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He's turning his back as soon as he says it, tears already stinging in his eyes. He hears her calling his name and is almost tempted to turn back, the way her voice breaks at the end cutting through him like a knife. But he doesn't, crossing the final distance into his room, closing the door behind himself, leaning against them, his body sagging with the effort it took to tear himself from her. To tear into her.
Oh, he regrets it already. There is still his insulted pride thumping around his head, offended at having the relationship they established called absurd, easily dismissible when no longer convenient. And yet even as he thinks this, he knows he's being unfair. The tears in Eloise's eyes, the way her chin trembled when he said their lives are no longer be intertwined in any capacity… only a blind man or a complete fool would believe she meant any harm by her words. (And Theo is not blind. A fool though? That is still open up for debate.)
He hears the door to the shop slam closed and he knows she's gone, leaving this place, leaving him for good. He should move, stop her, beg her to stay, but his feet refuse to obey and soon he hears the rattling of the carriage on the street, a final wound to his already bleeding heart. She's gone from his life in the same whirlwind fashion she came into it.
Theo doesn't know how long he spends resting motionlessly against the door of his room, unable to move under the weight of his own failures, real or imagined. When he finally steps back into the workshop, the candles he left carelessly lit all around are almost gone, only last few shimmering flames still providing some light. He walks around, putting them out until only one remains. With that in hand he walks to the table in the middle of the room. Is it possible that only couple hours before he leaned over this very desk, happy and excited, witty and beautiful girl by his side? How did it all managed to devolve into the bitter chaos so quickly?
His eye catches a sight of a paper stuck under the table, only one corner visible. Without hesitation, he drops down, pulling it out. It's one of the Lady Whistledown's pamphlets that he scattered all over the floor. They must have missed this one when picking them up, right before their hands touched and the air shifted.
He holds the pamphlet, its thick weight reassuring between his fingers. His mind automatically provides him with what he already knows – the kind of paper used, the exact measurements of the page before and after trimming. Approximated number of words per page. The time it takes for the ink to dry. He knows all these things by heart, well versed in his craft.
He expects to see Eloise's face next, the stubborn determination with which she demanded he tells her all he can about the scribbler of the gossip sheet, colouring her gaze. But to his (maybe not as shocking in the end) surprise, his mind supplies him with another picture. One of Eloise Bridgerton sitting on the cart outside the print shop, his pamphlet in hand as she asks questions, good and important questions he's more than happy to answer. He sees her at the few assemblies they visited together, her eyes shining, her entire face lighting up in a way nothing, nothing in any way associated with Lady Whistledown, could ever entice.
The realisation of this is like a punch, so forceful that Theo physically stumbles, breath leaving him in a shuddering gasp. He can see it clear as day now, the difference between her determination for uncovering the mystery that is the gossip writer toying with the entire ton and the Queen of England herself and her excitement when she got a chance to dip her toes into his waters, as he flippantly put it. He sees the deep, true passion she expressed for learning new things, for challenging her mind in conversation with people just as passionate as her and wonders how he could ever think that wasn't the reason she stayed for so long.
(Oh, the Whistledown was important. But over the time, Eloise's focus shifted and so did her perception. From the hopeful wish of finding a woman of similar cadence as hers behind the gossip sheet, it turned into a gritty determination to uncover the person that treated the lives of people around her with careless indifference. By the end, Theo thinks Eloise was mostly motivated by bloodthirsty urge for revenge, kept on this path by need for justice, both for herself and her family. The difference between her attitude towards her intellectual pursuits, the hunger she expressed when presented with a chance to hone her mind by a new radical publication and sharpen her tongue in a debate, is unparalleled.)
He feels shame for ever assuming otherwise. His feelings still smart from the way she tried to protect herself, protect them. He wants to take his own cruel words back, but he knows well that is impossible. He cannot change what was said any more than he can make the sun set in the east and rise in the west.
What he can affect is what happens next.
And had he cared just a little bit less, had he didn't already know he might be falling for the young lady that turned his world upside down in mere weeks – he would just write a letter. Tried to apologize, asked her to come back. Resume this – whatever it is – between them, hoping it will eventually move towards something even more intimate.
