Chapter Text
The story doesn’t start where Eloise Bridgerton thinks. It starts with a small white dog whimpering.
It starts like this.
Eloise can’t be more than eleven or twelve. She has been taken shopping. Daphne is inside the shop, having a very dedicated discussion about the measuring of ribbons with the proprietor. Daphne perhaps hopes that prolonged exposure to this discussion will be improving for Eloise. Eloise is not entirely indifferent to ribbons, but Daphne seems not to have realised that only two doors down there is a patisserie, with the expert baker, master of pastry, newly arrived from France. His confections are popular and so Daphne needs to hurry. Ribbons are forever. Cakes sell out.
Eloise is standing just about as far outside the shop as is permitted, on the step, where her sister can keep an eye on both Eloise and still consider potential purchases at the same time. There is little harm that might come to a young lady here; this is still among the most refined shopping streets.
There is a commotion across the road. Eloise tries to make it out. Several young gentlemen, not more than a few years older than her, seem to be tormenting a small white dog. One of them is holding a riding crop and using it. She can hear the dog whimper and cheers from the boys.
She doesn’t think twice (as if she ever thinks twice)—she runs towards them, incoherent with a sense of injustice. She is slight for her age, and this allows her to slip through the crowd of barking boys. She crouches down and throws her arms around the animal. It wriggles against her, not immediately aware that it is being saved. The boys draw back—hitting a young lady of status would cross the line for entertainment. They look at each other, frustration and confusion evident on their faces, but each too surprised by her intervention to say anything.
Eloise sees her chance. She picks up the animal and stands. She tries to muster what dignity she may, having just been lying in the dirt. The dog is only a small thing. It is well groomed, but now dusty and bleeding above its eye. It obviously belongs to someone.
She walks back across the road, the shaking dog in her arms, and returns to her position at the top step of the ribbon shop. She is very conscious that the boys are still watching her from across the road. She attempts to adopt an air of nonchalance. Cradling the dog, she strokes it slowly. That motion gives her some confidence. Yes, she murmurs quietly, Daphne will get you a ribbon and I will clean you up.
Before she can explain her newly-acquired dog to Daphne, someone else approaches.
‘Paulus!’ cries the old lady. The dog responds to it by wiggling in Eloise’s arms.
She pronounces it Paw-lus. At twelve years old, Eloise thinks this is an excellent name.
‘He’s hurt’, says Eloise, entirely redundantly. ‘But I think he will be alright if you keep hold of him tightly. He's mostly just scared.’
The old lady, whose name is Mrs Adamson, offers to buy Eloise a cake for her bravery. In fact, she buys her two. It is a triumphant day.
***
That is the start of the story. It is also the beginning of a long—if sometimes irregular—correspondence with Mrs Adamson. She lives somewhere in North Wales and was only visiting the city to see her solicitor when Paulus slipped out of the carriage. He is, apparently, more accustomed to woods and beaches, and is quite unaware of the dangers of the metropolis. Like Eloise herself, he does not like to be told to wait in the carriage while interesting things are happening elsewhere.
The correspondence continues as Eloise grows. She occasionally sends Paulus some ribbons (Daphne despairs). Mrs Adamson sends back, first, updates on his health and recovery. Then the letters expand into other things. Reading recommendations. Talk of politics. Mrs Adamson lives on her own in North Wales. The dog had been a gift from her son, who died not long before. He wanted to be an antiquarian, and always dreamed of visiting Egypt, she says in her letters.
Eloise keeps up the correspondence, even after Paulus himself has gone to the great beyond. Even after Eloise herself has grown to adulthood.
One day, instead of a letter, something else arrives. A solicitor. He presents himself at the door, announces without emotion that Mrs Adamson has very sadly passed away, and could he speak to her brother please?
There is some kind of conference, and then Eloise is called in.
She is disturbed to find that the solicitor keeps smiling at her. Anthony looks very serious, wearing the face he keeps only for matters of financial import. Has Mrs Adamson claimed some sort of debt against her? But Mrs Adamson was surely too nice to do that.
She decides to get in first. Before anyone thinks of calling a magistrate.
‘Anthony. All my letters were entirely innocuous—I do not know what I could possibly have said to prompt all this.’
‘Eloise, what did you know about Mrs Adamson?’
Eloise tries to sift through the information, fragments accumulated over many years. They do not come out in any particular order. ‘I know that she lived in Wales; she wasn’t Welsh though. She said she had travelled to France with her husband when she was younger. That was where her son was born, though he died, from a fever I think. But that was much later and in England. He was the one who bought her dog, the one—'
Anthony waves a hand and interrupts the disorganised recollections. ‘And what do you know about her husband?’
