Chapter Text
It is a bright afternoon and Lady Cowper is craning her neck looking for the Queen. “It is odd for her not to be here yet,” she notes, “though I did hear that this year’s girls left much to be desired. Perhaps the presentation went so poorly she will see no point in attending at all.”
The garden party is filled with the sound of light violin and the chattering of guests. The Queen’s pavilion and seat of honor remains conspicuously empty.
“A good thing,” Lady Cowper continues. “We don’t need any diamonds taking all the attention this season… Whatever is left to go around.” She adjusts some feather-like ruffles on Cressida’s shoulder, brushing the light pink adornments on her sleeve.
Cressida is not listening closely. She too is looking for someone, but it is not the Queen. She fans herself idly and scans the crowd, but does not glimpse the familiar head of brown hair or the distinctive cut of bangs.
Her mother spots Lady Fuller and Lady Barragan across the way and she glides off to join them, and Cressida is left to mingle, which she does dutifully. She did not attend the debutante presentation earlier that morning, but the reports confirm that it was an underwhelming show. The freshly presented debutantes all look somewhat put out, clearly unaware of how lucky they are; had Cressida been afforded a diamondless season for her own debut, she might be married by now.
She flits from group to group, giving a quarter smile to the women, a half smile to the men, and a full smile to the rich men, but there is little news worth staying for. People are remarking on the weather and the Queen, and Cressida already knows all about the weather and the Queen, and so she drifts off, keeping her expression disinterested and her eyes peeled.
She is wandering on her own when she sees a parade of citrus dresses enter the party: The Featheringtons file in, each dress getting uglier in succession, and bringing up the rear, as she always does, is Penelope Featherington.
Cressida snaps her fan closed.
She does not need a reason to hate Penelope—after all, she has a naturally hateable face, hateable voice, hateable false modesty, and a truly hateable fashion sense—but if this were not enough, she had spent most of the summer listening to Eloise stewing over Penelope, even when she pretended to be speaking of other things.
Cressida had nodded along while Eloise vented about the sting of betrayal and the inherent unknowability of human nature. She had joined her in wondering if it was the same with men—if they too pretend to be friends and then drop each other when the winds change, or if the luxuries of masculinity permit them a steadier and more honest kind of friendship. She had pretended to recognize all the depressing quotes Eloise dropped from writers Cressida had never heard of, some about grief, some about doom, some about the absurdity of high society.
Cressida had not commented much but listened intently, agreeing with her fervently, and glowering in solidarity at any mention of the unmentionable former friend. Despite Eloise’s apparent efforts to keep the source of their estrangement vague, she had said everything she needed to say. Cressida did not need to know the details to know that Penelope was two-faced.
Now she watches as Penelope takes only a few steps past the garden entrance and pauses, looking intently at the proceedings. Her face is pensive, the way it usually is, and her dress is truly a pinnacle of disaster; whoever arranges her wardrobe has a remarkable talent for finding the dowdiest fabrics and most unflattering hairstyles. Cressida smooths her own elaborate knot of curls atop her head and permits herself a slight smile.
She would not have judged Penelope Featherington as one to abandon her friend over the trifling whispers of a gossip writer, but if Cressida is being truly honest with herself—honest in a way she would never admit out loud—she is glad that Penelope has turned out to be so fickle. Not that she wishes Eloise harm, but… well. Penelope had always acted too good for the game, and when Eloise had come out, the both of them had spent their time on the social periphery, making snide, barely concealed remarks about the stupidity of the cotillion scene and its attendees.
And for whatever reason, their mothers let them do it. They were not prodded off of the wall and pushed into the arms of men that caught their mothers’ eye; they did not have fathers in attendance, looking coldly at them when they stayed by the dessert table or in the company of other women too long.
Penelope and Eloise seemed to be able to get away with whatever they wanted at social events, even getting away with dancing with no one at all. And yes—perhaps a part of Cressida was jealous. And also, yes—perhaps a part of her was grateful. She did not need the added competition, not from Penelope, and certainly not from Eloise. She had heard the way they talked amongst themselves—their clever little jokes, their exhausting intelligence, their frustrating little smiles—and although the two of them acted disinterested, Cressida suspected if either of them took the marriage mart seriously they could easily devastate every young lady in their season.
The difference was, for Penelope, the disinterest was a pretense. For Eloise, it was not.
Across the garden, a group of debutantes are clustered around a particularly fashionable gentleman—another one of Eloise’s brothers—and Penelope watches the little gathering with an expression of barely concealed dissatisfaction. Cressida wonders if perhaps she is regretting whatever she did to offend the Bridgertons (because surely, losing the friendship of one sibling would mean losing the friendship of them all) and Cressida cannot say she is sorry for the sight.
In fact—perhaps she will have a word with Penelope.
“Oh look,” she says, strolling over with her sharpest smile, “if it isn’t Penelope Featherington, back in a dress the color of—”
“Cressida.”
Cressida’s irritation at being interrupted evaporates at the sight of Eloise coming towards her.
“Eloise!” She drops the mockery immediately and hastens over to meet her. Eloise’s timing could not have been better—Penelope is looking at the pair of them with a mixture of bewilderment and betrayal, and there is something deeply satisfying in witnessing her realization that her former friend has, in fact, moved on. “There you are, I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” Cressida says, trying to make her voice as infuriatingly warm as possible.
