Chapter Text
Cressida Cowper was many things.
Noble, which helped her gain access to all manner of social events. Wealthy, which resulted in a lot of frippery as well as some unfortunate fortune-hunters that would court her season after season. Pretty, but perhaps not beautiful like the Bridgertons (though seemingly nobody measured up to the Bridgertons in that arena). An incorrigible gossip, a trait she’d inherited from her mother. An only child, and that perhaps she had been feeling the effect of more and more each year as she remained unmarried.
What Cressida Cowper was not was liked. She knew that her gossiping and caustic tongue had kept her at an arm’s length from most of the other young ladies of the ton. Certainly they’d sip lemonade with her at balls, or smile at her prettily during promenade, but she wouldn’t name any of them friend. And she was rather ambitious, as well, and that obviously contributed to the other young ladies viewing her only as competition (which, admittedly, they were).
Her mother and father were not affectionate. They were proper in the extreme and for a long time Cressida took pride in that. Other members of the ton were too driven by passions and flights of fancy—her parents were practical. They certainly weren’t a love match, and there was no love lost in their marriage years later. Rather it was a daily proxy war—her father would limit his mother’s allowance, her mother would cancel dinner with the Earl of Windsor’s wife, her father would make a snide comment about Cressida’s lack of suitors, her mother would—
It was all rather never-ending, and it did seem like Cressida constantly came up short for both of them. Every attempt she made at a courtship—Colin Bridgerton, that Prussian prince, the new Lord Featherington—failed utterly, each for different reasons, many of them because they’d been inspired by some other lady. Cressida examined herself daily in her looking glass for any sign of blemish, and there never was. Eventually she began believing maybe there was something deeper in her, something dark, that had taken root, and when a man got too close he could sense it in her.
Cressida had a satisfactory if slightly dull summer. She commissioned four new dresses with the reams of silk her father had brought from Italy. She’d been able to escape from beneath her mother on four separate occasions and bought ribbons, on her own, from the town’s milliner. Perhaps most satisfactory of all—Eloise Bridgerton had come for tea.
Certainly at first this was another mark of competitive advantage. She’d remarked previously that Eloise had been weighing herself down with the youngest Featherington girl for too long. It seemed that Eloise had finally come to her senses and realized the stain could be blotted, and her reputation restored with proper company, regardless of what Lady Whistledown had written about her. And everyone just loved the Bridgertons, and within a fortnight not a soul was talking about Eloise’s little political peasant jaunts, especially after Lord Anthony got married to the Lady Kate. And Eloise had three eligible brothers, even if the youngest was barely out of short pants. This was an opportunity.
Except—
Except, well, Eloise wasn’t like any of the other young ladies that Cressida had been acquainted with. She was very strong-willed, which Cressida envied. Though sometimes too direct, she was a fantastic speaker, at least amongst the women. She was ambitious, too, though not ambitious like Cressida—she would never stop speaking about her disdain of the marriage mart and her desire for more (though, puzzlingly, Eloise didn’t seem to have any particular passions to pursue, even if she could, beyond reading and perhaps politics). She was sometimes holier-than-thou, but that was also a trait of Cressida’s—when you are better than other people, sometimes you realize that, and other people find that as lacking humility.
Eloise sometimes confided in Cressida, and for what reason Cressida had no idea, because it was obvious to everyone in the ton that the Cowpers would use any scrap of scandal for their own advantage.
But for once—even despite the obvious leverage!—Cressida minded her tongue. She’d felt hollow in the stomach when Eloise had reprimanded her for ruining Miss Featherington’s dress and taunting her. She wanted to be better, to illuminate and destroy this darkness that had been growing steadily inside her. So this little step—to not gossip, to not be wicked—just this once—felt good.
Certainly it did not feel good for Eloise to immediately assume that Cressida had been the one to reveal Miss Featherington’s situation. Obvious that she would think so, of course, but still, Cressida had thought Eloise thought better of her, given how much time they spent together.
