Chapter Text
Altogether, it is entirely too easy.
She doesn’t even plan anything, in all honesty. There’s no grand theory, no intricate steps. Nothing that needs to be plotted out, written down in her diary like an instructional manual. Very little thought at all, beyond which shoes are best suited to the stone walkways, which hoods blend smoothly with the dark corners. Which book slips neatly in her purse, pages already turned down on the parts she’ll like to read to him, if only to watch the way his eyebrows crinkle, how she can see the thoughts turning around before he voices them. The expression he makes when he’s considering something so deeply and honestly because he finds it fascinating, and not simply because she is the one who said it.
If it is meant to be so very wrong–disastrous, ruinous, the gravest mistake she can ever make– then surely it should not feel so right.
Apology tours, like all unexpected calls, are best done with offerings.
There’s barely room in her bag for four biscuits, so she must stuff the extras in her pockets, crumbs sticking to the edges of her jacket. It’s rather something Gregory would do, although perhaps even he is too old for this now; sneaking about the parlor and peeking through doors, wiping smeared sugar along the carriage curtains. Asking the footman to please, please do her this one favor. Just one more, and that will be all she ever asks for. No more early morning trips, no sneaking away from balls. Nothing more to show for it.
Unfortunately, Theo seems less enthused than her little brother.
“I’ve plenty of food,” he states, and, briefly, she lets herself realize this is the most words she’s heard from him in nearly a month. She was up half the night agonizing over what to say, how to make it all make sense, the best words to communicate how dreadfully embarrassed she is about the whole thing, and he thinks she’s here for charity.
“No, I- I know. Of course. I’m not trying-“ She is trying, however horribly. Trying as hard as she ever has. “They’re meant to be a gift.”
The idea seems more childish by the minute; a stack of crumpled sweets atop a cluttered table, all he needs to forget how quickly she stalled their friendship. How eager she must have seemed to get away.
“Right.” He reaches for the berry tart, smeared and half broken, turning it over beneath ink stained fingers.
Eloise glances down at her own gloved hands, balled into tight little fists without her knowing. Perhaps that’s why her wrists seem to ache so much lately; all the words kept in her palms and unable to be put down.
“I thought- our cook is quite good, and I’ve always enjoyed- well, the chocolate is my own personal favourite, although I know Daphne-“
“Is this your version of an apology, then?” Theo talks while he eats; horribly improper, yet she thinks again of Gregory, and the smile is almost too strong to hide.
“It always worked for Pen and I.” When they were children, at least. These days, it seems much harder to bridge that divide. Some bridges too treacherous to cross.
He moves the books off the little chair –too quickly to read the titles, yet she itches to ask him irregardless– but neither of them seem interested in sitting. Just standing side by side, the space split by what increasingly seems like a very pathetic gift indeed.
“I wanted- I meant to bring the whole luncheon, but it was rather hard to fit in the carriage.”
He pauses for a moment, jam smeared on his lip and his brow creasing in, before he splits into a wide grin.
“I suppose you’ll have to invite me over, then,” he offers. “I’m free on Sundays, if you like.”
There’s a prickling feeling on her neck, very nearly like being watched. In the quickest moment, a small part of her considers the offer. Any young lady should like to invite a friend for tea; particularly one so interesting and engaging. One whom she actually enjoys speaking with, who seems to stand a head above any lord who has come calling to Bridgerton house thus far.
The feeling only doubles at the idea of it–Theo in her family home, shaking hands with Anthony or Benedict. Sitting at dinner with Mama, lending books to Hyacinth. A funny image, but a frightfully nice one, as well.
“I should inform my brothers,” she says, and Theo’s smile spreads even further. “I imagine they will be thrilled.”
The iced biscuit goes next, broken in half and popped straight in his mouth, as careless as anyone. Crumbs on the scattered papers, covering up the e’s in someone’s name.
For a moment, she thinks of how she etches her own name, scribbled down in her diary or jotted beneath a letter. Tacked on the end of a story she’ll never sell. Her e’s always run lopsided, like she’s expecting them to continue into something else. Another word entirely.
“I am sorry.” It tumbles out entirely too quickly, but at least it can be heard above the din outside. “I truly- I do not wish to be so callous.” Not to him, at least. “And I do wish to choose my words to you much more carefully.”
Theo hums.
“Perhaps-“ She reaches for a biscuit of her own, if only for something to hold between her hands, so they stop clenching quite so tightly. “Perhaps I would be better off writing to you. That may help me sound less-“ Idiotic? Cold? Young and inexperienced? Wildly out of her depth? “Ridiculous.”
Theo makes the same sort of face, creased brows and a wide smile, like he can’t decide if she sounds amusing or confounding.
Maybe both.
