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Eloise picked up her pen for what could easily have been the hundredth time.
She remembered Miss Marina Thompson – no, Lady Romney – from the days their elder sisters had spent in ton life; the families promenading and picnicking. It had been expected that Miss Thompson would marry some toff and have lots of pretty little heirs to the title their father wore, whilst Miss Marina Thompson was far less suited to the life of the ton.
Not in a particularly bad way, just in a more quiet, contemplative way that certainly would not lend itself to the frivolity and sumptuousness that came part and parcel of a life of being a hostess.
Eloise could picture the book that Miss Marina had held whilst sitting near some lake - St James’s Park or Hyde Park, then - rarely turning a page, the gilded embossing on the cover reading “Sense and Sensibility”, which she herself had read at a similar location mere months prior. Daphne’s second season was as enchanting as her first - by which, Eloise meant not at all - and there were only so many times that Eloise could sit idly by as her sister promenaded with their mother and a man who would politely inform her that he did not wish to continue courting her mere days later.
That had to have been one of the last times that she had crossed paths with the Thompson family. Miss Thompson became sickly towards the end of the season, and did not seem to venture from their country home. A year or more ago, it seemed to have worsened; Penelope had indicated Miss Marina was nursing her elder sister in passing mentions, being one of her cousins’ few correspondents.
It had struck Eloise as odd - that Miss Marina was acting nurse - until just a few weeks later.
This Author offers condolences towards news of the late Lord Romney, one of the notably decent members of the ton. Perhaps we shall see a Baroness Romney amongst society Misses in due course?
That had been just weeks prior. Perhaps Lady Whistledown had a crystal ball, dabbling in the Occult.
She considered herself to be genteel. Not to the same level as two of her sisters, but maybe a little more so than one of them, at least. But it was not something that she did frequently, writing a letter of condolence, and Eloise was positively tongue-tied.
There was no need, per se, for her to write in the first place.
And yet, she had to. It was as simple as that in her mind. Which made it all the more frustrating that she couldn’t form words, her eyebrows pulling together as she frowned at the bare sheet of parchment.
Rather than concern herself with the letter itself, Eloise folded the paper into how it would appear when she came to pour the wax seal, and carefully lettered the address.
The Lady Romney
Romney Hall
Near Tetbury
Gloucestershire
If nothing else, she could at least start the letter off with her new form of address, at least.
Dear Lady Romney,
Eloise began, and then placed the pen down on the desk. She wasn’t entirely sure what she was doing.
She had been so young when her father had died. Certainly no one had written to her that she could use for reference. There were standard letters from her books which she could all but recite, given the hours of correspondence she tended to, however that seemed a little impersonal.
That, of course, was utterly absurd. It was hardly as though Eloise had been a close personal friend of either sister at any point.
Picking the pen out of its inkwell again, she took a breath.
I am writing to express my condolences on the loss of your sister, dear Celeste. Although it has been many years since I last saw you both, I remember her fondly and was deeply saddened to hear of her passing.
It wasn’t untrue. The few instances that she’d met Miss Thompson had been pleasant, and she knew Daphne had certainly found her most affable, if the frequent visits were anything to go by.
Eloise hovered her pen above the page in thought. It was unlike her to be so… deliberate with her words. Words came easily to her, and they always had. It was how she had become the most notorious pen pal. Colin might write her careful pages on his travels, but by the time he finished his letters to her, he would have received at least two more.
Please do not hesitate to write if there is anything I can do to ease your pain at this difficult time.
Yours,
Eloise Bridgerton
Signing the letter off made it final. It had to have been the shortest letter that she’d ever written that was not a note destined to cross through Berkeley Square, but it was written.
Eloise knew that she would receive a response. That was what well brought up ladies did. She also knew that it had to be a hundred miles that her letter would have to travel, and another hundred that any response would have to traverse, not to mention just how many letters the new Baroness must have received, all demanding far more attention than condolences from a past acquaintance.
Which was why she was stunned that barely ten days later, a letter arrived, the hand-folded envelope enclosing it sealed with black wax with raised letters MT. Clearly it would have been rather presumptuous to have a new seal so soon, and yet Eloise traced the letters as she ascended the stairs to the drawing room.
