Chapter Text
Chapter One
Must be strangely exciting
To watch the stoic squirm
Must be somewhat heartening
To watch shepherd meet shepherd
June was perhaps the most beautiful month in England, or maybe in all the world, with endless blue skies and perfect white clouds and yellow sunshine that seemed to promise to stretch into eternity. One could happily live through the dreary grey, mundane, rainy, never ending winter days for one of those perfect June afternoons where the flowers bloomed just so, the trees were lovely and green, and the air had a particular quality to it that spoke of growing, contented nature. It was one such June afternoon when Eloise Bridgerton found herself mistress to a countryside estate in Gloucestershire, married to Sir Phillip Crane, and having a late picnic with him by the lake that bordered the southern edge of his property.
How Eloise ended up married, and to this particular man, and on this particular afternoon in 1824, she did not want to ponder too deeply that day, not when the weather was so fine and the birds were singing and the conversation was so pleasant between the two of them. Well, really, if she was being extremely truthful, it was more of a one-sided conversation, where her husband provided mostly ‘mmhmm’ here and there and ‘oh yes, of course’ to her various observations about the disappointments of humanity. Truth be told, these conversational contributions were more than adequate to the talkative Eloise. It was a lifelong mission to find someone that would sit and listen with patience and endurance to her tirades and lectures about any number of topics under the sun. And that she found herself next to a man that fulfilled that desire seemed the height of absurdity to someone that was a sworn spinster just two months prior to this picnic by a lake. However, there was also a sense of peace about it, too, that Eloise did not want to analyze too closely that day or any other day.
Their marriage was one of convenience, mutually beneficial to both for various reasons that Eloise was not going to consider again when there were conversations to be had and birdsong to listen to and flowers to smell. The last month was a chaotic blur of dowry negotiations and settlements drawn up and signed by the men in her life, a hasty wedding arranged with her mother almost frantic and beside herself with preparations in such a limited timeline as circumstances demanded, and moving six hours south of London, to an ancient country estate that she was now to preside over as mistress for the rest of her days. For today, Eloise was going to breathe in deeply the fresh country air and get to know her husband a bit.
After their marriage, they agreed to spend an hour together each day, getting acquainted and deepening the friendship that had begun through letters after Eloise wrote to offer condolences on the death of Sir Phillip’s first wife a little more than a year before. Companionship and intellectual curiosity were among Sir Phillip’s few expectations for the marriage, though if Eloise was honest, she had the most to gain from the arrangement. It freed her from London, the marriage mart, and her mother’s relentless matchmaking. In return, Sir Phillip offered her peace and freedom far from society. Later that summer, once things had settled and he had contacted acquaintances from Cambridge, they planned to host a salon. Eloise would choose the theme and favored an exploration of the humanities. Sir Phillip would curate the guest list from professors and acquaintances in his Cambridge circle, while Eloise would plan the refreshments and topics for discussion. The opportunity to host salons and engage in thoughtful conversation with like-minded people was one of the chief reasons she had proposed marriage to Sir Phillip during their correspondence.
It was tempting to think too deeply and intently about the upcoming salon. In the meantime, Eloise had to fulfill the one obligation her husband had in their marriage. Companionship and daily conversation. It seemed a small price to pay for the freedoms she gained, so she looked forward to these daily meetings with her husband.
They had spread a quilt beside the lake and were eating a picnic prepared by his cook. Cook must have been in a playful mood, for she had packed two wine glasses and a bottle of white wine, along with the cold chicken, cheese, grapes, and bread they both devoured quite quickly when both had realized rather belatedly they were starving.
It was late afternoon, the sun was high up in that endless blue sky, and Eloise suddenly realized that her husband’s eyes were the exact shade of blue. It was rather startling to realize. Up until that afternoon, she had not realized just how lovely his eyes were. She had never really had reason to sit and ponder their particular shade of blue, as she was usually too busy during their moments together planning the salon and other intellectual pursuits that were sure to be on the horizon. For a moment, she found her conversation stumbled a bit as she forgot how to formulate words, staring into those blue eyes as she found herself to be.
“You would say Shelley is one of your favorite authors now, I would gather?” Eloise startled for a brief moment, blinking in her surprise that Sir Phillip actually asked her a complete question, interrupting her strange reverie over his eyes.
“Oh yes, definitely. At least at the moment. Frankenstein is such a fascinating exploration of important, relevant themes. Unchecked ambition can lead to terrible and destructive consequences that will reverberate within a society. I see parallels between this and Great Britain as a nation. All that unchecked ambition is bound to fail after a time. I foresee a mighty downfall if we continue undeterred.”