‘He's dead. I don’t know anything about him.’
Anthony turns and looks at the solicitor, as if he is embarrassed by his sister’s ignorance of long dead Welsh men. ‘Do you really have no idea who Mr Adamson was?’
‘No, he died before I met Mrs Adamson. She said he had been in business. I assumed he had been some sort of trader in Wales... importing things, or whatever men of business do. But I never asked, because you and mama have drummed into me that it is hardly polite to pry into such matters.’
Anthony holds his head in his hands. It is highly dramatic and entirely uncalled for. Was Eloise supposed to memorise the name and career of every man in Wales as part of her education?
‘I suppose from that gesture that I am off the mark. What did he do then?’, she asks.
‘Eloise, he was the government’s principal banker.’ As if he has prepared a prop, Anthony pulls out a pound note from a pocket and wafts it in the air like a small flag. ‘He was the architect of all this!’
‘He designed the pound note?’ That is interesting, and not something Eloise had previously given much thought to. But of course these things must have a designer, there must be some committee somewhere, arguing over the colours, and the calligraphy, and th—
Her thoughts are interrupted.
‘The system, Eloise. He designed the financial system for the whole country.’
‘Oh, so he was rich then.’
‘You could say that’, says Anthony. ‘And his wife has left you some money.’
Eloise thinks for a moment. Then says, with a perfect lack of guile, ‘But Anthony, were we not already rich? Why such a fuss?’
Involuntarily, she looks at the well-appointed study around her, the fine paper on the walls, the shelves full of well-bound books, the artefacts that all pronounce this to be a place of solidity and standing.
Anthony looks pained. As if talking about money in these crude terms was offensive, as if money needs some specially sensitive vocabulary, needs always to be talked of in hushed and reverential tones. ‘Of course, Eloise, of course. We have managed matters carefully. You would never have wanted.’
‘But now there is an additional sum? And that's the cause of all this commotion?
He nods, the sombre nod of money. Next to him, the solicitor is still smiling his uncanny smile.
‘Well, if that is so, then I would like to use some of it to buy a new writing desk. The one I have is very old and it creaks every time I sit down to write something. And a new chair to go with it. It is so uncomfortable that I am sure I can feel my spine beginning to complain’, she says, hunching over her shoulders and miming an attitude of decrepitude, hoping Anthony may find it funny.
Anthony looks at her, as if deciding what to say, as if entirely unmoved by the perilous condition of her spine. When he speaks, he does so slowly. ‘Eloise. She has left you everything. You could buy every desk, chair, and table in the city of London with the interest accrued today alone.’
‘Oh’, says Eloise.
***
There are some unwelcome changes.
First, and most consequential, Anthony attempts to instruct her in the arts of governing money. His lessons are punctuated by homilies on the duties that accompany wealth. It is worse than a church sermon, because at least that is only a Sunday duty. In the end, they compromise—he gives her a set of books on the management of capital which she promises to read, and to return with questions. On reflection, she finds that this is not so bad, and it is almost interesting to puzzle out the byzantine ways that men of money have structured the world, and then disguised it all in a deliberately impenetrable language.
Second, as soon as the news leaks out (she never finds out how it leaks out, but suspects the smiling solicitor), she gains many, many, aspiring new friends. Unctuous friends. And gentlemen who would like to be considerably more than friends. Notes, sweetmeats, and flowers arrive daily. There is a steady stream of poetry directed towards her, threatening romance. When she ventures outside, young men of varying levels of eligibility practically trip over themselves to be in her line of sight.
(Third, Benedict has a wonderful time reading out some of the poetic efforts at the breakfast table each morning. ‘Sweet Eloise, my heart must sing/and all my soul goes tingling!’. ‘That’s not even a full sentence or a proper rhyme’, huffs Eloise. ‘Ah’, says her brother, ‘that is only the first couplet. There are several stanzas more.’)
It quickly becomes unbearably irritating.
She is a prize, a highly desirable one, all because one day a decade ago she rescued a dog outside a ribbon shop.
She asks her mother: why do they bother, when they must know that I know that they only desire my money? I am not so stupid as to forget that because someone brings me a dainty little cake.
She and these would-be suitors have quite different understandings of the world.
She ignores the sweetmeats, the flowers, and the little volumes of poetry deposited for her, as if at a shrine. She picks up the financial pages and wonders who on earth invented the concept of a stock.
