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Alexander Gun, 7th Earl of Penwood, is not what Sophie expected. She knows it’s not his fault, but she keeps trying to search his face for markers of her own, or that of her father’s. He is good-looking enough; he shares her dark hair and fair skin, reminders of their shared Joseon heritage, but his eyes are wider than her father’s had been, his shoulders narrower, his accent different, his mouth wider and more open. Her father, for all his private doting, had kept her at something of a distance, but Alexander is a spirited conversationalist, happily sharing stories of his travels abroad, how he had met his wife in Wales, and how they were finding married life in London. Nevertheless, she had been pleased when he had greeted her in Korean, called her sachon. No one else in the room had understood.
“I met the late earl perhaps once or twice,” he’s telling Benedict, “But I spent most of my life in Cardiff. My father had been stationed there, and that was where he met my mother. She’s of Welsh gentry stock through and through.”
“Hm,” Eloise mutters, noncommittal as always, “I spent this past summer in Scotland. Lots of…sheep, and fog. Is Cardiff any more exciting?”
Benedict, ever used to Eloise’s bluntness, tamps down a sigh. Sophie, still training herself out of expecting one of Araminta’s domineering glares, tries not to cringe. But Alexander - because Sophie supposes she must call him Alexander now, Lord Penwood is as painful as it is empty - laughs, a gesture so unlike Sophie’s father’s that her quest to find any specific resemblances between them comes to a screeching halt.
He turns to his wife. “You were right about her,” he says, “She is a delight.”
Cressida – Sophie resists the urge to refer to her as Lady Penwood – nods indulgently, but her eyes flit to Eloise. And then –
Her gloved hand, dainty on the teacup handle, trembles.
And then –
Her smile widens, just a little bit. The edge of her gaze softens, and her high cheekbones run the faintest shade of pink to match her dress.
Oh?
Sophie blinks and the moment passes. Cressida’s cup and saucer land back down on to the table, and her slender neck and pretty smile turn back towards Alexander.
Eloise doesn’t seem to notice. “A delight?” she crows in disbelief, crossing her arms. “After last season?”
Benedict turns to Sophie now, hapless. We can hardly take her anywhere, his fond, exasperated gaze is saying.
Cressida is right, though, Sophie says back with her raised brow. She had tried, through subtle conversation, to understand the Bridgerton women’s history with the new Lady Penwood. Eloise’s face had darkened when it had been brought up. Penelope had been distant, relating the gist of Cressida’s attempted coup and blackmail of the Lady Whistledown newsletter with a tight smile. It was Hyacinth who had laid the details plain for Sophie, explaining the antagonism between Cressida and the eldest Bridgerton sister, now the Duchess of Hastings, when the queen’s nephew came to London, then her failed attempt at marrying Penelope’s cousin, her competition for Lord Debling’s hand, and finally her exile to Wales at the hands of her horrible parents in the perky, undeterred way of a bright girl who had not yet been unleashed on society. Hyacinth had ended her retelling with And now you are family!
Believe it or not, Sophie had said, I’ve had a worse family.
“Well,” Cressida demurs, a hint of that smile appearing again on her fair face, “I think it is water under the bridge. Had it not been for the events of last season, Alexander and I may not have met, and…”
“And we would not have become family,” Alexander adds in his jovial manner, oblivious to how this makes Eloise wince. He turns now to Sophie. “What a joy it has been to meet you,” he says. “My late father was never much for talking about his side of the family; I barely even knew that Uncle Richard remarried, let alone that I had a cousin. Irma even tells me you spent some time in this very house - why, you must have lived here longer than I have!”
Benedict cracks a smile at that. “I daresay she’s rather familiar with it,” he says, meeting her eyes.
“My dear husband overstates,” Sophie says, widening her eyes at him in warning. “Besides, that time has passed. It is your home now, and yours to do with as you please.” It’s the truth. Alfie thinks the new countess’ overt penchant for pink nauseating, but it had secretly pleased Sophie to know that Araminta hated it.
Cressida nods again. Sophie decides to observe the Penwoods. For all that society and the servants had gossiped about it being a love match before they had arrived, and Alexander and Cressida are friendly enough, they are not particularly affectionate towards each other. Benedict’s sisters and sisters-in-law always seemed enthralled by their husbands, but Cressida seems to keep a careful distance between herself and the earl. Still, it is hardly convincing evidence - Francesca, God bless her soul, had said something similar of her marriage, and Sophie knew of their deep love firsthand.
Benedict knows to steer the conversation away. He turns to Alexander. “And your work in the House of Lords - settling in alright?”
