Chapter Text
Summer 2004
Eloise had never been to Talking Rooster before.
It was a cafe that sat in the heart of Bath which was currently busy with tourists and unimpressed locals. Patrons were standing in a long queue toward the counter, the one that Eloise had finally escaped from. All the surrounding tables were filled with groups of friends and acquaintances absorbed in conversation. Along with a few people scattered among them that were consumed in the laptop in front of them.
While Eloise swept her gaze around the room, hungrily looking for a table that belonged to someone making an upcoming exit, a bundle of blonde curls caught her attention.
“Cressida?”
Cressida Cowper, wearing an overly polite smile and a salmon-shaded dress that reached past her knees, shifted her head toward Eloise’s direction. The cafe was filled with chattering and rustling from people’s seats, yet the noise still didn’t disguise the sound of Cressida’s white kitten heels clicking against the linoleum floor.
“Eloise,” Cressida responded with a small nod. Her eyes fanned up and down to study Eloise’s overalls. There were splotches of blue paint that congealed toward the bottom of the hem. The marring of paint on denim is what held the other girl’s attention the longest until she looked up to add, “I almost didn’t recognize you without your walking neon marker behind you.”
Eloise arched her brow. “Am I supposed to find that clever?”
“Being clever before noon is more tedious than interesting,” Cressida said.
Cressida Cowper’s smirk took up her face, and Eloise remembered the last time the two had spoken. Seeing as it was a refusal of friendship, it had not been a pleasant memory. It had been almost a year ago, but Cressida Cowper appeared to still be hopelessly intertwined in Eloise’s life.
However, many of the girls from Mayfair’s neighboring families were.
Eloise grew up in an environment that fostered passive aggressiveness and old-fashioned etiquette, yet Cressida could be seen as a mascot for all the mundanity wrapped around upper-crust London. At whatever party or gala Eloise’s mother dragged her to, Cressida could be seen on the other side of the room with a gaggle of girls. Her mouth hovering near whatever ear she was whispering into. Eloise tried to not shrink herself at the mere thought. Lady Whistledown had made Eloise insecure in her own skin as of late.
Eloise tried to not fidget with her hands, not wanting to give Cressida any satisfaction from discomfort.
She had always thought that childhood immaturity was meant to blossom into something else – possibly apathy. Yet as the girls from their circles began attending university, it appeared that a petty attitude was more often nurtured than pruned. In the past three years, Cressida had made Eloise’s friends and family somewhat of a target at Oxford. And while it had died down slightly during this past year, Cressida’s stare remained unrelenting whenever Eloise passed her on campus.
The interest in finding a seat to drink her tea dimmed, and she began to shuffle her feet toward the doorway.
“Yes, well, good to know. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
“How long have you been in Bath?” Cressida asked, promptly ignoring Eloise’s attempt to leave.
Eloise darted her eyes toward the door. She spotted the elderly man pushing his walker toward the exit and tamped down jealousy.
“Since Wednesday,” Eloise answered.
“Oh? Holidaying for the week?”
“For the Summer.”
“Ah. How lovely.“
“Yes…very lovely,” Eloise drawled, inching toward the door once more. “Well, as delightful as this has been—“
“I’m in Bath for the Summer as well,” Cressida interrupted again, something she seemed to have a penchant for. “We must have lunch sometime.”
Eloise cackled. She was unsure of what other response to give than, “Must we?”
“I do not know anyone in Bath,” Cressida simply said. She wore no hint of embarrassment at being rebuffed. “I doubt you do either.”
In fact, Eloise did know a few people in Bath. The pool mostly consisted of barely tolerated family friends and Oxford acquaintances. There was one boy who was in her Classics and English program that Eloise ran into at the Farmer’s Market yesterday, yet they had a poor history of debating about Dickinson in class. He seemed to avoid things he couldn’t understand within five seconds of thinking, and he also avoided Eloise while shopping for tomatoes.
Eloise fiddled with the strap of her tote bag while Cressida stared at her. Expectant yet patient.
“Where did you have in mind?” Eloise finally asked.
Cressida’s answering smile was nothing short of smug.
***
The days were long in Bath.
Eloise, when asking her mother if she could stay at their residency out in the countryside for the season, didn’t expect anything outside of isolation and a pretty view. Yet the rolling mountains and lack of familiar faces were the intended goal for Eloise. She knew that Penelope would return to London after their most recent semester at Oxford. They had family homes that shared the same winding street for longer than either of the pair had been alive. It forced the two to be neighbours. A thought that left a poor taste in Eloise’s mouth for the first and only time in her life.
