Archive of Our Own ^beta

Hyacinth Bridgerton did not like to be excluded. Perhaps it was a function of her youth—though she was not particularly young, not anymore—or perhaps it was due to her position within her family—somehow always the baby no matter how many actual babies her siblings produced, how terribly annoying—or perhaps it was simply the way she was.

Reasons aside, it was true: she did not like to be excluded. She did not like to be excluded from Gregory’s Latin lessons, nor from the soirees and teas and routs everyone else was permitted to attend, nor from hearing the best bits of gossip Penelope traded with Mama whenever she and Colin came to dine.

It was rather unfortunate that her family seemed so hellbent on keeping her away from anything interesting—unfortunate for her family, that was. She had her own methods for when she wished to root out a morsel of intrigue.

This evening’s reconnaissance had begun with one of those little daily injustices that Hyacinth had been forced to shoulder for most of her life. She hadn’t meant to get into trouble—of course not. Who would dream of such a thing? It was shaping up to be such a lovely hour, the whole family having retired to the parlor after supper. Eloise fidgeted intermittently, scrawling something incomprehensible on a pamphlet she was failing to conceal between the pages of a Bible; Kate, Anthony and Gregory huddled over a game of dominoes; Mama—did whatever Mama was wont to do. Hyacinth herself had been working on her latest sampler, for she was extraordinarily close to achieving her heart’s desire—an early debut—and thus had decided ages ago that she had better be ready for it.

It had all been going swimmingly until Eloise, the traitor, rose with a funny little smile on her face and excused herself. Gregory followed, and so did Anthony, and then Mama fixed her with that look that was meant to communicate “darling, I wish you would leave so I may speak of private matters with Kate, but I am too polite to say that to your face.” One of those little daily injustices indeed.

So Hyacinth—wonderful daughter that she was—retired to her bedroom without complaint and undressed...and slipped back into the hallway. A little eavesdropping, a little glass of warm milk to help herself sleep—who would know the difference?

She made it as far as Eloise’s bedroom when a loud thump sounded out, followed by a string of curses that Mademoiselle Deroche would have boxed Eloise’s ears for—that is, if Eloise was still of the age to need a governess. Hyacinth was still of that age, and she had plenty of experience with Mademoiselle Deroche's towering temper.

Hyacinth’s instincts had never failed her before, which was why it took her very little time to settle on the most sensible course of action: she squared her shoulders, straightened her dressing gown, and marched into the room.

The door hit the wall with a bang—maybe that hadn’t been the wisest of choices—and Eloise swore again.

The utterer of those particular words stood balanced on the sill, one leg already out the window. A travelling cloak was strewn on the carpet and a small, battered book Hyacinth had never seen lay open atop it.

Hyacinth, closing the door with a decisive click, immediately adjusted her plans for the remainder of the evening.

Finally Eloise coughed and hopped down from the windowsill, stumbling a little. “Hello, sister.”

Hyacinth fixed El with her most imperious stare. As the youngest Bridgerton she spent a lot of time with their mother, which was useful if one had need for imperious stares. “Hello, sister.”

“I was just-” Eloise started, fastening her eyes on a point that Hyacinth imagined to be in the region of Hyacinth’s right ear. “I am just going… shopping.”

“Now? ”

Eloise nodded vigorously and then stopped nodding all at once. “Yes, I am.”

Hyacinth allowed her sister to continue rambling for another minute, as she often did; it was surprising how much incriminating information Eloise would let slip when one pretended to listen to her.

Soon, though, she tired of it; Eloise’s feverish, half-baked explanations and barbed defences could only be interesting for so long. She narrowed her eyes and took on the expression their mother used when she was disappointed, but not angry. Hyacinth, mark, was very good at expressions. “I do not think you are going shopping.”

For a moment Eloise simply stared, but then it appeared something had cracked in her; she gave a sort of throaty half-laugh and fisted her hands in the fabric of her dress. “Well, I suppose that excuse was a lost cause from the start.”

“I won’t tell anyone what I saw,” Hyacinth said, balancing on one foot while she considered her options. She often found the effort of keeping herself upright helped her to think. It improved her posture, too—also very important to master when one wished to be presented before the Queen on an accelerated schedule.

Eloise sagged with relief. “Thank you.”

“But.”

“But?”

“Take me with you.”

Eloise gaped at her. “You don’t even know where I’m going.”

“Or,” Hyacinth said, allowing the word to drag on longer than it ought, “I might be forced to tell Mama. And Anthony.”

The look of horror on Eloise’s face was very pleasing indeed. “You wouldn’t.”

“I might.”

Eloise regarded her for a long moment, face pale and bloodless. Then she grit her teeth and marched forward to collect her book, cradling it to her chest like an infant. “Fine. Get dressed in something plain. Wear your cloak—the brown one, without the ribbon—and come back here in two minutes.”

Whooping, Hyacinth pivoted on her heel and dashed back to her bedroom.

“Be quiet,” Eloise hissed after her.

(Hyacinth paid her no mind. Obviously.)

Hyacinth returned five minutes later—ten, perhaps, but only if one was being uncharitable—dressed to Eloise’s specifications.

“I’ll go down first,” Eloise said, her mysterious book now tucked beneath her arm. She had wrapped her own cloak securely around thin shoulders; it flapped briefly like a veil in the wind as she lowered herself out of the window and out of Hyacinth’s line of sight. “And you may follow behind.”

Hitching up her skirts, she did as she was told.

“Grip tightly,” Eloise called up, once she had two feet on solid ground. Her sister’s voice didn’t carry well in the stillness of the evening, but luckily Hyacinth had exceptional hearing.

“I know how to climb down a trellis,” Hyacinth returned, stepping nimbly down until she found herself level with her sister once more.

“You do?”

Hyacinth shrugged. “Useful skill.”

Dodging a moss-covered bird bath, Eloise set off across the front garden at a brisk clip. Her strides were confident and full of purpose; for the very first time it occurred to Hyacinth that this journey was not new to Eloise. 