“Now, you are many things, Miss Bridgerton.” He wipes both hands on his apron, reaching over for his forgotten work. “But I don’t think you’ve ever been ridiculous.”
Mama would beg to differ. Anthony, Benedict, Daphne- they should all have plenty of examples on hand. Times she said the wrong thing, did the wrong thing. Stood the wrong way. Ate too quickly or held her book up too high, ignored company she ought to have charmed. Spoke to company she should have avoided.
But, Eloise thinks, those sorts of things are only ridiculous in certain situations. To certain people.
“I am-“ Theo shuffles books on the table, eyes downcast and his hands held tight, like the papers might slip free at any moment. “I am sorry as well.”
Her fingers start to curl in.
“For what I- I didn’t mean those things. About you only being the same-“
“It’s quite-“
“You are unlike any other lady I have ever met.”
She has heard that a time before, yet it sounds thoroughly different coming from him.
“And I did not- I should not have suggested otherwise,” he says, as if it is the absolute, most simple truth. “I do not believe otherwise.”
There’s a burning that’s spreading across her face, a warmth to match the sudden racing of her heart, the way she can feel the blood pulsing in her fingertips when she murmurs, “apology accepted.”
For a moment, the whole shop seems silent. Even the bustle outside, the constant movement that fills the street. It all feels still and quiet, as if there is nothing but her rapid heart and the noise of paper scraping across the wood, the clean sound of Theo tapping it even.
Comforting, almost. Familiar, even for the short times she's been here, the brief visits where she's attempted to commit the space to memory.
“I have a lot of work today,” he offers, and there’s the tiniest lurch in her stomach, like she almost fears what may come next. “But you’re welcome to stay.”
Admittedly, that was not the statement she was expecting.
“Only- only if you don’t have anything else to do,” he adds.
Mama had said something about embroidery, or perhaps selecting new bouquets for Hyacinth’s birthday, but she wouldn’t really count that as much to do at all.
So, Eloise sits in the wooden chair, even though it is mostly rickety and a tad shorter on a single leg. She pokes at the novels he mentions, runs her hands over the fresh cut pages of invitations, throwing barbs about parties neither of them should ever find worthwhile. Shuffles the well-worn books and reaches for a biscuit herself, all the while pretending she doesn’t realize he’s left only the chocolate ones.
Turns out, she is both right and wrong; the letters are easier, yet they are also the most difficult thing she has ever done.
For one, writing to Theo is not like her diary, nor her novel. It is not like the scribbled letters she used to send to Fran, consisting of trivial gossip and family updates. Not even like the longer ones she now pens for Daphne, only upon request and primarily so her sister will stop complaining about the lack of correspondence when she comes by.
No, writing to Theo is far more weighty. It feels like she must pick each sentence carefully, like she might overstep with a single misplaced word.
I plan to stop by as soon as I can– yet that sounds far too excited. He should think her likely to burst through the door at any moment.
I hope we will cross paths again– but that is too passive. It sounds as if she is content to wait around, unwilling to do anything to make it so.
I would like to see you soon– eager, she thinks, but friendship is an eager thing. Nothing wrong with a relationship built of mutual interests. Mutual affections. That sort of thing takes many forms, does it not?
Despite it’s ancient setting, I do find myself enjoying Ivanhoe as much as you promised. You were correct to assume my notations primarily revolve around Rowena-perhaps the idea a woman could have beauty and something to say is a touch too far for this dear author.
Theo’s own letters all start the same way; her name printed crisp and clean, not a single smudge or bubble in the ink. And then, once once she slips open the envelope, his own writing is haphazard and messy, scrawled across the page like he’s done it in only a few minutes. Poured out a dozen thoughts and made sure to include each and every one.
Miss Bridgerton—
I should think you’d find a woman written to be seen and not heard a thoroughly unrealistic depiction here. If only our heroine had your wit, perhaps we could have enjoyed a much more interesting story indeed. I should have liked to read that version.
The M is Miss is always slightly oversized, just barely too big for its companions. Just large enough to trace with her finger, looping into her last name with the same wide writing.
She reads them enough to memorize sections: his thoughts on recent essays, a speech given at the local club. So often, that they seem to live in her pockets or her purse, invisible when Mama accompanies her to the market and asks if she’d like to buy a new ribbon or quill. She does seem to need more and more these days.
If anyone is suspicious, they don’t show it. She is as aloof as she ever was, as devoted to her studies and her books. Always bent over reading something; perhaps it has simply gone on for so long that no one bothers to feign interest in exactly what.
It’s just as well. This means there’s no one else to know his thoughts—the best ones, the kind he thinks when he thinks of her, when he reads a sentence and she comes to mind, the same as he does a dozen times each day. When something rocks about his brain so strongly, he simply must share it with her. The need to relate the things he enjoys –the things he loves and adores, his favourite things– specifically with her.