In truth, the two girls’ Summers were typically spent together – reading and talking under shaded trees in the park. Yet Penelope was no longer someone she could sit in the grass with, therefore, London was meant to be avoided at all costs.
Somehow, it also meant that Cressida became an odd substitute for this random Tuesday.
“More sugar?” Cressida asked, lifting the lid of a metal caster.
They sat in Cressida’s sitting room. The walls of the Cowper Summer home that surrounded them were painted in shades of dark green and brown. The furniture seemed to have been built from mahogany and there was an earthy smell that greatly juxtaposed Cressida’s perfume. In all actuality, it seemed the pastel-dressed Cressida who donned lace frills was a far bigger contrast to the home than the perfume itself.
“Oh, no. Thank you though.”
“Of course,” Cressida said. “I’m glad it’s less cloudy out.”
“Yes. I agree. Love a lack of clouds.”
If silence had a weight, it was heavy when it fell.
Cressida was content to sip on her tea in the quiet. Eloise was less so.
Which ultimately led to:
“--but that’s the thing though. No one called the Titanic sinkable until it sank. It was implied, but almost every cruise ship is going to imply that their ship isn’t going to sink. No one would go on a cruise that advertised ‘we don’t think it will sink, but never say never.’ Of course not.”
“Yes.” Cressida lowered her teacup onto the porcelain saucer in her hand. “Of course not.”
“Are you mocking me?
“Would it be polite to say yes?”
“No.” Eloise leaned forward, placing her elbows on the wood between them. It was done somewhat out of a desire to see if it would result in the twitch of an eyebrow or the clenching of Cressida’s jaw. However, the other girl appeared to remain unaffected, maintaining the same proficient posture she had when first sitting. Her face painted in perfect neutrality as Eloise then said, “Very opposite of polite. Quite a different end of the spectrum, in my opinion.”
“What if I told you it amused me?” Cressida offered.
“Like watching a monkey at the zoo?”
“No.” Cressida shook her head and added, “You see, no matter how much I begged, the monkey would merely hop around rather than tell me about a boat crash.”
A laugh was shocked out of Eloise.
She made a note to avoid the endeavour in the future. However, Eloise became suddenly unsure if making a conversationalist out of Cressida was to be encouraged or reproached.
Therefore, in that vague moment of uncertainty, Eloise drank the tea that had become cold from neglect.
“It’s not even the most fatal maritime disaster in history.”
“Oh? And what was?” Cressida asked.
And so the evening went on until the sun demanded a rest.
***
Their lunches soon extended to every Tuesday. And then, quite quickly, every Tuesday and Thursday.
One afternoon, they even abandoned the drafty Cowper estate to walk among a nearby field. The wind bellowed rather than whispered, forcing wisps of Cressida’s hair to fall from her tight ponytail. Cressida wore flats, a greater difference than the heels she typically donned, yet it was still inappropriate for grassy terrain. Stains of dirt marred the heel.
Eloise was almost impressed by how long Cressida held out, yet once half an hour had passed, she clutched the dress shoes in her hand, walking barefoot. Eloise, despite wearing sneakers, was inspired and did the same.
“You know, Italian cars are gorgeous,” Cressida confided, her voice low, as if someone would emerge from the ground and chastise her. “They’re not exactly the epitome of class, but I hope my husband will have one.”
“Who needs a husband for a car?”
“I do,” Cressida laughed. “Who else would drive it?”
“You,” Eloise said, sounding out the word slowly.
She used a tone that indicated the answer was obvious. Cressida’s nose wrinkled like it wasn’t so.
“It would be inappropriate to drive without a license.”
“And illegal, yes,” Eloise agreed. “But you could get one. Are you nervous or something? It’s very natural to be nervous. I wasn’t, and that was the problem. I failed twice.”
“Father thinks it’s common. He also understands that I’m not exactly the most steady with my nerves. It would be unwise.”
Eloise made an indignant little noise. It was pried open from her own personal offense.
“Thinking driving is 'common’ is the most aristocratic bullshit I’ve ever heard. It’s absolutely unrealistic, and, quite frankly, completely classist.”
“You’re overly fond of cursing.”