Hyacinth didn’t move. “Are we not taking the carriage?”

“No, you fool,” Eloise said, doubling back to drag Hyacinth toward the street. After a minor scuffle they made it down the block, where Eloise presented a cab with a flourish and a (deeply irritating, thought Hyacinth) mocking smile. “I learned the last time that it would attract… unwanted attention. We’re taking a hack.”

Well, it had been an innocent question. Any sane person would have asked. Hyacinth, in particular, often worried over the sanity of her various relations. “The last time?” 

Eloise ignored her as she told the driver their intended address (they were to go to Bloomsbury!) and negotiated a price; she finally turned to face Hyacinth just before she stepped up into the cab. “Didn’t anyone teach you not to ask impertinent questions, Hyacinth?”

“Didn’t anyone teach you not to sneak out in the dead of night, Eloise?” Hyacinth returned, clambering into the hack behind her. A little thrill went through her as she took in the bare, piecemeal wooden walls and found a place to sit on one of the scuffed benches beside her sister.

For that remark, Hyacinth received a hard pinch to the elbow. “It’s barely dark.”

Eloise administered a quick, practised knock to the roof of the carriage and it trundled into motion. Dusk had fallen and the streets were relatively empty, so the hack carried on at a steady pace, bumping over cobbled pavement. The houses and shops began to change, the facades growing narrower and less grand as they moved further from home. The signs, too, became unfamiliar; it made her feel invisible, a girl traversing a foreign land, only one objective in mind—like she was a regimental spy, perhaps! Though she had no idea what awaited them on the other side of this journey, she found she quite enjoyed that mental image.

After a little while Hyacinth tired of her looking and imagining and thinking. Eloise slumped into the corner of the carriage—Mama would have fussed at her posture had she been here—and Hyacinth took the opportunity to study the book in her sister’s lap. For once she would not suffer the icy reproach Eloise so often wielded against anyone who looked too closely at her things, for Eloise’s eyes were closed—resting, sleeping, Hyacinth could not tell and did not particularly care either way. It was the book—this strange, worn-looking book—that intrigued her, for most of the books in the Bridgerton library were either crisp and new, or aged in a dignified, beautiful sort of way. This particular book had a plain leather cover, mottled in some places and rubbed thin in others, but in all places the brown stood in deep contrast to Eloise’s whitened knuckles; she clutched at it as though she feared it would soon be lost to her. Spidery gold letters, dulled a little from age, spelled out the title and the name of the author, neither of which Hyacinth recognized. She had never seen a book like that in the Bridgerton library, nor Eloise’s personal collection, nor anywhere else.

The hack hit a bump in the road and the whole carriage jolted. Hyacinth’s head collided first with the back wall (not padded, unfortunately) and then again with Eloise’s book, which had gone flying; Hyacinth squealed in pain at the former incident, while the latter incident elicited a shout of surprise from Eloise that, in Hyacinth’s opinion, was not warranted.

In all the chaos the book quite simply fell into Hyacinth’s lap. How convenient.

She feasted her eyes upon what lay before her, ripe for the reading. The text appeared typical of all the books Hyacinth had ever seen, but where there would be blank space around the edges of the page someone had replaced it with row upon row of commentary. Two someones, it seemed, for the handwriting and the heaviness of the lead on the page often alternated. Hyacinth turned to the next page, eager to see more, to finally know what Eloise was—

“Give me that,” Eloise snapped, seizing the book from Hyacinth with unexpected strength. Hastily she tucked it into her reticule. A prickly glint in her sister’s eye suggested to Hyacinth that she was preparing a lecture; it was only down to luck that the hack stopped and the door swung open before it could begin.

“Here we are, Miss and Miss,” the driver said, stepping back to let them pass.

Eloise reached out to pay him, then stepped down. She looked into the carriage at Hyacinth and raised her eyebrows, jerking her head in the direction of the building behind her. The facade was built of faded stone. It seemed to pulse with energy, or life, or something else that Hyacinth could not define, but the effect was thrilling and novel all the same. “Well? Are you coming?”

A challenge. Hyacinth was very good at challenges. She hopped down from the carriage and followed her sister into the fray.

It took them several minutes to navigate through a series of dark corridors, almost ghostly in their emptiness, but soon they emerged into a large underground hall. For a minute they stopped and stood at the edge of the crowd.

It was a sight entirely unfamiliar to Hyacinth. The hall glowed under the light of the many lanterns adorning the walls. In the space above the expansive stage, so many banners had been hung that these people must have cleared out the entire backroom stock of whichever modiste they visited. On the stage itself, a tall woman with close-cropped hair spoke animatedly; the assembled audience whistled and cheered at every shouted exclamation.

Eloise poked her head this way and that, eyes darting from one face to another. Everyone in the crowd looked much the same to Hyacinth, but she supposed Eloise would know some of them personally.

Hyacinth could contain her curiosity no longer. “Who are you looking for?”

“I’m looking for a friend of mine,” Eloise said, shifting from one foot to another. “I was supposed to-" 

She cut herself off. A smile flashed across Eloise's face for a fraction of a second, and then, without any warning, she schooled her features into a neutral expression and set off across the room. Hyacinth followed Eloise past all sorts, overhearing snatches of conversation as they went—men arguing about someone called “Lock,” a knot of women huddled over a sheaf of paper, a young mother holding a red-faced baby in one arm and a half-folded pamphlet in the other—until Eloise skittered to a stop and tapped the shoulder of a man standing in front of her.

The man turned to face them. He was quite tall, she registered first. As tall as Colin at least. Yet he must be younger than her brothers, save Gregory—between the impish smile and the full face, he couldn’t be much older than Eloise. His grin faded a little as his eyes flicked from Eloise, to Hyacinth, and back to Eloise again.

Eloise grimaced at the man, her hands falling limp at her sides. “Hello, Theo.”

Hyacinth felt herself blanch. “Your friend is a man?”

Eloise glared at her.