“It is an adjustment,” Alexander says. “I did meet your brother the viscount and your brothers-in-law, Benedict – fine men. I was sorry to hear about Lord Kilmartin’s passing.”
Sophie can’t help her own face tensing, remembering the dark of Francesca’s widow’s weeds against her pale face. She turns to Eloise’s face, whose face looks ashen.
Cressida, it seems, has noticed it too. She swats her husband’s arm. “Oh, why must you talk of such things,” she scolds. She stands, turning again to Eloise. “Eloise, Sophie – let us take a turn about the gardens and leave the men to their politics, shall we?” She says it in the polite but authoritative tone of a woman who outranks everyone else in the room besides her own husband.
It’s all too familiar for Sophie, who stands. Eloise meets Sophie’s eye from the chaise before following suit. She loops her arms with Sophie’s and they follow Cressida outside, leaving Alexander and Benedict in the sitting room.
“I do appreciate your accompanying us,” Sophie murmurs to her sister-in-law, just low enough to be out of Cressida’s earshot. The ruse to ingratiate her into high society had been roughshod; the family had been cautious to supplement her appearance at the queen’s ball with consistent public appearances alongside high society individuals in their orbit -- Lady Danbury at a luncheon here, the Duke of Hastings at a soiree there, Kate publicly introducing her to her visiting mother and sister at a ball – yet connection to her father’s remaining kin, upon whose relation she had staked her claim on Benedict, had yet to be established to the ton.
Eloise chuckles and ducks her head, placing her hand on top of Sophie’s. “It was no bother. Believe it or not, I much prefer it to overseeing Hyacinth’s German lessons. Cressida indubitably carries some fondness for me despite everything – why, I do not know…” She trails off, watching the countess ahead of them.
As if on cue, Cressida turns around, smiling widely at the sight of them. Indubitably, Sophie muses. “Isn’t it all so grand?” she cheerily says, gesturing about. Sophie follows her gaze to the familiar gardens. Much of it is still laid out as it had been during Sophie’s childhood – horticulture had never been one of Araminta’s passions. Sophie feels that if she could let her mind roam she could imagine herself at age five again, clambering down the stone path and running her fingers along the flower stems. She’d not be in the luxurious fabrics and sturdy shoes she wears now, but in a loose dress and sandals. Irma would sometimes greet her at the other end, pointing out the fresh blooms - which ones were poppies, and which ones were peonies. But she can also now see Cressida’s touches – Araminta hated hydrangeas and would never line the steps with them, the benches that line the main path are new, the gazebo is now bedecked in what Sophie now recognizes as Cressida’s trademark pink. Then Sophie considers how much effort it took from the gardeners to keep it pristine. She wonders if Cressida had considered it when she had ordered those new benches, and if Sophie herself would ever stop considering it.
A crisp fall breeze blows through the garden, snapping her fully out of her train of thought. Sophie watches Eloise and Cressida walking a few steps ahead.
“Please pass on my condolences to Lady Kilmartin, Eloise,” Cressida is saying. “Alas, we had to return to Wales to tidy up some family affairs…”
“I’ll make sure to tell her,” Eloise drawls.
Cressida nods, seemingly oblivious to the sarcasm in Eloise’s voice. “And the duchess? I wrote to her about my return to London, and invited her to the ball. Alexander says he has met the duke in Parliament, but I have yet to hear from her.”
Eloise waves a hand. “Ah, Cressida, while I am sure Daphne is raring to write back, she has sailed away to Africa this year. The duke’s roots are in the Gold Coast, you see, and she wants their children to know about that part of their history.” Eloise pauses, and glances sidelong at Sophie. “I do not want to say I wish she had not gone, but I know both Francesca and Benedict would have deeply appreciated her support this summer.”
Understanding the need to step in, Sophie catches up to them and adds, “Her Grace is by all accounts an excellent lady, and I am sure she has been thinking the same. She will be glad to be home and see you all, I am sure.”
“See us all,” Eloise says, playfully touching Sophie’s chin. “Ah, Daphne would just love you.”
Sophie considers this. Per Benedict, Daphne Hastings nee Bridgerton is the embodiment of Regency ladyship, and these types of women tended not to take kindly to a convenient lie to hide illegitimacy. Per Benedict, even her husband the duke had needed convincing. In addition, Sophie claims relation, even by marriage, to her onetime enemy Cressida. On the other hand, if the duchess is anything like her siblings, a firm believer in love and family, then perhaps… To hide the doubt on her face, Sophie glances at Cressida, only to find her – once again – staring at Eloise.
