Chapter Text
The season has a way of coming between young ladies
That had always been the long and short of it, hadn’t it? Cressida had been through three of them now, each more stressful than the last. Her last, her last chance, and now it was gone. Oh, she had played a big hand, or rather bluffed herself into one, but had it paid off? Of course not. A hand played in desperation was hardly ever a winning one. Go big or go home, and she had certainly gone home. Or rather, to the home of her relatives. A dreary place, and her aunt… It would have to serve her to have such an awful summer after the last summer, which had been quite lovely. Whether she would end up having a lovely summer ever again, whether she’d ever be let back into the ton or kept home in the country by whatever old man wasn’t too picky to take an ornery wife after her re-education… Whether she could survive such re-education relatively unscathed, the answers to those questions were still up in the air and she didn’t dare hope.
Her aunt had told her hope was a wicked poison, something that would keep her from appreciating reality. Which Cressida had dutifully agreed with to avoid a fight she would certainly lose. She’d never thought her hopes were all too unrealistic. She’d had the same hopes as any other lady during the season, or so she had thought. Find a husband with a stable position, one who wasn’t unkind and wouldn’t lock her away. Preferably someone who wasn’t older than her own father. Had such hopes already been too much?
Surely they’d be too much now. If she’d had another chance, another season… What could she even do then? Nothing now of course, but if she’d had another option then, before her… Acting out… If she hadn’t felt so trapped, if she’d had another option then, surely she would have taken it.
Too late to think about such things now, too late for regret. Cressida had never had much use for it before. She’d always favored an approach more impulsive than thought through properly. Though, she had also never had to face such dire consequences. She had been a child before, playing at being a lady. Oh, she’d been good at playing. But not good enough.
Out of control, that was what her Aunt said, apparently Cressida had it too good for too long, apparently she’d been allowed too much freedom, too much agency. To her own mind it had never been enough, but perhaps that was as her aunt put it, because once the reins are slackened on a wayward daughter, she can never let herself be sated. Not unless she was shown a firm hand, apparently. Cressida… Didn’t even want to argue. Didn’t want to fight. She was alone and she was tired.
She thought often of another wayward daughter she’d known. Whether Eloise would be sparing her any thought, she couldn’t rightly say. They hadn’t exactly left on good terms. Cressida supposed she was envious of Eloise, the way she was never harshly punished for even the worst of her wanderings, how she would surely enjoy the ongoing support of her large family even if she never found a husband of her own. Even if she did decide on a wholly unladylike path. If there had been such a future open to Cressida… But there was more to admire in Eloise rather than just her circumstances. Right down to how the Bridgerton girl was as ignorant to her own flaws as she seemed to be to her own charms. She spent so much time looking in on the world that she forgot she too was part of it.
When Cressida had been with her, spending time just the two of them, she’d almost been able to forget her own part in it as well. To become a part of something else entirely. Something she chose for herself. But then, of course, there had been the season.
Cressida’s aunt had all sorts of reasons cooked up for why Cressida couldn’t find a husband over the course of three seasons. Each day it seemed she’d come up with a new way Cressida could be lacking. Her dress too gaudy, her stature too tall, her gaze too direct, her smile too arrogant. Cressida had her own theories forming in the back of her mind, but she tried to keep them there, preferring to imagine herself simply unlucky. After all, even her aunt could admit that she was, generally speaking, pretty enough.
Cressida wasn’t allowed outside contact, which was really for the best. That way she didn’t have to find out if her letters would be returned or not. Nor did she really have anyone to contact apart from Eloise. It was as she’d said, she didn’t truly have friends these days. Eloise… She was sure couldn’t be counted among them now either.
Maybe one day, but there again was that vile poison of hope. How unfair. She’d wanted what she was supposed to want and had done what she could to seek it out. She had sought out Lord Debling, even though… He hadn’t truly been very interested in her. Eloise had been critical of her pursuit, always ready with reasons why Cressida shouldn’t be his wife. It had made her think, perhaps… But Eloise couldn’t see what she did. A man who wouldn’t mistreat his wife, who could give her security and let her be. Eloise was always like that, though, having difficulty truly understanding other peoples’ circumstances. It was a flaw, but it was Eloise’s flaw, and Cressida certainly had enough of those herself…
Ah, but she missed Eloise. There wasn’t much more to it. Whatever else had gone between them, it was a precious friendship when she’d needed it the most. Though, perhaps now was when she needed it most. Wasn’t that always the way though? They’d come between each other and now there was no way of reaching out even if she wanted to. She couldn’t dare ask to send a letter out, even just to a female friend. Her family had never been fond of Eloise. Because she’d undergone scandal, or because she was bold and rebellious, or just because she took away from Cressida’s pursuit in finding a husband. Even though she’d never forgotten that pursuit.
She could have found a man other than Lord Debling, if she’d had the chance. She could have fought harder for him even perhaps. She could have demurred more or flirted harder with the gentlemen who had sought to dance with her even just once. She could have even done as Penelope Featherington apparently had and undertaken secret scandalous seduction lessons from… Someone, she didn’t know. Ah, she was just too overtaken by what she could have done she wasn’t even bothering to think through what was actually feasible.