The friend—the man—furrowed his brow and looked toward Eloise. “What’s… this?”

“Someone,” Eloise ground out, pinching Hyacinth’s arm—what a terrible sister she could be sometimes—“found me just as I was about to leave, and threatened to tell our mother what I was up to if I did not take her along with me.”

“I see,” the man said, blinking. His hand drifted briefly toward the lapel of his coat before he drew it back, as if remembering himself. Looking very meaningfully at Eloise—whatever was that about?—he murmured, “I suppose it will have to wait?”

Beside her, Eloise gave a minute nod.

“It’s not really blackmail when nobody in your family will tell you anything.” Hyacinth gave the man—Eloise’s friend—one of her winning smiles and sunk into a shallow curtsy, choosing for now to ignore the funny behavior of both sister and stranger. No doubt there would be time to uncover that later. “Miss Hyacinth Bridgerton. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Behind her, Eloise scoffed. Not that it mattered to Hyacinth. Her older sister had a lot of opinions, nearly as many as Hyacinth herself, but Hyacinth was only inclined to pay attention when it suited her.

The man gave her an awkward half-bow. “Theo Sharpe.”

“Do not pay her any mind, Theo.” Eloise fixed Hyacinth with a pointed look. “She is only here to make trouble for me.”

The use of Mr. Sharpe’s Christian name snagged at some corner of Hyacinth’s mind. One musn’t address a man so intimately, not unless one was engaged, married or related to him—but then Mr. Sharpe was not a gentleman, she reasoned, so the rules might be different for him. Or perhaps the rule still stood, but Eloise was simply flouting it to amuse herself. Knowing her sister, the latter was just as likely as the former.

Mr. Sharpe laughed, directing his next comment to Hyacinth. “Are you interested in political theory, Miss Hyacinth?”

“No, she does not–” Eloise cut in.

“Yes, I am,” Hyacinth said, at the very same moment.

Then, because Eloise had gone maddeningly quiet, she added, “I care about politics!”

“Do you?” Eloise said, cold and sceptical.

Hyacinth, naturally, did not dignify that with a response.

The truth was that she knew very little about politics, but she wasn’t stupid enough to say that in front of Eloise. For the second time that evening she revised her plans; this outing would not merely be a pleasurable diversion, but a mission: uncover all that she could about this strange world her sister had apparently found a place in. Who knew when that knowledge might be helpful? For instance, at this very moment Eloise looked terribly smug in that older-sister way of hers—what Hyacinth would give to have something to hold over her, to have some special knowledge that others in their family did not!

In keeping with her new plans, she switched her focus to Eloise’s man-friend. He had a gentle, open countenance; off this, she judged he would be much easier to extract the necessary information from than suddenly-reticent Eloise. “Do you come here often, Mr. Sharpe?”

“Sometimes,” the man in question said, voice perfectly light, and with a thrill of surprise Hyacinth knew he had understood her real question: does my sister come here often? “I find the speakers most illuminating.”

As if his words had been a decree, they looked toward the stage in unison. The woman who commanded the space looked how Hyacinth imagined the goddess Athena to be, all dark hair and flowing cape and regal bearing. From the cheers she drew from the crowd, Hyacinth deemed it likely she also possessed some of Athena’s wisdom.

“That’s Charlotte Dyer,” Eloise said. A note of longing entered her voice. “She’s one of the best.”

“And what is she speaking of?” Hyacinth inquired. “What do people make speeches about here?”

“Everything important,” replied Eloise, though without her usual acerbity. Her eyes remained fixed on the stage; Hyacinth tracked their movement as they followed the blur of Charlotte Dyer’s free-waving hands.

Mr. Sharpe assumed the burden of communication Eloise had dropped before Hyacinth could become too annoyed. “For one, the rights of the worker. His right to fair pay and good conditions, and freedom from undue suffering.”

She frowned. “The worker?”

“The common man, Miss Hyacinth,” Mr. Sharpe said, tipping her a smile. It was edged with some emotion Hyacinth could not define, could not articulate. “Like myself.”

“And what do you do, Mr. Sharpe?” His vest and coat were clean, neat and well-taken care of, so he must not be a beggar; they were not nearly as fine as those worn by the Bridgerton family physician, so he must not be a doctor.

The provided answer inspired more questions than it answered—a printer of what , exactly? Was it he who had furnished Eloise with that unusual book? Before she could open her mouth again, Eloise seemed to return from her state of dreamy focus, turning away from the stage and back toward the triangle of their bodies.

“And the rights of woman, Theo, her right to autonomy and common knowledge,” she said, rejoining their conversation with a seamlessness Hyacinth had to admire, even if grudgingly. Conversational skills were important when one was a debutante—though in her opinion, her older sister had always been rather awkward. Perhaps this unusual setting drew some latent charisma from Eloise.

Mr. Sharpe laughed. “Ah, how could I forget?”

“You would never,” Eloise replied, a startling and most un-Eloise softness to her voice. Fascinating.

For a while they ceased talking and crushed close to the stage to listen to the remainder of Miss Dyer’s speech. She spoke of life and liberty, marriage and motherhood with eloquence Hyacinth admired—wished to possess herself, even. Arise, and speak! Arise, and shout! It wasn’t terribly difficult to imagine why Eloise would be eager to come here, even if it involved a necessary measure of deceit.

Hyacinth’s knowledge on the subject of hand was perhaps a little lacking compared to the others in the crowd, she felt it. What it was, she could not say, even as it flowed through her body—the invigorating power of knowing one was doing something illicit? The excitement of cheering along with the crowd? Simply being in the vicinity of Charlotte Dyer’s powerful certainty, the kind of certainly Hyacinth so desperately admired?