Now, Cressida was realistic. She was not stupid. She understood that Eloise had a close friendship with Penelope Featherington for many, many years, and that Eloise needed a companion now that Miss Featherington had somehow come up short. She knew she was being measured in every way to Miss Featherington. That was, perhaps, why she initially pursued Lord Debling, even with her mother’s encouragement. A way of showing Miss Featherington that she was easily replaced—after all, what did Miss Featherington have to offer? Miss Featherington was quiet as a dormouse, a third daughter, and half the beauty that Eloise Bridgerton was—perhaps before this season at least.
“Cressida,” said her mother sharply, breaking Cressida from her reverie. She smiled serenely at her mother and sipped from her wine. “Any progress with Lord Debling?”
Her father was present at this dinner for once. He glanced down at his daughter, and Cressida swallowed heavily.
Progress with Lord Debling. Well, he’d obviously broken off his fascination with Miss Featherington. He’d danced a set with her before leaving abruptly. But her mother knew all that.
“His journey begins in a month’s time,” her mother said. “He must be secured before then.”
“He mentioned attending Lord Bixby’s salon for Mr. Lamarck’s nature presentation this Friday.” Cressida put her fork down and sat up straight. “I was invited to his daughter’s tea for earlier that afternoon.”
Her mother sighed. “I can’t attend on Friday. Your father is hosting his business partners for an important dinner.”
“I can attend with his daughter, Mama, you needn’t come,” Cressida said, willing her face to be placid and trustworthy. “It might be more suspicious if you do come, as though we set it up.”
Her mother waved a hand in the air. “Just get it done, Cressida.”
Her father didn’t say a word to her, though that was not outside the norm. Cressida was excused from dinner. Her maid took down her complicated hair dressing and put her in her nightgown.
In the dark Cressida contemplated the ceiling.
None of the men she had ever engaged in courtship with had inspired any passion in her—besides an obvious burning feeling of competition. Perhaps it was because they never spent enough time with her, and she was constantly remolding herself to their standards. But Lord Debling didn’t seemingly need passion. He would be gone most of the year, a giant estate for Cressida to manage, and Cressida didn’t need to feel a thing for him. She wouldn’t have to be courted ever again—she could live out her days free from under the thumb of her mother, free of the pressure of competing against other young ladies of the ton, free to pursue—well, what she wished, which, she didn’t quite know what that would be yet, she hadn’t thought about that, but—
The idea of being friends with Eloise without the specter of competition made something warm bloom in her chest. She thought of having Eloise over, of enjoying tea, of listening to Eloise speak about her dreams and her ambition, of sitting with Eloise in her very own sitting room, undisturbed by men or their families— or Miss Featherington.
She grabbed her blankets in her fists, willed herself to breathe calmly. She couldn’t get overexcited. This was a major opportunity and she would not let some other lady snatch it from her just moments from the finish line. Not this time.
Miss Beatrice Bixby was exceedingly dull. It was her second season out, but clearly felt very little pressure since she had two older brothers and an older sister already wed. Instead she threw tea party after tea party. Privately, and perhaps meanly, Cressida thought she did so because it would give the other young ladies a place to gossip–they certainly weren’t seeking Miss Bixby out just for her company. If that stung of familiarity to Cressida, she kept that to herself.
Cressida knew why she was invited. She was a fine source of gossip. It would keep the other girls coming back. So gossip she would provide.
“You didn’t hear about that? I thought it common knowledge that her father was a lawyer.”
“Oh, but they’re both pregnant, at the same time! Clearly a ploy for the lordship.”
“The marquess has already departed for Manchester–business dealings there, I’ve heard. Not wonderful timing for the Queen’s Diamond, no?”
The tea party was winding down, and Cressida watched as Miss Bixby wrung her hands, watching as the ladies started to depart.
“Miss Bixby,” Cressida said suddenly. Miss Bixby jumped at being directly addressed. “Won’t you show me your china collection? I’ve heard it’s quite fine.”
It turns out that Miss Bixby was quite eager to show off her china collection, and her miniature collection, and her father’s butterfly collection. Eloise had called Cressida’s house a museum but the Bixbys surely had enough trinkets for multiple seasons of exhibits. Cressida was not very experienced at not dominating a conversation, but she gently prodded Miss Bixby for scrap after scrap, with one eye on the clock.
