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Benedict intercepted Cressida before she'd even made it past the umbrella stand.
"We need to talk," he said, steering her toward the coat closet with a hand on her elbow. "Right now. Before you go in there."
"Ben, I haven't even taken off my coat."
"Keep it on. This is a coat closet conversation." He pulled the door mostly closed behind them, leaving them in the musty dark with Violet's collection of rain gear and what appeared to be an alarming number of tennis rackets. "Your mother sent me a Christmas card."
Cressida went very still. "What?"
"Araminta Cowper. Expensive cream stationery. Tasteful calligraphy. Season's Greetings and best wishes for the new year." Benedict's voice had none of its usual airy quality. "To me. Personally."
In the strip of light from the cracked door, Cressida could see him watching her with an expression she rarely saw on Benedict's face: genuine concern.
"She knows," he said. "Doesn't she."
"Ben…"
"Does she know? About me? About Penelope?" He caught himself. "Penny. Penelope Jane. Whatever Eloise is calling her this week."
"PJ," Cressida said. "She's lobbying for PJ."
"That's terrible."
"I know."
He ran a hand through his hair. "Cress. Does your mother know I'm the donor?"
"She knows." Cressida kept her voice low. "Or she's guessed. Which amounts to the same thing with my mother."
"Jesus Christ."
"She's not a stupid woman, Ben. Marrying my father was her one lapse in judgment, and even that was strategic." Cressida leaned against the wall of coats. Somewhere behind her, a hanger dug into her shoulder blade. "She's had three months to look at Penny and notice the Bridgerton cheeks. The coloring. The way she already makes grabby hands at anything that might be edible, just like..."
"Don't say Colin."
"I was going to say you. You ate an entire cheese plate at Thanksgiving before anyone else got a chance at it."
Benedict didn't argue. "When did she figure it out?"
"We had lunch. Last month." Cressida closed her eyes, remembering.
The restaurant had been Araminta's choice. Expensive, private, the kind of place where tables were spaced far enough apart to have conversations about things like inheritance law or extramarital affairs. Cressida had suggested bringing the baby.
"Are you certain that's wise?" her mother had asked, in the tone that meant she already had opinions.
“Father has made his opinion clear on Penelope and Eloise, so I’m not bringing her to the house. But I thought you might want to see your granddaughter. If you don’t then I’m not sure why you invited me to lunch.”
There was a long pause. Cressida prepared herself for this to go badly. But her mother had called her.
"The reservation is at noon. Don't be late."
Araminta had shown up in Chanel and pearls, looking at the infant carrier like it might contain a small, unpredictable animal. Which, Cressida supposed, it did.
Penelope Jane had been asleep for exactly twelve minutes before deciding she'd had enough of that and began her usual symphony of grunts and protests. Cressida recognized the hunger cues immediately. The rooting. The escalating fussiness. They had maybe two minutes before full meltdown.
"Excuse me," Cressida said, reaching for the diaper bag. "I need to find somewhere to feed her."
"You can stay." Araminta's voice was clipped, but not unkind. "I have done this, you know. Once or twice."
Cressida hesitated. Nursing in front of her mother felt like a vulnerability she hadn't prepared for. But Penny's protests were getting louder, and the thought of wrestling with a cover in some restaurant bathroom was worse.
She settled Penny against her, grateful she'd worn a button-down. Her mother looked away, studying the menu she'd already memorized, giving Cressida a privacy that felt almost considerate.
For a few minutes, the only sound was Penny's contented gulping. Then Cressida caught her mother watching. Not staring. Just... watching. Her face seemed almost soft.
"She has your coloring," Araminta said finally. "Your hair, when you were small. Before it went darker."
"She does."
"But those eyes." Araminta's gaze sharpened. The same look she'd given Cressida's report cards, searching for anything below acceptable. "Those aren't yours. And those cheeks. Those aren't Cowper cheeks."
"No. They aren't."
"The new biomedical techniques at the university must be remarkable." Araminta's voice was perfectly even. "To produce such a specific resemblance."