Hyacinth wasn’t stupid; she knew things about the world, about the Ton, about the ‘marriage mart,’ as they all liked to call it. Gentleman suitors appreciated careful, curated helplessness, Mama had told her. A dropped glove here, a stumble there. Hyacinth would be good at this—no, Hyacinth would be the best at this. She would win as Daphne had, as her mother had; she would make a stunning match—a love match—with a Prince or a Duke, some terribly romantic young man who would call upon her with flowers and fulsome poetry and carry her off to a glittering castle. For an achievement like that, some manufactured incapability was a small price to pay. But Miss Dyer’s certainty settled nicely against her sternum regardless. It would be nice, Hyacinth admitted to herself, to have a certainty like that. To own a certainty like that, make it so immutable nobody could take it from you. Was that what Eloise liked about Miss Dyer? Her certainty?

“...but there are more paths a woman’s life can take, and if there are not, then we must blaze them ourselves!”

Eloise roared along with the crowd at that exclamation, cheeks pink and smile wide; at some point she had produced a pamphlet from the depths of her reticule and was now waving it enthusiastically above her head. No trace of her usual sourness lingered; there was no slouch of her shoulders, no curl of her spine. Left behind was only a confident, easy grace. For a moment Hyacinth stared, caught somewhere between shock and awe. Eloise is happy here, some part of her brain murmured. Eloise belongs here.

The knowledge, soft and light, lodged itself somewhere beneath her ribs. Eloise belongs here, said that voice again, sounding more confident. There is something here. There is something here that cannot be found in Mayfair.

It was then that Hyacinth became aware of a queer, prickly feeling, which she soon deduced was the feeling of being watched. For the moment torn away from that little voice, she glanced to her left as boldly as she dared; indeed, the eyes of Mr. Sharpe were upon her, curious and cool. She supposed it was an appropriate reaction—she herself was immensely curious about him.

An easy question to begin, then. “You said you were a printer?”

“Yes, Miss Hyacinth,” he said, looking a little surprised that she had addressed him. He glanced over her head at Eloise—absorbed in conversation with a group on her other side—before returning his attention to Hyacinth.

“You print novels?” Eloise was writing a novel, something about a woman doing something; of their family, only Anthony with his many duties and charts and correspondences was likely to rival her consumption of paper and ink.

“Novels?” repeated Mr. Sharpe, faint confusion in his voice.

“Like,” she paused, feeling terribly worldly, “Moll Flanders?”

“Not Moll Flanders,” chuckled Mr. Sharpe.

Hyacinth tried not to appear too put out at his amusement. So he was not as gentle as she had originally imagined. No matter; he could be no match for her persistence. “What, then?”

“Informational pamphlets, personal columns,” he said, his hand drifting to fidget with the lapel of his jacket again, “and political treatises. Though Anna would certainly be pleased if I began publishing novels,” he added quietly, laughing to himself again.

Anna. His beloved? His wife? Surely Eloise was not stupid enough to consort with a married man; terribly romantic as the idea was—love prevailing over worldly ties!—Hyacinth had been the recipient of enough lectures from Mama to know it could only end in disaster. “Anna?”

“I apologise, Miss Hyacinth. I was speaking of my sister,” he explained. “I have three.”

Well, thank the Lord for that. “We have that in common. Older or younger?”

“Two older sisters, one younger. Around your age, I believe.”

“Really?”

“Anna. She’s sixteen.”

Hyacinth nodded in polite acknowledgement. “It is wonderful to have a sister, is it not?” She did not wait for a response. “Eloise is a good sister. Most of the time, anyway.”

“Is that so?” Mr. Sharpe said. He seemed to be straining to rein in some expression—a laugh, perhaps—and it suddenly occurred to Hyacinth that Mr. Sharpe must know things. Eloise must have told him things. Mundane things, like what she had eaten for breakfast on a given day and the name of her favourite author, but also other things. Personal things. Things friends told friends, like what they thought of their younger siblings or their most desperate hopes and dreams. “I can only hope El–Miss Bridgerton is just as good a friend to me as she is a sister to you.”

He had used Eloise’s Christian name, or was about to, anyway. She recalled Eloise’s blush in the hack, and the careful way she spoke of her friend, and thought again of her sister’s complete disinterest in any of her suitors. Perhaps they were more than friends. The thought was as perplexing as it was amusing—they couldn’t be married, could never court properly, so what would they do?

She studied Mr. Sharpe with renewed interest. Here, she could finally be certain, was another key to the mystery of her sister. “Have you known Eloise for very long?”

“A few years,” said he.

Hyacinth would have smacked him if she thought it would make the words tumble out. It had worked once, the summer fortnight they spent visiting at the Hallewell estate. Young Master H had been terribly bothersome for days and days, teasing her with supposed secrets of the manor house; what else was she to do? He had been very helpful to her after that. Mr. Sharpe, Hyacinth suspected, had at least a little more integrity than Martin Hallewell.

“And you met here?”

Hesitation flickered on his face. “More or less.”

Interesting. There was more to be gleaned from him but Eloise, curse her, chose that moment to turn back to their group. “I have been informed by Henrietta Su that Charlotte Dyer intends to publish a book,” said she, breathless and obviously triumphant.

Mr. Sharpe’s eyebrows jumped to his hairline. “Really? Did she not swear on her mother’s grave against it?”

“You are mistaken, Theo.” Eloise stepped closer. “Charlotte Dyer’s mother is alive and well; it is Charlotte Perry’s mother that has been put into earth.”

Hyacinth knew at least three people christened Charlotte, but tonight had brought the count to five. She could say with confidence even that mundane little fact was of far more interest than whose mother was alive, and whose was not.

“Charlotte Perry’s father is dead,” Mr. Sharpe insisted, mirroring Eloise’s forward motion. His loose posture made it obvious that he was not angry, that he was arguing simply for the merit of argument.

Good Lord, he was exactly like Eloise.

Eloise sniffed. “Is there a legal limit on deceased parents I have somehow missed thus far? Is it not possible that Charlotte Perry has perhaps been orphaned, like so many of our fellows?”

How Hyacinth detested when people talked over her head. 