“Oh! But it’s nearly six!” exclaimed Miss Bixby after showing Cressida her stamp book.
“You jest! Oh no! My family dines at half past five,” said Cressida. “Oh, I’ve missed it!”
“Then you’ll dine with us,” said Miss Bixby. “It’s no trouble.”
“Well, only if it’s no trouble.” Cressida feigned realization. “But what of your father’s salon?”
“Oh, that’s not until seven! You’ll leave just before it starts.”
The Bixbys needed a new cook, but surely Cressida was not going to inform them of that fact. She listened carefully for the ticking of the clock, chewed every bite just enough, smiled and charmed her way through dinner, and when it was a quarter to seven she excused herself to call her carriage.
The footman shifted from side-to-side, watching Cressida peer out into the street for the incoming carriages. Men began to disembark and find their way into the house, tipping their hats briefly at her. She impatiently curtsied at each one.
Finally, she recognized the Debling carriage rumbling up the way. She scurried into the Bixby house, took a deep breath, and made her way back down the steps, ignoring the stares of the butler and footmen.
Lord Debling’s footman opened his carriage door, and he emerged–catching Cressida’s gaze at the precisely right moment.
“Lord Debling! Why, how lovely.”
“Miss Cowper,” he said slowly, stepping down and bowing slightly to her. She dipped, smiling demurely.
“You did mention coming to Lord Bixby’s salon,” Cressida said. “Mr. Lamarck is giving a talk on–on invertebrates, was it?”
“Indeed,” said Lord Debling. She saw his gaze go over her shoulder, clearly intending on walking past her. She cleared her throat.
“I did hope I would see you before the next big society engagement,” she said quickly. His gaze went back to her briefly.
“It is lovely to see you as well, Miss Cowper. If you’ll excuse–”
Something leapt up Cressida’s throat, and it felt a lot like panic. “The Bixbys are very good friends of my family. If you’re connected with them. If you see them beyond just the science salons.”
Lord Debling sighed. “Not particularly. I’m not very popular in the ton beyond my obvious interests.”
“I’m not popular either,” said Cressida suddenly, and that got his attention. She swallowed, feeling adrenaline rush through her. She’d gotten something right. “People only act as though they like me. I think I’m a bit too ambitious. Or maybe I’m a bit mean.”
That surprised a laugh out of him, and he stifled it quickly. She smiled, just a shock of it, at her good fortune. He liked honesty. She could do that. “Lord Debling, I apologize if I am being too frank.”
“I appreciate frankness,” said Lord Debling. “I don’t think I’ve seen much of it–not just from you, but from anyone in high society.”
“If you’ll forgive me, then–I’ll keep being honest with you.” She pinched her palm behind her back, a nervous habit. “Lord Debling, do you have any intention of courting me?”
His eyebrows shot up his forehead. “Miss Cowper–”
“I think you are a very practical man, Lord Debling,” said Cressida quickly. “You are embarking on your journey soon, and intend on being away for long periods of time. Let me be–perhaps–perhaps too clear. I am from a good, noble family. I would represent you very well in your absence. And I think–”
“Miss Cowper,” said Lord Debling firmly. Cressida stopped short, feeling her ears burn. She’d gone too far, as she always had. “I appreciate your candor, as I appreciated you telling me the truth about Miss Featherington and Mr. Bridgerton. Beyond that, I am unsure if we are compatible, but that is no poor reflection on you–”
“Please,” she said quietly. She balled her fists and forced herself to meet his gaze, knowing he could see her intensity. “Lord Debling. I know you are here for only a few more weeks. If you would–meet me for one promenade. I think–and I know this is bold, but I think you owe me a favor. You could have married Miss Featherington without knowing the truth.”
He stared at her for a long moment before sighing and rubbing a hand over his beard. “That is a fact,” he said. “Miss Cowper, I do not leave debts unpaid, but I also do not want to make you any false promises.”
“You have promised nothing,” she said. “I have promised nothing. It is a promenade.”
“A promenade,” he repeated, and there was a bare hint of a smile. “You are rather conniving, aren’t you?”