Stocks and love poems, both stupid and ephemeral things. Such strange inventions. Both depend entirely on the recipient sharing the same convictions as the sender. Eloise finds that both displease her, because neither seems to have any truth behind them.
Benedict, who does not care about the truth behind things when there is sport to be had, keeps on reading out the poetry.
***
There is one still point in the turning world. No matter how rich she is, no matter how many poems are dedicated to her, she is still dressed up and dragged to balls, for the sake of the rest of the family.
‘Surely this is a bad idea’, she tells her mother. ‘Now my money makes me so fabulously attractive, how will anyone care about my sisters?’
Her mother, who believes in the enduring power of love, gives her a warning look. She attends.
Scratch that: there are two still points in the turning world.
Cressida Cowper is still absolutely—entirely—awful. Eloise’s new and vast wealth has not altered that impression.
At the ball, Cressida Cowper glides around the room with such an assured air of superiority. She is attended by a fleet of young women who compete to be the first to affirm her words. She commands them with the confidence that comes from knowing that she is the most beautiful woman in the room. Her performance is quite something to behold—quite a ridiculous something. How can anyone behave so?
Eloise watches her for the whole evening—simply so that she may avoid her. At least Cressida Cowper has not changed with news of Eloise’s windfall. She is not simpering around her, desperate to make friends, frantic to invite her along to a picnic. Cressida Cowper remains her smug, superior, infinitely graceful and wholly infuriating self. Eloise watches her dance. Someone who is so awful has no right to such elegance.
Eloise frowns just thinking about it. Eloise’s aspiring new friends see the frown, panic that they are not attending her faithfully, and rush off to get her a drink. They are desperate to be helpful to Eloise and all her lovely money.
The departure of one of Eloise’s new minions leaves her flank unguarded. A man appears, as if from nowhere, as if spontaneously generated by the ballroom.
Not this again.
‘Miss Bridgerton. How lovely you look this evening. Might I tempt you to dance?’ He flashes what—she supposes—is intended to be read as a charming smile. He only looks avaricious and somewhat lupine.
‘I will not be dancing this evening.’
This one is persistent. ‘Can I not persuade you? Many ladies have told me that I am a very good dancer.’
There is something about him she does not like. She supposes his confidence is meant to be dazzling. He introduces himself; his name is Mr Maxwell. In fact, he announces the name of the great estate he is heir to before giving his name. He gives the name as if she already ought to know it. Eloise grimaces and tries to look elsewhere in the room. She sees, or imagine she sees, Cressida Cowper watching her from across the room, intently. Eloise wonders why Cressida Cowper is watching her. Eloise takes the stare as a challenge and stares back.
The man is undaunted and interrupts her staring. ‘Your eyes do look very fine tonight, Miss Bridgerton. Or perhaps I might call you Eloise?’ he offers, expectantly.
He does not like the response.
Eventually Eloise manages to get rid of him, but only after a description of the great estate he will one day come into. She looks around to see if Cressida Cowper is still observing her, but Eloise can no longer pick her out in the crowded room. Undoubtedly Cressida Cowper has returned to her normal position, holding court at the centre of some coterie of young ladies, giggling and gossiping and ruthlessly mocking the unwary.
She barely has time to dwell on Cressida Cowper’s faults before another new ‘friend’ approaches. It is wearying, wearying, wearying.
After several more such incidents, Eloise manages to slip outside. She takes her opportunity when one of the musicians faints in the heat. It is probably wrong to take advantage of the misfortunes of others, but she is desperate.
She wanders through the gardens—almost as bright as day due to the full moon—looking for a convenient place to hide until she may decently leave the ball.
Criminals, she thinks, are pursued less.
She walks as far back in the gardens as she can, dodging couples who have taken advantage of the moonlight to make arrangements of their own.
The light of the moon is so bright that there are not many good hiding places.
Then she walks beyond a little garden of box and herbs. She sees two things. On the left, a maze. On the right, an ice house. Both offer possibilities for hiding. Both are so far away from the house that no amorous couples will have bothered with them when more convenient alcoves are available.
She considers both for a moment, weighing the options for concealment. Then, without any real reason for it, she opts for the ice house.
The door is not quite closed, presumably kept open so servants from the house may quickly enter if more ice is urgently needed.
She feels very pleased with herself, almost smug—no-one will think to look for a missing young lady in an ice house! She has found the perfect hiding place, and achieved a reprieve for a little while at least.