“Of course it is possible, but–”

“I am going to look at those pamphlets over there,” Hyacinth interrupted, raising her voice as high as she dared. Eloise and her friend snapped their heads toward her as one. Faint surprise was etched on both faces. “I think I should like if you escorted me to the booth, sister,” she said sweetly. “And Mr. Sharpe, of course,” she added, nodding in his direction.

“I think you should like to go home,” Eloise muttered, but she shepherded Hyacinth across the hall all the same.

Hyacinth spent a very pleasant hour admiring the crisp, white lines of the pamphlets and the soft fabrics that bound an additional selection of books. Recalling that Eloise, during her first season, had fixated on a rather bizarre bit of reading material—a pamphlet on the tidying of dogs—Hyacinth attempted to locate it amongst the displayed stock, to satisfy her curiosity if nothing else. Eloise was not particularly fond of animals, so surely there had to be more to her interest; try as she might, though, Hyacinth could not find a single similar tract amongst the many sheafs of paper that crowded the merchant’s tables.

There was plenty more to be discovered here, that failure notwithstanding. The worker and the woman dominated; Hyacinth, being the latter—or at the very least, well on her way—took special care to investigate each title on offer. Her favorites all reminded her of Eloise for their provocative titles:

ABSURDITIES OF THE STRONGER SEX

THOU SHALT NOT STEAL

A TREATISE ON THE CRIMES AGAINST WOMANKIND

The last of these absorbed her for a good twenty minutes, perhaps thirty; it was only the final section that brought her away:

SECTION 8: THE CRIME OF DISHONESTY

The most egregious of these listed crimes is what I have christened the crime of dishonesty. This dishonesty (or delusion, some might say) is a living poison fed willingly to girls each day, week, month. ‘ We are lucky, dear’ or ‘it is much worse in the Orient’ or the most objectionable of them all, ‘Do not leap to action as you do, silly girl–do you not trust him?’  What makes this poisonous scheme so clever is its capacity to self-propagate. It festers within. It makes a home in the young, vulnerable and hopeful; it swallows whatever quiet doubts she might have until she is docile and patient and foolishly imagines this state a virtue. The author Abigail Fletcher states…

At this section Hyacinth’s stomach rolled. I am not a liar, she thought fiercely. I amnot.

“You are not what?” Eloise asked, having suddenly appeared at Hyacinth’s elbow.

Startling a little at the combined surprise of Eloise’s presence and the humiliating knowledge she had been speaking aloud, Hyacinth shook her head unsteadily. Excerpts from the pamphlet, still clutched in one shaking hand, played in her mind like an unhappy waltz, over and over and over again. “I am nothing,” she insisted, relieved when Eloise—for once—appeared to believe her without question.

But the fairytale castle in her mind’s eye wasn’t so grand as she had once imagined; suddenly it looked more like a child’s drawing, loose and messy at the seams, than any real manor, and Hyacinth—foolish Hyacinth, uttered some unknown voice—flushed shamefully at the thought.

Eloise cleared her throat, a rather sheepish expression painting her face.

“What?”

“Did you bring any of your pin money?” 

“Yes,” Hyacinth said, for the moment setting aside her earlier unease. “Why?”

Eloise grit her teeth. “In all the commotion of our departure,” she said, looking very much like she was trying not to roll her eyes, “I forgot my money at home. There is a pamphlet I wish to buy, and if I don’t buy it now, I will never have it.”

“Never?” Hyacinth asked, finding great satisfaction in her ability to point Eloise’s scepticism back toward her.

Eloise did roll her eyes then. “Yes, never. This is the last run they planned to print.”

“How much do you need?”

Eloise named her price and Hyacinth counted out the coins from her purse. There was something satisfying about the gentle clink they made against each other in her palm. Queenly Miss Dyer’s voice reverberated in her mind with sudden alacrity; It is a tyranny, friends, that we cannot be the mistresses of our own purses even long past girlhood. A tyranny that one half of married society is entirely at the mercy of the other. Swallowing down the sudden lump in her throat, Hyacinth clutched the money to her chest. “I will give you what you need if you swear to repay me promptly. And with ten per-cent interest,” she added, setting her shoulders back slightly. Eloise had a habit of wheedling funds out of Benedict and Fran, Hyacinth knew, and Benedict and Fran had a habit of indulging her. Well, Hyacinth would do no such thing; she would be shrewder than either of her soft-hearted siblings. “Fifteen if the money has not been replaced in my purse by the end of next week.”

Apparently caught between surprise and reproach, Eloise deigned only to nod, mute; satisfied, Hyacinth tipped her bounty into Eloise’s outstretched hand. My first business deal, Hyacinth thought, with no small amount of pride.

(How she hated feeling foolish; how, though it was new to her, she loved this—this power—this, whatever it was.)

Hyacinth trailed after Eloise toward the merchant who would complete the transaction, stopping only to pluck a title off the top of a teetering stack—an interesting little story she had discovered during the course of her perusal. Slim and solid, with a leatherbound surface cool to the touch, it fit nicely against the contours of her palm while she ambled to catch up. Her sister, of course, was already engaged in a vigorous conversation with the merchant and only cut herself off when Hyacinth approached.

At the look of faint surprise which bounced between her face, the book clutched in her hand, and her face again, Hyacinth shrugged. “Aren’t you always telling me I ought to read more?”

The pamphlet, which had made her into a liar, still burned hot against her palm.

“I suppose that is something I might suggest. You’ve…surprised me tonight, Hyacinth,” Eloise said, something dangerously close to sentiment at the edge of her voice. Eloise abhorred sentiment.

The pamphlet, which would not be banished from her mind, migrated into her reticule practically without her consent. She would tell no one; she would pay more than necessary for the novel. An even trade.

“Perhaps you have underestimated me,” Hyacinth replied, intending scorn—although the words, hanging between them, bore an unfamiliar softness.

Once the merchandise was paid for and then squirrelled away, they drifted back toward the far side of the hall. Soon Hyacinth found herself woven into a small knot of people, all of whom seemed to know her sister intimately. Mr. Sharpe, too.

