Chapter Text
The smell of wet grass had always been pleasant to Eloise's nose. It, amongst other things, signalled the start of summer for her.
For its plentiful library and art rooms which stored a myriad of books and collections, for its spacious chambers and hallways in which Eloise could hide and not be found until she wanted to, for its lengthy terrain that allowed the siblings to run free whenever they wanted and in whichever direction they desired, Aubrey Hall should be Eloise's favourite property in the Bridgerton's possession but it isn't.
This place was.
Bigger and with more rooms than Aubrey, Stokesay Hall is the place for most holidays and festivities for her family. Growing up, Eloise learned Violet chooses the place when she has to host an event somewhere that acts as the location of whatever occasion calls for celebration plus the lodging for the numerous guests her mother invited to attend it. Throughout all their holidays spent at Stokesay, amongst funny anecdotes, laughs, cries, games, and nights spent talking and watching adults drink, Eloise had garnered affection for the country house.
As it was quite away from civilisation, Violet allowed them some loss of decorum.
Eloise flexes her bare feet. She relishes the feel of the wet prickly grass beneath it. Bunching up her dress to avoid getting the hem dirty, she leisurely walks down towards the fountain of the backyard but her layers keep getting loose so she decides it is a futile attempt to try and keep them clean. When she reaches the grey ornamental structure, she gathers the endings of her clothes more strongly than before and dips her feet inside the water, taking a seat in the dry bench-like framework that traps the water into a pool underneath the jets of water.
It is true that Eloise Bridgerton is a reader. That is not recent or fresh knowledge. However, in what Eloise thinks is sometimes a blessing and others a curse, it seems that not a single soul understands just what kind of reader Eloise is.
Avid, yes. Relentless, perhaps. Forgiving? Certainly not.
She had finished her latest read on the carriage on the way over and is now trying very hard not to let what was probably her favourite book, be tainted by the new one where the same author’s entirely misogynistic and sexist and, frankly, unoriginal views were thinly hidden behind a love story.
The thought of said book being advertised as a love story maddens her so much that she can't stop the loud huff that leaves her mouth. She kicks at the water, splashing it a little when she does.
"My, my, I see your temper hasn't changed."
Eloise is so startled by the interruption to her reading-induced tantrum that she whirls around, standing up inside the fountain’s body of water and letting her formerly bunched-up dress down to soak.
"Cressida,"
The name should be unfamiliar to her lips as the last two years passed and they have not seen each other or traded letters. Unfortunately for Michaela, Francesca, the late John, and the more intimate staff of Kilmartin Castle, Cressida Cowper was not an unfamiliar name at all.
Still, the utter astonishment Eloise felt of Cressida being in front of her now, of Cressida being in Stokesay Hall and not in London, made the vocalisation sound peculiar.
"Hello, Eloise."
Staggering how a heart tends to remember better than the brain. Not that Eloise’s needed remembering of her. The times she had fallen asleep to Cressida. The times she would be reading and suddenly found herself imagining soft, blonde, wavy hair instead of black or brunette. It’s all too much to count. If remembering Cressida was a competition, Eloise would be the winner. Nonetheless, Eloise had forgotten Cressida’s effect on Eloise. How with just the tone of her voice, the enunciation of her words, Eloise was instantly attuned to Cressida, her heart skipping beats, slowing down.
She stumbles through her words in her surprise of Cressida’s presence, “How— What— Why are you here?”
No matter how clearly Eloise feels or knows something inside of herself — about herself — sometimes it doesn’t translate to how she talks.
Cressida’s immediate twitch of a brow makes Eloise take a step forward, her hand reaching outward to apologise for the harshness Cressida had heard in her words but she forgets where she is. Inside of water up to below her knees, her dress purely drenched and clinging to her legs, dancing underwater, essentially trapping her movement. As if that was not enough, she forgets the hard structure keeping the water from spilling out. In the same quick motion she had started, Eloise nearly falls out of the fountain when her knees meet the hard cement. She would have fallen face first into the ground; the grass where she had her shoe-less feet in.
Cressida prevents her embarrassing fate. Her arms envelop Eloise’s body and Eloise, who had closed her eyes at the pain of her knee hitting the fountain’s bed, finds herself facing Cressida’s chest. Unthinkingly, Eloise spends two seconds taking note of creamy, soft-looking skin. She’s glad that her head is tucked under Cressida’s chin and that means Cressida doesn’t catch her staring at her breasts.
“Temper remains unchanged but perhaps you acquired a certain clumsiness?”
Eloise shivers. She curses Cressida’s use of a murmured voice and the closeness of her lips and breath to her bare neck, blaming them for the goosebumps and the chill that runs through her spine. Because of that, she briskly finds herself irritated by Cressida.
Straightening herself and stepping out of Cressida’s arms, Eloise crosses hers in front of her. She pulls her eyebrows together, “We have not spoken in two years and you find it acceptable to— to mock me?”
She doesn’t wait for Cressida’s answer to exit the fountain’s pool. Cressida steps back as Eloise steps forward. Once outside, she returns to her angered stance. Now, as she studies Cressida’s face, she waits for her answer.
“And whose fault is that, Eloise?” Cressida frowns, the features on her face hardening into a scowl, “Our final interaction wasn’t very pleasant. Last I remember you all but tossed me aside when I merely tried to escape my grim future.” She looks down at the ground then and Eloise can see she has aged a little, the lines on her forehead appearing as her features go from anger to sadness, “Which, in the end, just sent me into another one, really,”
Eloise feels the irritation simmering down but not completely, especially at the reminder of Cressida’s wrongdoing. But before she can say another word, Cressida is speaking again.
“Anyway. I am not here to heal past wounds or right past wrongs. Your sister invited me and Mother to spend the end of the year holidays with the Bridgertons,” She lets out a laugh that sounds like a cackle; Cressida isn’t chuckling out of glee, “I suppose she took one look at us and the pity was enough to extend an invitation.”
Then, finally, Cressida looks up at Eloise. Their eyes meet and Eloise realises she still has a frown on her face, the middle of her eyebrows starting to burn with how long she’s been scrunching it up. She smooths it over and looks to the side, avoiding Cressida’s burning gaze. She doesn’t look back even when she hears the tiniest resigned sigh.
“I will stay out of your way,” Cressida says. Her voice firm, determined. Eloise feels butterflies at the fact that she’ll have Cressida close again but she can’t speak. Not when Cressida is too real in front of her, hasn’t apologised, when she makes Eloise feel too much, “I wished to not shock you with my presence here but it seems as if I did, anyway.”
Eloise cannot speak. She watches Cressida deflate into herself like she would when Eloise would tell her she had done something wrong.
“I wish you well, Eloise.”
Those are the last words Cressida says to her before she turns around and heads back inside Stokesay’s walls.
Eloise watches Cressida’s retreating form.
Staggering how a heart tends to feel what the brain has, for two tiring years, shoved inside a hidden little box.