“And you’re overly fond of not doing so,” Eloise teased, in a sudden hope that their mood would remain light. The unspoken truce between the two of them wasn’t worth breaking over Italian cars. It was an itch Eloise wanted to scratch, but she was terrified of it scarring if the conversation continued. “However, I am operating a scheme to hear the word ‘fuck’ come out of your purebred mouth by August.”
Cressida’s small smile helped alleviate the uneasiness in Eloise’s chest.
“I will be a disappointment, I’m afraid,” Cressida said.
“I somehow doubt that.”
The sun was beginning to set, retreating behind a faraway hill. Almost as if the wind was in kahoots, it began to temper its furious mood. It became a slight breeze as the two women began to meander back toward Cressida’s residence.
The rest of their walk was pleasant, and, to Eloise, it appeared that the two women could talk about their shared past without any ugliness. Until the next week shattered the fragile thought.
“I’m bored to tears, Cressida,” Eloise announced.
She dropped the embroidery frame given to her hours ago. Cressida gave through instructions, showing how to tie knots and how to start the stitch pattern. And while Eloise paid attention to the hands moving in front of her, she gave more thought to nimble fingers working in motion. Her attention then fully derailed once she took notice of Cressida’s furrowed brows, eyes focused on the project in front of her.
“I see,” She said in response.
Cressida did not look up from the hoop that she was pushing a needle through.
“Aren’t you bored?” Eloise asked, scooting closer to her on the leather couch. She sank into the seat, pushing her legs up on the table. “You’ve been needling that rabbit for almost a century now.”
“I like embroidery.”
“Yes. Sure. Like you were conditioned to. Along with every other Oxford Toff.”
“You do realise you’re in the same exact social standing as I am, yes? Also, while I know that you and Penelope look down upon such things, I quite like it.”
It was the first time Cressida had mentioned Penelope.
Their conversations had targeted subjects. Other than their conversation the other day in the field, they never talked about London’s old families. Stayed away from any words about the social politics at Oxford. And certainly nothing within the subject of Penelope Featherington.
Eloise sat up straighter on the couch.
“It’s hard to think highly of hobbies that withered men from centuries ago decided were appropriate for frail women,” Eloise said, hoping to get to the meat of the subject while avoiding the topic of her former friend.
“Am I frail to you?” Cressida asked.
Her attention was no longer on the pattern, yet her face was drawn blank. Her tone was cold and detached. However, Cressida’s blue eyes, staring down at Eloise like she was a bug, gave away her anger.
“No, no. But that’s exactly it. I don’t think you’re frail at all. You’re quite…independent. Surprisingly so. Most women in our circles are already engaged and blathering about weddings and babies—“
“I’m feeling ill.”
Eloise blinked. “What?”
“I don’t feel well,” Cressida answered, her voice curt. “Not well enough to entertain anyone. Or, as it seems, fail to entertain anyone—“
“Cressida—“
“—Therefore,” Cressida continued, rising from the couch. She did not necessarily march toward the door, but her pace was more heavy-footed than usual. She held it ajar and stared expectantly. “I think you should leave.”
“I…” Eloise looked around the room, sweeping her eyes across the oil paintings of Trojans brandishing swords before focusing back on Cressida. “Can’t we talk about this?”
It would have been easier if Cressida was trying to avert Eloise’s imploring expression. Yet her eyes were narrowed as she said, “Maybe on a Tuesday.”
The door slammed the moment Eloise was out of it.
***
Cressida had a splotch of freckles on her left cheek. It was inherently distracting.
“You should have called,” Cressida said, wrapping her dress robe around herself.
It was the day after Eloise was dismissed. It was clearly communicated that a weekend of separation was requested from the other girl. Possibly to ensure that the two women could adequately pretend their argument never happened. But Eloise had a horrible feeling that Cressida’s anger would dissolve into something else if too much time passed. Eloise didn’t want it to mix into the already complicated feelings Cressida must have had during their turbulent past.
“Um.” Eloise was unsure if it was better or worse for her to take Cressida by surprise. On one hand, the other girl appeared frazzled and more vulnerable to upset with Eloise’s carelessness. However, with Cressida’s light curls frizzed and cascading past her shoulders, there was something far more reachable about her. Touchable. “Maybe.”
Cressida opened the door wider, allowing for Eloise to step through the frame and the hallway.