She peers inside; it is not totally dark because a few bricks seem to be missing near the roof, and the moonlight streams in. It is cool, but not cold. Truth be told, there is not that much ice left inside the ice house—a few blocks in the centre. It is really more like a large and imposing garden shed.
She sighs with relief as she enters. At the same time as she sighs, she hears a voice, warning, ‘Don’t let the door—'
The door shuts behind her, making a clicking sound.
‘Well, now are we are stuck in here.’ The voice belongs to Cressida Cowper, now emerging from the darkness, moving imperiously towards Eloise.
Eloise tries the door. They are indeed stuck in here.
‘Did you not believe me?’ says Cressida Cowper, sounding irritated, as Eloise fruitlessly pushes and pulls at the door.
‘What are you doing in here?’, asks Eloise, choosing not to reply to the question.
‘Getting stuck in an ice house with an idiot, it seems.’
Eloise elects for what she hopes is a dignified silence. Of all the people to be locked in an ice house with. Even Napoleon would be a preferable choice for a cellmate, if the alternative were Cressida Cowper. Napoleon must occasionally take a day off from being awful.
Cressida continues. ‘What are you doing in here? I suppose you were looking for somewhere to entertain your new suitor?’
Eloise almost spits in disgust. ‘What? Who?’
‘Mr Maxwell. He has been circling round you all night.’
‘Of course not. If you must know, I was looking for somewhere to hide from him. From the whole lot of them.’
‘How terrible it must be to be the centre of attention’, Cressida offers, full of sarcasm. ‘You must hate that.’
Eloise remembers how much she loathes Cressida Cowper. But at least this is a reassuringly familiar emotion, unaltered by her new status.
‘And what of you? How on earth have you become detached from your little phalanx of followers and ended up in an ice house? I am sure they will be lost without you. Do they not need you to tell them how to walk, and what to drink, and how to think?’
‘Ah, that lofty Bridgerton superiority! I am sorry that the whole world falls so far short of your standards.’
‘And I am sorry that I have enough of a brain to recognise how stupid and ridiculous this entire event is.’
‘Yes, God forbid that anyone take any pleasure in something Eloise Bridgerton disapproves of!’
‘God forbid anyone here have a sensible thought in their head all evening.’
‘You are insufferable.’
‘I am insufferable?’
‘Insufferable and foolish – so superior and smug yet stupid enough to lock us both in this room.’
‘It’s an ice house’, Eloise points out.
‘Wonderful. What a helpful correction. Let us be precise about the terminology while we are trapped.’
‘I suppose you are worried about all the gossip you are missing while we are in here.’
‘And I suppose you are worried about the missed opportunities for criticism.’
‘Better to be a critic than to be—'
‘—To be what? Don’t mince your words, Eloise, say what you really think of me.’
Eloise steps closer. She looks at the string of pearls draped elegantly around Cressida’s neck. That have been arranged just so. They showcase her beautiful neck, and Cressida must know this, must intend this. Despite the fact that they are trapped in an ice house, and despite the fact she has been dancing all night, Cressida still looks perfectly put together.
‘I think you are vain and without regard for others.’
Cressida scoffs. ‘I could say exactly the same thing of you.’
‘I am not vain!’
Cressida takes a step towards her, so as to better deliver her verdict. She laughs. ‘Oh, you are as vain as I am. You care desperately for how people regard you. You could not stand to be thought of as just one among those stupid girls at the ball.’
‘You know nothing about me!’
‘I know exactly what you are!’
‘Well – well –’
Then it happens.
When she thinks about it later (and she thinks about it a great deal), Eloise will attribute it later to something misfiring in her brain. The effect of going from a very warm evening into the frigid temperatures of the ice house. Climactic convergence producing an altered mental state.
She is suddenly – powerfully – aware of the blood coursing through her. Of how Cressida Cowper thinks – thinks entirely wrongly – that she knows everything about Eloise. Of how Cressida Cowper, alone in this ice house, produces a strange and unexpected series of reactions in her.
Cressida Cowper is absolutely insufferable. So she kisses Cressida Cowper. She does more than that. She feels Cressida Cowper’s body responding to her own. They stumble – Eloise stepping backwards – towards the wall of the ice house. It is cool and the brick is rough but she is entirely absorbed with Cressida’s actions on her skin. She is only aware of a flurry of arms and hands and skirts. Her face feels flushed. Other parts of her body feel similarly. She closes her eyes, and—
There is a creak. The sound of a door opening.
A boy, a servant from the house, standing there with a pail. He cannot be more than thirteen.
‘Oh’, he says, moderately surprised. ‘Were you sent to get ice too?’