The address was beautifully written, the perfect fifty-five degree slant of the letters a deep black and entirely without smudges.
The Honble. Eloise Bridgerton
No. 5 Bruton Street
London
As she entered the drawing room, Eloise made for the settees, still looking down at the paper in her hands.
Her mother would have her guts for garters if she had seen the way her daughter had sprawled herself onto the free settee, but the other Bridgerton in the room would hardly comment on any gracefulness.
“Only the one?” Colin nodded towards the letter, not that she had looked up from it until he spoke.
“And you? Only the one?” She quipped, nodding at the small plate he held near to his chest. The few crumbs that remained suggested shortbread. Colin made a non-committal noise in response as she cracked the seal.
As she slid the paper out of the envelope, a small and rather squashed flower tumbled to her lap. Once upon a time, she could imagine the yellow petals a little more vibrant, a little less creased. Of course, her mother could say the same about her gowns, some that she still used inside the house from her first season.
Eloise twirled the stem in between her fingers before setting it back on her lap and folding the letter open.
Dear Miss Bridgerton,
I was most touched to receive your kind letter. There have been many changes since last we met, my name least of all, yet I was heartened to see that your nature has not.
Eloise heard the snap of another biscuit, her eyes flicking up to stare the culprit down. “Do leave a couple, I should like to have tea shortly,” she tutted, not needing to stay in eye contact to know her brother had rolled his eyes.
It would not be truthful to say that any of this was expected when I was last in London, nor would it be honest to say that I am not relieved or overwhelmed all these years later.
I cannot express my gratitude sufficiently that you took the time to write to me. Romney Hall seems rather large and lonely in recent times, and I have taken to collecting flowers from the fields between here and the village to pass the time I have in order to make it feel a little warmer. I enclose a buttercup from one such walk, in hopes it may brighten your day as your letter did mine.
Yours sincerely,
Marina Romney
No matter where she wrote from - and Eloise would always advise if she would be travelling to the country or back again - the address she wrote to never changed. Always Romney Hall, always Gloucestershire. Whilst it might be deemed scandalous for Lady Romney to be out of mourning too soon, Eloise had thought it possible that she could visit relatives or friends a few months later, and her she had remained firmly at home.
The letters she kept tucked away in a box stashed wherever it would not be found showed her travels through the different locations written in Lady Romney’s effortless sloped handwriting, the wax seals changing through the seasons - from MT, to MR, until the seals branched out into small mottos or, on occasion, small flowers and the like which had been carved into the fob.
The pressed flowers continued too - again, on occasion, as whilst Eloise was not the most adept gardener she did know that they did not bloom all year around. She was a little surprised, albeit pleasantly so, when the first flower of 1824 arrived as early as February: a violet.
My dear Eloise,
We have been corresponding now for quite some time, and although we have not met in some years, I feel as if I know you. I hope you feel the same.
Forgive me if I am too bold, but I am writing to invite you to visit me at Romney Hall. It has been rather lonely here for some time, and your letters bring me comfort. Should you find a chance, perhaps after the season, I should like to host you here.
The season was ending. It was hardly as if Eloise was going to meet some new suitor at the Hastings ball anyway, and Daphne had allowed her to hide in the library during a number of her balls before, she wouldn’t begrudge a sibling avoiding this one.
She felt a little guilty to be leaving without telling anyone, but the letters she’d left would suffice when they were found in the morning. It was too complex, the emotions too raw and intense and difficult to explain.
At the beginning of the year, even as recently as the beginning of the season, things were how they always had been. Or, the world around her, the world she lived in, that was. The greater world might have been changing and evolving, but Eloise was safe and comfortable, the support and company of her dearest friend and closest brother something she could rely on.
And now, there they were, not at home for guests, no matter who they were.
It wouldn’t be fair to say she was running away from feeling alone. That rather trivialised it. But to know that there was someone else, whose letters expressed the kind of melancholy happiness that she couldn’t verbalise, who seemed to know how she was feeling because she felt similarly?
Eloise was running towards that.