“And I for you.” Eloise, for her part, is looking slightly flustered. She gives an attempt at a smile, but her eyes keep flicking to Penelope, which Cressida supposes should be expected—this time last year, Penelope and Eloise had been inseparable, and now they stand coldly and awkwardly apart, separated by some unnamed feud. Cressida desperately wishes she knew the exact crime that Penelope had committed—she would be much more effective if she did—but Eloise clearly hasn’t wanted to talk about it, so she stoically reminds herself that she doesn’t need to know the details.
What she does know is that she is excellent at winning feuds.
Penelope is still standing there dumbly and Cressida turns back to her to finish what she started, a barbed comment already poised on her lips, but Eloise catches her again. “Shall we go and get some lemonade?” she says, her voice barely concealing an edge of desperation.
Cressida swallows her (very good) comment with some difficulty. “Splendid idea,” she agrees, “I am parched with thirst.” Eloise obviously doesn’t want any more contact with Penelope than necessary, and Cressida begrudgingly concedes, but not without first putting on a little display of conspicuous cheer as they walk away.
“Is it not congenial to be back from the country?” she says loudly. “All that draft and emptiness.”
“You do know others call that ‘fresh air’?” Eloise says.
“Of course.” Penelope is still in earshot, so Cressida adds rather boldly, “befriending you there was a happy surprise, but ultimately it is London where I am most at home.” She watches Eloise out of the corner of her eye for a reaction. “And the season will be all the better now I have you by my side.”
Is she laying it on a bit too thick? They have not called each other friends out loud, and the word feels foreign on Cressida’s tongue. The association they have is an unacknowledged one; over the summer Eloise had taken to doing all sorts of tacitly friend-like things, such as taking her arm when they walked or inviting her to the lake, and Cressida had noted each one with a kind of astonishment, unsure whether they were pretending or whether they were, as Cressida increasingly felt, forming an actual alliance.
She leaves the announcement of friendship hanging in the air, strangely anxious for a response.
“Of course,” Eloise says, and takes her arm.
Cressida relaxes.
The alliance has been solidified: Eloise and Cressida against Penelope. A flare of satisfaction warms her, and she bites her lip to stop from smiling too broadly.
There are other people around besides Penelope, and therefore other impressions and opinions to be mitigated; Eloise’s reputation is recovering but not recovered, and Cressida had told herself that upon returning to London she would wait to gauge reactions before flaunting her association with the Bridgerton, but there is something about Eloise’s expression when seeing Penelope again that somehow drives out everything else.
There is nothing else quite so interesting at the moment as The Feud.
Well, that and the way Eloise is holding her arm. Eloise is unique in the way she goes about grabbing people’s arms—she does it as if she means it, not as if she were playing a part in a play in which actors woodenly hook their arms together, as others so typically do. It is one of the many small things that is so puzzling about her.
Eloise is still looking a bit bothered, and Cressida doesn’t like the way she is glancing over her shoulder, so she finds a new topic to talk about.
“I see you have taken my advice,” she notes, running an eye over Eloise’s dress. “The ruffles suit you.” She is a little envious of just how successfully she has pulled off the season’s style, and wonders too late if it might have been unwise to give Eloise fashion advice. After all, it is not as if she needs any help in the looks department.
“Yes, well.” Eloise pulls a face. “If I have to field any more questions about my change in style, I think I will give up entirely and stay home in my dressing gown for the rest of the season.”
“Your mama would permit that?” Cressida asks incredulously. She can never quite tell when Eloise is being facetious about her homelife; from what she has described, her mother is shockingly permissive.
“Of course not.” Eloise gives her a look that indicates Cressida has once again been naïve. Then she straightens, seemingly taken with an idea. “Unless perhaps I fake illness. Maybe if I adopt a chronic cough I could convalesce in the countryside for a few weeks.” She picks up two lemonades from the refreshment table and hands one to Cressida. “Add in some fainting spells and bouts of hysteria and I could simply never return to London.”
Cressida takes the glass, wrinkling her nose. “Never return to London? I could never. I would go mad with boredom.”
“I would be perfectly content, I think.” Eloise looks across the garden at Penelope again, and Cressida quickly changes the subject.
“Do you think the Queen will name a diamond this year?” she asks, seizing on the most obvious matter at hand.
“Hmm? Oh. I suppose so.” Eloise looks completely uninterested in the subject.
“Perhaps she will choose your sister,” Cressida suggests, making a second attempt to find a topic Eloise might have an opinion on.
“Perhaps.”
“I am sure your mama would be thrilled if she does,” Cressida plows on. “At this rate she shall have a family full of diamonds.” Normally she would be envious of this fact—and she still is—but she offers it as a compliment, hoping Eloise will find it cheering.
Instead, Eloise scoffs. “Well, I have already eliminated any possibility of that. Even should all my sisters achieve it, I shall always be there in the lineup: a piece of coal amongst the diamonds.”
Cressida at first assumes she is joking, and almost laughs, but Eloise’s expression would indicate that she is serious, so Cressida tries to adopt her own joking tone. “Or perhaps more like what you said to the Queen: an emerald amongst diamonds.”
“When did I ever say that to the Queen?”
“Your first season out, at the Presentation Ball. I overheard you.”
“I never said that.”
“You did.”
“I did not! I simply said I liked emeralds more than diamonds, and that was entirely to keep her from getting the wrong idea about picking me,” Eloise insists.