Eloise’s husband reached for his wine glass and took a sip, looking out over his property, those blue eyes scanning the lake in front of them. She did not know Sir Phillip well enough to determine what he might have been pondering in that glance across the water. She found herself, however, wanting to read his mind in that moment. He was an enigma. So quiet and stoic most of the time, Eloise could count on one had the number of times he smiled. She was fairly certain he had never laughed once in the month she resided with him at Romney Hall. But shockingly, the corner of his mouth twitched a little just then before taking another sip of wine.
“We should hope there are no spies for the king lying about our property, or you will be hauled in on suspicion of treason with talk like that.”
Eloise found herself smiling back. “Oh no worries there! The Queen is well aware of my seditious talk. Who would you say is your favorite author?”
“I don’t read fiction often. I prefer books on botany and other biological subjects.” As her husband spoke—perhaps the longest sentence he had offered since their marriage—Eloise sipped her wine and studied his profile again. Strictly speaking, one could call Sir Phillip handsome. She was only now noticing the fine line of his nose, those sky-blue eyes, and his curly blond hair. As he finished explaining his preference for academic texts over literature, she found herself, quite absurdly, wondering what it would feel like to touch those curls. She had no idea where the thought came from. She had never touched anyone beyond family and close female friends. Why she would consider such an action that afternoon, Eloise could not quite understand or explain. But suddenly, an image rose in her mind that seemed irrational and utterly useless to their situation, and she wondered if she could have been coming down with something; nevertheless, she imagined placing his head in her lap, her fingers lazily combing their way through those curls that were so captivating her for the moment.
She needed to start talking fast, to distract these puzzling thoughts. Such thoughts served no purpose to their marriage. They married to pursue intellectual engagement, and here he was delivering on that promise, and she was distracted by trivial ponderings. Perhaps the sun was addling her mind a bit. It was rather warm and the wine was not helping the clarity of her thinking. Nevertheless, she took another sip of wine and tried to think of things to talk about, other than drifting into a deep analysis of how the sun was bringing out bronze shades to his hair.
“Oh yes, I enjoy scholarly books as well—especially philosophy, though I know from your letters that the subject is a point of contention for you. So I shall spare you a philosophical debate this afternoon. But one day, I will indulge myself, and you will sit and listen with the patience of a saint. See what you have married. You may yet martyr yourself for the sake of a debate on philosophy. For instance, I would love to spend an afternoon considering that famous Shakespearean question from Hamlet—‘To be, or not to be’—and use it as a springboard to reflect on our purpose on earth, why we exist, and whether we matter at all in the great scheme of things. Speaking of Shakespeare, I enjoyed a simply divine interpretation of Hamlet last summer in London at the Royal Opera House. Mama is not a fan of theater, and of course I was unmarried at the time, so I needed a chaperone, and for the longest time I could not find a chaperone that was interested in attending with me. She thinks the theater is rather base entertainment for young ladies, but she relented once Anthony and Kate said they would accompany me, and I enjoyed every minute.”
“We shall go to the theater then on occasion if you desire it.” He said it so simply, like her wishes and desires were something to seriously consider and deliver on. Looking at him, Eloise considered running her fingers through that bronze hair again because he was so lovely in that late afternoon sun and because he was being so kind and considerate.
“Another unforeseen benefit to marriage. I can now attend the theater as often as I’d like. Or as often as I find myself in London, which probably won’t be often, since we married to escape society in large part. However, I suppose we must carry on appearances and still make our way to London on occasion. Or Mama would never let me hear the end of it, neglecting my daughterly duties. I adore my mother, but our relationship was contentious at times. I was never perfect enough. At least she had Daphne and Francesca to fulfill those expectations, and now Hyacinth is also shaping up to be quite perfect as well, in desiring perfectly acceptable ladylike occupations and interests. How was the relationship with your own mother?”
Eloise nibbled on a piece of cheese and found it difficult to meet Sir Phillip’s eyes this time. Still feeling an odd sense of nervousness and unease, she ate the cheese and looked across the water as the sun dappled upon the blue waves, a slight breeze extending the gold in brilliance.