Arguments volleyed back and forth like balls knocked through a wicket; they rather reminded Hyacinth of herself and Gregory sometimes, although their arguments were typically over small things, like strands of stolen ribbon and the last biscuit on the plate. Foolish things, she knew, feeling a twinge of guilt. Things she had always found so important. Things that had been so important, when all she knew of the future was another day in the nursery, then another year with her governess, then another age before life would inevitably fall into a thrilling rotation of soirees and strolls on the arm of one gentleman or another. Things that were—

“Hello.”

Hyacinth startled, wheeling around. Before her was a woman—no, a girl—of around her age. Short as she was, she carried herself with refined, aristocratic bearing and possessed a charming smile. It was a smile she recognized somewhat, although she could not place from where.

“You’re in my way.”

“I–pardon me,” Hyacinth spluttered, suddenly tongue-tied.

The girl tilted her chin in assent. “Not a problem–you are Hyacinth Bridgerton, aren’t you?”

Too shocked to do anything but tell the truth, Hyacinth simply said “Yes.”

The girl’s smile warmed considerably. “I knew I recognized you.”

“And you are..?”

“You may call me Faith, although that is not my name.”

“Oh,” Hyacinth commented, rather stupidly. She cast around for something else to say; soon she found it, in the dull gold band affixed to this Faith's ring finger. “You are married.”

“I am.”

“It’s wonderful–isn’t it?”

“No.” She seemed to sag a little at the pronouncement.

A man a few paces away shouted out and in a whirl of motion—before Hyacinth could truly register what had truly happened—Faith bid Hyacinth good-bye and threw herself into the tangle of people in front of them.

“You were talking to Faith,” observed Eloise, turning away from her conversation to engage with Hyacinth. She pursed her lips, apparently considering. “She’s very like you, you know.”

Hyacinth, still mulling over Faith’s hard, cryptic No, said nothing.

“Well, it is getting late and I would be the worst of sisters if I did not hastily escort Hyacinth home,” Eloise continued briskly. She cast her eyes toward the hall’s entrance, from which a group of red-faced youth was beginning to spill forth. Most of them clutched bottles in curled fisted; Mr. Sharpe grimaced at the sight.

“Before you go, may I speak with you? Privately,” he amended sheepishly, glancing at Hyacinth. Interesting.

“I–very well,” Eloise said; a crisp nod of assent further punctuated her resolve. “Don’t get into any trouble,” she said, as though she of all people occupied some sky-high moral ground, far above absurd, unruly Hyacinth.

“I won’t–pardon me, sister,” Hyacinth sputtered, swaying a little as Eloise piled her cloak, reticule and new pamphlet into her arms.

The pair walked a little ways away from her, chatting idly. Funny, that Eloise—opinionated, assured, unusual Eloise—had found a man so like her. Funnier, that not a single Bridgerton—save Hyacinth, now—seemed to know about it. Eloise spoke so plainly most of the time—they were alike in that way.

It was a pleasing thought, their similarity. A funny thought, too, just as the others were. Still a pleasing one, though.

A solid stretch of wall accommodated her weight as she leaned against it, the belongings Eloise had left with her tucked under her arm. Some of the earlier, older crowd had begun to clear out, and those young revellers continued to flood the empty space left behind; boisterous men and a good few women too, most of whom already in their cups. She had only been to a few parties. Were they all so different to this one—and yet so similar at the same time?

Yes, the gentle chink of drink changing hands and the hum of distant conversation were a nice, familiar backing symphony as she tipped her head forward. The figures of Mr. Sharpe and Eloise, a little in shadow despite their position only a few paces away, were easy to pick out. The words of their discourse were less so, for the hum was more of a buzz, growing louder by the second.

Eloise nodded in Hyacinth’s direction; by the tense movement of her hands, she appeared to be explaining something. “–sorry about–but I have–” She held up the book she had been so attached to earlier and pressed it into his hands. “–took notes for my spee–”

Tucking the book under his arm, Mr. Sharpe grinned. He said something unintelligible in response. Then, his manner that of one sharing a thrilling secret, he produced a crumpled sheaf of paper from an inside pocket of his jacket.

For once in her life Eloise was still, disbelief etched across her face. How amusing it was to see her like this, when usually she always had something to say.

She stood; she stared at Mr. Sharpe with, in Hyacinth’s opinion, a strange intensity; she—

—resumed motion, snatching the paper and holding it very close, as though to verify its existence. Her delighted “Theo!” was perfectly audible, soaring clear above the din of the crowd. Hyacinth scarcely believed what she was seeing–Eloise had flung her arms around her rather dazed friend.

They broke apart soon enough, but still stood at an angle such that their faces were very, very close; much closer than Hyacinth knew to be proper. The last time she had seen two people stand so close in public was a few years ago, when Kate and Anthony had been newly-wed and lovesick. They still stood that close, but it was mostly at home, Edmund’s small, soft body wedged between theirs. 

Eloise did not want an Edmund. She never had. Was her Mr. Sharpe the same way?

“Eloise,” Hyacinth called, before she could stop herself. She was not intending to ask such a personal question of Mr. Sharpe—but what she was intending, even she could not say. Perhaps she was tired. Perhaps she was delirious.

Her sister’s face, whipping toward Hyacinth, flushed pink; Mr. Sharpe, a beat behind her, appeared much the same. The pair made their way back to her almost tentatively, as though they had been caught out.

“Well–good night, Theo,” murmured Eloise, still pink.

Mr. Sharpe inclined his head in her direction. “Good night, El–Miss Bridgerton. Miss Hyacinth.” He bowed politely. “I am glad we were introduced.”

“As am I,” replied she, meaning every word.

Hyacinth curtsied to Mr. Sharpe and, seized by some radical impulse, also shook his hand; then she fell into place behind Eloise, who guided her easily out of the assembly rooms with their warm candlelit glow, up up up and through—through the complex maze of stairways and hallways and passages they had traversed earlier in the evening, except in reverse order, darting and weaving around their fellow assemblygoers until finally they emerged from the building and could gulp down the cool, foggy darkness of London night.

