Work Text:
“It’s true. I am Lady Whistledown.”
Eloise stares at Penelope as though her friend has grown a second head. To know it in her heart is one thing, but to hear Penelope’s admission; a clicking-into-place, a solving of the puzzle, a stopping of her inner torment, is another.
The end of the game is nigh.
She has been so focused on finding out whether she is right, that she does not know quite what to do now.
The yellow walls blur and spin. Eloise steps away. The doorknob presses into the small of her back.
Penelope smooths her dress (really, with the utter gall of everything she's done). "It does not matter. Lady Whistledown is gone —”
"Do you take me for a fool? She presses a hand to her forehead, and heat erupts below her skin. The air in Penelope's room is too thick, and tangible, and suffocating. ”This personal hell, this torture, my obsession, instead of freeing me, you have ruined me, as you have been ruining lives—" her breath hitches, nothing makes sense, "
Lady Featherington—and Miss Thompson—her brother—her entire family—and Penelope puppeteering it all. She's supposed to be the clever one.
Penelope's eyes flash. It's only there for a moment, before composure washes over her again. "I mean only to help!" she begins, "You're fooling yourself. You cannot outrun society forever!"
Something in the waver of Penelope's makes Eloise realize in that moment, in her friend's pleas, how much Penelope actually needs Eloise to value her. That realization crawls down Eloise's spine and spins coils of webs around her neck. Her expression hardens. "Do not speak to me again." One could mistake her face for Anthony's in the shadows. “Do not look at me again. Do not think of me again, and do not come near my family.”
"Eloise...."
She does not care that Penelope's eyes are red. She does not care.
She bolts from the room with hand over her mouth and falls to her knees in the back of the Featheringtons' garden. She ruins the trimming, but it is a good enough middle finger to Penelope that she doesn’t care.
_____
The swing creaks with every movement. Ropes burn red rashes into Eloise's palms. They were never supposed to end up this way, her and Pen. Never—not her friend, her dearest confidant.
Eloise groans a presses a hand to her forehead. It feels like her mind is trying to split itself apart. The reconciliation of Penelope and Whistledown are discordant, but in even more ways they are in perfect harmony.
"You cannot outrun society forever."
Penelope's words hit like a brick wall. A scoff bubbles up at the ridiculousness. She does not run. It's a mile away from 'in her nature'. She faces life head-on, like any protagonist of the great Woolfs and Austens would. Eloise Bridgerton is a protagonist. Eloise Bridgerton is a protagonist. I am a protagonist.
She is worthy and important in her own right and even Penelope saw that, until she didn't.
It's all right, says Imaginary Theo, and Eloise, pathetic as she is, wants to wraps her arms around herself and pretend the warmth is his.
But this is reality. And oh, it is terrible, and it makes her want to cry.
If the Queen knows who Whistledown is, she may help restore the Bridgerton name, and she will glower as Penelope is given satisfactory justice. It seems possible at first. Only, shit, Eloise has ruined those prospects; foot in mouth, foolish to think the Queen will listen to someone who fraternized in her activities. And Theo, then Theo will not be safe. Eloise takes a deep breath. Fireworks go off somewhere, to celebrate everyone, and everything. She’s always been good at crafting information into what it needs to be.
Who is left to help? Her mother—no. No, no, no. Eloise is a disappointment already, and facing her mother— One. Two. In. Out. Her heart trips over itself in a panic—she drinks from the cigarette poised between two fingers. Then—
Footsteps.
Eloise spins around. Benedict Bridgerton stands, a silhouette carved out by the moonlight and the gentle beginnings of rain. He squints at her. He stinks.
“Oh my god, you are remarkable."
"Excuse me?"
"In the rain. All hunched over." He blinks away mock tears, and Eloise remembers how big brothers never change. "It is remarkable how much you look like shit, Eloise. What are you doing on the grass?"
She scrunches her nose. "Piss off."
Because the universe surely detests her, her older brother flops beside her on the grass to watch the fireworks. “You are being rather rude," he slurs, "and foolish, because that is a party that you are avoiding and it has very hot, hot, hot men. Ooh, did you taste the cake? Or the men? They're very hot men.”
How much did he drink? He reeks worse than normal. "Must I have a sign on my backside that says 'I don't want you here' for everybody to piss off?"
"I don't think you want everybody to piss off." Benedict peers at her, really does, very closely. He stumbles closer and sits on the grass, then leans with his arms out—is he about to hug her—but no, it’s only to steal a drag from the cigarette caught in her hand. He coughs and smiles.
Eloise stares at him, mouth agape in complete disgust and mock offense. "That's mine, you shit!" One mighty shove catapults him from the swing, and Benedict cackles madly and rolls with it onto the grass.
"You can share!"
"Three quid. Per box. You owe me."
"You stingy little—Eloise, where are you getting that money?"
Silence. She bites her lip.
He sits up abruptly. "Something's actually wrong, isn't it? Are you involved with something? Are you—" he rolls over, staining his suit with brown and green. Oh, Benedict. "—are you okay? Are you Lady Whistledown? You can tell me."
"I am not Lady Whistledown," she whispers, turning her head away. Fuck, she will not start crying in front of him.
Benedict huffs. "You don't have to talk about whatever's bothering you, but...I am your brother. That counts for...” he blinks, creasing his eyebrows. "Something? I hope? I haven't been that dreadful of a brother, have I?"
”You'd be better if you'd let me be quiet and let me mope. Peacefully.”
He considers this for a long while. Then he lies down...on the grass. The soaking wet grass. Absolutely brilliant.
"Benedict?"
”Hm?”