The hired hackney was waiting for her at a corner equidistant from Bridgerton House and Hastings House at precisely nine o’clock; the chimes of a nearby church confirming her timeliness. Should she have had more time, Eloise would have changed out of the silk gown and into a carriage dress, yet time was not something she had in abundance. Ever the hostess, Daphne would no doubt have someone call on her at the library with offerings of cordial and perhaps even a small plate as she was meant to be alone.
And she had to be safely on the road by then.
Eloise had slipped into the patiently waiting Bridgerton coach, the blessed footman - who had far more patience for her requests than most - not even offering his hand to assist her inside any longer.
Anyone who might have seen her leave would have been far too dazzled by the glimmering of Hastings House. Every surface was candlelit, silver fabrics and threads sending the light dancing around the grounds. In other words, Daphne had unwittingly done exactly what her sister required of her in throwing such an extravagant ball.
The journey back to Bridgerton House to collect her bags seemed to take twice as long as it usually did, and yet when she was helped back out of the carriage, the footman had noted how empty the streets had been heading away from Hastings House. Eloise hadn’t noticed the anxiety she felt until then, excitement and anticipation covering it far more than she could have suspected.
She wasn’t anxious to leave. Nor, she considered, was she anxious to get to Gloucestershire. She wasn’t even anxious to meet Lady Romney - the copious letters they’d exchanged over the past months had given her some semblance of friendship that she’d been missing in recent weeks and months.
She was anxious to have everything go to plan.
It was not often that Eloise was so careful in her planning. Indeed, she’d yet to write to confirm her plans to her hostess. And still, she had considered the letters to her family, the items of clothing hastily packed into a trunk, the precise corner in London close enough to the two locations she needed to be yet still out of the way enough that she would not be seen.
Perhaps - the anxiety, the anticipation, the excitement - it was rather a good thing.
The driveway ran parallel to vast fields, a small group of deer visible across the horizon. The wildflowers that Lady Romney had enclosed within her letters on multiple occasions just about remained in the hot weather. They were certainly faring better than Eloise - utterly exhausted by the lack of sleep as she’d travelled throughout the night, the seats far from comfortable, and sweltering even in the early morning sun.
At the approach, the long driveway stretching from beautifully twisted gates away from the road, Eloise was struck by the sheer size of the house. The limestone façade seemed endless as the carriage got closer and closer to the courtyard.
All the space that Lady Romney had, and she was entirely alone in her world.
The carriage came to a halt, and Eloise would have been thrilled if not for the way she could feel her body ache now that she was not being jolted at every stone or pit in the road.
With a soft grunt, she readied herself to disembark, even going so far as to take the assistance from the footman when offered.
“Madam, I shall notify Lady Romney of your arrival.” The butler - she had to assume - had given her a rather odd look as he had left her in the entry hall, and yet she could hardly fault him. She hadn’t exactly notified anyone of her impending arrival.
Nonetheless, it gave her chance to have a quick look at the hall whilst she waited. Patience was not necessarily her forte, and having the distraction was most welcome.
There was certainly evidence of the success that the Romneys had had from British expansion across the world - paintings that had to be Dutch, a blue Delft vase that could have contained at least Hyacinth in a game of hide-and-seek, the black walnut staircase that curved out of her sight. Even down to the very size of the building, with that sweeping façade.
All told, Lady Romney seemed to owe a lot to her forebears for the situation she currently found herself in.
Noise pulled Eloise out of her reverie, bringing her back to reality with a hard jolt as she took in her appearance in the vast mirror above a mahogany side table. The hours of travel and lack of hours of sleep had certainly caught up with her; it was a far cry from the perfectly polished society miss she had appeared to be the evening before.
“Gunning, I shall take tea in the blue drawing room. With something to break my fast, perhaps honey cake if Cook has baked some anew.”
Eloise's head snapped towards the main hall, rich pomona cotton descending the staircase before she could see the woman who wore it. It made her all the more aware of the wrinkled blue silk that hung limply around her body.
With all the poise of a woman who had needed to become au fait with the life she had been thrust into, the woman seemed to glide down the stairs and to the entry hall where Eloise became very conscious she would be coming to meet her.