“And yet you charmed her anyway. Typical Bridgerton,” Cressida says with a roll of her eyes. The fact that Eloise is being absolutely honest right now never ceases to be bewildering; she is quite genuinely pleased at having avoided their monarch’s approval.
“Yes, well,” Eloise huffs, “I wish they would do away with the whole diamond tradition completely.” Her posture straightens indignantly, her voice becoming more impassioned. “The entire concept is so antiquated and absurd. Women competing over the silliest things for the honor of being metaphorically celebrated as a jewel—which is to say, an object that by itself does nothing, has no will or intelligence, or really anything of substance to recommend it. Do you not feel it is insulting to be compared to a rock, seen as nothing but an object to glitter and be admired?”
“You’re doing so well at reconciling with society,” Cressida notes with a straight face.
Eloise deflates visibly, all the steam escaping from her building diatribe. “Yes, yes. I said I was done fighting it.”
“Don’t stop on my account. Please, go on.”
“No. You’re right.” Eloise straightens her shoulders and adopts a placid look on her face, sweeping her lemonade glass at the surrounding garden in a gesture of amiable goodwill. “What am I saying? I love the traditions of the social season. I cannot wait to find out which lucky young lady will be named the diamond, so the gentlemen may all know whose door to bang down.”
“Don’t hurt yourself,” Cressida says, patting Eloise’s arm lightly.
“I am not. I am genuinely invested in the season’s developments.” Eloise kicks the grass lightly as she walks, her movements loose. “Why, if I were the Queen I would take picking a diamond very seriously. After all, what better way to save the gentlemen the effort of having to form opinions all on their own? It’s a most efficient way to run a marriage mart.” She downs the rest of her lemonade and peers at her empty glass unhappily.
Cressida opens her mouth to say something but stops short when she sees her mother up ahead, her group of mamas strolling in their direction.
She touches Eloise’s arm. “You know, without the Queen, this party is dreadfully boring. What say you we head to the market instead?”
“The market?”
Cressida is already steering Eloise in the opposite direction from her mother. “The market. Do you not think that half the benefit of returning to London is being able to visit the shops?”
“No, not really,” Eloise says, but doesn’t seem to mind being dragged away. “Though I suppose I can tear myself away from this positively thrilling event. If you insist.”
“I do insist.”
Eloise glances once more over her shoulder at Penelope, which annoys Cressida until Eloise turns again and takes her arm more firmly. The annoyance vanishes instantly.
“Very well then,” Eloise says, placing her empty glass on the tray of a passing server. “Consider my arm twisted.”
¨ ¨ ¨
The Pemberton Bookshop is not far from the garden party, and it is there that Cressida finds herself later that afternoon.
To her left, Eloise is browsing the shelves. When they had passed the shop, it was Cressida (Cressida!) who had been the one to suggest they step inside. After all, if there was anything that would remind Eloise of the perks of returning to London, surely it would be shopping. For books.
“Oh, what a lovely cover,” Cressida says, picking up a heavy volume with ornate green binding.
“Are you much interested in French romances?” Eloise asks, reading the title.
“Oh, no.” Cressida puts it back with a laugh. “I’ve never much been one for tales of love. I’ve always found them a bit…”
“… Boring?” Eloise supplies.
“… Depressing,” Cressida finishes.
Eloise raises her eyebrows at her, her brows disappearing under her hair. “What, do you despise happy endings?”
“They simply seem unrealistic.” Cressida gives a small shrug and picks up another book.
“Well, I can agree with you there.” Eloise picks up the green volume Cressida has just discarded and flips through it, pausing with her finger on a page of a knight with his arms outstretched to a lady. “Although, if you ask my mother, she seems to think everyone is destined to live in a romance.”
“A charming idea,” Cressida muses. “Though I for one have never seen it happen.”
Eloise snaps the book shut. “I have. But a romance is a romance only until the end, and then it is a tragedy. In real life there is no separating one from the other.” She puts the book back on the shelf. “I’d rather pick a different genre altogether.”
“And what genre would you pick?”
“Hmm.” Eloise taps a finger on her chin and Cressida watches the motion with interest. Eloise does this sometimes—at times honestly when she ponders a question, and other times with an exaggerated air, a pantomime of pondering. Right now, it is the latter.
Eloise blindly pulls a book off the shelf with a flourish and then inspects her choice.
“A… thirteenth century epistolary penitential,” she answers.
Cressida wrinkles her nose. “That sounds positively dreadful.”
“How very rude of you to say,” Eloise says, clutching the book to her chest. “I personally love nothing more than both letter-writing and also penance.”
Cressida snorts with laughter and the sound attracts the disapproving eye of a gentleman shopping a few shelves over. Cressida snaps her fan open and shields her face with it while she wrangles her smile into submission.
It is embarrassing how easily Eloise makes her laugh. Cressida is not used to the sound being involuntary—her laugh is normally a modest and polite titter, to be produced on cue whenever a man says something it is clear he intends to be funny. This business of letting out unseemly snorts and giggles of laughter in public will not do.
She clears her throat and moves along.
“What genre would you choose for yourself?” Eloise asks. “If you’re also not a fan of romance.”
“Hmm.” Now it is Cressida’s turn to tap her chin. “Perhaps a tale of travel. I do enjoy the idea of faraway cities at times.”