She grabs his wrist. “Please don’t let me get married. Swear it. You’re the only person who even remotely gets me. I wish that...” Eloise's mouth goes dry. She doesn't know. It's hard to conceptualize into a solid thing after slotting it out of her head for so long. It's been a while since she knew for sure what she wanted, exactly. "I wish Father were here," she says firmly, "I wish nobody fucking cared about the definition of a Bridgerton. I wish Daphne would trip and fall into mud."
Benedict snorts. "This is about how we have stuck-up pricks for siblings?"
"Something like that," she pleads, needing him to understand. She hates this, hates being forced to plead for attention because she can't survive without it, hates what the night does to her sometimes, hates that it feels like Penelope of everyone has turned her life into a circus where she cannot trust anything. If she doesn't remember how to trust Benedict right here, right now, she's not sure how to continue along her axis.
Why had she spent so long pushing her mother away? Eloise wants her mother so much. Her mother is going to hate her and the queen is going to hate her and—
Benedict heaves a sigh. "You want to run. You're tired of being a Bridgerton."
She looks at him sharply.
He rolled his eyes. "It just happens to the best of us. Colin went to Greece, and Daphne to the country, and Anthony to brothels, and mother...and, you go to books, don't you?"
"I—well, I wouldn't describe it like—"
"Nobody said it was fucking easy being a Bridgerton. Unfortunately, we do have to make it look effortless. And it's bullshit. I'm here, instead of at the party, aren't I? Am I less of a Bridgerton for it? No. "
Oh.
Stars sparkle through the leaves. Little pinpricks of hope. Perhaps Theo is staring up at them as well right now. She wants it to be true so bad that her chest hurts. Eloise tightens her jaw and looks down. She picks at a hangnail. "You make it sound so simple."
He looks at the sky with her. "I'm your brother."
But worth it, apparently, because the next thing she knows she's curled up under Benedict's arm with water seeped into her clothes. They haven't sat like this in ages. He used to take care of the younger ones, read them stories, when Anthony was busy and their parents were away. He would carry her to her room, discuss her favorite teas with her ladies-in-waiting, and...he was simply Benedict.
The fireworks blare, not a few hundred yards away.
Her legs itch to run.
She brushes hair from her eyes and relishes the warmth of Benedict's coat a little more.
"It's stupid."
"What is?"
Not like he would know, would he? But the puzzle churns in her head, and she sees a piece for him now. “You must promise me that you won’t say anything. To anyone. Yet. Or that you won’t run and do something idiotic.”
He nods.
”Lady Whistledown."
Thunder and fireworks crash together overhead.
"It's Penelope." Eloise's chest constricts. Why had she said it aloud? The rain nearly drowns it out, and she immediately hopes he didn't hear.
Benedict doesn't speak for a couple minutes. "She told you?"
"Figured it out myself. Then she confessed."
His face goes through ten different emotions at once, and settles on, "What did Anthony say?"
“Please. We are more siblings than Anthony and I ever will be."
He looks at his sister, and his eyes soften with understanding. "So that," he says, making the same pained expression as when he'd swallowed a fish bone at the dinner table, "That is not stupid."
Eloise realizes how much she'd been gripping onto the hope that Benedict wouldn't believe her; she could reap retribution from that. If he could roll his eyes and laugh off this tectonic shift of her ego, maybe it wasn't so terrible. It might be a story they could laugh about, store away, and eventually forget. Benedict wouldn't feel the same horror at Penelope's betrayal as she did.
But the act of saying it wipes away any denial to grip onto. It's true. It's real, relegated to a depressingly empty, resigned truth.
"I want to kill her," Eloise glowers at the swing, tightening her grip on the rope and loving the burn. "It's not fair because I was supposed grow up at some point and figure all this out but I haven't and I want to kill her."
"This wasn't your fault."
"I befriended her. I was our undoing."
"Eloise."
"You still want to claim me as your sister?" Every ounce of scrutiny on their family had only gets worse with her around. "Because I clearly cannot do anything right—“ It comes out too unsteady. She shakes her head.
“You’ll be fine." Benedict shrugs, but with surprising sobriety, "Mother will never let anything happen. She loves us. And more importantly, sister, I will never let anything happen. No matter what mistakes you make, we are a family. Don't let anything question that.” He sighs and turning his head towards the sky. "Anything else?"
“Right then,” he says as, in one movement, he sits up, peels off his rancid, grass-ridden jacket, and drapes it around her shoulders. Eloise shivers and buries herself in the warmth of the fabric. He studies her for a beat before sighing and running a hand through his hair. “You should go home, Eloise."
"What?"
"Because you need rest," he replies firmly. She can't parse his expression, only that he stares directly at her. ”And I don’t mean to be rude," he adds mildly, "but I’m drenched. And I want some tea, or I’ll have a splitting headache tomorrow. And did I mention I am positively fucking soaked to the bone out here."
“Why? Did you not hear me? If you’re planning something for Penelope, I won’t be denied my revenge merely because you think I can’t handle it.”
Benedict frowns. "I... was plotting to puke in the Featherington fountain tonight in your honor, but...if you'd rather I didn't..."
"The fountain! Brilliant. I did the bushes earlier!"
He runs a hand along the back of his hair, smirking. "But the fountain will circulate it."
Eloise grins.
A few minutes later, they make it to the porch, laughing, and rain pounds on the roof.
It would feel so good to run away from this.
But even as she wrestles with the thought, it is true deep down. She runs, every chance she gets. From the debutante balls, from the dance lessons, growing up, from her family's stupid legacy and from Daphne and Whistledown. Every day another fight.
She is a Bridgerton. Yet she is also Benedict's sister, who always reads and never speaks with him, who tunes out the world because it is too hostile for her, and for whom nothing comes ever naturally. But she tries, and she fights, far harder than Daphne does, and with so much less reward.
Even he—or only he—sees that she gets tired of being her own worst enemy.