There was no use denying it. Especially if she was going to be wed to this man. “You said you appreciate my candor,” she said, and that made him chuckle. “Sir, I am tired of the marriage mart. I have tried every card in my hand except honesty.”
“I expect only honesty from you on our walk then,” said Lord Debling. He bowed to her. “Tomorrow, then. I’ll come calling.”
“Tomorrow, then,” she said, and couldn’t keep herself from beaming. He returned a tight smile and walked past her, into the house. She let herself clench her fists in success and ignored the continued stares of the servants.
Cressida stayed up late, waiting for her mother’s dinner to finish. It was half past 10 when her mother was gliding past Cressida’s door to her own bedchambers–and Cressida halted her to tell her the good news.
Unfortunately that meant Cressida then had to rise at six in the morning so her maid and her mother could dress her to their exact specifications.
“I can’t look too prepared,” Cressida said. “He likes honesty.”
“And you will look honestly perfect,” sniped her mother. “We cannot give him a single reason to not be completely charmed by you.”
Often her mother’s aesthetic preferences and hers aligned–and were much maligned by the ton for being over-the-top. She gently ushered her mother towards something with smaller shoulders–her image of Miss Featherington’s new look in mind–and she wore a demure pink gown with green floral accents.
She sat perfectly still in the sitting-room, and promptly at ten, the butler came in to announce Lord Debling’s arrival. Her mother accompanied them with her maid as chaperone, and attempted to engage Lord Debling in conversation on their walk over, but he was, as always, a little reticent in the face of Cowper intensity.
They had been exchanging small talk about the park while on promenade for a few minutes when Cressida became impatient.
“Lord Debling, I think we should engage in some honesty again,” she said firmly, startling him visibly. “What are you looking for in a wife?”
He hesitated for only a moment before gamely answering. “I thought I had found most of what I needed in Miss Featherington,” he said quietly, and Cressida’s ears began ringing. She held her tongue. “I may be rethinking what it is that I need.”
“What did she have that you liked?” Cressida pressed. He sighed.
“I would like a wife who can occupy herself while I am on my various expeditions. That enough is obvious. A woman with a full life, that I can hopefully only add to, instead of decrease.” He was quiet for a moment. “I would like a wife who is faithful to me. Without interest in another man.”
“Seems like a rather low bar to clear, sir, if you ask me,” murmured Cressida and he shook his head.
“It’s a lot to ask of a woman, especially one that dreams of love. I’m not saying I wouldn’t be fond of my wife–I hope that I would be–but my home in England would not be my priority. I would need a wife that could maintain a home, family, and legacy that would not feel–neglected, or ignored by me.”
Cressida stayed quiet, measuring her words very carefully. “My family has always expected a lot of me, and raised me to meet those high expectations. As you can imagine there is a lot of pressure. I desire to manage a home of my own. While I’m not consumed by the hobbies that other ladies do–embroidery, or reading, or painting–I do love to participate in society. I love to know just a little bit about everyone. And what I dream about–is–” Measure your honesty. Careful of how much you give him. “–an independent life. I do not dream of a love match, sir, I never have. And in pursuit of complete honesty, I can tell you…” He looked at her very seriously and she strengthened her resolve.
“I will never have interest in another man,” Cressida said. “I will promise you that.”
He regarded her, and offered her his arm. She took it quickly, was careful to not grasp at him too tightly as she waited for his response.
“Perhaps this could work, then,” he said slowly, and Cressida felt a jolt of triumph rocket through her.
The following morning Lord Debling called on her father for his permission to propose. By that evening, Cressida was an engaged woman.
Her parents celebrated by having Lord Debling over for dinner, where her mother made grandiose plans for an engagement party. Pursuing harmony with her fiancé, Cressida demurred, emphasizing that they wanted to be married quickly, and wanted to apply for the common license as soon as they could, given the impending journey. Her father announced that he’d go with her and Lord Debling to the bishop in the morning.
“But we’ll spare no expense on the wedding breakfast, of course,” said her mother, and Cressida couldn’t protest that. She rather would have had the engagement party after all, maybe see the faces of the ton regard her victory, but–
Was that cruel? Was that greedy? There really was only one face she wanted to see, to hear about her success.