“You see, I did envy that of you all,” Cressida says softly. “Your family, the brother- and sisterhood. It wasn’t clear to me when Her Grace and I were debutantes, a long time ago. But it is clear now.”
Eloise purses her lips, and her eyes soften. Sophie watches her, expecting a barb or a joke that doesn’t come. “Oh, Lady Penwood,” she says instead, “It has been long, you are right. But now you are a countess, free to build your family as you please. And although you yourself doubted it, I am to be a spinster, free to walk about and visit at my leisure.” She cracks a smile. “Remember when you offered for us to abscond from society last year? You may tire of me yet.”
Suddenly, Cressida blushes. Another moment passes, then she glances at Sophie and begins fanning herself, muttering about the heat despite the chill of early fall, but it’s too late - Sophie has seen, heard, and understands.
But Eloise - oh, Eloise doesn’t seem to see, and Sophie knows Cressida knows this too.
She decides to step in once more. “Indeed,” she says, “I appreciate this new chapter for all of us. Thank you for showing us the gardens, Cressida. They are…different from what I remember, but in a good way.”
Cressida blinks at her. For one brief second there is panic in her eyes, before it's shuttered away into the polite smile of a society lady. “Truly,” she says faintly. “It was my pleasure.”
This revelation raises more questions than it does answers. On the walk back to the house, Sophie briefly wonders on the nature of Cressida and Alexander’s marriage, her relationship with Eloise, and whether Benedict suspects. She turns the push and pull of Cressida and the Bridgerton women over the years over and over in her mind. Is Cressida like Benedict, caring for both men and women? Benedict had told her of an artist couple he once knew who were in relationships with other people - was this a partnership of that sort? Or was she overthinking it, as she is wont to do?
Still, she knows these are not questions that she'll find the answers to today. They may not even have answers, yet.
Alexander and Benedict stand when they enter, and despite their brief separation, Sophie’s heart warms when she sees her husband. “My dear cousin,” Alexander says to Sophie, “I was just telling your husband that Cressida and I are to host a luncheon next week. You three must come and sit at our table.” Relief floods Sophie. The implication is clear - who would deny her status when the new Earl himself claims it?
“We would love to, of course,” Sophie says, perhaps too quickly.
Cressida claps her hands together. The motion makes her otherwise immaculate blonde curls bounce. “Oh, yes! We are theming it after the works of William Shakespeare. Alexander and I are to be Oberon and Titania.”
That makes Eloise grin. “You are reading Shakespeare now?”
“Well, it’s slow going,” Cressida admits. “But I believe I owe my recent spate of reading to you, Miss Bridgerton.”
“A fine accomplishment,” Sophie says indulgently. “And a worthy house to develop a habit of such. Eloise - you must see the library here, it is a splendid collection.”
Eloise's eyebrows rise. Sophie subtly nudges Benedict as he tries to hold back a chuckle.
Cressida adds, “It truly has been wonderful seeing you all. You are welcome to call on us at your leisure.”
“Likewise,” Benedict replies affably. “And we shall see you both at the Smythe-Smith musicale next week, I presume.”
Alexander chuckles. “Not willingly, is my understanding.” He looks at Sophie. “It truly is a pleasure, Sophie.”
“Likewise,” Sophie says, and means it.
In the carriage back to Bridgerton House, Benedict taps his knee and muses, “The earl is a pleasant man. There are worse lords, to be sure.”
“He strikes me as someone who was not expecting to inherit a title,” Eloise says. “Nevertheless, I am glad he is so amiable, as it does make all this -” she gestures between Benedict and Sophie - “much easier.”
Benedict nods, taking Sophie’s hand in his. “Indeed. I am surprised at Cressida, though. She has…changed a lot, from what I recall of her in previous seasons.”
Eloise rolls her eyes. “When I visited her that first time, she was telling me all about how freeing she was finding marriage, but it seems like more of the same.”
“Do you not agree?” Benedict asks curiously. “I doubt Lord Cowper would have approved of the pink. She’s sure to be a…renowned personality in the ton.”
Sophie has to smile at that. “I don’t know if free is the word I would use,” she says carefully, rubbing her thumb along their locked palms. “But she has had time to explore herself and think about what she wants out of life and marriage, and in a way, that is more than many debutantes get.”
Eloise hums. Benedict looks at her curiously, but Sophie ducks her head and turns to look out the window to watch the grand houses that had been out of reach for so long pass by. It also has been a long season, and what she told Cressida was true -- it is only the beginning of a new chapter, and this time, she can keep another secret for a little while.