Chapter Text
Chapter I
1814
Eloise could not sleep the night that she last saw Theo Sharpe.
When Eloise had exited the print shop for the last time, she had tears in her eyes, yet they never fell. She couldn’t remember exactly how she got into the carriage. Only that the footman, John, had asked her if she was alright, to which she responded with a reasonably polite nod.
Now she stood in her bed chambers, feeling numb. Feeling confused although there was no confusion about what had just happened. She knew she would not see Theo Sharpe again. So instead of weeping about what was bound to come anyway, she decided to be rational. She stepped out of her dress, into her nightgown, and climbed under the soft covers of her bed, preparing herself for sleep.
But the cotton of her nightgown felt scratchier than it normally did. And her hair seemed to tug underneath her weight every time she shifted trying to find a comfortable position. So instead of sleeping, she remained staring at the ceiling, studying the intricate carvings, and replaying the night's events in her mind.
If I hadn’t turned him away…
If he hadn’t walked away…
If the circumstances were different…
“Now you can go back to your life, and I can go back to mine”
Unable to bear the stillness, Eloise tore away her blankets and put her bare feet on the cool floor, raising herself up. She began to pace across her room, finding comfort in the repetitious nature of her movements aligning with the repetition of her thoughts.
She began to take stock of things in her bedroom that she had not noticed prior. She took note of the dust that was beginning to gather at the uppermost part of her wooden bed frame. She took note of the particular shade of blue her curtains were - a light eggshell blue that she had picked a few years ago. She took note of the books that covered her desk.
The books.
The books gifted to her by the very person who tormented her mind leaving her unable to find respite in sleep.
She approached her desk, running her fingers softly across the tops of the weathered books that lay there. She took the book on the very top of the stack and turned it over in her hands. It was a compilation of essays written by Thomas Spence. She took note of the weight of it. She took note of the way the yellowed pages felt as she danced her fingertips across it (dusty and rough). She took note of how it smelled of faint sandalwood and something sweet she could not quite place her finger on. She took note of how its edges pressed into her body as she hugged it close to her chest.
Eloise did not find herself crawling back into her bed that night. Instead, she found herself sinking to the floor, with Thomas Spence’s words in her hands rather than her mind, which was otherwise occupied. With the hard floor pressing painful red marks into her knees and ankles, Eloise’s chin began to quiver, and tears began to fill her eyes.
There on the floor, she allowed herself to crumble.
“I did not want to turn him away,” she confessed quietly to the empty room as she wept - to no one but the wind whispering through her window.
I did not want to turn him away. I did not want to turn him away.
—
1815
Eloise could not hear anything over the pounding in her ears as she stormed out of the room. She could feel that she was breathing heavily, and although she had never found her stays too constricting before, she felt that they were suffocating her chest- her ribcage- her lungs.
“Eloise! Eloise, wait!”
The absolute last person she wanted to hear from right now. Eloise whirled around to face Penelope.
“My brother? Are you quite serious?” Eloise hated that she could hear her voice break as she spoke. “For how long has this been going on?”
“It is very new. I am just as surprised as you are” Penelope replied in a hushed tone, visibly nervous.
But Eloise knew that this could not be entirely true. She knew that Penelope, the girl who had always loved epic romance novels, would not be one to jump into a match merely for economic or social advantage. This was rooted in true emotion. So Eloise asked the question she really meant to ask: “For how long have you had feelings for him?”
Penelope did not answer. Her lower lip trembled.
Eloise tore her eyes away from Penelope, feeling sick to her stomach, and shook her head. “Do not answer that, I do not want to know”
But she already knew.
Eloise’s feelings of betrayal then switched from the betrayal of an old friend secretly harboring romantic attachments to one’s older brother, to that old familiar betrayal that had destroyed their friendship in the first place. She looked back at Penelope, who had lowered her eyes and looked as though she was about to be sick herself. “You cannot marry him!” Eloise said incredulously.
“Eloise-” Penelope started.
“Does he know? That you are Whistledown?” she said through gritted teeth. At this point, Eloise was trying her hardest to keep from shouting.
Eloise could see the fear in Penelope’s eyes. “No. He does not know. Please, Eloise, please do not tell him”.
What did she think? That she would be able to keep this a secret from Colin as she had from her? “Colin is not like Lord Debling; he will not be gone for years at a time. He will find out. And until he knows the real you, he could not possibly love you” Eloise said, with venom in her voice.