But he cares too much, he's willing to admit, at least to himself, alone, in the quiet privacy of the printing shop that has been his second home for nearly a decade now. He fancied himself in love before, but never the recipient of his feelings left him breathless with a mere thought of them. It has been just a few weeks, but he knows he's already too far gone.
So he puts his own desires aside and tries to give her what she really wants – the knowledge, the independence, the purpose.
(Had he loved her a little less, he would keep her for himself. But his feelings are already too vast – and he wants to give her the world.)
He writes the entire night, stumbling through his work the next day, only to catch a couple of hours of sleep and continue writing. He writes and rewrites until he thinks it's perfect, until he feels he made his points come across clearly and consistently. He makes a single copy, printing on a cheep paper in stock, goes over it one more time. Then he writes a letter too, accompanying the pamphlet, explaining it's purpose and his intentions. He puts those apologies in, but takes care not to inflict any of his selfish desires upon her. He then loiters around the back entrance to the Bridgerton's gardens, waiting until a familiarly looking footman appears. It takes some convincing to get John once again serve as his messenger, the man obviously upset with him. He yields eventually, but not before calling Theo few names not appropriate to be used by a servant of a house of Bridgerton fame.
After that, there is nothing more he can do but wait, hoping that Eloise will respond.
He tries not to lose hope, but with every day that goes on without hearing from her, his overactive mind gets better of him and he imagines her throwing his writings into a fire without ever bothering to read them. Before his eyes, he sees the tears clinging to the delicate fans of her lashes, the way her chin trembled as he said goodbye and send her away. Who is to say that her own pain and – dare he say – heartbreak haven't transformed into resentment?
It takes almost a week before his prayers are heard.
In the morning post, package is delivered to him, simple brown paper covering what he thinks might be a book. Mr. Harris is not in yet, so he tears into the parcel, his assumptions confirmed when a hard-bound copy of collection of latest progressivist essays falls out of its wrapping. There is nothing more in and his heart momentarily sinks, thinking maybe his brother is sending him an early birthday present. But when he opens the book, there tucked between the first pages, he finds a brief missive, poignantly stating he might find the views in this tome interesting as well. And then, most importantly, the pamphlet he send along, annotated with dozens of notes written around the margins, question and asks for further elaboration, corrections and suggestions for improvement. When he turns the pamphlet over, he finds the back side completely covered by messy handwriting, Eloise penning down her thoughts and ideas, stringing words into sentences with ease and palpable excitement. It's good basis for an essay of her own, thinks Theo, making a mental note to point that out in his reply. A smile starts to form on his lips as he reads the lines Eloise wrote, happy little laugh escaping him when he gets to the end where she pens her affirmative answer to his offer to be his editor, to get her own thoughts out to the world.
(He smiles again when he finishes reading the book, managing to get through it over single night. On the last page, under the conclusion of the text, is another note written: “I'm sorry too.” He likes to think she put it there, knowing he would find it, confident in her knowledge he would listen and truly read the book cover to cover.)
He keeps the book on the shelf, easily visible from his bed. Rewrites his pamphlet, including some of her corrections, debating others on the margins again. Has to wait another ten days to get a reply. It comes in another book. Another note is penned at the end, a “Thank you” for the opportunity to talk about her passions that Theo feels he didn't fully earned yet. She returns his pamphlet with final corrections and sends along a text for her own work, asking him to go over it and provide her with a similar kind of feedback. He does so happily, marvelling at the glimpse into her mind he his afforded.