Perhaps she didn’t truly want a husband as much as she ought to want one. A husband meant stability and a place in society, a degree of freedom as long as he was fair enough. That was all well and good, but if she could have had those things without a husband, would she have truly cared about putting so much energy into finding one? Other than those benefits, what was there to a husband? A man with too much power who had to be endured? If she could live like Eloise, would she choose to do so?
Perhaps her family was right after all and Eloise Bridgerton had been a bad influence on her simply by existing. What did it matter? If she was influenced so be it. She’d rather liked Eloise’s influence. Rather liked the person she thought she might end up being. Without all the drama of the season and the market and the hunt and the ton, eyes always on the young ladies.
And she’d had to draw their eyes, truly she did. Even being locked away for reform was better than being locked away to have babies for an old man who didn’t even like her. Even if one should inevitably lead to the other, delay was good enough for now. Cressida had never been a long-term planner.
Her aunt had her stuck inside, most days she was stuck inside, a terrible way to spend a summer. She had a room on the upper floor to keep her from sneaking out. As if Cressida had ever been the sort of girl to sneak out. She passed the time with a lot of embroidery, mostly. Hah, Eloise had so hated embroidery. Her aunt wanted to instill upon her feminine pursuits. Even though Cressida already followed such pursuits. That had never been her problem. She discouraged Cressida’s reading, which Eloise had so adored, though she had left her with a few appropriately vetted tomes. A dry read on feminine virtue written by a man so old he was long dead before the King had taken the throne, a book of sermons whose parish must have all gotten good naps in every Sunday, and a book of all the different ways one could think of to cook peas.
She had read them, for the sake of her memory of Eloise. Rereading, however, would be too much even for Eloise’s sake. One must draw the line somewhere after all.
Remembering her by something she hated worked just as well as remembering her by something she loved. Not that she needed to remember Eloise, Eloise was probably doing just fine with her gone, but… Thinking back on all her time as a young lady in the ton, was there anything else she’d prefer to remember? A few lovely dresses perhaps, she was only allowed simple ones for the time being, but they would come again. More lovely dresses would be waiting for her one day, but would Eloise?
Perhaps then, she should stop remembering Eloise. Avoid the pain of all she had lost, appreciate the reality of the now. Like her embroidery, simple stitches that let her mind wander. And the solace of her solitude. She may be stuck inside, but at least she was being left alone. It was worse when she wasn’t being left alone. Funny that, Cressida had never been the sort to prefer being left alone. It said something about the current company that she’d enjoyed plenty of companies that were dreadful in their own ways, and only now was it too much.
It hurt enough to hear the insults, the ways she came up short, the constant complaints that she was not enough, was not doing enough, was not becoming enough. More difficult still to hold her tongue when the insults were directed towards her mother. It had been years since she entered the family and still she was never enough, what hope did Cressida have. If Mother were there to defend herself… Ah, Cressida missed her too. Marriage would take her away from her parents, surely, yet up until now she had not long been away from her mother. Perhaps there was a certain bond between a mother and her only daughter, or perhaps she was only still a child at heart. Maybe that was why her heart wasn’t truly in finding a husband.
Whatever thoughts she had to the contrary remained restricted in the back of her mind. She would not let them escape to the forefront. Better to remain childish. Eloise displayed a similar sort of charming naivete. She’d never been interested in a husband, not even for show.
Cressida wondered what Eloise was doing with her summer. If she enjoyed the weddings that had taken place from the last season. If she wondered where Cressida had gone, if she thought on her at all. She’d made up with Penelope, hadn’t she? Perhaps she’d be doing all the things Cressida longed for with her instead. Ah, but wasn’t it she who had taken Penelope’s place to begin with. Didn’t it just figure as much that she couldn’t have a place of her own? Not with her family as an unmarried girl, and not with Eloise, even though their friendship had been true.
Had seemed true. Wasn’t it? It had been good while it had lasted. If Cressida could have made a different decision, perhaps she would have made it. Perhaps by the next summer she would see Eloise again. Or perhaps Eloise would find herself a husband in the coming season. It seemed just as likely as anything else. It was her third season out and the Bridgertons had apparently had a way of falling unexpectedly, and quickly too.
Perhaps she’d hoped a bit of that had gone into whatever had blossomed between her and Eloise. In a friendship sort of way, of course. To Cressida, whatever husband she may or may not have obtained that season, Eloise was the sort of person who would always come first. She hadn’t expected herself to receive the same from the esteemed Bridgerton daughter, but… It would have been nice nevertheless. A husband out and about doing whatever it was that husbands do, and her and Eloise at each others’ sides, taking tea and discussing the ton and whatever books Eloise had brought. Buying dresses together and attending balls and even going for morning walks. With Eloise, most anything could be fun enough. Yet, that too was a fantasy. And all young ladies had to learn how to let go of their fantasies, lest they become left behind.
That was the trouble with being left alone. It gave the mind too much time and space to wander. Cressida put down her embroidery. Perhaps she should try filling her mind again with every way there was to prepare peas.