“I do not believe Gunning caught your name,” the woman said evenly as she came to stand in front of her, maintaining that grace that Eloise could instantly recognise from years of living with her two eldest sisters.
“Lady Romney?” Eloise asked, barely waiting for her to confirm. “I am so terribly sorry to arrive unannounced and without notice, by the time I had consciously made the decision to travel it would have been too late to send word.”
Lady Romney - she hoped - blinked as her brain caught up with the words that rattled out of Eloise’s lips.
“It was a rather long journey, and I was not able to sleep in the carriage, and I travelled straight from a ball, I do hope you will forgive my appearance, this is not the first impression I had wished to give you,” the words continued to fall from her lips, tongue moving as though it had a limit on the time it could be used for in a day.
“Madam,” Lady Romney began, appearing to be rather taken aback by the forthrightness.
Eloise recoiled as she realised just how much she had been talking. “My lady?”
“I do not believe my butler caught your name,” she repeated, entirely too pleasantly for someone with an unknown guest standing in her entry hall.
“Eloise Bridgerton.” The fact that Lady Romney had to ask had that anxiety she’d bitten down last night fighting to be seen again.
“Oh,” Lady Romney allowed her eyebrows to raise and lips to part, the almost emotionless expression of neutrality cracking just slightly before she righted herself. “I was not expecting you.”
And there it was. Eloise knew she had not responded. She hadn’t necessarily considered that she was not welcome, given that the invitation had been extended to her.
“I… Did not have the opportunity to send word. I am terribly sorry, I should have remained in London until we could arrange a date.” For once in her life, the wind was rather knocked out of her sails, and Eloise seemed to fold in on herself - internally, at least. Her mother would never have allowed for her daughters to appear visibly shaken to strangers, always instilling in them that they were strong and powerful.
“If I had known, I would have had a room aired for you, Miss Bridgerton. I am delighted that you are here.” Lady Romney extended a hand to reach out for Eloise’s upper arm, cupping her shoulder gently with the benefit of an extra couple of inches of height.
Eloise’s gaze dropped from her deep brown eyes - had she always been this pretty, even in London? - to where her gloved hand rested.
“You must be travel weary. Come to the blue drawing room, I shall call for more food, you must be ravenous,” Lady Romney gently crossed her hand around Eloise’s shoulder, her other hand taking its place as she guided her into the main hall and down a corridor to the room.
The gasp was almost involuntary, as her nerves came to life, everything feeling more. This close, the very scent of Lady Romney was impossible not to notice - some complex, comforting and familiar yet exotic scent, which made Eloise just a little more cognisant of how she contrasted after hours on the road.
As Eloise’s feet moved of their own accord, the slippers from the night before a little looser than they had been when brand new hours prior, she noted the gooseflesh that seemed to appear where Lady Romney’s hands met her arms, even through gloves and the thin silk of her gown.
It couldn’t possibly be that the woman’s hands were so cold, and yet that was the explanation that Eloise settled on.
Gunning - the butler, Eloise established - would have been entirely well placed in Bloomsbury.
Dunwoody was perfectly fine, and would be in position for a long number of years yet, but Gunning had provided enough food on a tea tray to satisfy even Eloise’s brother, no mean feat.
As she smeared a glob of cream onto a small scone, Eloise felt something pang in her chest as she came to that conclusion.
She was certainly feeling most welcome in Gloucestershire, and Lady Romney had made quick work of having the small amount of luggage taken up to a room, but the reality of leaving seemed to have caught up with her.
In a move that would have had her brother questioning their kinship, Eloise placed the scone and knife back onto the dainty plate, a wave of guilty nausea washing over her. Before she had even registered that she had done so, Lady Romney had lowered her teacup.
“Miss Bridgerton?” She began, eyes flickering to the butler who had remained near to the door.
Eloise swallowed the warm bitterness that pooled in her mouth. “I wonder if I may be excused. I fear the travel has rather caught up with me,” she explained, a most apologetic expression on her face.