It's almost frighteningly easy to continue after that, parcels and letters travelling between Mayfair and Bloomsbury with ever increasing regularity. Soon, there isn't a week when they wouldn't exchange their work. He keeps giving the pamphlets and letters to John, slowly getting back into his good graces. Eloise sends her responses directly to him, always hidden in books. He has quite a collection by now, the prints she sends him proudly displayed on the shelf. Some of them are brand new, titles he remembers mentioning in passing to her before with a wish to read them. He tries to not spend too much time over pondering how much they cost her. He could never afford them all, no matter his own financial status and he rejoices at the opportunity to read them. Eventually, he learns not to think of this as a charity but as Eloise sharing her good fortune with him. Other books are older, well loved, pages soft and pliable from frequent handling. He likes those even more. She doesn't give back the four he gave her (five, if the one which served as a vessel to deliver his first message is counted as well) and while he misses them in his collection, he doesn't mind all that much. The idea something of his is in her room, maybe even in the similar place of honour he keeps her books, fills him with a peculiar sense of contentment.
It goes on for weeks, soon turning into months. No longer having an access to Lady Whistledown's papers, he doesn't get a glimpse into her world, but the meetings with John let him know enough. The season is still in a full swing, the circus of balls and promenades and visits to the opera never ending. Theo has his doubts about Eloise enjoying that very much, John reacting to this question only with a knowing smirk.
Theo starts to work that much harder at getting her own writings out, published and read and appreciated by others. Eloise at first insists he publishes her work under his own name, voicing a worry that she could bring yet another scandal to her family's home. He refuses, arguing the issue with her over the letters for weeks before finally reaching a compromise – adding at least her initials under his name. He does it for both hers and his pamphlets. With the amount of input they give each other, the final product is more often than not a very much joined effort, a curious mix of both their minds.
It brings him an indescribable joy to be privileged to her thoughts. In the lines of her essays, she reveals her bright mind and sharp wit, her strong opinions and beliefs. But it is on the margins of the books she sends, in the little notes between the lines of text, where she lets him see her hopes and dreams as well. They are not always happy. Where her political writings are always passionate and full of fire, her private, personal thoughts are often breathing of melancholy, of a sense of unease and stifled spirit. He can feel from her words she is forcing herself into something that doesn't come naturally to her, that she is putting on a mask to please her family, to undo any wrongs she caused them in her opinion. Theo never thought his heart would ache for a lady being forced to spend her life in splendour. Yet here he is, pondering just marching to Mayfair and declaring himself, offering Eloise an opportunity to escape.
He doesn't suffer from self-delusion. He knows well that Eloise is not in need of saving, that if she wishes so, she will liberate herself from the confines of her old life. He knows that. Yet, he cannot deny he is somewhat shocked when she does eventually exactly that and what more – she does it by coming back to him.
(But after breaking their connection to protect her family, both being miserable for it, there is some kind of poetic justice in coming back together.)
She enters the print shop so quietly he misses her at first. He left the door open, luring the lasts of the warm early fall air inside. Day is over for him, he only has some cleaning to do. He doesn't expect anything to disturb his routine and almost jumps out of his skin when a soft voice bids him a good evening.
He turns and breath is snatched out of his lungs.
There she stands, dressed in finery, soft fabrics and lace, glittering like a precious stone in the setting sun. She looks beautiful, coiffed to perfection – and he never saw her look more miserable. Where he is used to the sharp line of her shoulders, straight back and unflinching eyes, he now sees a figure slightly curled into herself, bend under the weight of the society's expectations. She is wearing a necklace, opulent, heavy thing that threatens to snap her delicate neck and her dress, while beautiful, must be uncomfortable, at least if her constant tugging on them is any indication.
Tired. She looks tired and it's clear her evening has only just begun.
He greets her back. For a moment his eyes slip past her, catching a sight of the familiar carriage with its familiar driver. Somehow, that makes him almost smile. When he turns back to Eloise, she is watching him intently. For all their usual volubility, their words fail them now and they stand in silence for ridiculously long time until Eloise finally has enough. The old known brusque annoyance shines through momentarily, making his heart skip a beat, and she steps further into the workshop, closing the door behind her. She takes a deep breath, exhales audibly and she says:
“I got proposed to today.” There is some incredulity in her voice, like she still cannot believe someone would actually do that to her. It makes him a bit angry. Not with her, of course, but with anyone who installed in her this absurd notion that she is undeserving of adoration.