“May I ask what warrants the surprise?” Cressida asked, her arms crossed against her chest.
“I fear I was unfair yesterday. Very unfair, in fact.”
“There isn’t a need for this.” Cressida’s smile showed white teeth. The effort seemed intentional due to the tight politeness on her face. “I understand. You feel cooped up.”
“But that’s not an excuse.” Eloise shook her head, her fingers smoothing the wrinkles in her pants. It was more out of a need to keep herself busy than a desire to become a human ironing machine. “I wanted to apologise. You have been kind to me. Due to our history, I haven’t quite understood why. But I do appreciate it.”
“I’m not upset anymore,” Cressida said. Her tone carried a heat to it, but a glint in her eyes had softened. “It’s just – I can’t be Penelope Featherington.”
Eloise shook her head furiously.
“I don’t want you to be. You’re…I raise stinks about it, but I like that you enjoy embroidery and stuffy galas and champagne. I haven’t always liked you, and I especially don’t like how you’ve treated my sister or Penelope. But–”
“I’m sorry for that,” Cressida interrupted. And, for the first time, “I’m also…sorry for interrupting you just now.”
A silence occupied the room.
Eloise reacted to silence in the same fashion as she always did. Like it was a persistent suitor that she couldn’t help but feel the need to evade in a clumsy way. That’s probably why she responded to Cressida’s apology with:
“Penelope and I aren’t friends anymore.”
Something within Eloise lurched, yet she was unsure of the origin of the discomfort. Standing and hovering near Cressida while admitting such a thing felt treacherous. Because, while the need to take Cressida into her arms was stirring, she didn’t want to open a door for any more unkindness toward the people Eloise cared about.
Yet when Eloise looked at Cressida’s face, her brows were drawn and her eyes were searching, like she was trying to read Eloise’s emotions with a long glance as well.
It occurred to Eloise that Cressida might be just the same as her. Just as scared of saying the wrong thing.
“Then,” Cressida began, swallowing, before finishing in a quiet voice, “I hope I can be a friend to you. For as long as humanly possible.”
“I would like that.”
Before Eloise could even comprehend it, Cressida’s arms were suddenly slung around her shoulders. A warmth bloomed in her chest, while that flowery perfume traveled toward Eloise’s nose once more. She now believed the scent to be jasmine yet was too consumed in the need to spread her arms across Cressida’s back to truly gauge.
Yet before Eloise could even reciprocate the hug, Cressida pulled away with arms still holding onto Eloise’s shoulders.
“Eloise, will you teach me how to drive?”
***
“Now, it’s not Italian, my good friend,” Eloise remarked, waving to her Honda Accord. “But I do hope it can meet your standards.”
“Appropriate allowances can be made,” Cressida granted.
While the idea seemed novel in concept, Eloise was beginning to realise that theory put into action wasn’t always ideal. Especially as Cressida stomped on the brakes every few seconds while in the parking lot of a primary school.
“The car is meant to go, Cressida. It’s sort of the purpose of a car.”
She slammed on the brakes once more.
“Do not be cutting during a moment of stress,” Cressida muttered distractedly.
“I don’t wish to–oh, God.”
Cressida almost hit a lamppost. In the empty parking lot. Moving slower than the elderly.
Eloise laughed because worry would be useless in a time like this.
***
The foggy morning air brightened as afternoon approached the day.
However, as smoke burned out of Eloise’s cigarette, a look of distaste soured Cressida’s pristine face.
“Oh.” Blue eyes sparkled with displeasure. They darted toward the smoke. “How long have you had that habit?”
Eloise grinned somewhat abashed. It was hard not to be under Cressida’s unimpressed stare. “Do you hate it?”
“Very much so,” Cressida said, her tone unamused. “Now, how long?”’
“Since my first training bra. My brother also hates it. One of them, anyway. But that’s mostly due to hypocrisy. A quality he’s rich in.”
“You make fun of me for being old-fashioned, but you talk like a Dickens character.”
Eloise crushed the cigarette butt against the stone exterior of Cressida’s home. She emitted a harsh hum — a slight but annoyed sound. Yet the other girl said nothing as Eloise wrapped it in a napkin to pocket for the bin later.
“I’m not unaware of how pretentious I sound,” Eloise said.
“That’s good to know.”
“Oh, stop it,” Eloise laughed, nudging Cressida’s shoulder with her own. “I don’t know how to not do it. It’s either complete silence or blathering inappropriately. I’d moderate if I could.”