“Well, don’t let Colin hear that. Give him an opening you’ll never get him to stop talking.”
At the mention of Mr. Bridgerton, Cressida pauses. She does not particularly like Colin, and she had grown to like him less and less every time she had pursued him. Just last year, he had absconded with a necklace of hers at the Featherington ball with the promise to “repair” it, and then somehow lost it. Yes, he had offered to replace it, but how does one lose seventeen rubies? Even now, the idea irritates her.
But, despite his staggering incompetence, Colin Bridgerton is nevertheless rich, single, and (for reasons unexplained by the former two) increasingly popular, and Cressida is not an idiot: she knows she should push the conversation in his direction.
She tries to think of a complimentary thing to say about him, some bridge to pivot the conversation into one of imagined compatibility, but Eloise has actually opened the penitential book and is now squinting at its pages, her lips pursed in that way she does when she has an opinion she’s not saying aloud.
Eloise’s expressions are always distracting. Whatever she feels, she expresses with her whole body. She leans against the bookcase, settling into her perusal with her head slightly cocked, and when she flips the page, the flick of her wrist is sharp and deliberate, a silent scoff.
Perhaps Eloise’s mannerisms are half the reason Cressida has become so fond of her company. There are not many people who act like she does; there is a disarming lack of restraint in her movements that perplexes Cressida, and a kind of earnestness that feels like a breath of fresh air.
A tiny furrow is wrinkling between her eyebrows, and though usually hidden, Cressida knows Eloise’s brow is rather fine—as she had discovered that day at the lake when Eloise had emerged from the water, dripping, her clothes clinging to her and her wet hair pushed carelessly away from her forehead. As gratified as Cressida is to see Eloise now in her fashionable blue dress with tasteful ribbons, she cannot help but think that the only thing Eloise Bridgerton needed to do to secure a husband was to show up to a ball sopping wet, and every man in Mayfair would drop to his knees.
“Cressida?”
Cressida jerks back to the present to find Eloise looking at her expectantly.
“I am sorry.” Cressida gives her head a small shake and clears her throat. “Forgive me. What did you say?”
“I asked if you would not like to find a book of travels for yourself, while we are here.”
“Oh.” Cressida laughs and fans herself to clear her head. The room had grown rather hot. “No, I don’t think I shall. Truth be told, I am not one for reading. My mama says too much of it will spoil one’s appetite for society.”
Eloise flips the book shut. “Well, that would explain my own condition.”
She is starting to look downcast again, so Cressida makes a show of looking around the shop. "Well, if I were a reader, I should think book shopping would be a grand way to spend one’s day. Much better than, say, mucking about in the countryside.” She pulls a new book off the shelf to inspect.
Eloise looks unimpressed. "I am sorry, Cressida, but you simply will not convince me to prefer London to the country.”
Cressida pouts. “Well. You cannot blame me for trying. You seem so glum to be back.”
“I am allowed to be glum. It is practically one of the only things we are allowed to do.” She cocks her head at Cressida. “Speaking of which… would you say you are not a reader because it is your preference, or because you are not allowed to be?”
Cressida pauses with her finger on the spine of the book. She has never really stopped to consider the distinction before. She turns the book over in her hand and tries to gauge how she feels about the thing.
“I… well. I don’t think it matters, really.” She reshelves the book.
“There’s nothing here at all that piques your interest?” Eloise asks, leaning again against the bookshelf, and Cressida’s eyes flick to her wrist, her hip, the slant her shoulder, noticing the way her stance resembles that of a Greek statue, only entirely more vivacious.
“Oh, I am not much good at choosing.” Cressida brushes off the question, but a beat later circles back to add, “… but perhaps you could recommend me a book to read?”
“I doubt you will like any of my recommendations,” Eloise says dryly, and holds up her randomly picked penitential. “Seeing as you are so eager to dismiss my favorite genres.”
Cressida keeps her face straight, eyeing the book unenthusiastically. “Perhaps you are right.”
The entrance bell chimes and they both look over to see Miss Hallewell and Miss Kenworthy entering the shop. Cressida watches them for any signal of recognition. Are they jealous that she is standing next to Eloise? Are they judging her? Is her proximity a net benefit or an embarrassment?
She cannot tell. Miss Kenworthy glances at the two of them, her eyes flicking between them quickly with what looks like surprise, but she does not say anything. No greeting, but no scandalized whispering either. Miss Hallewell does not look over at all.
They head straight to the novels, apparently with one in mind, and laugh and tease one another as they browse. Cressida and Eloise watch them buy a book and disappear again out the door, taking the tinkling of their soft voices with them.
Cressida turns to Eloise thoughtfully. “You know, you asked for my help reconciling with the ton.”
“Did I?”
“Well, you asked for my advice on your clothes and that amounts to the same thing. And if you are—”
“I think those are very much separate things,” Eloise interrupts. “And also I didn’t ask, you offered—”
“Yes, yes.” Cressida waves her away. Eloise always nitpicks words when she knows what she means. “The point is, if you are trying to make your peace with society, perhaps you should consider reading something you could talk about with others. I have found that the best way to make a good impression is to base your interests on what interests others.”
Eloise makes a face. “I am not trying to impress anyone, I am simply trying to exist without scandalizing my family.” She looks again at the book in her hand. “But perhaps it would not hurt to pick up a book. While we are here.”