Could he?
“You’re right but please just let him hear it from me I just need a little time to find the right moment but I will tell him you have my word”
She did not like it, but she did not want to be the one to break her brother’s heart. She would not be the one responsible for Penelope’s actions. “Very well,” said Eloise, taking a shaky breath.
And with that, Eloise left Penelope standing alone in the hallway. As she walked away from her, she found herself attempting to take deeper and deeper breaths through her nose unsuccessfully.
I need air.
Eloise made her way to the garden at a hurried pace while running her hands along the walls for balance, needing to find solace in the sound of crickets and the gentle summer breeze.
As she entered the garden, the world seemed to be quieter. Eloise found her comfort in the old plank swing hanging from the tree in the garden, feeling the solidness of the wood cutting into her legs, and the weightlessness of having her feet off of the ground. It was there that she was able to begin sifting through the thoughts that had pooled together in her mind.
It’s just not fair. Eloise thought to herself. Colin did not deserve this - to be lied to and deceived. To be betrayed and harmed by the person you thought you could trust the most. She did not deserve this. She did not deserve to be forced into proximity with the person who caused her such a severe level of pain. And that- that liar certainly did not deserve to become an official part of her family.
It’s not fair, Eloise thought to herself, that her world should go on unchanged and unaffected when mine has turned so drastically.
Why should Penelope be allowed to continue writing viciously against her family and face no consequences for it? Why should Penelope be afforded to find love?
Eloise stared up at the clear night sky. Had she found love once? Had she allowed her true self to be revealed to anyone yet?
As the last year passed, Eloise found it hard to define what her relationship with Theo was. They had only known each other for a short time and yet their bond had felt so strong. But even then, they hardly knew each other. They went out of order, learning the way the other’s minds worked before the basic facts of each other's lives. She did not even know if Theo had any siblings. She did not know what his life’s hardships were beyond the circumstances of his class. Had he experienced betrayal? Or grief? Love? She did not know what his life was like beyond that little sliver they had shared together at the print shop. And she supposed he did not know her in the same fashion.
Until he knows the real you, he could not possibly love you.
Eloise grasped harder on the harsh rope of the swing, feeling it dig into her palms. She lowered her head and began to let tears fall from her eyes.
She was so tired of crying.
—
1816 I
The rain had not stopped for 23 days. For many of the Ton, this was practical torture. No promenades, no garden parties, no boat rides or outdoor festivals. It was especially burdensome for the young debutants of the season who undoubtedly were panicking at the thought of fewer social events for them to meet suitors.
For Eloise, the rain had offered a safe haven. She still was required to attend balls and listen to her mother’s attempts to engage her with polite society, but the total number of events that she had to bear was much fewer.
The rain seemed to be slightly letting up today, and Eloise found herself on a window-side chaise finishing a book she had picked up on the history of Scotland. The somber history had matched the darkness the sky cast over London fittingly.
Eloise sighed as she turned the last page of the book in her hands. She had never thought herself capable of being sick of reading, yet she has arrived at that state. Between the majority of her siblings now living outside of the house they were raised in, and Penelope (who she had managed to rekindle a friendship with) managing the stress and tasks of first-time motherhood, Eloise was left with very little to amuse herself with. She had read 12 books within a week as a result.
Is this what it is going to be like? As she entered into her third season, Eloise frequently looked towards what her future would become. She had never planned on marrying, and her views on marriage certainly had not changed. But the idea of sitting around only reading all day, making nothing of herself… Well, it practically made her skin itch.
Eloise had accomplishments to acquire. The only problem is that she did not know which ones, nor how to discover them. She had no interest in the respectable passions that her siblings seemed to have found easily, like art or music. She had supposed the closest thing would be her love of the written word, but reading alone in one’s home can only go so far.
Her true passion - that of fighting for the rights of women - was hardly a suitable passion for a young lady of her position. Not that Eloise was one to care about the opinions of the Ton, but she did find herself at a loss for how to achieve anything of significance in that area. Who was she to believe she could find herself among the minds of women like Wollstonecraft?
In many ways, she felt like a fraud. She had spoken animatedly throughout her youth of goals she should accomplish free of the burden of marriage, and yet she had nothing to show for it. She had always claimed she had no interest in pleasing members of polite society, and yet she still dressed for balls and humored her mother with her attendance at such events for the third year in a row.
