Chapter Text
A soldier on the mend, a botanist in love
Chapter 1: Scarlet Fever
Scarlet fever entered Featherington House uninvited.
Marina Thompson was the first to fall sick. Gossiping tongues claimed the beautiful young lady had been imprudent enough to visit a most disadvantaged neighborhood and had brought the malady back with her. The second to fall ill was Penelope Featherington, her peach-colored skin turning as white as paper. She passed the illness to her friend, Eloise Bridgerton – and some Mayfair mamas had the audacity to say she did it because she was envious of the Bridgerton girl’s beauty.
Eloise did not seem to share that sentiment. She shouted and made a fuss until her family allowed her to suffer in the company of her best friend and Miss Thompson. Portia Featherington set up a comfortable room for the three sick girls, where only a few brave physicians and nurses were allowed. (They were highly recommended by Lady Danbury, who, in turn, had received the recommendation from the Queen herself).
At first, Lady Featherington complained loudly about her bad luck. A distant cousin - prettier than her last unmarried daughter - had come into her house only to cause trouble. First, Marina had commanded the attention of the few gentlemen still worth a damn in Mayfair, ruining Penelope’s third season. This was a critical time in the life of a girl who already had all the makings of a spinster! Then, as if that were not enough, she had brought scarlet fever inside the household. Lady Featherington said this to everyone willing to listen, desperate to ensure that the people who mattered knew that Penelope was the one most deserving of compassion.
Of course, the three of them suffered with the same agonizing patience – at least at first. They had similar symptoms: a red rash that appeared two or three days after the onset of fever, a swollen tongue that made conversation quite difficult, a very sore throat, and a high fever that was usually accompanied by chills.
At the beginning of their confinement, they had time for a few games of cards, which they enlivened with good conversations – the kind that starts out trivial but becomes deep. There is nothing like a near-death to open one's heart, and soon, the three girls knew everything about each other’s dreams, and what they would do with their lives if they ever escaped those four walls.
The outside world rarely intruded upon their small bubble – only the doctor and the nurse came from time to time, but they barely looked at them while doing their work, much less spoke. Sometimes, they received letters and notes slipped under the door: good wishes from family and friends.
One day, three identical envelopes were found under the door, each one with a name on the back. They were from Colin. The third Bridgerton son had come back in haste from his travels and sent letters to the three ladies. Which letter was more heartfelt, no one can say for sure – and that’s a very different story.
While Eloise and Penelope seemed to get better every day, Marina grew weaker.
“It’s the baby.” Penelope said, since that was one of the secrets that had been shared during their seclusion.
“It’s my broken heart.” Marina said between coughs.
Eloise, who was already strong enough to write and talk, and walk, decided to write a letter to Romney Hall. “He must have a father, or a brother, or sisters, or even a butler that knows what happened to him.” She said, determined to heal Marina’s heart so she could fight the illness.
Marina, sustained by a thread of hope, told her everything she knew about the family of her beloved:
To Mr. George Crane or whomever this may concern.
My name is Eloise Bridgerton. I am currently residing in the Featherington House in the company of a woman I believe you know very well: Miss Marina Thompson. The urgency of the situation forces me to write to you, casting aside all concerns for decorum. Miss Thompson is sick; she has contracted the scarlet fever and is weakening by the minute. She is pregnant with your child. I believe you already knew this, but if you did not, please forgive my bluntness. I cannot, in good conscience, withhold such an important detail. She desires to see you or at least to receive word of your well-being, proof that you still love her and that your long silence has a reasonable explanation. Whether you love her or not, please write back. She needs the relief of knowing you are alive and thinking of her.
Please, do not forget to burn this letter after reading it to preserve Miss Thompson’s good name and reputation.
Signed,
Miss Eloise Bridgerton.