Some indistinct feeling, heavy-hollow in Hyacinth’s chest, fastened on as they walked briskly down the street, searching for a hack. It might have been nice if they could have stayed just a little longer.

When they arrived home Hyacinth hid her purchases away and undressed; she fumbled a little with her stays, for she was not used to doing it alone. At last slipping beneath cool bedclothes, hours later than she had initially planned, she found herself overcome by a sense of unease. It was as though she had left something in Bloomsbury; it wasn’t tangible, but its absence weighed heavy all the same. Did Eloise feel like that the first time she had gone to an assembly? Perhaps it had been a dream, Hyacinth thought wryly, a strange dream in which Eloise had found fellows and things she, Hyacinth, had thought immutably true were perhaps n—

—but she ought to sleep; her exhaustion was there and tangible, gently closing in at the edges of her vision. She extinguished the lone candle on her bedside table and settled comfortably on her side.

“Hello,” said Eloise. She stood at the far end of Hyacinth’s bedroom, hands in fists at her side, boots and cloak still on, her silent entry and the darkness of the room having the combined effect of making Eloise look a great deal like an apparition, or a ghost.

Hyacinth sat up at once and busied herself with re-lighting the candle at her night-table. An impulse to speak beset her, but what was there to say? I am very confused? Or perhaps Was this how you felt, returning from your first assembly? No, neither of those would do. Eloise did not like impertinent questions or insolent comments; she had not even wanted to bring Hyacinth along tonight.

Tense quiet simmered in the air for several lengthy moments. Eloise, a few coins balanced on her outstretched palm, finally began to advance forward; she reminded Hyacinth very strongly of a nervous owner trying to tame her snapping dog with a handful of dinner scraps. A few hours ago Hyacinth might have been thrilled–she was to be feared!–but now she felt only a distressing resignation. For a brief span of time she had known something of Eloise, of Eloise’s friends—and now, cosseted in the oppressive heat of her fire-warmed room, she felt its absence. They were as distant as they had ever been.

Eloise tipped the coins onto the bed. Hyacinth claimed the coins immediately—in a very dignified manner, mark. She did not scramble, for that would have been unbecoming of a lady completing a business transaction.

Wringing her hands, Eloise started forward, then returned to her former position, her back pressed against the door. Her words came out in a rush, as though she wanted to say them and then be done with it forever. “Did you like it? The assembly. And Th–Mr. Sharpe.”

“I did,” Hyacinth said, surprised she had been asked. It was the truth. There was much she had learned this evening; there was much more to be learned, she knew, thinking of the skimmed-over pamphlet—presently tucked beneath a false floorboard—with a little less discomfort than before.

Her response had an immediate effect on Eloise, whose hands stilled at once, shoulders relaxing. “Good.”

Hyacinth leaned forward. Now, she sensed, was the best time to ask questions, perhaps the last time; when Eloise was tired, when Eloise had already shared so much. She might never get a chance again. Nobody in this accursed family would ever tell her anything. “What did Mr. Sharpe give you, before we left?”

“Well, I suppose you know plenty by now,” muttered Eloise. From an inside pocket of her cloak she retrieved that same crumpled paper from earlier and presented it to Hyacinth.

ON DIGNITY was printed in bold letters across the page.

Then, just below it: E.B.

They stared at it in unison for another long moment.

“You’re an author,” Hyacinth whispered, drawing the side of her thumb across the cover.

“Yes, I am, and I hope to speak as well. Look closer.” Eloise pointed at a small section of text toward the top of the cover page. With her head bent, Eloise’s hair hung curtainlike around her face; it nevertheless did a poor job at concealing Eloise’s small, prideful grin.

THIS AUTHOR WILL SPEAK ON THE CONTENT OF HER WORK AT THE BLOOMSBURY ASSEMBLY ROOMS, FIRST FRIDAY EVENING OF APRIL, EIGHT O’CLOCK.

The image of the Athena-woman appeared in her mind again. “Like Charlotte Dyer?”

“Perhaps. I want—” Eloise cut herself off. “I want to speak about girls like us. Women like us.” Eloise did not elaborate. 

“From the Ton?”

Bitterness edged Eloise’s subdued laugh. “Yes, the Ton,” she repeated. “It is absurd, the whole thing. We wear feathers at our debuts like birds and imagine we have been released from our cages, but it is only an illusion.”

Hyacinth dug her nails into the soft meat of her palm and took one last stab at what she had once known so well. I am not a liar, she thought desperately. A little voice, slightly different, made an amendment: At least not on purpose. “But does it not–is it not fun, sister? Is it not thrilling? To meet the one who understands you like no other?”

“Fun is all well and good, but it is no substitute for–” Eloise cut herself off and clenched her hands in fists at her side. “Fun,” she began again, “fun is nothing when you are at the mercy of someone else’s wishes and someone else’s purse.”

“But,” Hyacinth murmured, fidgeting with her nightdress, “my hus–a good husband would never hold his wife hostage like that. Not a truegentleman.”

“If you are lucky,” said Eloise gently, a faraway look in her eye, “and not everyone is.”

Hyacinth swallowed, and said nothing.

Eloise’s pamphlet, though crumpled, was solid and immutable in her grasp. There must be hundreds, maybe thousands more like it; hundreds, maybe thousands of people who would read Eloise’s work. Remember it. Be changed because of it. All those hours Eloise had spent curled into a chair in the corner of the parlour, scribbling furiously in her diary, or else shut up in her bedroom–she must have been creating this.

Of this, Eloise spoke confidently; so had Mr. Sharpe; so had Miss Dyer. They did not speak of fun—but why would they? The sudden conviction burnt like a torch in her abdomen. Perhaps—and she now knew, with abrupt clarity, it was not a matter of ‘perhaps’ but of certainty—perhaps there were better things than simple fun. She had never known what it was to fight for it, to fight for anything more consequential than victory in a child’s game, but here in her hands was undeniable proof of a fight; a fight her sister was striving to win.