Eloise raised herself from the lush comfort of the chaise and walked to the library to find herself another book. The halls of Bridgerton House used to be filled with chatter and the incessant footsteps of her family and the servants. It was fluid, in a constant state of movement. Now everything felt still. The only thing she could hear was the floorboards creaking beneath her feet. Her hands on the heavy wood of the library door. The crackle of the fireplace.
Eloise found a place for her finished book on one of the shelves and began to peruse the stacks for another.
History? No, she was quite sick of that at this point. Travel? Promising, but not quite as intriguing when confined to the house by this weather. Romance? No.
She found herself amongst the poetry, trying to find something that did not cross the line too far into sickeningly sweet.
A collection of poems by Walter Scott. That will do nicely, Eloise thought to herself, pulling the bound collection from its place on the shelf.
BANG!
A flash of white flew through the room. Eloise jumped at the loud crack of lightning she saw through the window, dropping the book she was holding in the process. The rain, which had been light only minutes earlier, had started coming down in heavy sheets. She clutched her chest and tried to slow her heart back down to its normal pace.
She looked for the book she had dropped. Somehow, she had managed to fling it halfway across the room in her fit of terror. She went and picked it up, coming to eye level with the shelf it had landed in front of.
The shelf was tucked away compared to its peers. It hid in the darkest corner of the already dim library. Because of the shelf’s remote location, it only held six books.
The books Theo had given her.
Eloise swallowed thickly and tightened her grip on her collection of poems. She had originally kept the books in her private room, being that some were on the far side of radical that her mother and siblings would most likely not approve of. But after the end of her and Theo’s friendship, she could not sleep with them in the same room as her. They were haunted by thoughts of him.
Indeed, time had made things easier. She found herself thinking of him less and less. She at one point could even manage reading a short novel without him crossing her mind. But for some reason, the rain had made memories of Theo Sharpe arrive more easily in her head. Perhaps it was because of the boredom, or the gloominess. But Eloise could swear she could sometimes hear the rumble of his voice speaking quietly, in the tap-tap-tap of the rain against her windows at night.
She could smell the fresh paper and ink of the print shop in the novels she frequented. She could feel the roughness of his hands in the texture of leather-bound books.
Perhaps, it was not the boredom or the dark gray of the sky.
Perhaps it is simply the loneliness.
It shall pass.
—
1816 II
Eloise had been sitting in the parlor reading when Lady Danbury arrived for her weekly chat with her mother. Feeling unmotivated to move, she managed to tune out their dull conversation quite easily - she actually found the lulls of their familiar voices quite relaxing.
They normally spoke about the matches of the season, gossip among the families of the Ton, and what events were to be held the following week. This summer had also added the riveting additional topic of the unseasonably cold and dreary weather.
Violet sighed, looking out the window. “Will this rain ever let up?” she exclaimed.
“Well, it does not appear to be happening any time soon. It has been such an unfortunate turn of events this season. It seems as though everybody has fallen upon misfortune,” Lady Danbury sighed. “You know I was speaking with Lady Barragan the other day-”
“Why you willingly speak to such a woman I’ll never know,” Violet said with sly eyes, bringing her teacup to her lips.
Lady Danbury gave her a smile. “I find her conversations helpful in keeping track of the rest of the Ton, I’ll have you know. Anyhow, she was telling me that one of her maids got caught in a riot when she was out buying supplies in Bloomsbury, poor thing-”
Eloise’s head snapped up, “What? What did you just say?”
Violet and Lady Danbury both looked surprised at Eloise’s sudden engagement in their conversation.
“Uh, one of Lady Barragan’s maids was caught in a riot, my dear” Violet repeated confusedly.
“In Bloomsbury?”
“Yes”
Eloise was trying to keep her voice sounding as nonchalant as possible, but she could feel her heart speeding up in her chest, “Why were people rioting in Bloomsbury?”
Lady Danbury scoffed in surprise. “Why are people rioting in Bloomsbury? Maybe because the prices of food have gone up so exponentially they can’t afford to eat. Even my kitchen has had to cut back on certain ingredients because of the ridiculous costs!”
Food prices had gone up? Admittedly, Eloise had taken to avoiding participation in this season at all costs. She avoided tepid conversations and musings to the best of her ability. But, apparently, that had also included the general happenings of London along with it.
“Everyone has been burdened by this year, but I will say the people of Bloomsbury have been taking it the hardest,” Violet said with a sympathetic voice. “This is far from the first riot that has broken out, even within the last month!”