+++
When George Crane was absent from his home, Romney Hall showed its discomfort with silence; now that he was back, his groans had become ghostly howls that seemed to echo from the walls. The house was in mourning; the late baronet had suffered a heart attack upon hearing that his firstborn son had been severely injured in the war. Thomas Crane’s frail body had not even allowed him the pleasure of seeing his beloved son George again - sick, bleeding, and tormented by headaches as he was - before giving up and simply dying. Now, the only occupants of Romney Hall were Sir George Crane, who was permanently confined to bed; Mrs. Lanham, the good-natured aunt who had come to help with the ill soldier; and Mr. Phillip Crane, who felt completely lost.
Phillip Crane was merely playing the role of a baronet – or at least, that is how it felt to him. George was too sick and weak to take care of his responsibilities, so he focused solely on breathing and living one more day, while his younger brother did the rest. It was a duty Phillip was happy to take on, yet it still felt as though he was trying to usurp his brother’s title. He could easily imagine his father whispering in his ear: “This is not your place, boy.”
And then, a letter from a Miss Eloise Bridgerton arrived, addressed to Mr. George Crane.
Phillip Crane looked at it with the indifference of a man who did not yet know that this letter was going to change his life. He did not open it, of course, it wasn’t addressed to him. He simply passed it to his brother when the fevers seemed to give him some respite. George accepted it with more curiosity than excitement, so Phillip did not think anything more of it. Until that night.
The night terrors returned to torment George in his bed. However, this time, the usual protagonists (his father, Napoleon himself, and his fallen comrades) were replaced by the name of a woman.
Phillip stood in the doorway, unsure of how to assist George as he tossed and turned in bed, muttering nonsensical things:
“Miss Bridgerton. I must… write to her… She needs to know I love her… My betrothed is…”
His delirium did not allow him to say anything more, so Phillip, after applying wet cloths to George’s forehead, stood up to leave the room and write to this mysterious Miss Bridgerton. George’s voice stopped him before he could exit:
“Phillip, burn that letter. Now, don’t wait until tomorrow. It’s important.” He said, his voice weak but clear.
Phillip looked at his brother in confusion. He nodded and walked to the main fireplace in the drawing room. He held the letter tightly, tempted to open it and learn who this woman was whom his brother seemed to love so deeply. He had never heard her name before, but that didn’t surprise him; George had always been very secretive about his romantic attachments. He remembered his brother mentioning a girl before going to Spain, but not by name. Phillip had never learned what had come of that, and his brother had a tendency to be very flippant with his affections.
Phillip kept the envelope that contained Miss Bridgerton’s name and address and threw the letter into the fire. The flames consumed the paper in seconds.
The next day, Phillip wasn’t sure what to write back to Miss Eloise Bridgerton, so he sat in his brother’s room while George broke his fast and took advantage of his brother's current lucidity to interrogate him:
“Then this woman is telling the truth.”
“This lady.” George corrected.
Phillip nodded. It wasn’t his intention to give offense.
“And you want to marry her.”
“She’s pregnant with my child.”
“You should never have taken such liberties, brother.”
“Oh, Phillip. Not all of us can be saints like you. I was in love, and so was she. It simply happened. We didn’t think about what could come next. Not about conceiving a child at least, just about the fact that I was going to war and there was a possibility that I would never return.”
Phillip nodded, his countenance as serious as ever. “You were in love with her.”
“I am in love with her. And now she’s sick, alone, and depressed, and… she needs me, and I need her.”
“Good, because you’re going to marry her, if that’s what she wants. You owe her that.”
“Yes, and it will be my pleasure.”
“I will write to her, then.”
A few minutes later, Phillip Crane sat at his desk and wrote a letter that was, in his opinion, clear and fair.
+++
The letter arrived too late. Marina was dead, and her unborn child had perished with her.
It had happened after days of pure agony: delirium, hallucinations (in which George Crane was a constant presence), and difficulty breathing. That was the illness’ devastation, but from what Eloise observed, the remedies the doctor brought with him were even worse: leeches and chemicals that, when applied to her throat, created blisters that looked excruciatingly painful.
In the the end, it was all for naught; she died. Her eyes suddenly lost their brightness, like the flames of a candle slowly burning out.
