Chapter Text
There were a great many things that Eloise had ignored in life, simply because she did not want to acknowledge them. The truth was that she envied the kind of lives her brothers lived, simply because they gallivanted. She knew of their various love affairs, though perhaps they kept the details from her door, and they spent so many evenings out with Mr Mondrich drinking or playing cards.
Eloise so wanted to live that kind of life that she quite forgot to learn how to be a wife, so it was to her dismay that one day, her mother decided to teach her.
Eloise had feared this would be another overture of matchmaking from her mother, but when she made a pithy comment about marriage, Violet revealed another motivation: “Since you are unlikely to wed,” she said, “you should set about learning how to keep house. You could be of great help to Anthony and Kate, with them in India so often.”
She tried to sound positive, but Eloise detected a note of desperation under the notion. Eloise needed to earn her place in a busy household, so that she would be kept in comfort in her old age. So she had to learn about choosing menus, ordering fabrics, organising and hiring staff. All of it was terribly dull, especially when there were so many books Eloise had to peruse. Still, she learned, and the more she learned, the more it spun her head. She had no notion of how her mother had run such a complex household with eight children to pull at her attention.
Eloise at least supposed the latter problem would never haunt her. Her siblings were doing enough procreating for all of England, or so she supposed. For herself, she’d always thought that one or two would be enough. Given her status on the shelf, none would have to do.
The latest problem of Bridgerton House was the clocks. They were wound consistently by their butler and the footmen, but the pack of them had malfunctioned, all on the same day that Eloise was put in charge of their welfare.
“It was spite,” she told Benedict in the garden as they sat on the swings. “One of them broke, so Mama told me to make sure it got fixed, and then one by one, the pack gave up the ghost. They’re rebelling against my leadership.”
True to her mother’s request, Eloise ventured out to hire a clockmaker. Their old one had apparently died, and they needed to develop a new line of credit with someone reputable. She found one on the street near the modiste (Eloise was not overly familiar with other areas of London): Sweet and Sons, Clockmaker. It seemed reputable, if the window display with three golden clocks was anything to go by.
Her maid, acting as chaperone, stood by the door as Eloise entered. A bell rang over her head, a noise that could not compete with the cacophony of ticking that met her ears.
The clockmaker had displayed his work upon every shelf. Eloise’s interest was drawn by a golden model of Buckingham House with a clockface upon its roof. As it struck the hour, a model horse and carriage trotted out of the gates, spun on a dial, and went back inside. Eloise was forced to plug her ears as all of the clocks in the place called out the hour, as if she was entirely unaware of it and needed the news poured directly into her ears.
She clapped her hands over her ears, and thus only heard the laughter as a muffled, distant sound. When she turned, it was to find the shopkeeper standing at the desk, unperturbed by the chiming of many bells. He was trying to hold in a laugh, and Eloise found herself quite outraged at that notion. He was a gaily dressed man with a sharp chin and dark eyes. Eloise might have said he was handsome, if she was inclined to such notions.
“I do apologise,” he said. “I forget that not everyone is used to that sound.”
“You might have timed them to go off in succession, so the collective noise was not so frightful.”
“Alas, my skills as a clockmaker would be questioned, were any of my personal collection a second out of time. What can I do for you, my lady?”
“I need someone to come and fix all of my clocks. They have given up on ticking, out of protest, I assume.”
“I can certainly manage that. How many are there in need of attention?” he asked, a strange smile upon his face.
“At least half a dozen, I don’t know. My house is - uh - quite large.”
“Did you perhaps travel around it, smashing them with the end of a broom?”
“Of course not.”
“Then I must assume your hypothesis of ‘protest’ to be correct. Do you have a husband that I should charge the account to?”
Eloise felt a familiar twist in her gut at this. Everyone assumed that she must have a husband, and it was forever embarrassing to be forced to correct people. Wollstonecraft hadn’t found the need for a husband until she found herself pregnant, and even then, Eloise didn’t consider Godwin to have been worthy of her.
The only pertinent thing was to pull rank and remind the clockmaker of who he was speaking to. “You must make all of the accounts out to my brother, the Viscount Bridgerton.”
The clockmaker, already pale, turned even paler as she said this.
“Yes, my lady. That can certainly be arranged. Is there an hour tomorrow where I might come by?”
“Any of them, I should assume.”
Since the death of her sister’s husband, Bridgerton House had become a great deal less lively. Benedict’s attentions were mostly engaged by Sophie, and the paintings he was now determined to have displayed. He had an agent for this purpose, but Benedict still dipped in and out of the city, visiting galleries and wealthy patrons looking to buy his work. Anthony and Kate were based mostly at Aubrey Hall, and Anthony now ran the estate from there, and they rode through the grounds every morning. Even Penelope and Colin could not be counted upon: Colin was falling victim to his wanderlust again, and he was planning a great expedition to show his wife and son to some of the places he found so wondrous before.