Eloise could feel her breath quickening. That old familiar feeling again.
“If you’ll please excuse me, I am feeling rather faint. I am going to go lie down,” Eloise said quickly. Violet had started to say something in response with a concerned look on her face, but Eloise had already left the room at that point.
Eloise practically ran to her chambers, slamming the door behind her with a loud crash that echoed through the manor.
Now in a place where she could safely think at the pace these developments required without interruption, Eloise put her head in her hands. Is he alright? If food prices were rising and people were rioting over it, then things had to be bad, right? Was he safe? Was he hurt? Starving?
Was he alive?
She felt helpless in how to quell her thoughts. Through the past two years thoughts of Theo Sharpe had been dismissed through reading, introspection, or distraction. But this was different. She knew it to be.
Eloise flopped back on her bed, staring at the same ceiling she had studied two years ago as she assessed the well-being of the same man she was thinking of now.
No.
No.
Eloise sprang up out of bed. She would no longer be a woman of inaction. This was different and she knew it to be . Maybe she could not guarantee his well-being, but that does not mean that she can only sit around making herself sick with thoughts that would never be able to be confirmed or denied.
She had to do whatever she could.
***
“Psssst”
Nothing.
“Pssssssssssst”
Oh, come on!
“PSSSST ”
No reaction. Eloise was losing her patience.
“Oh for heaven’s sake- JOHN!”
John jumped out of his seat, looking towards the sound that had startled him. He had seemingly accidentally fallen asleep and was slumped over a table in the kitchens.
“Miss Eloise!”
Eloise pressed her finger to her lips, indicating for John to keep quiet, and beckoned him over to the doorway she was peering around with a frantic wave.
A confused look washed over the footman’s face, but he followed the order anyway. He was used to being summoned by one of the other servants, rather than seeing one of the Bridgertons themselves down in the servant's quarters searching after him. Undoubtedly this confusion was only magnified by the late hour she had sought him out. He walked over to Eloise, confusedly looking around the room as he did.
“Miss Eloise, what can I do for you?”
Eloise took a deep breath, “I need you to complete a special task for me.”
“What is it?” John asked with a furrowed brow.
“I need you to take this,” Eloise handed him the basket of food that she had just assembled while drawing confused eyes from the other servants. “And deliver it for me.”
John’s confusion visibly grew, but he did not push further on it. Instead, he tentatively asked, “Where?”
Eloise always had been grateful for John’s ability to read a situation . “I need you to deliver this to a young man named Theo Sharpe. I believe the most likely place you will find him is Chancery Lane Printers in Bloomsbury,” Eloise could tell she was talking too quickly but could not seem to slow down. “If you cannot find him there… I know this is a lot to ask, but I need you to make sure that he gets this basket. Wherever he may be. Can you do that for me?”
John raised an eyebrow, “Bloomsbury?”
“Yes, Bloomsbury,” Eloise responded hastily. She desperately wished to keep the discussion to a minimum.
“...The print shop?”
John has far too good of a memory for his own damn good.
“Yes, John the print shop! Please, can you do this for me?”
John looked down at the basket Eloise had thrust into his hands and gave an unsure nod. “I can try,” he said.
Eloise felt she could breathe again for the first time that evening, “Thank you. Truly - thank you.”
She did not know if it would help, but at least she could tell herself she tried.
—
1817
The cold came and went, but left Eloise with the same melancholy it has graced her with. She did, however, find the strength within herself to ‘participate’ as her mother had begged her to. She attended balls and promenaded with suitors that her mother would hand off to her with a small smile on her face.
During both of which (among other social events) Eloise had taken to remaining in complete silence. Her mother had mistaken this controlled silence for a form of protest, but truthfully Eloise just did not have the energy anymore to scorn the desperate young men who smelled of too much champagne and reached out with sweaty palms. Besides, she soon found that complete, unyielding silence and a stony face were the most effective form of deterrent. It disgusted her the day she realized that the men who had pursued her even when she grimaced at their approach found her detestation a fun challenge. But there was no fun to be had in a woman who did not react to the actions of a man.
Despite the melancholia, Eloise still enjoyed visiting with Penelope whenever she could. Since little Elliot’s first birthday had passed, Penelope was able to spend more time outside of the house, as the new mother grew more comfortable leaving her son in the care of servants.
In the past few weeks, the old friends had developed a habit of sitting out in the garden whenever the sun showed its face. They both had a new appreciation of the sun after last year.