“A splendid idea.” Cressida nods, pleased and slightly smug seeing the subtle expression of interest returning to Eloise’s face. She knew that Eloise could be won over by a bookshop.
“Perhaps you’d like to join me?” Eloise asks. “If we read the same book we could talk about it.”
“I am not reading an epistolary penitential, Eloise.”
Eloise huffs, blowing locks of hair out of her face. “Fine. What about our common enemy, then? Shall we brave a romance together? It is what all our fine debutante peers will no doubt be reading.”
“No doubt.” Cressida smiles. “Very well. Perhaps a novel is just what we need.”
“I’ll read one if you will.” Eloise extends her hand. “Agreed?”
Cressida takes her hand and gives it a single, solemn shake, the way she has seen her father do with his business friends. “Agreed.”
Eloise approaches the storefront and slaps a hand on the counter in typical dramatic fashion. “Bookseller! Recommend us your finest romance. We are but two ladies looking for a diverting novel.”
She turns again to Cressida, standing by ready with her purse. “If we buy this you have to actually read it. The point is the reading part, not the shopping part.”
Eloise’s eyes are sparkling the way that they do when she is teasing her, and Cressida tamps down a smile. “Of course,” she agrees innocently.
¨ ¨ ¨
The clock in the Cowper drawing room is the loudest one in the house. Cressida had not always thought it was so, but every season that passed in this room, the ticking seemed to grow louder. Perhaps it was the silence that made it so, as both she and her mother had grown quieter and quieter during these long afternoons. When she had first come out, they would talk about the ton or etiquette or potential suitors while they waited, but now they simply sit in silence. There is no longer anything much to say.
At twenty minutes past the hour, Cressida works up the nerve to turn to her mother.
“I—I thought I might read. While we wait.”
“Read? Whatever are you talking about?” Lady Cowper looks as if she has started speaking a different language.
Cressida pulls out a copy of Emma from where she has it tucked amongst the folds of her skirts.
She had returned from the bookstore yesterday eager to open it, but she had not had the opportunity until she was in bed with only a lamp to illuminate the pages. Cressida had tried her hardest to concentrate, but the day had been so long, and the words and letters had a habit of swimming on the page, and she made hardly any headway before sleep had overtaken her. She was intent not to fall behind, however; Eloise had purchased the same book and who knows how far along she already was. Cressida would bet good money that Eloise is a fast reader.
“Is that a novel?” her mother peers at it.
“The latest Austen. All the girls are reading it.”
Her mother pinches the bridge of her nose. “Oh Good Lord. This is Miss Bridgerton’s doing, isn’t it?”
“It was not Eloise’s suggestion,” Cressida lies. “It was… Miss Kenworthy’s. And Miss Hallewell’s. Like I said, all the girls are reading it.”
Her mother gives her a knowing look, but shakes her head. “You mustn’t let what the other girls do influence you, Cressida. And especially not during calling hour, for goodness’ sake.” She stands up and plucks the book out of Cressida’s hands.
“But no one is here,” Cressida complains.
“Yes, and that is precisely the problem. You need to be putting your energies into securing a match, not wasting your time on pretty fictions.” She waves the book in the direction of the door. “And what if someone were to call? Or if your father were to see? That is all we need.”
She shoves the book into a drawer. “You are on a tight leash as it is. If he thinks you are not taking this seriously, we risk losing more of our allowance.”
Lady Cowper sits back down next to her daughter, back rigid, glancing around the room furtively like Lord Cowper might at that very moment overhear.
Cressida doesn’t fight it. Instead, she sits with her hands folded in her lap and looks at the desk drawer across the room. “It is only a book,” she says, her last protest in defeat.
“Men do not want a woman who reads. They want a woman who can manage the household so that they can read.”
Cressida turns her attention out the window. A songbird is flitting around on the branches outside, and a few larger, darker birds squat higher up in the trees.
She remembers visiting the household of one of her mother's friends when she was a girl; the old lady had a collection of bird cages tastefully placed throughout the house, so no matter what room you wandered into, you could always hear bird songs. "It is a happy coincidence that the birds that sound sweetest are the smallest and most well-suited to a life indoors,” the woman was fond of saying. “It is as if they have been designed for the job.”
A happy coincidence indeed. Cressida imagines trying to fit an eagle in a bird cage, or a vulture in an atrium. The idea is laughable. If circumstances were different, and if such large, fierce birds made beautiful music, it would be a tragedy, because how would they ever fit in such a small enclosure? How could they stand it?
It is lucky that songbirds are so small, and it is lucky that Cressida is no great reader. She is not like some women (a certain Bridgerton comes to mind) with a mind sharp as talons or a presence that takes up a room. She feels no great discomfort when her book is locked away. There is only a temporary sadness—a twinge of disappointment, or perhaps a sense of inadequacy she cannot fully define—and this too is easily locked away.
She watches the birds outside the window and finds comfort in their small, twitchy movements. The sound of the clock on the mantle fills the room with an even metronome, counting down the minutes and the hours, and Cressida stills her own small movements and resolves herself to do what she does best, which is, at this moment, nothing at all.
¨ ¨ ¨
The Danbury Ball is well-known for being spectacular, and this year is no exception. The walls are covered in foliage from every season, spring blossoms and autumn leaves and frosty, winter branches crawling across the walls, and the air is full of the excited chatter that always accompanies the first ball of the season.