A nudge at her side interrupted her reverie. Eloise, as gentle as Hyacinth had ever seen her, nudged her a second time. “Do you understand me?”

Nodding, Hyacinth handed the pamphlet back to Eloise, who accepted it with a grateful smile. Hyacinth still did not know what to say.

“This cannot have come as much of a shock, can it? I have spoken of this a thousand times in a thousand ways." Eloise laughed, a little melancholy. "Everyone is sick of me now.”

It was almost amazing, the way Eloise was speaking to her; the ease with which she had tucked herself beside Hyacinth, like she had never done before. Eloise was never cruel—nobody in their family was cruel—but Hyacinth did not have many memories of her early years, and even fewer with Eloise. Her oldest brothers, Daphne and Francesca had always been willing to indulge her childish fancies; Gregory, scarcely two years her senior, was a faithful playmate and friend, only occasionally bothersome; Eloise alone stood at the edges of worn recollection, coming in and out of focus like an object under an unsteady glass.

You may stay if you are quiet.

The memory of that unusual Saturday morning many years ago surfaced violently and suddenly, as though gasping for air. It had been storming, she recalled, everything cold and drafty even in the nursery, within which a fire perpetually burned to safeguard against all manner of childhood ailments. Rain lashed at the windows as she crept out of bed. Who would stop her, with the nursemaid still asleep and Gregory having abandoned her for that bedroom of his own she so coveted?

Without the barest hint of intention, Hyacinth had found Eloise. Awake at such an early hour and nose-deep in a book already—how very typical of her, even then. She had been seven, she recalled; Eloise four-and-ten. That shocked gasp upon Hyacinth’s appearance on the carpet—Eloise’s squall at the invasion of her bed, her space—her resigned consent once Hyacinth had sworn her silence; Hyacinth could feel it as much as she could see it. That strange, rainy daybreak had seen her lulled back to sleep by the sound of Eloise's voice, reading aloud from some strange tome Benedict had no doubt smuggled her.

The memory filled Hyacinth with a sudden anger. Was this truly all she could remember of them? Had Hyacinth not discovered Eloise tonight, would she have ever shared her books, her writing, her opinions? Was it Hyacinth’s destiny to be left out in the cold forever? She did not wish that; tonight a door had unlatched and she would not see it closed to her again.

“You’ve never been much interested in me,” Hyacinth blurted out, forgoing a response to Eloise’s question in favor of her own ends. She picked at a thread on the quilt pooled in her lap, drew it out further and further, feeling very much like a petulant child.

Eloise looked scandalized—wounded—contemplative? She could be easy to read sometimes, and desperately difficult at others. “I don’t…” she began, shifting where she sat curled like a cat against the headboard.

“You don’t..?” Hyacinth prompted.

“I never liked infants,” muttered Eloise. “They never agreed with me the way they were supposed to. And then you grew up and you were so different to me. Mama adores you,” she added suddenly, jerking her head up.

Hyacinth parsed this in silence for a moment. “She adores all of us.”

“Yes, of course she does,” Eloise huffed, “but you are just like her. You and Daphne.”

“This is about the pamphlet? About Mr. Sharpe?”

Looking down at her lap, Eloise frowned. Hyacinth had never seen her sister so defeated. “Perhaps.”

“You love him.”

Eloise blanched, then softened. “I do.”

Ha! Lucky. That was what Hyacinth was—lucky, she thought, marvelling at the success of her chance suspicion. She had had only a candle for light, and somehow she had hit the bullseye. “And you don’t believe Mama would approve?”

“Mama would much prefer another daughter like you. She adores the spectacle of the debut, does she not?” Eloise smiled sardonically. “The fairytale marriage at the end of the season. Man and bride each consigned to their rightful places.”

Hyacinth picked at another thread. It seemed as though the speed of her heart had doubled in the last five minutes. Arise. Arise. Arise. AriseAriseAriseAriseAri– “And what if the fairytale does not exist?” she whispered, casting her eyes toward her lap.

The rush of witnessing such a learned woman on stage, with all ears in the room open to her; of lending money to Eloise, her control over her purse-strings complete; of reading that pamphlet and knowing in her heart it was calling to her. There was something there, she knew, even if it would take time to untangle. There was something beginning to demand Hyacinth’s attention as it had always demanded Eloise’s.

She met Eloise’s wide, unreproachful eyes. “What if I am not as suited to it as I thought?”

Moving slowly, as if she was still in the course of deciding what should be done, Eloise reached out and briefly squeezed Hyacinth’s hand. “Then you will forge your own path, and you will do very well at it,” she declared. “I am in no doubt about that.”

In the morning Hyacinth woke slowly, moving about her bedroom as if still asleep. Her hazy state endured as she washed her face, as her hair was dressed and as her clothing was layered on.

Could it have really happened? Yes, of course, and yet it all felt a dream now, from the carriage that had whisked them away to a darkened hall, to Eloise’s mysterious, handsome friend–suitor, maybe–to the way they had hurriedly absconded into the night.

But no—that wasn’t right. It hadn’t been a carriage whisking them away; it had been a hack, and they had hailed it themselves. Eloise’s friend had been both handsome and mysterious, true, but he was not a prince in disguise, waiting to sweep Eloise off her feet; he had turned out to be only a political radical, a printer, and apparently more interested in walking beside Eloise than sweeping her anywhere. And they had not absconded; they had said their goodbyes and walked out like any pair of normal, civilized individuals ought.

Having finished with making herself presentable, she descended the stairs to break her fast. Mama, sitting beside Anthony and opposite Kate, rose to greet her. “I do not think I remember the last time you came down this late, darling.”

“I apologise, Mama. I was very tired. It took me a long time to fall asleep,” she added hastily, praying she would be believed.

Across the table, where she was already seated with a plate of toast before her, Eloise smiled. She inclined her head at the slightest angle.

It was real, Hyacinth assured herself. It was real. Again, again, again.