Penelope and Eloise had been the only ones present during her last breath. And now that she was gone, Eloise couldn’t forget the last words Marina had uttered before losing her voice completely: “I don’t regret it.” Even then, they knew she was talking about George - despite the heartbreak, despite the silence.
When the letter arrived, Eloise saw the name ‘Crane’ and slipped it inside her reticule. She didn’t open it. The letter was meant for Marina’s eyes, and they would remain closed for eternity.
After the funeral, Eloise became restless. She had the horrible feeling that she was wasting her life – reading books about other people's adventures, even romance novels that described feelings she could not comprehend. Eloise had almost died. She could’ve met the same fate. Marina’s last words, ‘I don’t regret it’, ran free in her mind. And although the poor girl had been the most tragic lady she had ever known, Eloise could not help but envy one thing: Marina had loved deeply, and she had taken that feeling with her to her grave.
She remembered a time in which she thought she had felt something similar – nothing as consuming as the love Marina seemed to have for George, but something significant nonetheless. She had recoiled when a cute boy had tried to kiss her. He had been furious when she told him it was better to go their separate ways… but now, after a funeral and months of loneliness, she could not help but think that maybe she had been a coward.
Eloise hated that word, so one night, when the solitude had been too much to bear, she packed a valise with her essentials, ran away from her comfortable home, and arrived at a printer’s shop. There, she begged a boy to run away with her.
It was the silliest thing she had ever done in her life, but she wouldn't realize it until the next morning. Instead, when she saw Theo Sharpe again – after one year apart – she only thought that he looked exactly the same, which was odd because she wasn’t feeling the same nervousness that she had experienced one year ago when her eyes had fixed on him. Maybe, after a horrible first season and an even more horrible illness, she was irremediably changed. Eloise was the kind of person who never backed down, so she proposed an elopement to Gretna Green. For reasons she would never understand completely, he accepted, and off they went.
+++
The first stop was a small inn on the outskirts of London. The man at the desk looked at them with a sneer as if he knew their secrets and hadn’t decided yet wheter he wanted to keep them or use them for blackmail. She tried to ignore her apprehension and went up to the small room Theo had booked for them, holding her valise tightly.
When she walked into the room, Eloise felt her first doubts creeping up. The room was humid, one could even say damp, and too small and dark for what she was accustomed to. She pursed her lips and made a very valiant effort not to say anything, but Theo seemed to notice the change in her expression. Then, her doubts turned into fear when she noticed just one bed in the center of the room.
Luckily, Theo Sharpe behaved very respectfully. He noticed her discomfort at once, and without a word, he grabbed a thick blanket from the closet and placed it on the floor. That blanket became his mattress for the night.
“You can change behind the dressing screen.” Theo muttered, pointing at it. Eloise looked at him with an astonished expression. He wasn’t going to walk out of the room to give her some privacy?
After opening her valise, Eloise realized that she had forgotten to pack her nightgown, and she was surprised at the relief she felt – now she had the perfect excuse for why she didn’t need to change clothes in the same room as him. She told Theo and added: “I will just sleep in my evening gown.”
Eloise could only sleep a few hours: her mind was too restless, trying to decipher the odd noises coming from the street and the neighboring rooms. She also tried to imagine Marina in her place. She would have been happy just to be in the company of her beloved George. She would have shared the bed with him, spent the night exchanging kisses and caresses, caring very little about the size or the humidity of the room.
She didn’t love Theo Sharpe, she realized at once – and that revelation was as certain as her own fear. It was clear to her now that she had ruined her life, sharing a bedroom with a man who was not her husband, a man who was not to become her husband if she had any say in the matter.
The next morning, her decision was cemented when Theo placed a dish of foul-smelling mutton in front of her. This time, Eloise made a face. Her nose wrinkled in disgust.
“Is the mutton too insipid for the princess?” He asked, every word laced with such resentment that the shock almost pushed her out of her chair. Instead, she froze, rethinking every bad choice that had brought her to this seedy inn. “If you don’t want to eat that, I will.” He added with a sneer.
