do not even know their names. Do you?"
"No. What are you gonna do?"
He tried to blink away his surprise. This news, it was absolutely dumbfounding. He could not begin to process what this might mean for him -- or her, really, but that wasn't his primary concern yet. "I have absolutely no idea."
Joeseph whistled, eyes still wide as saucers. "You're gonna be rich. You should go to her house and tell the family."
"I do not think I want to do that," he said immediately. He did not know why he said it, really. It would be good to meet his soulmate The words rang true, though.
"Then what? She's your soulmate. You can't just pretend she doesn't exist."
"The Bridgertons only live in Mayfair," Theo reminded him. "I am sure we will encounter each other naturally, without me having to make a big deal out of it. Surely, if we are meant for each other, it will turn out alright in the end." It was weird, imagining a Bridgerton girl as his soulmate. What was she like? What about her would attract him to her, and her to him? He would not know until he met her, he was sure, but that fact did not stop his mind from racing as it tended to.
"You know it's more complex than that, Sharpe. Not everyone finds their soulmate."
The idea bothered him more than before.
- – — • — – -
It was three years later, at the age of eighteen, that Eloise next heard anything of her soulmate. In those years that had passed so quickly, she had become a raging advocate for women's rights and started devouring books quicker than she ever had before. She cared about the idea of a soulmate even less than before, having become enlightened to just how cruel men tended to be in their society.
No, Eloise's one true love was surely not T Sharpe. It was reading, the pleasure of exercising her own mind through the joys of learning. That was what left her exhilarated, not the idea of marriage. Sure, marriage was not a bad concept by itself, but the lack of equality in their society made it sound about as appealing as incarceration. Being a Bridgerton, she would not settle for anything less than a blissful life, which she was sure a man could not provide her.
On the lovely spring day in question, Eloise had a pamphlet in her lap. It was something political, she knew, but she'd yet to dive into it. It had been given to her by a maid, who could tell her nothing about it except for its left-leaning tendencies. In fact, this was Eloise's first time taking a full look at the pamphlet.
Thoughts on the Rights of Women, it was called. Not a very clever title, but anything about that subject was bound to draw her in. It had been a nice find. Her eyes were drawn to the author listed. She nearly gasped as she read the name.
T Sharpe.
Now, despite her disillusioned view of marriage and the concept of soulmates, she could not help but be shocked with excitement at seeing that familiar name. For years, she had wondered whose name was important enought to be imprinted on her skin. Surely, this was him. How many men by the name of T Sharpe could there be?
She was a lot more interested in the pamphlet after that discovery, but Eloise needed some time to process before she dove in. She had found him. Or, rather, she had found his writing. Over the years, she had rather begun to think that she would never meet this man or hear any mention of him. He was a ghost for all she knew, with no reliable way to find him and speak to him about the relationship the universe had in store for them. Perhaps, if he was writing things such as the pamphlet in her hands, he was not as bad as she had feared. That was assuming the work was any good.
Still, even if he was more promising than she'd given him credit for, it may not matter. All she had was his first initial and surname, his political leanings, and the assumption that he probably lived somewhat near Mayfair. It was not much information at all, even if it was more than she had been burdened with a few years prior. This was not a solved mystery yet; it was just another clue for her to make use of. If the pamphlet was the slightest bit insightful, she decided, she would begin her search. She had little else to do, except to read. Even Eloise needed a break from reading every once in a while.
She unfolded the pamphlet, finally taking a look. She had a pencil in hand, preparing to underline and add notations wherever her mind demanded. She had never been afraid to annotate. Eloise believed reading was a conversation of sorts between the author and their reader, and the reader's thoughts therefore held as much importance on the page as the original text did.
His words were formal, but she could see the passion as her eyes skated across the page. He cared about this subject, surely, which was admirable indeed. He used big words sometimes, but almost always provided an explanation when one might struggle to understand the word's meaning from context. It was well-written, for sure, but she resolved to save her judgement of the content for after she had finished reading. It seemed as if he was preparing to make a groundbreaking point, or end in a grand conclusion that tied the whole ramble together. (He did, actually, and it was fascinating.)
It was an enjoyable read. It took her longer than it usually would as she scribbled notes in the margins. Her mind was in a frenzy as she digested the ideas he put forth. They were intelligent, and even unique compared to many other manifestos she had gotten her hands on. He knew exactly how to communicate his points. He walked the reader through the process of how he came to such a conclusion with guidance, but there was not the faintest trace of condescension. It made her wonder just how interesting this man might be to talk to, what ideas they might exchange.
She folded up the pamphlet and tucked it into her dress. Now, she knew, it was time for action. The writing had impressed her, although as always she had her criticisms. She decided the obvious next step was to find this T Sharpe and share her many thoughts of his work with him, everything from criticism go praise.
Eloise ran inside to the Bridgerton house, anticipation coursing through her veins. She still was not terribly invested in the idea of a soulmate, but she was always up for an adventure. This hunt would no doubt satisfy that craving.