“My mother died when I was born. I never got the chance to know her. My brother described her as pretty and kind. He said I looked like her. He looked like our father.” He said all of this in a voice just above a whisper, staring at his hands and not looking up once. She nearly choked on the piece of cheese she had been nibbling on. What a foolish person she was, asking such a question in such a flippant, off-hand way. Her heart lurched unexpectedly, thinking she had caused him distress. Such a kind soul as he seemed, Eloise did not relish the thought of causing this gentle man pain.
“I am most sorry for the intrusive question. Please forgive my nosy nature. I should have found a more delicate way to ask the question.”
“It is all right. You had no way of knowing my mother had passed away. Please, you do not need to feel distressed.”
She had learned no lesson from her former tactlessness, for Eloise dived right in with more abrupt questions and observations.
“You have lost so many people in your life. And how old are you, thirty? That is a profound amount of loss for one still relatively young. How do you find a way to cope?”
“It is simply part of life. We live, and we die. That is the way of things.” Sir Phillip said it with such simplicity. Eloise was learning that he was not a man given to theatrics or drama. Though he had lost nearly his entire family before turning thirty, save for the twin children he was raising as his own, he did not dwell on it or lament the unfairness of it all. She could not help but admire his stoic nature.
“Still, all the same, I am deeply sorry for your losses.”
“Thank you.” As he ate a grape just then, staring at the red fruit as if it held all of the answers to life’s great mysteries, his long, dark blonde lashes were nearly touching his cheek, and Eloise thought fleetingly of what it must feel like to press her cheek against his and offer comfort to his lonely, solitary man through human touch. Shaking her head to banish yet another foolish thought, thankfully a pair of mute swans started splashing about loudly in the water just then.
“I have always loved the majestic nature of swans. They are beautiful. Do those pair live at this lake?”
“Oh yes, they are cantankerous though if you get too close. They are beautiful, however; you are right about that.”
“What other birds live about here? What about your namesake? The common crane? I have not noticed any about this estate since arriving.”
“Unfortunately, much like their human counterparts, the common crane is extinct in England. You can blame over hunting and the draining of their natural habitats. It is a sad state of affairs.”
“Oh, that is a tragedy! Another tragedy to blame on the lazy ineptitude of England’s young men. Hunting about for sport because they have nothing better to do, to occupy their time, then to kill beautiful and majestic birds. I am very sorry to hear of their extinction. My brothers all love to hunt for sport. It irritates me to no end. I protest to hunting on moral grounds, and because quite frankly, I believe men should find more useful endeavors to spend their time. I can shoot a gun as good as any man. Anthony made sure of it, believing that if we were ever under attack, the Bridgertons would benefit from all available family members to take up arms. I can shoot a bullseye with exact precision. However, I never use a gun other than for target practice. I refuse to kill things for sport.”
“You are a noble woman. I shall put you on the front line, in case our estate ever finds itself under attack.” He had that small smile at the corner of his mouth again. Barely a smile. But it made her smile in response. The sun was lowering by degrees in that brilliant sky and Eloise supposed it was time to head inside and entertain the children for a spell before dinner.
“I suppose it is getting late. We should get inside and meet with the children after their lessons. Dinner will be served soon, I am sure”
“You are wise, as well. I will pack up the picnic and you can go on up to the house and see about the children.”
Eloise stood up and straightened out her skirts. Sir Phillip was still sitting on the quilt, looking at the swans causing a ruckus across the lake, and his eyes were still so shockingly blue, she felt the overwhelming desire again to touch him. She found herself, without quite deciding on the action beforehand, placing a tentative hand on his shoulder. Just a quick press of her hand against his shoulder and then stepping back before she could do anything else even more foolish. Surely it could be interpreted as a friend wishing another friend a farewell and thank you for a lovely picnic by the lake. He startled for a moment and looked up at her with a questioning glance.
“Thank you for a lovely afternoon by the lake. I very much enjoyed our conversation.” She murmured quickly, more simply to fill the awkward silence after making a fool of herself just then.
“Yes, thank you as well. I will see you shortly, at dinner. I will pack up this picnic and head to the greenhouse for a bit.”
Eloise walked back to the house and tried to cool the heat creeping into her cheeks. What was she thinking, reaching out and touching his shoulder like that? He will think her mad! He will think her silly! Well, at least that hourly obligation was complete for the day and she could eat dinner with the family and have the rest of the evening to herself, in her room, reading her books and writing her correspondences, and not worry about a solitary thing other than what she wanted the theme of her upcoming salon to be that she was to host soon. Life was quite pleasant if she did not dwell on strange, baffling feelings and compulsions around her husband too in depth.