He grabbed her plate of mutton without even looking at her. In that moment, the whole plot of a book she hadn’t read yet came to her mind: one that placed her as the protagonist, separated from her family, enduring every hateful comment Theo made about her siblings and her world; she also saw herself working day and night, birthing boys and girls who would not have good shoes and would only eat unsalted mutton every day. She swallowed and felt oddly relieved when Theo said he was going to the kitchens to ask for some fruit for her.
When Theo Sharpe came back with some apples, Eloise Bridgerton wasn’t there, and neither were her valise and belongings. No. Eloise had run, walking very fast past the reception, where the owner shot her a glance that indicated he thought her virtue had just been lost, and Eloise had the horrible realization that everyone would think the same.
She had a few coins in her reticule, so she paid a hackney coach to take her out of there. When she opened it again to save the change, she noticed a forgotten letter inside. The hackney coach took her away from that inn where Eloise Bridgerton should never have stepped foot.
+++
In the coach, Eloise tried to think of a plan to save her reputation. By now, everyone at home must know she had not spent the night in her room. She would only confirm their fears if she returned now. The inn owner had seen her, and the coach driver knew where he had picked her up…
She firmly believed Anthony wouldn’t force her to marry Theo, whose life was so below hers in comfort and aspirations - but he would absolutely convince a desperate gentleman to marry Eloise to save her reputation. An old man, or someone in need of the good name of the Bridgertons. No, she knew she had acted too impulsively, but she did not think she deserved such punishment. What could she do? Where could she go?
Her mind went back to the letter in her reticule. She could go to Romney Hall and say that she wanted to return the letter to George Crane. She had just stopped at an inn because the trip was longer than she had anticipated. People would say she was too affected by Marina’s death, and by her own brush with death. If she was lucky, the letter could give her an excuse to start such a journey, and if no one questioned her story, there would be no need to make inquiries at the inn.
Nervous and excited about this possible escape, Eloise opened the letter, and was rendered speechless by what she read, and by the fact that it was not signed by George Crane, but by a Mr. Phillip Crane:
Miss Bridgerton,
I thank you for your letter. I admit I did not know of your existence until recently. My brother George is alive, although he was severely wounded in the war and is now on the mend. I hope this explains his incapacity to pen any letter all these past months. He has good days and bad days, but I assure you there is no day when he does not think of your letter. I am aware of your delicate circumstances, and I would like to extend my help: you’re invited to Romney Hall, where my widowed aunt, who’s already nursing my brother back to health, can play the role of chaperone. If you come and find the household and its inhabitants agreeable, we can discuss how to make it permanent if you desire to do so.
I am at your disposal,
Mr. Phillip Crane
Eloise reread the letter two more times, not understanding half of it. There was no mention of Marina, which she found very odd, and Phillip Crane seemed to know about her delicate circumstances and the fact that she needed a place to stay. It was absurd, of course, the letter had arrived long before Eloise had decided to run away with Theo. For a moment, she played with the idea that this man was a spiritualist, and Marina’s ghost had told him in advance that her friend would need his help in the future. Eloise laughed, and the driver looked at her as if she were crazy. She shook her head and reread the letter once again.
A chaperone. That word, which she had hated so much in the past, now made her feel safe. This stranger cared more about her reputation than her supposed lover had done in that inn. She could stay in a respectable house with a chaperone. She had been invited, and she also counted on the excuse of Marina’s last wish: to tell her beloved that she had loved him until her last breath. It was a perfect plan.
+++
Romney Hall was farther away than she had expected, but she did not want to stop. She was too anxious to arrive at that haven, which would, in some way, restore her honor. When the coach finally stopped in front of the big, yellow-stone house, Eloise’s eyes turned toward the large greenhouse that stood at one side of the extensive grounds. It was beautiful, and she felt oddly relieved at the sight of something so breathtaking. It had been a long journey through narrow streets and very humble neighborhoods; the memory of the room where she should have never stayed haunted her. But now, she was here, and she felt immediately safe.