Cressida is waiting near the wall between Summer and Autum, which she has chosen for its proximity to the entrance and its distance from the orchestra. She is waiting for Eloise, and for once, waiting for something does not feel like a snake worming around in her stomach. She stayed up late the night before finishing the book, just in case Eloise brings it up, and there is something a little exciting about the prospect of discussing the first novel she has read in years.
Before long, Eloise spots her and makes her way through the crowd to stand by Cressida’s side, and as she does so, Cressida relaxes.
“Now this is the type of nature I prefer,” Cressida notes by way of greeting. “Indoors.”
The corner of Eloise’s mouth quirks slightly as she glances at the nearest tree. “You would say that. Perhaps instead of retreating to the country next summer, you could see if Lady Danbury would allow you to spend the off-season in her ballroom.”
“Wouldn’t that be a dream?” Cressida says.
Despite Eloise’s half-smile, there is a grave air about her. It is clear that she is not enthused to be back in a ballroom.
Cressida shifts topics. “Did you read Whistledown’s latest issue?”
“I did,” Eloise says, still looking around at the foliage rather aimlessly.
“I found it to be a remarkable shift in style,” Cressida rambles, trying to find something that Eloise might have an opinion on. “She listed the accomplishments of half the ton. I have never read so much praise in one day’s news before.”
“I was surprised by that as well,” Eloise replies, still not looking particularly interested. “But I suppose it is a welcome change. One it would have been nice to see last season.”
“I wonder what Whistledown will write about next issue,” Cressida muses aloud. “The season is off to quite a dull start.”
No sooner has she said it than she is immediately proved wrong, as her gaze slides past Eloise quite by accident and lands on the stairway at the ballroom entrance, and she stops dead.
“I’m sure she will find something,” Eloise is saying, still oblivious. “Or make something up.”
“… I do not think that will be necessary,” Cressida says, and Eloise turns to look.
Her jaw drops.
Penelope Featherington has apparently chosen now to get her head around fashion. She is wearing a frustratingly striking dress—deep emerald in color, French in style, and contrasting vividly with her copper hair which is not pinned up in its usual nest of ringlets but is instead positively cascading.
Cressida shuts her own mouth.
For the love of God. Penelope’s timing could not be worse; suitors are in short supply for debutantes in their third year out, and Cressida already has her work cut out for her without a Featherington (of all people!) siphoning off the male attention in the room.
And it is not only the male attention she has captured. Cressida glances at Eloise, who is still standing frozen beside her, watching Penelope with an expression that Cressida cannot read, but which she thinks looks rather pained.
“Come,” Cressida announces, “let us take a turn about the room. Surely there are more interesting things here worth our attention.”
She brushes past Eloise to march off through the crowd, and Eloise wordlessly joins her by her side. Everyone in the room is staring at Penelope, but Cressida refuses to give her the satisfaction.
She casts around for something to divert her attention and lands on a couple of debutantes passing by on their way to the refreshment table. Miss Barragan offers a smile to them both, but Miss Hartigan only gives a nervous nod to Cressida. Apparently, she still requires some assistance deciding how to treat Eloise.
“Miss Hartigan!” Cressida greets her loudly. “Why, you have such a lovely dress this evening.” The compliment does its job in snagging her, and Miss Hartigan is compelled to stop to receive the comment.
“Don’t you agree, Eloise?” Cressida nudges her.
“Oh, yes. It’s quite lovely,” Eloise chimes in, looking confused but on board.
Miss Hartigan smiles, flattered, and the nudge seems to work; once she settles in to join them, the rest of the young ladies do as well, and soon they are surrounded by a small circle of their peers, discussing summer adventures and shared interests.
Cressida is rather pleased with herself. She glances around the room to see if her mother is looking, but she has her back turned, deep in conversation with her circle of mamas. It is unfortunate, but ultimately, it makes no difference; daughters will talk to mothers, and mothers will talk to other mothers, and eventually Eloise’s missteps last season will be entirely smoothed over and forgotten, and Cressida will not have to worry about any tiresome arguments about whom she spends her time with in public.
Eloise, for her part, appears to have mixed feelings about the improvement. It is clear she is relieved to be included in direct conversations again, but at the moment she seems more exasperated with the topic of conversation than anything else. She is doing quite a horrible job at concealing her distain for embroidery, and almost immediately makes an unskilled joke that falls flat with the other debutantes. Cressida laughs at it to buoy her up, but rather than seeming encouraged, Eloise appears to not have heard her at all; she is once again distracted by something across the ballroom, and, once again, when Cressida turns to look, there is Penelope: glamorous and sparkling and surrounded by a gaggle of suitors.
Irritation clenches her stomach like a fist, and Cressida resists the urge to fold her arms tightly across her midriff. Instead, she steps in to shift the conversation in a different direction: laugh at a joke, redirect, include Eloise, show them all that this is fine—everything is fine!—they are all upstanding young women of good repute, performing the show that is required of them.
They all know they dislike each other on some level or another, but there is a right way and a wrong way to exist in a room full of people, and Cressida may be useless at many things, but this she at least knows how to do—something Eloise, in all her artless honesty, cannot seem to master: she attempts a laugh at times, she succeeds in a smile, she even charms with a few jokes, but before long she is once again dropping the conversation to stare hard at Penelope wherever she happens to be. She offends the other debutantes no less than three separate times with strange or dismissive comments, which Cressida fixes or lets lie depending on if she likes the offended party or not. Eloise is so charming, despite her bluntness, that her faux pas are easy to smooth over, but every time Eloise looks across the room, Cressida can feel the cold fist of anger tightening in her stomach. It squeezes her insides, pushing right up through her lungs, making it hard to breathe.