“A storm of words is better than a drought,” Cressida offered.
“That's a very nice thing to say. Too nice. Threaten me and my little dog. Or something of that nature. Just so I can have a moment to be nostalgic about old times.”
Cressida's face shuttered, and Eloise began to look anywhere else but at it.
“I’m not in the mood to be nostalgic,” Cressida said eventually.
“No. I guess, neither am I.”
After the two grew bored of the fresh air, they retired to Cressida’s sitting room. A familiar environment for the pair of them as they lounged on the couch with a box of French chocolates between them. Eloise grabbed one that appeared to be filled with coconut cream and threw it up in the air. She caught it with her mouth.
“Impressive, right?”
“Maybe you are similar to a zoo monkey,” Cressida drawled.
“So cruel when so jealous. You couldn’t if you tried.”
“I will not fall for the bait of catching snacks in my mouth,” Cressida said, before adding, “My mother already has me performing enough parlour tricks at her dinner parties.”
“Ah. Yes. She is Captain Ahab, but I fear creating the most hostile environment is her Moby Dick.”
“I’m afraid that my future husband is her great whale,” Cressida remarked dully.
“You can have any man you want, Cressida.”
“Can I? Isn’t that fantastic? Someone should have told quite literally any of the men I’ve courted.”
“Cressida, you dated a prince,” Eloise said, her voice rich in amusement. “Like, a literal prince.”
“It was ambitious, yes.” Cressida granted a smile, but it had bitterness bottled up in it. “However, if you recall correctly, he left me. To be with your sister, in fact.”
“Daphne was never going to marry him,” Eloise scoffed.
“Is that statement intended to make me feel better?”
“Oh, God. Sorry,” Eloise rushed to say, holding her hands up in surrender. “What I mean is, you’re…everything, really. You excel at university, you’re gorgeous, rich, and the poster child for positive output in rigorous etiquette classes.”
“Yet still unwanted, I’m afraid,” Cressida began, clearing her throat before saying, “It’s quite pathetic.”
“I don’t think you’re pathetic.”
“Oh, not me specifically, of course. I’m lovely.” Cressida plucked a chocolate from the cardboard box, staring at it before taking a bite. “But the entirety of it is just – well, pathetic. My mother can’t stand it. She’s still resentful about my last relationship.”
Eloise had heard about Cressida’s seeing an older man who had lordship and some land out east of Wiltshire. Lady Whistedown documented the entire affair on her blog from its promising beginning to its whimper of an ending last April.
“Was it horrible?” Eloise asked.
Eloise wondered if she should have clarified, but something settled across Cressida’s face.
“Yes. And no. He was very complimentary.”
“Was that an issue? I thought you’d like that,” Eloise said.
“I’d thought so as well.” Cressida looked at the wall to her left contemplatively. She finally chewed on the chocolate that sat idle in her hand. “And, to be plain, appealing to my vanity was highly effective.”
“So, what happened?”
“What always happens. He lost interest. He would continue to say lovely things. Very lovely things. But he wouldn’t call. He’d cancel. Sometimes there were good excuses. Sometimes horrible ones. Yet even when he was there…he wasn’t really. It’s one thing to ask someone to be there, but it’s another to ask them to want to be there. And I don’t entirely blame him, but it’s just humiliating.”
“You have nothing to be humiliated about,” Eloise stated.
Cressida chuckled like Eloise told a joke. However, Eloise was having a hard time finding anything funny at the moment.
“Even you, Eloise Bridgerton, are not clever enough to convince me being unwanted isn’t humiliating.”
“I want you,” Eloise said. She said the words without a single thought in her head, but Cressida stiffened in her seat. It gave Eloise pause, causing her to then ramble, “I mean, I like spending time with you. Doing everything with you.”
“Eloise.”
“I like doing nothing with you as well.”
Sunlight filtered through the sheer drapes behind the women. In Eloise’s opinion, The afternoon light was kind on Cressida’s face. It was far easier to see the smile lines curved around her pink lips, however, there was something Eloise found rather fetching about it.
It felt like a promise that Cressida might be amused with Eloise tomorrow and the next day.
“In all these years, a lack of a friend has been harder than a lack of a husband,” Cressida confessed.