"They've made tremendous advances." Cressida kept her own voice just as level. "Genetic matching. Phenotype prediction. It's all very scientific."
"I see."
Penny had finished and was starting to drowse, milk-drunk and flushed. Cressida shifted her to her shoulder, buttoning up one-handed with the ease of practice.
"She looks like someone I've met," Araminta continued. "I can't quite place it. One of those... Bridgertons, perhaps. That large family your wife is always going on about."
Cressida had learned long ago that her mother's vague phrasings were never actually vague. "If you have a question, Mother, you could simply ask it."
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."
They'd finished lunch in careful silence. Araminta had paid, which she always did. She'd looked at Penelope Jane one more time before leaving.
"She's a pretty baby," she'd said. "Give my best to Eloise."
And then she was gone, heels clicking across the marble floor.
"She didn't ask outright," Cressida told Benedict now. "But she must have figured it out. It had to be one of her brothers, and you’re…" she shrugged. "Even my mother can guess who Eloise would trust with something like this."
"And this Christmas card? What's that about?"
"Honestly? I have no idea. With my mother, it could be a peace offering. Or a warning shot. Or she's cataloging her evidence in case she ever needs leverage." Cressida shrugged, the coats rustling around her. "What did the card say?"
"Season's greetings. Best wishes for the new year. That she hoped I was well and that she looked forward to many happy returns."
"That's... actually not threatening."
"It was the many happy returns that worried me. It felt pointed."
From the other side of the door, they could hear the chaos of the Bridgerton brunch in full swing. Hyacinth shrieking about something. Colin defending himself against some accusation. The comfortable mayhem of a family that didn't weaponize silence.
"Is she going to make Eloise's life hell?" Benedict asked. "Because I will absolutely... I don't know what I'll do, actually. Paint something really unflattering? But I'll do something."
"I don't think so. My father's already made his position clear." The old familiar tightness crept into Cressida's chest. I have no daughter. Somehow it still stung, even now. "But my mother... she's always been harder to predict. She followed the script when she had to. Now that she doesn't..."
"Now that she doesn't?"
"She's been sending gifts. Baby clothes. A silver rattle that probably cost a small fortune." Cressida hadn't told Eloise about those. She wasn't sure why. "I think maybe she wants to be a grandmother. I just don't know if she knows how."
Benedict was quiet for a moment. "That's almost sad."
"Almost."
They stood in the closet for another minute, surrounded by outerwear and sporting equipment and the muffled sounds of family.
"We should go in," Cressida said finally. "Before someone comes looking and assumes we're having an affair."
"God, can you imagine? Eloise would kill me."
"She'd kill you for the affair, and then she'd kill me for the closet."
"Fair. She does have strong opinions about closets. Very anti." Benedict cracked the door open wider. "You're sure about your mother? That she's not going to..."
"I'm sure she's going to do something. I'm just not sure what yet."
Christmas Day, the Bridgerton house was even more chaotic than usual.
Cressida had arrived prepared for battle, or at least for whatever version of battle involved casseroles and non-stop hugging. Penelope Jane was wearing a red velvet dress that Daphne had insisted upon and a matching headband that she kept trying to eat. Eloise was wearing a sweater covered in cats wearing Santa hats, a gift from Gregory that she claimed was ironic.
It was Hyacinth who brought in the package.
"There's another one at the door," she announced, carrying a box wrapped in expensive paper. "It's addressed to... huh. That's weird."
"What's weird?" Violet asked, looking up from where she was arranging cookies on a platter.
"It's for Eloise. From a Cowper?" Hyacinth read the return address with exaggerated confusion. "Do we know any Cowpers?"
Cressida's stomach dropped.
Eloise looked at Cressida. Cressida looked at Benedict. Benedict suddenly became very interested in the Christmas tree.
"That's..." Eloise took the package. "That's Cressida's mother."
"Oh!" Violet's face brightened. "How lovely! I didn't realize you two had reconciled."
"We haven't exactly..." Cressida started.