Eloise and Penelope are no longer friends. For once, Eloise should be looking at someone else other than Penelope, but no—even now that they have nothing to do with one another, she cannot seem to look anywhere else.
Cressida says nothing, but stews in frustration.
Eloise does not know how to play the game. She never has. She is far too genuine, to guileless—she is staring at Penelope like a fool, all her hurt displayed right there on her face, and it is embarrassing.
Cressida knows better. Don’t show it—do something about it.
And Eloise will not, clearly. She simply gives her the attention that Penelope so clearly revels in.
Cressida glares daggers at Penelope.
As the evening wears on, the little circle of winter wall debutantes disperses. A gentleman asks Miss Kenworthy to dance. Lady Hallewell comes to pull Miss Hallewell away. Eloise marches off when Miss Hardigan seems on the verge of bringing up embroidery again, and Cressida goes with her, watching the men step backward politely or completely ignore her as she passes.
Across the room, men still flit around Penelope like flies, and heads turn to look at her as she passes. People are acting as if she is nobility from overseas, simply because she has deigned to put in a drop of effort for once in her life, while Cressida, who has been putting in more effort than anyone else at every ball for the last two years, goes ignored.
The injustice of it might be tolerable if Cressida were a different person—if she could summon the kind of patience demanded by her drawing room, or if she did not have the words “at any cost” always ringing in her ears in her mother’s voice, or if she did not know that this was her last season, or if, like Eloise, she did not need or want the kind of attention currently being heaped upon an emerald green dress.
But she is not a different person, and when, late in the evening, she finds herself by the dessert table merely feet away from where Penelope is standing, an opportunity presents itself: Penelope is talking to a gentleman; her gown is trailing on the floor; Eloise has been silent for the last twenty minutes, clearly in a mood, clearly Penelope’s fault, and Cressida has not danced once with anyone, has barely been noticed; and it would be so easy, so very easy, to take a single step back, and drive her pink dagger of a heel into that gossamer hem.
So, she does.
There is a rip. A gasp. A man’s quick reassurances.
Cressida turns around, arranging shock on her face, taking the time to relish the priceless expression on Penelope’s.
The man disappears, offering to find a maid to help her, and Penelope throws a thunderous look at Cressida, who receives it with satisfaction.
“It is a pity you did not choose something sturdier,” Cressida tells her, enjoying each word as she says it. “Perhaps if you had not bought such cheap fabric, it would not have ripped.”
She does not wait for a response and simply walks off, leaving Penelope to stay or go or whatever she chooses, but doubting very much that she will choose to stay.
For the first time that evening she notices that her jaw has been clenched, and she relaxes.
Cressida does not look back over her shoulder until she has reached the far end of the room, and then she turns to say something humorous and conspiratorial to Eloise, but whatever comment she is about to make dies on her tongue.
When she looks behind her, Eloise is gone.
¨ ¨ ¨
“You disapprove?” Cressida is surprised and unnerved by the distain on Eloise’s face. “I thought we did not like Penelope.”
They are strolling side by side at Rotten Row, as they do every week now, but today Eloise is out of sorts.
“What you did was cruel and unnecessary.” The tone in Eloise’s voice cuts her.
Cruel and unnecessary. Those words do not usually fit together, in Cressida’s experience—after all, does not necessity drive cruelty? What is cruelty if not necessary?
She opens her mouth to say as much to Eloise, but Eloise’s expression is set.
Cressida closes her mouth.
She cannot fathom Eloise. Is she not in a feud with the girl who abandoned her? Was she not upset to see Penelope parading around like she was better than everyone else? The fact that she is apparently angry at Cressida for acting in their mutual interest makes absolutely no sense.
They walk in silence, Cressida struggling to understand.
“You often talk of how difficult it has been for you to find a husband,” Eloise says after a long pause. “But do you not think it might be easier if you displayed a bit less… frankness?”
Cressida bristles at the accusation. Frankness? Eloise is one to talk about frankness. The distinct memory of Eloise practically yelling, “I would rather DIE,” into a crowded ballroom comes to mind.
No sooner has she thought of it, though, then she thinks of the year that has passed since that night at the Presentation Ball. How different it feels now, walking next to Eloise rather than glancing at her in passing across a crowded room.
“It has been difficult to find a husband,” Cressida starts, after a moment. “It has been more difficult still to find a friend.” She pauses at the last word, cautiously extending the opportunity for Eloise to correct her. She does not know how to express what she is trying to express, or ask what she is trying to ask—please do not take it back. Do not say it is over. When Eloise says nothing, Cressida tentatively goes on. “I have not had many since my debut. Not real ones. I did as a girl.” She feels awkward, like she is rambling. Get to the point. “But the season has a way of coming between young ladies, pitting us against one another. I suppose I’ve fallen prey to it… once. Or twice.”
“Or thrice,” Eloise supplies, casting her that wry look that is so familiar.