“Then how good of us to be friends,” Eloise said, and then, unable to stop herself, further rambled, “I’m more fond of friends than suitors anyway. The last boy I dated dumped me because Lady Whistledown had him embroiled in so much drama. He didn’t want that, and I…didn’t want that for him either.”
Cressida shifted her body to sit a little closer to Eloise on the couch.
“Lady Whistledown has a way of breathing down everyone’s neck, doesn’t she?”
“Yes.” Eloise felt guilt, for even in this moment, she missed her friend. “She does.”
***
More than a month had passed, and as the end of Summer approached, the days filled more and more with Cressida. This also meant that less and less time was being put toward Eloise’s unfinished manuscript. Her computer was becoming quite neglected as more evenings were filled with exploring shops and parks within and outside of Bath. Arm in arm with Cressida Cowper.
A development that grew less and less surprising with every day.
However, what did surprise Eloise was finding herself inside a corner boutique that Cressida corralled her in. Yet grand promises of visiting a three-story bookshop afterward had facilitated Eloise’s current predicament. She was in her seventh dress of the day.
She stepped outside of the curtain of the changing room, and Cressida cheered in delight. In the same exact way that she did for the last dress. And the last.
“You look splendid,” Cressida squealed.
“I look like a grape with ruffles.”
Eloise walked toward the mirror, turning her body to inspect the purple satin that clung to her hips and waist. Puffy sleeves were stitched to the shoulders and shaped around her arms. The dress was not tight by any means, but it was far too conforming for Eloise. For it was not inherently revealing, but seemed to promise what could not be explicitly shown to polite society.
“Grapes make wine,” Cressida countered, before adding, “And don’t complain as much. Maybe try that.”
“Eloise?”
Both women quit inspecting the dress to snap their heads toward the voice.
Standing near a sundressed mannequin stood Portia Featherington. The mother of Penelope Featherington. The scariest woman of Mayfair. The scariest woman of Eloise’s childhood. Along with her adolescence, teenage years, and even in this boutique that contained Eloise’s former enemy and a store clerk who called her “adorably oblivious” upon entering.
“My God. Eloise Bridgerton. Is that you?” She asked with a simpering laugh.
“Mrs. Featherington, how are you?”
“I’m well, thank you,” Mrs. Featherington said. “You know, Penelope told me you would not be home for Summer, but she mentioned no word of Bath.”
“It’s possible that I hadn’t mentioned it. I’ve been discreet, but only because I thought the country air would help my writing.”
“And your dressing it seems,” Portia notes, taking in the fabric that hung onto Eloise’s figure. As Mrs. Featherington continued, Eloise clasped her hands together to avoid fidgeting while on display. “My, you look like a lady.”
“She was born a lady. In overalls or not,” Cressida said.
Mrs. Featherington looked at Cressida as if she hadn’t previously noticed she was there. Eloise wondered if maybe she didn’t. The older woman’s eyes widened, seemingly startled into another laugh that was forced out of her thin-lipped mouth.
“Cressida, darling. It’s been ages as well. How’s your mother?”
“She’s been well. Just like yourself,” Cressida said, cordial as ever.
“I’ve been meaning to catch up. I looked for her at Wenworth’s party last week, but she wasn’t present. It’s horrible how she’s been hiding away.”
At that comment, Eloise abandoned restraint to glance over at her friend.
There was no hint of offense on Cressida’s face, but the perfection of politeness indicated that the slight was noted.
“She and my father have simply had their attention elsewhere.”
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Featherington agreed, a faux veneer of sympathy was worn like a fur coat. “I can only imagine it’s been on you, my dear. I’m truly sorry to hear about Lord Debling. I know how frustrated my eldest daughters were about finding a prospect before marrying the most lovely men on earth.”
“Yes, the happiest teenage brides of this century,” Eloise said before she could stop herself.
“A title I’m willing to grant to your sister as well,” Mrs. Featherington said, snapping her calculating attention back onto Eloise. “She really is a marvel – your sister. A woman beyond her time. She is certain to prove a wonderful wife and mother.”
“Yes,” Eloise said, the words almost cogging at the back of her throat. “That is certain.”
“What isn’t certain is this fantastic development. How unlikely to see the pair of you together,” Mrs. Featherington remarked, motioning a hand between the two women. “A delightful surprise.”
Eloise opened her mouth to respond, but Cressida was quicker.
“I certainly think so,” She agreed.