After Lord Debling departed, and her mother nodded her goodnight, Cressida dismissed her maid and waited until the house was quiet. Then she did something that she’d never done before, and snuck out of the house.
She wrapped herself tightly in her favorite cloak and paid the footman a guinea for his silence and to bring her to Grosvenor Square. The Bridgertons didn’t live far, per se, but they certainly weren’t on the block.
“For Miss Eloise Bridgerton,” Cressida said to the confused footman, her voice wobbly with excitement. “I’ll just be a moment.”
He took her into the foyer but an announcement wasn’t necessary. Eloise walked briskly towards the stairs, her head down, not even noticing Cressida.
“Eloise!” she said, and Eloise’s head popped up. Her furrowed brow blanched into shock.
“Cressida! I–what are you doing here?” She walked slowly down the stairs towards Cressida. “I’m so sorry, but this isn’t a great time–”
“I have wonderful news,” Cressida burst out. Eloise gave her a tight smile.
“Yeah, thought you’d be happy about that. Lord Debling not marrying Penelope. You probably had something to do with it, didn’t you? Only you see it’s uncovered something terrible.” Cressida felt something in the pit of her stomach again–that cold, dark feeling. Penelope Featherington again. She focused on Eloise’s face which was twisted in confusion and pain. “Colin’s got it in his head that he’s marrying her. That he’s in love with Penelope.”
“Well–”
“That Penelope is in love with him! That she’s been in love with him for ages!”
“Now, Eloise, honestly–”
“He barely knows her! Not like I do! I know what she’s done.” Eloise threw her hands up in consternation. “Just because they’ve exchanged some letters! I thought he was helping her get married, but not to him, then why would he help her in the first place?” Cressida’s stomach twisted further. “He has no idea what he’s going to be marrying into. Cressida, if you only knew–”
“Anyone with eyes knows that Penelope Featherington is in love with Colin Bridgerton,” Cressida said, feeling very separate from her body. Her voice sounded cold. Eloise stopped short. “You’re right. I did have something to do with it. Lord Debling apparently didn’t notice that the two of them stare after each other at every event, so I informed him of it. She’s been staring at him for years.”
Eloise gaped at her. “And you didn’t say anything to me?”
“You’re supposed to be smart, Eloise!” Cressida exclaimed. “Isn’t that your entire foundation? That you’re so above the rest of us fools with marriage on the mind? You don’t even notice your dearest friend pining after your own brother?”
“I–” Eloise had gone very pale. “Well, I–I didn’t think–I didn’t think Colin would ever–”
“Did you think like the rest of us? That he would never look twice at her?” Cressida felt it coming, an unstoppable train on a track. “I know that I’m cruel, but you are too. Let me get out what I came here to say. I’m getting married to Lord Debling.” Eloise’s face drained of any remaining color. Cressida felt something hot behind her eyes and she gritted her teeth hard. “That’s right. Thought I’d get some sort of congratulations, maybe even annoyingly you’d express relief that I’d stop talking about trying to find a husband. I suppose asking you to stop talking about Penelope Featherington for one moment was too much to ask.”
“Cressida,” said Eloise, her voice very faint. Cressida felt the heat burn hotter and she scrunched up her nose to fight off the inevitable.
“You were the only person I wanted to tell,” Cressida bit out. The heat was creeping up her throat now. “I know I am a poor replacement for Penelope in your eyes. She’s going to be your sister, now, so I suppose–well, it doesn’t matter.” She sniffed hard. “I’m going to be the Lady Debling. We can go back to how it was, with your poorly veiled disdain for me and all I stand for. Good evening.”
Cressida swept away. She couldn’t hear anything Eloise said, or if there were any attempt to follow her, because the ringing in her ears and the heat in her eyes was too intense. As soon as she was enclosed in the dark of her carriage, she let the heat spill over and she hiccuped out gasping sobs. Even as she succumbed to the relief of her tears, she couldn’t help but feel one final triumph: she hadn’t cried in front of Eloise Bridgerton.