“Congratulation?” He offers hesitantly, not really knowing what else to say. The tightening in his stomach, the sudden rush of blood in his ears – well, that is his problem, not hers. Yet he cannot deny the relief that sweeps through him when she clarifies:
“I didn't accept.” She sounds – content with that and Theo cannot help but smile a little.
“Congratulation.” He says again, more sure and genuine and Eloise finally flashes him a smile of her own. It's a brief thing, so quick that should he blink he would miss it. Silence envelops them again. Eloise takes few more steps further into the shop, suddenly standing closer, closest they have been in months. He's hyper-aware of her presence, his senses automatically tuning to take her in. His eyes rove over her features and his ears pick up on the subtle rustling of her skirts as she moves. His nose is tickled by a sweet fragrance, something he cannot even identify but he thinks he could happily drown in. His fingers itch to touch her, to smooth the fly-away hair from her face, to gently graze the length of her arm.
She fiddles with her necklace, fingers flexing where it sits on her collarbone. She absently tugs on the cold metal, a flicker of desperation appearing in her eyes before she smothers it under a practised stare of polite indifference. He doesn't know where it comes from, where he gets the courage, but before he can stop himself, he is crossing the distance between the and circling around her, standing at her back. Unprompted, he reaches up and deftly opens the clasp holding the thing in place. The jewellery slides across her shoulders and he can see Eloise raising her hand just in time to catch it before it falls to the ground. She turns to him and he could swear she suddenly grows two inches. Everything about her just unfurls and she holds herself tall as if shackles were broken from her body. Taking a deep breath, she starts talking, calmly at first, but getting more and more hurried as her speech progresses:
“I suppose he wasn't a bad man. My mother certainly seemed very keen on him.” It takes him a second to realise she is addressing her proposal. She starts pacing, the necklace in her hand dangling with her jerky movements.
“Maybe she should marry him then.” He tries to crack a joke and to his surprise, it sort of lands, Eloise snorting a quick laugh.
“I suggested that too. It didn't go over well.” The merriness is not long living, a shadow crosses her eyes as soon as she says it and Theo can feel the agitation mounting in her again, can see it in the nervous movements of her fingers as she grips the jewellery, twisting it relentlessly until it, unsurprisingly, snaps and breaks and individual metal charms slip from the chain and spill all over the floor.
Automatically, they both drop to their knees, trying to contain the damage. Kneeling on the wooden boards, they both think back to the last time they found themselves in such position and the mess that followed. Theo sees Eloise's hands freeze, hovering over still spilled beads and pedants, not moving save for a slightest of tremors. She is not looking at him and he doesn't dare do reach out and make her, the boldness he experienced only minutes ago now gone.
“I'm sorry.” He finds himself saying. He's not completely sure what is he referring to, if her spat with her mother or the memories evoked by the current circumstances. Eloise looks up and with a strained smile she responds, just as unsure as him:
“It's not your fault.” Their eyes lock and for a moment everything around disappears. And then she is reaching for his hand and together they are standing up, the broken pieces of her oppression forgotten on the ground. The light is soft and yellow, the moment is heavy with anticipation. They could repeat their mistakes, the thought crosses both of their minds. Theo can feel his throat closing at the idea of everything crumbling apart and Eloise leaving and this circle of madness starting all over again.
He doesn't lean in.
But she does.
Not to steal a kiss as he was tempted, however, but to get a better grip on his hand, clasping it almost to a point of pain as she starts talking, the stream of words occasionally interrupted by a hiccuping take of breath.
“My mother… she seems to believe that only way for me to be happy, is to find a man willing to tolerate me and my… eccentricities, as she calls it. She genuinely believes that is the only way for a woman of our standing to find contentment in life. I spend last few months trying to accept this view as my own. Trying to do right by my family, to not cause any more trouble. To make them proud. And they were. Anthony was all smiles and mama just… beamed with motherly pride when I promenaded and danced and entertained my callers without as much as an eye-roll. I was a very picture of a proper young lady. My mother's dream finally realised.” There is a certain tone of longing in her voice, longing of a child to be accepted and loved without reservations and it breaks Theo's heart to see that longing unfulfilled. Eloise keeps talking, her breathing getting more and more ragged with every word she utters, her eyes wildly darting around and the hand not holding on his own gesticulating confusedly.