Mrs. Featheringston's eyes narrowed, but for whatever reason Penelope’s mother was in Bath for, it seemed to take precedence over the verbal tennis match being played.
“Well, yes, it was a joy running into you both, but I’m afraid I’m not the one on Holiday.” She waved a hand, looking between the two girls once more with a deciphering look. “If you’ll excuse me.”
Mrs. Featherington then walked past them and out the front doors. She disappeared from the frame and neither girl seemed able to fully look away from where she left.
“You shouldn’t have baited her,” Cressida said after a moment of silence.
“She was being unkind. And, honestly, very sexist.”
Cressida shook her head, reaching her hands back to tighten the ponytail that held up her hair. “She was right, you know. My parents have become desperate. They need…I need to marry.”
“You are twenty-two. Hardly a spinster.”
“It’s different for my family. Women meet their husbands at University. Surely, you must understand that. Accept that.
“I can understand it but not accept it.”
“Ah. Yes. Isn’t that just your very nature?” Cressida bit out.
Eloise wondered if her cheeks were red and felt even more in danger of blushing at the thought. She cleared her throat before asking, “Are we at the start of an argument? It can be difficult to tell.”
“I’d rather hope not. Not today. Not now,” Cressida said softly, before adding, “Eloise, I don’t wish to fight. Not when…the Summer is almost over.”
“The season matters very little. We both still have another year at Oxford,” Eloise said, trying not to betray the nerves that lit a fire under her skin. The anxiety of returning back to University and away from the safety of Bath had frequented Eloise’s thoughts. More than she could have ever fathomed at the beginning of Summer. “You’re in Juxton. I’m merely a ten-minute walk away. Five minutes if you jog.”
Cressida stared out of the large paneled window that revealed the street. There were a few cars stopped at the light. People, young and old, walking past. A set of parents pushed a baby in an emerald, green stroller. The two of them donned a smile that seemed to only be a window into their innate happiness. Cressida stood with her hands at her side, observing them while Eloise observed her.
Eloise reached a hand toward her. “Cressida?”
Cressida’s face was shuttered. Eloise tried to read it like one of her books, but she could not decipher the flat line of her lips and the distance in her pale eyes.
“Let’s finish our shopping,” Cressida said, finally tearing her gaze from the window. The smile she wore seemed to take great effort to muster. “I’m peckish.”
***
“It’s not as if I don’t want you,” Constantine said, puffing out smoke from his cigar.
The moon hung above them, yet there was only a sliver of light in the dark abyss of a sky. Like Constantine, it was forced to be there. Showing a sliver of what can be seen while watching the most beautiful woman dab a piece of cloth to her damp eyes.
“Must you speak so plainly that
Eloise stared at the bright screen of her laptop, tapping her fingers on the desk rather than the keyboard. She then lifted her hands to press the backspace button.
“Must you speak so brazenly that you care so little of its effect?”
“I care very
A harsh knock ceased Eloise’s typing. Another pounding noise reverberated through the space. Eloise ran a hand through her hair, making a mess of her combed bangs before making her way to the door.
Shock evaded Eloise when she saw Cressida standing out on the porch with thin-framed sunglasses. Eloise tried to summon exasperation, but the warm surprise of Cressida standing in front of her acted as a dam.
Eloise leaned her body against the doorframe. “Did the door hurt you in a past life?”
“I didn’t know if you were wearing your headphones,” Cressida said, walking past Eloise without invitation. “And I knew you weren’t expecting me.”
“Yes. Something — if I can paint an accurate recollection — you’ve chastised me for.”
“And now you get to chastise me. Equality takes hold. How splendid.”
“Less splendid for the bird on my mother’s roof. I have to imagine they’re rebuilding from the earthquake that is your knock.”
“I wanted to make sure you could hear me.”
“I heard you. And possibly families in Sydney, Australia, did as well.”
“Yes, yes. Very amusing.” Cressida waved a hand and then folded up her sunglasses to tuck in her white blouse. “I want us to go to the pub.”
Eloise paused. “The pub? We’ve never been to the pub.”
“Then don’t say I’ve never given you the opportunity for an adventure.”
Eloise started walking toward the tea kettle.
Cressida didn’t indicate she wanted any, but it was rare for her not to be drinking any in her own home. Eloise waited for the water to boil while digging through her cabinet for tea bags.
“I’ve been to the pub,” Eloise corrected her. “Also, I’m so close to finishing the manuscript.”
