Chapter Text
The day Edmund Bridgerton died, Eloise was by his side.
The day Anthony Bridgerton’s youth perished, she was there as well.
From that moment on, something in him had shifted — irrevocably. A line had been drawn through the middle of his life: before and after. And in every memory of that day, it was her face he saw most clearly.
Eloise’s wide, uncomprehending eyes. Her trembling hands reaching for their father. Her silence, eerie and too still for a girl who had never once stopped chattering.
Anthony could never unsee it.
When he looked at Eloise, he did not see a younger sister. He saw a grave. A second grave he had narrowly avoided digging.
Two souls had died that day. Edmund. And something within Eloise — something innocent. If Anthony had failed to save their father, then he would not, could not, fail again.
He would not allow Eloise to be the third.
So he protected her.
Or rather, he confined her.
He forbade their mother from preparing her for court. He refused introductions from suitors. He saw danger in everything: the touch of a dance partner, the heat of a blush, the consequences of a marriage bed.
A husband meant childbirth. And childbirth meant death.
Anthony handled everything himself. Her lessons, her reading materials. Her general well-being. She travelled with him as though she were an extension of him. And later, when Kate became his wife, Eloise accompanied them both.
Eloise, for her part, had not resisted. She was clever — remarkably so. Content with her books, her thoughts, her scribbled musings on the world. She read everything. Wrote even more. She was curious and sharp and never complained.
And thus, while the rest of the family ventured forth into the world — into society, into scandal, into love — Anthony kept Eloise close.
Safe.
Just as he was meant to do.
Now, as Colin prepared for marriage, Anthony could not help but feel… unease. Eloise showed no interest in courtship. She cared nothing for debutantes or drawing rooms. She lived in ink and paper and ideals — more interested in discourse than dances, in revolution rather than romance.
Anthony wasn’t sure where she’d developed such rebellious notions.
But he suspected it had something to do with Kate.
Nevertheless, it worked.
Anthony told himself that often. He was doing the right thing, and all was well.
Well enough, at least.
And “well” included Eloise perched before his desk like a persistent specter.
“I’ve read every book in the library,” she declared, arms folded, eyes bright with indignation. “You promised me five new ones last week, and yet, here we are—bookless and betrayed.”
Anthony sighed, pressing his fingers to his temple. “Eloise, you are more than capable of observing that I am extremely occupied.”
“Then let Kate do it,” she retorted at once.
“I must approve the books first,” he said firmly. “You know that.”
“Oh, of course,” she huffed. “Because heaven forbid I read something scandalous, like Voltaire , or worse— a woman .”
“Why don’t you reread one of your old favourites?”
“I have,” she deadpanned. “Shall I recite the entirety of The Odyssey , or will a brief monologue from Gulliver’s Travels Suffice ?”
Anthony looked up just in time to catch her exaggerated pout.
“Brother, you are being dreadfully unfair. Please,” she added, with mock sincerity.
He exhaled slowly. “Eloise, I am sorry, but between Colin’s wedding and Francesca preparing for her debut, my time is not entirely my own.” He noted the way she rolled her eyes at the word debut .
Good.
That meant she wanted nothing to do with it.
“You might ask Kate to take you shopping for a dress,” he offered. “Something new for the wedding.”
He trusted Kate. Kate understood boundaries. And she, along with Eloise’s footman, were the only people Anthony permitted to accompany her anywhere. He didn’t even fully trust their mother—not when Violet so clearly longed to thrust Eloise into the season.
“I have plenty of dresses,” Eloise said dismissively. “I don’t wear half the ones I own. Colin won’t care what I’m wearing—he hardly cares about me at all.”
“Don’t say that,” Anthony said, more gently this time.
“He doesn’t even know when my birthday is.”
“Do you truly want a birthday gift from Colin?”
“That’s not the point.”
Anthony folded his hands together. “Your siblings do care for you, Eloise. But they’re engaged in lives you’ve no interest in—lives that would only frustrate you. Believe me when I say it is better this way. Better that Colin stays detached than try to pull you into his world.”
Because if she wanted that world—courting, marriage, children—Anthony could not keep her safe. He would lose her, just as he had lost their father.
And he would not survive that.
“I simply want new books,” Eloise said, arms crossed in defiance. “Soon, if you please.”
Anthony allowed himself a small smile. “I shall see to it, I promise.”
That earned him a reluctant smile in return as she plopped herself into the chair across from his desk without invitation.
“What are you even working on?” she asked, craning her neck to peer over the piles of correspondence. “May I assist?”
“You needn’t trouble yourself,” he replied, sliding a few documents out of reach. “Household bills. Confirmations. Boring things.” His eyes flicked to the letter he intended to burn — yet another request from some young man expressing interest in meeting Eloise. It would not reach her eyes.