But Eloise was already opening the box, because Eloise had never met a mystery she didn't want to solve immediately. She pulled aside tissue paper, and then stopped.
"Cress."
"What is it?"
Eloise lifted out a bottle of Scotch. It was extremely old. Extremely expensive. The kind of bottle that lived in locked cabinets and got opened once a decade for significant occasions.
Beneath it, a box of Cuban cigars.
And at the bottom, wrapped in more tissue paper, a smoking jacket. Velvet, by the look of it. Deep burgundy with quilted lapels. The kind of thing that belonged in a gentlemen's club in a P.G. Wodehouse novel.
"There's a card," Eloise said. Her voice sounded strange.
Cressida watched Eloise open the envelope. Watched her eyes move across the text. Watched her face, waiting for the reaction.
"What does it say?" Cressida's voice came out smaller than she intended.
Eloise handed her the card. Cream-colored. Tasteful calligraphy. Just like Benedict's.
Wishing every happiness to the one who gave my granddaughter her cheeks.
—A
Cressida read it twice. Then a third time.
"She didn't even sign her full name," she said finally. "Maximum deniability."
"Is this... good?" Eloise asked. "I can't tell if this is good."
"She sent you a smoking jacket and Scotch."
"But I don't smoke," Eloise said, loudly enough for Violet to hear across the room. Then, quieter, to Cressida: "Ben and I are splitting those. They are actual Cubans."
Benedict appeared at Cressida's elbow, reading over her shoulder. His eyebrows rose.
"The one who gave my granddaughter her cheeks," he repeated. "Well. That's one theory, I guess."
"She's acknowledging me," Eloise said slowly. "That's what this is. She's acknowledging that I'm... that Penny is..."
"She's decided how she sees you." Cressida's throat felt tight. "That's what this means. She's been thinking about it, and she's come to a conclusion. You're Penny's other parent. Really her parent. Not just my wife who happens to be in the room."
From across the room, Penelope Jane let out a delighted shriek as Colin dangled a ribbon in front of her. The rest of the Bridgertons continued their various conversations, oblivious.
"My mother knows," Cressida said, still staring at the card. "She figured it out, and instead of pretending, or excluding you because…” She gestured between Eloise and Benedict. “She's... welcoming you."
"With cigars."
"I know it’s odd, but my mother doesn’t really know what to do with us. We don’t fit her mold. I know it’s not great, but she’s trying. She's going with the classics."
Eloise looked at the pile of absurdly masculine gifts, then at the card, then at Cressida.
"Your mother is implying I’m the father."
"She is."
"Of her grandchild."
"Also accurate."
"Does she want to meet me? I mean really meet me."
"Apparently."
Eloise let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "I don't know whether to be touched or terrified."
"With my mother?" Cressida tucked the card back into its envelope. "Both. Definitely both."
But she was smiling. And when Benedict squeezed her shoulder before drifting back toward the Christmas tree, she let herself lean into Eloise just slightly. Just enough.
Her mother had sent a card. Had sent gifts. Had used the word grandchild like it was something she wanted to claim.
It wasn't forgiveness, exactly. It wasn't redemption. Araminta Cowper didn't do anything as simple as that.
But it was a door, left open. And for the first time in longer than Cressida could remember, her mother had been the one to crack it.
"She's going to try to give you advice about Penny. And send her clothes you will hate," Cressida warned. "She's going to criticize your parenting and your wardrobe and probably your academic career."
"Probably," Eloise agreed.
"And she's going to be deeply disappointed that you don't actually like Scotch."
"I can learn to like Scotch."
"It is sixty years old. It is probably quite likable."
Eloise lifted the bottle, examining the label with the same intense focus she gave her research. "So. Family brunch in the new year? With your mother?"
Cressida thought about her mother, sitting across a restaurant table, watching a baby who looked only a little like a Cowper and didn't seem to mind. Thought about the rattle and the clothes and now this, these ridiculous, old-fashioned gifts meant for a son-in-law Araminta was choosing to see.
"God help us all," Cressida said. "But yes. Family brunch in the new year."