“Will you not have tomorrow to write? Or the day after?” Cressida asked.
Cressida’s lip was downturned with disappointment, however, the expression was far too sculpted.
“Is this manipulation? Am I being manipulated?”
Cressida shrugged. “Only if it works. So, please let it.”
Eloise plucked a tea bag from the pile of Earl Gray and peered at the kettle before looking back at Cressida. The other girl had migrated closer to the kitchen, before standing near the stove with Eloise.
“I wouldn’t have expected you to have interest in drinking cheap shots at some pub,” Eloise said, tapping her fingers on the counter. “Wouldn’t it be unladylike? A lack of decorum, you might say?”
“Yes. So, I must do it with you. If ever asked, I can blame it entirely on your influence.”
Eloise’s tone was bland when she said, “How persuasive.”
“I leave in a week. You, the next. I want us to have a night out. Is that a crime?”
Eloise’s heart thumped a bit quicker from Cressida’s words. It developed the habit when being reminded of the upcoming semester. She couldn’t even sleep the other night from the live wire energy of it. The fear. The worry.
Eloise didn’t know if Cressida felt the clock ticking in the same nervous way. She didn’t even know if Cressida cared at all but simply wanted to drink.
Eloise sighed, staring at the sill.
“I’m eating a sandwich before we go.”’
It had been turkey with mustard. Cressida ate more than half of it.
***
“I think you might be drunk,” Eloise laughed.
The action of giggling felt slippery. She felt unable to hold it like water. Cressida, her posture relaxed in the rarest way and eyes slightly glazed, was the fountain that her laughter was poured into.
“Well spotted! Well spotted!” Cressida exclaimed, clapping like Eloise was a Yorkshire who rolled over to show its stomach.
Eloise would never admit it, but she was slightly charmed by it.
“You’re just darling, you know that?” Cressida said as they wobbled on the cobblestone.
The girls had ridden in Eloise’s car toward the pub. Cressida drove through the dirt road, driving slower than thirty miles an hour, but Eloise parked outside of the pub. She had encouraged Cressida to try, but the blonde woman did not believe it was appropriate to add that to their lesson plan so early.
Eloise had a suspicion she merely just didn’t want to.
“And you’re a flatterer when a bit sloshed,” Eloise said.
The night air was cooler than the heat from the day. Eloise tilted her head back, closing her eyes as she swayed.
“Do you need a paperweight, Eloise Bridgerton? You look like you’ll blow away.”
“Not when you so rudely interrupt,” Eloise responded, attempting to ground her feet to steady herself.
When she opened her eyes, Eloise began to believe it could have been unwise to attempt an hour-long walk while the taste of cocktails was still on their breath. Yet Cressida’s grin ate up the girl’s face, so Eloise could not even find herself to be bothered. Besides, it was not as if either one of them could sit behind the wheel.
“You know, my father said you were the most impetuous girl in London, but I think you’re spectacular.”
Cressida’s head was lolling to the left and pronounced “impetuous” as “imm-perfect-us.”
Eloise wrapped an arm around Cressida, holding her upright while leaning into the warmth of another person.
“Well, lucky me to have never counted him in my fan club.”
“I’m scared, you know,” Cressida said, her words slurred and falling out of her mouth. “Of what will happen.”
Eloise’s steps slowed. “What will happen?”
“When we’re near each other with…oh.” Cressida tripped over a stone, but Eloise held onto her even tighter. Cressida leaned a head on Eloise’s shoulder before continuing, “Around those who are not in each other’s fan club.”
Cressida perked her head up, her eyes darting across Eloise’s face.
Eloise was fairly unsure of what her expression displayed, but she understood the tightness in her chest. She could comprehend the desire to push a hand through Cressida’s blonde curls and wrap the other girl even closer to herself.
“Fuck everyone else,” Eloise said.
Cressida’s eyes grew wet. To Eloise, it felt unbearable and imperative to watch.
“Do you mean that?” She asked, sounding small in a foreign way.
Eloise wanted to rectify that somberness. Cleanse that doubt.
She took hold of Cressida’s hand. Her thumb circled the palm before threading their fingers together. She gave it a slight squeeze and then held it to both of their chests. Their faces were inches apart, and puffs of breath met each other.
“Of course,” Eloise said.
Cressida squeezed Eloise’s hand back. Short and sweet.
“Fuck everyone else.”