“Maybe it should be enough, the knowledge that I'm a good daughter at last.” He has a feeling this is not the first time she has said this to herself. His fingers tighten around hers, a feeble effort to give her support, to show he is listening still. He cannot say if she even realised, for her rambling continues and she is now panting heavily like if she just run.
“Maybe it should have been enough to make me happy. But I wasn't.” She stills abruptly, almost scaring him with this sudden change. She is now staring directly into his eyes. Peripherally, he can see her shoulders rise and fall again with every agitated breath she takes, but his main focus is on her face, on the slightly feverish glint in her eyes, the dewy sheen on her forehead. She looks sick and wretched and for the first time he is actually worried about her, about her physical well-being.
“I'm not happy.” She whispers, broken and sad and sort of ashamed like she failed at something. Tears start to swell in her eyes and Theo watches with a morbid fascination how the first of salty droplets beads up and clings to her eyelashes. He saw it before – and this time, he also sees it fall, make its way over her cheek before stopping at the corner of her mouth. Under different circumstances, he might find the way her tongue peaks out from her mouth and makes the tear disappear, all kinds of invigorating, but as of now he can only concentrate on the ever raising panic and pain in Eloise's voice, as she spills her heart to him.
“I'm miserable, was for months. I cannot look at myself in a mirror, cannot stand the creature staring back at me when I do. I've became something alien to myself. Only moments when I felt right was when I wrote to you, when I worked on our next pamphlet. The rest – that was a bubbling swamp of artifice and lies and I couldn't breathe!” Her free hand is clawing on her neck and to his horror, he realises that her statement is being supported by her actions as well. She's gasping for air now and he can feel her sinking down to the ground as she sobs.
“I cannot breathe!”
“Eloise!” He manages to catch her just in time, his arms around her waist. He prevents her from falling, but it is not enough to stop the descent altogether, so as gently as he can, he lowers them both down, sitting on the floor. He guides her hands to rest on his shoulders as he holds her back the same way, hoping that the steady movement of his own breathing will help her back from the spin she found herself in.
“I can't breathe there!” Eloise hiccups, tears now falling freely, leaving dark spots behind as they sink into her dress. The sounds escaping her throat are still frightening. Not knowing what else to do, Theo slides his hands off her shoulders, up her neck until gently cradling her face in his palms, putting just enough pressure behind the gesture to make Eloise raise her head a little and look up at him. Connecting their eyes, he starts taking exaggerated inhales and letting out loud exhales, urging her to mimic him.
“You are not there now. You are here. In Bloomsbury. You are safe.” He keeps repeating over and over again until it finally takes root in her mind and she starts to calm down. Her breathing slows and she sags against him, her arms barely supporting her from falling to his chest completely. He lets go of her face, moving his hand back to their previous position and Eloise's head drops down again, her face getting obscured from his sight by the curtain of her fringe. She sounds exhausted when she speaks, bone tired and yet with the edge of steel underneath, steel he knew was always there, but is very pleased to hear returned:
“I don't want to be merely tolerated. I want to be loud and opinionated and direct as I please.”
“Of course.” That is all he wants for her too.
“I don't want to hurt anyone. I don't want them to hate me.” She is still facing down so Theo cannot see the expression on her face to change, but her voice still gives enough clues as of how tormented she is over all of this.
“Nobody could ever hate you.” He says, because in his mind hating Eloise is simply impossible, even though his reason is telling him loud and clear to not feed her with such pretty lies. Under his hands, Eloise shakes a little and for a moment Theo is worried she will succumb to her pain once more, but she just chokes out a strangled chuckle, insincere sound born of misery and hurt.