She said goodbye to the coach driver and walked towards the main door, knocking on the robust wood. She waited one, two, three seconds… and in that short time, she had the absurd fear that nobody was home. No, someone was always home in these big houses: a butler or a housekeeper, at least.
The door finally opened, revealing a butler so old it was a miracle he was still standing. Eloise felt immediately guilty for that uncharitable thought. This man, whose age wasn’t her concern, blinked at her, surprised to see her there.
“Miss?” He asked, firm and impassive as a statue.
“Good day. This is the residence of the Cranes, isn’t it?”
“It is.” He answered, looking at her as if she had two heads and four arms, when the only thing she had was a very wrinkled dress.
“They’re expecting me.”
He raised a brow, and Eloise had the odd sensation that he was going to accuse her of lying. Eloise twisted her gloves nervously. Well, that was only half a lie. She had been invited, but she had never answered. “More or less," she added.
The man looked at her from head to toe, as if evaluating whether she could be a danger to his employers, which was absurd. She knew she had come unannounced, but this level of suspicion was unwarranted and bothersome.
Then, the man pointed toward the hall with his head. “Follow me, Miss.”
“Miss Bridgerton. I suppose you need my name to announce me.” She muttered, wondering if this had been a mistake. It felt as if this house had not had guests in centuries.
“Right.” The butler said, his lips tightening.
It was obvious he didn’t like being told how to do his job. He led her toward a comfortable drawing room with mustard-colored walls, and although he told her she could sit, she decided against it. She needed to move her legs, the journey had been too long.
“Wait here for the baronet.” The butler said, and Eloise was glad to hear that Sir Thomas Crane was in such good health that he could receive guests now. From what Marina had told her, his health had deteriorated since George went to war.
She waited a few minutes, looking at the décor. It was not as fashionable as her house back in London, a lot more rustic, but still well-cared-for and very comfortable. She immediately liked it. She had the very sad thought of imagining Marina Thompson here, flirting with her suitor. And then, before she could conjure that scene, a young handsome man appeared through the door. She was momentarily confused… This was not the old baronet she had imagined Sir Thomas to be. Could it be… George Crane? If this young man was the baronet, this could only mean one thing: Sir Thomas Crane had died.
She had expected George to be very tall. She did not know why, maybe because Marina had said he was very handsome and, for most girls, that meant very tall too, not just tall. He wasn’t short, but it was his wide frame and thick legs that seemed to occupy all the space in the room. He was powerfully built, and Eloise felt suddenly intimidated. Not because she thought he could harm her (although she supposed he could, if he wanted) but because, at the sight of him, her body tightened in a very odd way.
He was handsome, but not in the classical way she had expected. His face was too angular, and she had the odd thought that a beard would suit him well. The most striking part of his face was his eyes, too blue and too intense to be ignored, even when he seemed determined to avoid her very direct stare.
“You’re Sir—".
“I am not a Sir.” He interrupted her, his words too sharp for an amiable welcoming.
“Excuse me?”
“My brother is still alive.”
“No, I mean, yes, but… You are not the baronet?”
He frowned. “No.”
“The butler said…”
He huffed and muttered something that sounded like: “Gunning.” He shook his head. “I am simply Mr. Phillip Crane. I am running the estate temporarily, and that seems to confuse… the servants. My father died two months ago, and my brother George, the current baronet, is in bed right now, recovering from his injuries.”
“Right. My condolences. I did not know the late baronet had passed away. Did Gunning...?” She swallowed, nervous. “I imagine Gunning is the name of your butler. Did he tell you who I am?”
“He didn’t.” He answered.
Eloise waited for him to ask for her name, but he didn’t. She wondered how long he could remain there, standing still, looking at her – or at a point over her forehead - before he would feel the need to fill the silence. Something told her he could tolerate quietness immensely better than she, so she spoke up:
“I am Miss Eloise Bridgerton.”
He blinked, and then he seemed to visibly relax. “Thank God.”
“Thank God?” She asked, confused.
“I have been waiting for you.” He admitted with such deep feeling that she was tempted to jokingly ask him if he had been waiting for her his whole life.