It also means there is no one else to know that she lets the letters live all across her room, left in secret places like totems. In her jewelry box, laid gently within the top drawer of her dresser. Beneath her pillow, even, on the nights she can’t find sleep. All the easier to pull them out and trace the M, repeat the sentences she knows by heart.
Miss Bridgerton—
As you so keenly pointed out, I do have less time to spend on my studies, but perhaps this should be a motivator for your own reading list. How is it you have nothing but time on your hands, and yet we are evenly matched in our completion? I may even be ahead of you here–we’ve just received the latest chapter, and I believe you will find it the best yet.
Sometimes, Eloise thinks there is a bragging sort of tone to his letters, one that seems at odds with the clean, detached writing of his pamphlets. It is self-assured and confident, in the way that men often are; yet, it is not boastful or proud. Just secure, in the knowledge that he is sharing something she wants to hear. That he knows the things he says, the way he predicts her favourite characters or selects quotes she may like, will be pleasing to her.
How thoroughly odd to realize she is being known at all.
Letters on Mondays and Thursdays, and on Fridays she’s usually able to sneak away in the afternoon, bribing Footman John to help her across town. He always grumbles and groans, yet he never refuses her, happy to take her money and take her directions. The strangeness of sharing secrets with a footman does not lessen; although, perhaps, it is outweighed by the act of sharing secrets with a printer's apprentice.
Theo complains that she slows him down; he’s only managed half his load today, and it’s all because she’s sat in that chair making comments on every draft that crosses her desk.
“My desk?” She echoes, and he shakes his head so quickly the flush on his cheeks could almost be explained away.
Almost.
“The desk.” He snatches the pamphlet back, attempting to smooth the creases where she’s gripped it too tightly.
“If you’re offering me a job, I should love to accept,” she offers. “Although, my working hours may be slightly constrained.”
Theo smiles down at the ink board. He always works in the same style, corner to corner and smoothing out the ends so slowly, thumbs rubbing right over the edges.
Eloise pretends not to watch that part, although she is not entirely certain why. It feels odd to be caught watching, even if there is little else to do.
“And what are your constraints tonight?”
She glances down at her gloves, picking aimlessly at a loose thread. “Another ball, unfortunately.”
He makes a little grimace, too childish to be real and yet too quick to entirely be an act.
“I would much rather be here, you know,” she adds. “Far more invigorating company.”
Theo pauses for a moment, hands spread across the page, thumbs flicking right across the edge. Up and down, quick little movements that almost lift the sheet right up. She can not tell if it is nerves or excess energy, but it leaves that serious, intent look on his face all the same.
Eloise thoroughly pretends not to watch that, either.
“I would rather you be here as well,” he states, and when he raises back up to meet her gaze, the red on his cheeks seems to have doubled.
It does get rather hot in here, she thinks. It is no fault of his own.
“Is there anyone there who isn’t- oh, how did you put it?” He lets the grin spread, half mocking and all good natured, as endearing as the way he pitches up his voice to mimic her own. “Entirely, horrendously, dull?”
A rather unladylike snort falls from her mouth, yet Theo doesn’t seem to notice. Or, more likely, he seems too proud of his ability to make her laugh to do much more than grin right back.
“No, there isn’t.” She thinks momentarily of Pen, standing on the outskirts and looking right in. And then, before her belly starts to ache with the familiar sense of loss, she thinks of Lady Whistledown's words. How carelessly she tried to ruin someone she's never even met. How she took something lovely, the nicest thing in her life, and made it out to be terrible indeed.
“It seems I cannot find a single interesting person in the whole ton.”
He nods slowly, like he's given the statement careful thought. And then, after she's sat in silence long enough that the idea begins to feel slightly nerve wracking, Theo twists his mouth, tapering down the smile just enough to let himself ask, “and do you find them anywhere else, Miss Bridgerton?”
She likes the way he says that, as if it is both a pet name and a true address. Respectful and familiar, both at the same time. It doesn't act as a title or a command; just as her name, the same way Benedict calls for her at breakfast, as Mama says when she's wishes her goodnight. As if he's said it a hundred times before.
“Occasionally,” she offers.
It is his turn to bark out a laugh, obnoxious enough to match her own. Not proper and not refined, but true enough.
“You flatter me,” he teases, yet she thinks perhaps that is true as well. “I will do my best to keep you invigorated, as it were.”
The voice in her head seems to go blank, no words and only a dozen thoughts racing around, faster and faster the longer he holds her eye. They jumble together and form messed up fragments of agreements, things like of course and please, do and you do not need to try at all. I like that you do not try. I like that you have never needed to. I like that it all feels-
Terribly, impossibly easy.