“Tell me,” he said, redirecting quickly, “how are your studies progressing?”
She gave a long, theatrical sigh. “We are going over Napoleon. Again.”
“You requested a thorough education, did you not?”
“Yes, but I didn’t ask to revisit the same overgrown ego five times. May I have a new tutor?”
“For what purpose?”
“I want to learn more about ancient writings. The Odyssey was fascinating.” She leaned forward, voice animated. “Did you know the ancient Greeks had a word for every kind of love? I’ve only just begun reading about it, but it’s brilliant. I want more.”
Anthony made a mental note. Perhaps, after Colin’s wedding, they might take a short trip to Rome. Not Greece, precisely, but close enough to satisfy her curiosity. And easier to manage.
“I’ll see whom I can find,” he said. “Someone trustworthy. And vetted.”
“Of course,” she muttered under her breath, but without venom.
“And your sewing lessons?”
“I stabbed my instructor with a needle again.”
“Eloise,” he warned.
“I’m joking,” she grinned. “They’re going fine. I believe I can now mend a hole—though I make no promises on the quality of the stitching.”
“Your honesty is ever reassuring.”
“I thought so,” she said, smiling sweetly.
Things were perfectly fine.
Despite Anthony’s assurances earlier, Eloise was still—undeniably—bored.
She sat in her chamber, staring at nothing. Her journal had been filled, her bookshelf long since read through, her wardrobe neatly sorted. The room was stifling with order. Utterly dull.
With a groan of discontent, she swung her legs off the bed and rose to her feet.
Perhaps a walk would help.
She doubted anyone in the house would be awake at this hour. Then again, she wasn’t entirely sure of her siblings’ sleeping habits—aside from Anthony’s. Him, she knew. She always had.
She couldn’t recall the last time she’d run to her mother’s room after a nightmare.
It had always been Anthony.
And Anthony never got cross.
She liked that.
Sliding her slippers on, Eloise crept quietly into the hallway. The house was hushed, save for the occasional flicker of candlelight and the soft rustling of distant staff still tending to last-minute chores.
She tiptoed down the stairs and paused at the door.
Was this foolish?
No, she shook her head. It was only the garden. Nothing wicked ever happened in the garden.
She slipped out and inhaled the cold night air—crisp and biting, yet oddly invigorating. Kate had mentioned the gardeners had prepared the beds for Colin’s wedding. Perhaps she could find a flower to admire. Something to occupy her thoughts.
Thoughts that, naturally, drifted back to the wedding.
She didn’t hate her siblings. Not at all.
But neither did she feel truly close to them. Benedict, perhaps. Occasionally Hyacinth. Yet since their father’s death—and Daphne’s debut soon after—Eloise had begun to retreat. From the balls, the banquets, the laughter. From them .
She only ever went anywhere if Anthony accompanied her. And even then, she sat quietly in a corner with a book.
He had drawn her away from the world, yes—but she hadn’t fought him. Her siblings hadn’t seemed to mind. They were happy.
And she had been…content.
Except when she didn’t get her books.
Perhaps if she pleaded with sufficient fervor, Kate might override Anthony and procure a few.
Or—
“Miss Bridgerton?”
She jumped. Turning sharply, she found John—her footman—standing a short distance away.
“Oh!” she exhaled, pressing a hand to her chest. “Do not do that!”
John smiled. “My apologies. I saw you from the window and wished to ensure all was well.”
“Just needed a bit of air,” she murmured. Then, with hopeful eyes, added, “You don’t happen to have any books hidden in your coat, do you?”
“I cannot say I do, Miss,” he replied with a chuckle. “Has your brother not fulfilled his literary promise?”
“A tragedy of epic proportions,” she muttered.
John raised a brow.
“Truly, you are the only soul in this household who understands me.”
“I consider it a great honour, Miss.”
She glanced down at her slippers, then back toward the house, expression thoughtful.
“My brother has been dreadfully busy,” she said slowly. “And I do not expect those books will be arriving any time soon.”
“A shame, indeed.”
“However…” she continued, eyes gleaming with mischief. “It would be one less burden for him—one less item on his mountain of responsibilities—if I secured the books myself.”
John’s smile faded slightly. “You know your brother dislikes you leaving the house, Miss. Not without his knowledge.”
“Yes, but I would be with you,” she pointed out. “He trusts you. And if we go now, we shan’t have to trouble him at all. We could be there and back before breakfast.”
She smiled brightly.
He, however, did not.
“Miss Eloise,” he said carefully, “this may not be wise.”
“But it’s a bookshop, not a battlefield,” she insisted. “And I am so very bored.”
John looked as though he were weighing a great moral dilemma — which, in fairness, he was. Then at last, with a quiet sigh, he nodded.