Cressida gives a sad smile of acknowledgement. Eloise’s words from the summer drift back to her. You’re snobbish, you’re vapid, you care for nothing but the latest fashions, you speak as though you’ve never had an original thought in your life, and you will do anything to manipulate or entrap whatever man you deem a prize…
Eloise had, of course, been right. Cressida had brushed off the accusations the first time, pretending she didn’t care, but she would never admit how often she has repeated those words to herself in private.
So why had she done it again? She inspects the sense of gratification she had felt last night, seeing that infuriating green dress ripped. In the space before and after her perfectly timed step, she had convinced herself that it was not only for her own sake but for Eloise too; she had thought, ridiculously, that some small part of Eloise would feel satisfied seeing Penelope brought down a peg or two.
But of course, she would not. Eloise is good—annoyingly, sickeningly good, so much so that it should be easy to shrug her off as naïve or sanctimonious, but with one glance at Eloise's face, there is simply no possible way to dismiss her.
Cressida looks at the ground pensively.
“But you are right,” Eloise continues after a moment. “Society does not seek to forge affections amongst us. I thought I was the only one who noticed.”
“I did try to befriend you in your first season out, but you rejected my suit,” Cressida points out, half in an attempt to remind her of her very loud, very rude rejection, but even that seems less rude and more a matter of mere rationality now. “I actually do not blame you,” she adds with a small, bitter laugh. “I have not always been kind.”
Not kind seems in fact the only thing she has ever been, now that she thinks of it. The fact has never bothered her so much as it does now.
As they step out of the shade and into the sunlight, Cressida casts a glance at Eloise, and says with emphasis: “But whatever Penelope did to lose your friendship… you are right. She is undeserving of my attention. And of yours.” She tries to say it in a way that makes her meaning clear, without saying it outright. Cressida refuses to beg, but she wishes she could grab Eloise by the arm and tell her: Move on. Please, just move on. Instead, she says, “Let us think only of ourselves. We are far more interesting.”
Eloise says nothing for a moment, and then accepts the message with a small smile. “I’m inclined to agree with you.”
Cressida smiles back, thoroughly relieved by the truce. (A second truce—because Cressida is fully aware Eloise has already granted her a first one. She determines on the spot that she will not be the cause of requiring a third.)
The day is bright, and Cressida allows herself to breathe out.
As they stroll closer to a line of trees, a group of young ladies pass by, all smiles, and they offer each other amiable nods on their way by. Cressida notes Miss Hartigan is among them.
Still tender from the rebuke as she is, Cressida is not too ashamed to turn a small chide of her own against her companion.
“And speaking of kindness,” she says with a meaningful side glance, “if you wish to fit in with your peers without friction, you may want to avoid insulting the passions and interests of others.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The shift stitch?”
Eloise looks taken aback. “What?”
“You were rather dismissive of Miss Hardigan when she was attempting to talk about her great passion,” Cressida points out lightly.
“Great passion?” A mortified look spreads over Eloise’s face. “I thought she was joking! I did not think anyone genuinely liked embroidery—I thought it was an open secret we all pretend at, like pretending to like Sunday sermons or wearing heels.”
Cressida raises her eyebrows. “I do like wearing heels.”
Eloise lets out a laugh, then immediately cuts it short, clearly unsure if she is sharing a secret joke with Cressida or offending her. “You… can’t be serious.”
“Why shouldn’t I be?” Cressida plucks a small leaf from a low hanging branch and slowly rotates it between two fingers. “I like the look of them. Is there not something enjoyable about donning an exquisite pair of shoes and an elegant dress, and feeling like a whole different person?”
Eloise stares at her blankly.
“Never mind.” Cressida tosses the leaf and continues. “Some women like things and other women pretend to like things. You can of course do what you like, and I have no doubt you will. But you might also find your acquaintanceships improved with a bit less frankness.”
Eloise looks up at the sky. “Lord. I cannot believe I am receiving moral advice from the most cutthroat debutante in Mayfair.”
“Please.” Cressida laughs. “I am hardly the most cutthroat.”
Eloise flops her head to one side to shoot her a look.
“… Am I?” Cressida asks, suddenly self-conscious.
“How many of Penelope’s dresses have you ruined?”
“The first one wasn’t even a good dress,” Cressida says defensively.
Eloise only continues her penetrating stare so Cressida clarifies, though it should be obvious: “But… from now on her dresses are safe.”
“Well.” Eloise straightens. “I suppose it’s a start.” Now it is her turn to pluck a leaf from a shrub and inspect it idly. “And I suppose I will make an effort to exercise more tact going forward. I must admit you are not the first person to point it out. My mama has been trying to correct me for years, but it never quite seems to stick.”
“My mama has had much the same trouble with me,” Cressida offers by way of reassurance. Though of course it is not so much a lack of tact that Lady Cowper cares about, and more Cressida’s failures on every other front.
Eloise loops her arm in Cressida’s. “Well, perhaps with some effort, we may one day succeed in becoming the young ladies our mothers raised us to be.”
It is a warm day, and Cressida grows even warmer at the touch. The comment is an odd one, though; the path to becoming Lady Bridgerton’s vision for her daughter and the path to Lady Cowper’s idea of success are two distinctly different roads. And if she were to follow her mother’s, the first step would be to drop Eloise’s arm right now.
“Do you think there is hope for us?” Eloise continues.
Overhead, a bird is chirping in a tree. When they pass underneath its branch, it takes flight, fluttering off into the vast blue sky with no paths before it at all.
Cressida tightens her arm around Eloise’s.
“I believe there is.”