And that is where they currently sat, although today Penelope had brought Elliot for a visit. The wide-eyed child toddled around the garden unsteadily, occasionally losing his balance and falling back on his bottom with a surprised expression.
Eloise laughed, “You’d think the poor thing would learn to just remain sitting instead of raising himself up to fall immediately afterward.”
“Ah, he’s like his namesake in that way I suppose,” Penelope responded with a grin.
Eloise rolled her eyes and playfully shoved Penelope on the shoulder as she lightly laughed. “I suppose he has to learn somehow.”
Soon the chuckles between the two had died out, and they were left with only birdsong and Elliot’s babbling in the air.
“El,” Penelope began, “How are- Are you- Ugh, I’m struggling to find the right words-”
“Don’t worry dear friend you’ll get there eventually,” Eloise teased.
“Oh hush!” she said with a laugh, “What I mean to say is, how are you? I mean, truly, how are you doing? As much as I enjoy our visits you seem so… quiet outside of them.”
Eloise could feel her smile dying off her face as she thought over Penelope’s question. How was she? Well to be honest the thought of dancing with yet another suitor made her want to take a nice, refreshing dip in the pond and never come back out.
…Perhaps that would be a little bit too honest of a response.
“I’ve been… alright I suppose,” Eloise opted for instead. “I just- I think I feel rather unaccomplished, and it’s only bothering me more as I grow older.”
Penelope nodded. “I understand the feeling.”
Eloise let out a mix of a scoff and a chuckle. “Oh yes, Mrs. Bridgerton, the most infamous, successful female writer in the Ton I am sure you feel very unaccomplished.”
“But I do El! Do not forget I have not published in nearly two years.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” Eloise acquiesced, “...I’m sorry Pen I didn’t mean to discount your feelings.”
Penelope shook her head, “Don’t be Eloise, I do not blame you for thinking that way. I must admit, however, I do miss writing- Oh do not look so worried ! I would never write as Lady Whistledown again- I couldn’t! But I have thought about, perhaps, writing something else? Maybe fiction?”
A shy look had overtaken Penelope’s face as she made this confession.
Eloise had often thought about what Penelope had given up after she revealed her identity as Lady Whistledown. To be clear, this decision was the real action that had finally made Eloise open to rekindling their friendship, and she was grateful that Penelope had made such a decision. But Eloise was very much aware that in the process Penelope had also given up an independent income, power, and a career.
Eloise smiled gently, “You should, Pen. I think that’s a fantastic idea.”
Penelope smiled, “Good! Because I need your assistance with something.”
“Oh?” Eloise said, raising an eyebrow. “What could I possibly assist such an experienced writer with?”
“Well, it’s not so much the writing I need help with as something else.” Penelope reached into the basket that she brought containing pastries and sweets, and took out a wrinkled piece of paper.
“I was in town the other day, and I saw this. I would like you to accompany me,” Penelope said and handed Eloise the sheet of paper.
CALLING ALL FEMALE WRITERS
AN ASSEMBLY ON THE IMPORTANCE OF THE FEMALE WRITTEN WORD
An Assembly For Women, By Women
Men Need Not Attend
To Be Held At The Bloomsbury Assembly Room This Saturday At The Hour Of Ten
“Penelope Bridgerton wishes to attend a radical assembly,” Eloise clutched her chest, feigning shock, “the scandal!”
“Oh please, it’s about as far from scandalous as one can get! It supposedly will only have women speakers and men are barred from attending.” Penelope responded with a grin. “Please, El, I want to go, I just- I can’t go alone.”
Eloise’s heart softened. Once, Penelope had told her in the heat of an argument that she was jealous because Penelope had actually done something with herself rather than just speaking about theoretical accomplishments. And in many ways she was correct. But her old friend was just as constrained by social acceptance as she was. Writing anonymously was one thing, but attending an assembly wherein social radicals would be - that was a risk.
“Of course I’ll go with you,” Eloise said, patting Penelope’s arm for reassurance. “Besides, I’ve missed, what was it? ‘Consorting with political radicals’? I’ve apparently found a new one in you!”
Eloise laughed as Penelope whacked her arm.
She was glad she was able to laugh about it now . It made the pain less powerful. Still, she sometimes felt a twinge in her gut whenever she reminded herself of who exactly the person was that she was ‘consorting with’. But never mind that.
The past was in the past.