“Of course,” Lady Romney nodded, the butler taking his cue as both women stood. “I have asked my maid to open the violet bedroom for you, I do hope you shall find it to your liking.” As Eloise thanked her, she continued, “And should you require anything, use the bellpull and someone shall be eager to assist.” The lattermost three words seemed rather more pointed at someone on the room who was not Eloise, and by Gunning’s sharp nod, she could sense questions that demanded to be asked at some point in time.
The violet bedroom was entirely pleasant enough - small flowers dotted the curtains, the walls were papered in a pale lilac, and - most importantly - it was furnished with a desk. As if drawn like a moth to a flame, Eloise seated herself, reaching for the paper and what appeared to be a new quill and inkwell.
It couldn’t have been coincidence, she considered, justifying it to herself as she put ink to paper.
Eloise knew Penelope would not be returning to the country as she would have done in any other year. She had heard of how they intended on spending the winter in Europe, and how they would not be following the rest of the Bridgerton family to Kent that summer, however, which made her letter writing significantly easier.
The Honble. Mrs Bridgerton
29 Berkeley Square
London
Dearest Pen,
I do hope you forgive me for my lack of forewarning. I am sure by now even my siblings will have found the letters that I left in plain sight and so you shall know I am away in Gloucestershire. Lady Romney, your cousin Marina, has been most generous in hosting me. I had quite forgotten just how pleasing her countenance. Or, perhaps, her countenance has improved since we were children.
Eloise pondered that for a second. Certainly, her skin seemed to be smooth to look at, not so much like silk but more alike velvet. Her eyes - dark, like the coffee that Eloise had taken to drinking when she broke her fast in London - seemed kind, seemed to ask questions and listen to the responses. Without a doubt, the styles had changed in the years since they had last been in each others’ company, and Lady Romney’s natural curls seemed to lend themselves to the hairstyle that her maid had worked on.
But there was more to it. It wasn’t just that she was lovely to look at, or lovely as a person. Eloise felt something more.
She felt it in the sparks that shivered through her skin at the merest of contact - a finger brushing her wrist as they selected items from the tea tray. She felt it in the pages of letters they had shared, confessing things to one another that were perfectly innocent, and yet not.
She felt it in her bones, the way that her younger sister had waxed lyrically about the Earl of Kilmartin a matter of seasons prior.
Eloise did not know how long she had been lost in thought for, as she began to close her letter off, but there was more than just a single drop mark on the back of her hand from her pen.
I hope you do not think less of me for my being here. I also hope that you might keep my whereabouts and the contents of our letters to yourself, no matter how besotted you are with my brother.
Your friend and sister,
Eloise
She slipped the letter into the - entirely empty - desk drawer, knowing that she did not have the energy to remain awake to seal the letter. Penelope could wait an additional day; she was intelligent enough not to expect an immediate letter from the other side of the country.
In another move that Eloise knew her mother would not approve of, she gently kicked the ice blue slippers from her feet as she tugged the bellpull. Whilst she was not entirely too high in the instep to be incapable of undressing if utterly required, she was entirely too tired.
The maid (who had told her her name when she’d asked, but retaining the information was truly too difficult when so exhausted) had made quick work of assisting Eloise, before closing the curtains and shutters to allow for a slightly darker room to sleep in.
As the maid left, with a quick “Madam” and a bob of a curtesy, Eloise slipped between the sheets of the bed, which felt more akin to a cloud than anything else.
The pillowcases had the some floral motif dotted across the material as the curtains. Judging by the embroidery - which Eloise had no option but to consider, as she settled her head on the pillow - someone had spent a long time ensuring that the flowers were as identical as possible. It certainly had to have been done by someone who had had a lot of time to spare.
Eloise traced around one of the petals, her fingernail dragging gently across the embroidery floss. There was certainly one person at Romney Hall with an abundance of time, and that had been the case for a number of years.
She sighed gently, allowing herself to sink into the bed further, pulling the sheets a little closer. As she took a slow deep breath, she could smell the floral notes a little stronger, until something in her brain twigged exactly the scent.
The material smelled faintly of Lady Romney, with a slight trace of citrus, something more woodsy, and - of course - violets.
With a smile, feeling more at home than she had in a long time, Eloise allowed herself to drift off, dreams just waiting to become reality.