The family had drifted away, and Eloise found herself missing even Daphne, though they’d never truly been close. She spent many of her days with Francesca, reading while the latter sat quietly. She hadn’t been moved to touch a pianoforte much since she became a widow, and her beloved jigsaw collection also sat idle.
Eloise struggled to find conversation topics that might engage her. “Do you ever wonder how clocks function?” she asked, her eyes resting on the mantelpiece, where a timepiece sat below the portrait of their parents.
“I imagine it is something to do with the cogs,” said Francesca.
“Yes, I imagine it is.”
The silence between them lengthened. Eloise could not stand it. She needed talk. “Though I do wonder how they make them so very small.”
“Eloise, I do not much care about clocks.”
They were saved at that moment by Footman John, who appeared in the drawing room, seeming a little harried.
“Miss Bridgerton, Lady Kilmartin,” he said, bowing his head. “We have an unexpected visitor.”
“I do not much want callers,” muttered Francesca.
“No, it is a clockmaker,” said John. “I told him that this was not an appropriate hour, but he insisted.”
“No, it is my fault,” said Eloise, leaping to her feet. “I told him that any time was reasonable.”
“Ah.”
“I should have discussed it with Mrs Wilson, shouldn’t I?”
“Forgive me, Miss Bridgerton, but I believe it should have been Mrs Wilson’s duty to schedule a clockmaker.”
At this, Francesca hid her face behind her hand, and Eloise was shocked to discover she was hiding a laugh.
“What are you smirking at?”
“Nothing, Eloise.”
“What?”
“Mother said it would not go this far. She did not think you would actually hire a clockmaker.”
“Ah, so this is a potted attempt to get me back on the marriage mart.”
Francesca nodded to confirm. “She thought you would grow so bored of household tasks that you would be desperate to attend another ball.”
“Well, you can tell Mama that I found the tasks most engaging. John, you had better bring him in.”
“Miss Bridgerton, I can have him attend to the other rooms first, as this one is in use,” said John.
“No, bring him right here! I am sure Francesca and I will not mind.”
John backed away with the tension of a man escaping a wolf pack. He did return later with Mr Sweet, who kept his head high, despite the difference in their stations.
He bowed his head at both Eloise and Francesca. “Miss Bridgerton, Lady Kilmartin, I hope I am not disturbing you.”
Eloise assumed that John had told him their names in the corridor, so that he might not embarrass himself. Mr Sweet dressed rather garishly, but perhaps that was simply the style outside of the ton. His jacket was a bright emerald green and his waistcoat had a mauve and blue stripe. Anthony would never be caught dead dressing in such fashions.
“No, I was just hoping that John might fetch my mother. You shall not be disturbing us, the clock is just on the mantel there.”
“Oh, I shall have a look.” He stepped forward, a little uncertain, but Eloise fell into an armchair and pretended to read. She bounced her foot while waiting for her mother to arrive, and kept half an eye on the clockmaker. Rather than be scared off, Mr Sweet laid out a toolchest on their rug, and settled two pairs of spectacles over his eyes. Eloise thought that two pairs was perhaps overdoing it, but he had an air of determination about him that made it seem reasonable that he had two pairs of spectacles balanced on the end of his nose.
Violet Bridgerton bustled into the room, all harried energy, and looked at Mr Sweet as if he were a zebra who had trespassed in their drawing room, rather than a clockmaker.
“Sir, what are you doing here?” she asked, with the viscountess voice she had long perfected. Mr Sweet froze where he was, his hands around the expensive clock.
“Uh…” he began.
“Mr Sweet was just repairing the clocks, upon my instruction,” said Eloise. “Did you not instruct me to hire a clockmaker?”
“I had expected you to perhaps - well - I did not think that Mr Sweet needed to repair the clocks while I took tea.”
“I can return, my lady,” he said.
“No, I think he should stay. He has already started work after all,” said Eloise, smiling at her mother.
“Oh, well, if he is causing no disruption.” Violet tried to sit down for tea as if nothing were wrong, but she kept glancing back at Mr Sweet. He did look so very out of place among their pastel blue drawing room.
He stayed the whole day, moving from one room to another, fixing every clock that had malfunctioned under Eloise’s watch.
Not long after he departed the drawing room, Lady Violent took Eloise aside and said: “You know dear, I think Mrs Wilson should deal with the clocks from now on.”
“Are you sure, Mama? I think I should quite like to learn more about how to run a household.”
“I think you have learned enough for the time being.”
As Eloise meant to return to her bedroom to change for dinner, she ran into Mr Sweet in the grand hall. His case was at his feet and his spectacles were returned to his pocket.
“Miss Bridgerton,” he said, without bowing his head. “I was about to find Mrs Wilson.”
“Quite right.”
“If it is not too rude to say,” he began.
“If you have to qualify it, it usually is.”
“I don’t enjoy being used. Whatever trifle you have with your mother, I would care not to be a prop in it.”
“I - it’s no trifle.”
“It is really not my business, Miss Bridgerton. Good day.”
With that, he left, and Eloise was quite flummoxed.