“Very well,” he said. “But we mustn’t be out long.”
Eloise beamed and, without thinking, threw her arms around him in gratitude. “Thank you!” she whispered. “Truly.”
He did not return the embrace — he was her footman, after all — but his expression softened.
“However,” he continued, “the library is not an option. Nor any proper bookshop. It is far too late. They’ll be shut.”
Eloise paused, then frowned. “Ah. Right.”
“But,” John added, glancing around to ensure no one was listening, “I know a place.”
Her eyes lit up at once. “You do?”
“A print shop. A modest one. They occasionally have novels ready for purchase — newer works, mostly.”
“New novels?” she echoed, intrigued.
“Possibly. Some rather modern pieces, if you’re willing to try something… less traditional.”
Eloise tilted her head. “How modern ?”
John allowed himself the ghost of a smile. “I believe you’ll find the worker’s tastes align with yours, Miss Bridgerton.”
The shop was large. Dim, naturally, given the hour, but Eloise had expected that.
They entered through the back door, which creaked softly as it opened. She clutched her cloak tighter around her shoulders, more from excitement than cold.
“Mr. Sharpe?” John called, leading the way into the shadowed interior. “Are you here?”
There was a pause, then the sound of movement — footsteps, a chair scraping.
“Yes, yes,” came a voice, low and clear.
A man stepped into view from behind a curtained partition. He looked scarcely older than Eloise, his hair tousled from work, ink staining his sleeves. He blinked at them, then smiled — a little guarded, but not unkind.
Eloise found herself studying him. He wasn’t bad-looking, not at all. There was something serious in the set of his brow, but his eyes held a glint of mischief. She approved of that.
“I wasn’t expecting visitors,” he said. “And you’ve brought a guest.”
“This is a friend of mine,” John replied evenly. “Eloise.”
Just Eloise . No Bridgerton . She liked that.
“Well, Miss Eloise,” Mr. Sharpe said with a polite nod, “a pleasure. What brings you two out so late?”
“Books!” Eloise exclaimed, before John could answer. “I am in desperate need. Any books will do, though I’d prefer something I haven’t read. And I’m prepared to pay.”
Mr. Sharpe blinked at her sudden enthusiasm, then let out a quiet chuckle. “I might have a few things set aside, if you’re interested.”
“I’m always interested.”
“Then follow me.”
She did.
He led her past stacks of paper and trays of type, through the quiet, ink-scented shop, until they reached a wooden shelf filled with loosely arranged volumes.
“I’m not certain what you’ve already read,” he said, pulling down a slim book. “But these are fresh off the press. I can spare one. For a friend of John’s.”
He handed it to her.
Eloise turned it over in her hands. The Female Advocate .
Her brow lifted. “This is…unexpected,” she said slowly. “I’ve only ever heard of Wollstonecraft.”
Only what Anthony had time or tolerance to allow.
Mr. Sharpe watched her carefully. “I suspected anyone out at this hour, sneaking through alley doors, might have an interest in something more provocative than Clarissa or Pamela .”
“I do,” she said plainly. “I find these works fascinating. Arguments about reason, autonomy, the ridiculous limitations imposed upon women — it’s all worth discussing. Worth knowing.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Mr. Sharpe said. “There’s something deeply satisfying about seeing these words printed. Spread. Read.”
She opened the book gently, thumbing through its pages with care. “I want to write one day,” she said, almost absently. “Not just scribble in journals, but write something that matters. About class. About women who work. About how the world expects half its people to suffer and calls it civility.”
He studied her for a moment, face unreadable.
Then he turned, retrieved another volume, and held it out to her. “Take this as well. Thoughts on the Education of Daughters . Not quite as radical, but worthwhile.”
“I said I’d pay—”
“I’ve changed my mind,” he interrupted. “Clarity like yours deserves encouragement, not coin.”
Eloise blinked. “Are you always so generous with strange women breaking curfew?”
“Only the ones who mention Wollstonecraft.”
Behind her, John cleared his throat loudly.
Eloise had almost forgotten he was there.
Mr. Sharpe cast him a glance, then looked back at her. “All right, a discount, then. If it helps preserve your dignity.”
“I’ll accept that,” she said primly — though the corners of her mouth betrayed her amusement.
Mr. Sharpe smiled. “Come along, then.”
Eloise flashed John a triumphant grin and followed Mr. Sharpe to the counter, where he tallied the books with quiet efficiency. Once she had paid — coin barely exchanged before he waved her off — she lingered.
“Thank you, Mr. Sharpe,” she said, clutching her books with genuine warmth.
“Theo,” he corrected. “Please. And I do hope I’ll see you again, Miss Eloise.”
She gave him a small, measured smile — though her eyes sparkled.
“I suspect you will.”