“I will ruin the family. I will sully our name for years to come. Kate's mother left the society to follow her heart and it took twenty years before she was allowed back. They will hate me for destroying everything they managed to built.” It's a bleak future she presents but she speaks it with an admirable serenity. One more deep breath and then she is straightening her shoulders, leaning back against the table behind. Theo lets her go, hands slipping down her arms as she moves away. He's a fraction of a second from losing the connection entirely, already making himself ready for how empty his hands will feel without her in them. But at the last moment before the touch is severed, Eloise catches his wrists, slowing their separation, halting it to a complete stop by the time she settles herself comfortably, his hands now held in hers, resting in her lap.
Another bout of silence follows, but this one is strangely welcome, allowing them both to gather their thoughts, to calm their still wildly beating hearts. They are motionless, hands clasped together. Theo thinks his left leg is starting to go numb as he sits on it, but damn if he does anything to destroy the little oasis of peace that so unexpectedly found them after the turmoil. He doesn't move, just returning Eloise's steady gaze, hoping she can see in his eyes everything he already holds in his heart.
Eloise's lips part and Theo thinks she will speak, but she only takes in an audible breath, exhaling sharply. Then one of her hands is leaving the safe and warm confines of their touch and travels across her tight to the pocket hidden in the side seam of her dress. Lovely air of determination settles around her as she pulls out a paper, several times folded and hands it to him. Theo accepts without a word. He struggles to unfold the creases with one hand, unwilling to let his other hand to help and loose the connection it has with Eloise's fingers. When he finally manages to smooth the paper against his leg, he gives it a cursory look, finding out it is another of Eloise's essays.
“It's not… polished yet. Rough version.” He hears Eloise say. He presses her hand, telling her he understands without making a sound. His eyes skim the lines of text and he feels that now well-known feeling of pride and joy spreading in his chest. Here, on the paper clearly torn from a journal, with words crammed so tightly together that they are nearly illegible to anyone not familiar with her handwriting, is the Eloise he knows and loves. Of course, he loves all those other versions of her as well, from angry to soft, from belligerent to vulnerable, every single one he already met and any he yet has to make his acquaintance with. But Eloise of her political opinions, stated without shame and forced meekness, is his favourite. For the simple reason it is where she feels most at ease, most as herself, most free.
“I want you to give your notes again and then publish it. Under my full name.” Now it's his turn to gasp, the importance of her words not lost at him in the slightest. But he's not doubting her decision, knowing it well debated in her own head already. For all her impulsiveness, Eloise is not one to take her future lightly. So when he looks up, his mind already looking forward exploring her latest piece in earnest, there is no hesitation when he speaks:
“Alright.”
“It will get known eventually even in the ton and they will trace it back to you. You might get in trouble.” A fair and honest warning, for which there can be only one honest answer:
“It's well worth it.” She smiles, fully and unreservedly and it makes Theo so light with happiness he thinks he could fly through the roof if still not anchored to Eloise by the touch of their fingers.
“And there will be accusations. Of my ruination going beyond the corrupt mind.” She adds next and it's somehow marvellous how unconcerned that leaves them both. They know that the vicious slander about to be thrown their way is untrue and that is all that matters in the end. (At least to them.)
“I'm ready, if you are.” Theo says, declares, promises, vows. Eloise's chin trembles a bit, but this time it's not from trying to keep her tears at bay, now it is the last sign he gets before her already beautiful smile gets even more radiant. She's beaming and Theo follows happily when she tugs on his hand and makes him move to sit next to her, their sides pressed, legs naturally finding a way to entangle together. Hands still holding, Eloise leans in and with a content sigh rests her head on his shoulder.
“I deserve more than to be just tolerated.” She whispers into the silence, no longer a tearful lament, but a proud, unapologetic statement.
“You deserve the world. And you shall have it.” Theo responds before resting his head atop of hers, never surer of anything in his life.
(They sit like that for almost an hour before a knock on the door bursts their little bubble. It's John, reminding Eloise it is time to go – at least for now. She obeys, but not before pressing a brief kiss to Theo's cheek, short enough to remain chaste, but too close to the corner of his lips to be called purely unintentional. Then she is leaving, a skip in her step, so familiar to the times before. Theo watches her until she and her carriage leave from his sight.
And then he gets to work.)