Chapter Text
Eloise Bridgerton’s ennui had progressed beyond what could reasonably be ignored. She had long entertained the suspicion that most people married, and promptly produced children, simply to give their days a shape. Something to point to when asked what they had been doing with themselves. This theory held admirably until she discovered that a surprising number of these devoted parents saw their offspring for no more than half an hour a day, usually when the governess judged them fit for exhibition.
What she had not yet discovered was what she herself was meant to be doing instead.She had once believed she might write. The idea lingered still, though less comfortably than before. Penelope’s success had introduced an unfortunate element of comparison, and Colin’s enthusiasm only sharpened the unease. Failure was one thing; discovering that one had nothing of consequence to say was quite another.
Then came the years that slipped past without ceremony. Not marriageable, not accomplished, but not yet dismissed either. One was still invited. One was still tolerated. One was, unmistakably, expected to wait. Eloise did not excel at waiting.
It was during this period that she made an unexpected discovery. She was, in fact, rather good at teaching. Her education, while never intended for practical use, proved stubbornly useful when her nieces and nephews were placed within reach. Lessons began accidentally and continued with alarming regularity. Questions were asked. Answers supplied. Understanding achieved. Eloise found she derived a quiet satisfaction from the process.She liked it.
Becoming a governess was, of course, out of the question. Her brothers would never permit it, and even if they did, Eloise doubted she could endure taking orders in another household with anything resembling grace. Still, she taught where she was allowed.
Anthony, who noticed more than he let on, began to seek her assistance with his eldest. Mathematics, up to a point. History, Geography, Grammar and other subjects with more trust. The first option would have been Kate herself, but being a viscountess left her with enough time to just enjoy her children.
It was around that time, over tea, that Anthony was speaking with his wife in the manner they reserved for matters that were not meant to be important and therefore always were. Kate, smiling faintly, her back straight not touching the back of the seat.
“I wonder,” she said almost in a whisper, “why it has not become a greater scandal.”
Eloise, who had just liberated a scone from the tray without ceremony, paused. “Why should there be a scandal?”
“There was a divorce granted in Parliament.” Kate’s answered matter of factly.
“A what?” Eloise blinked.
“A very quiet one,” Anthony said, continuing. “As these things must be. Do you remember Marina Thompson?”
“I do,” Eloise said at once. “It is more curious that you do.”
“She was almost married to Colin,”Anthony said to Kate, delicately.
“I would not phrase it so generously,” Eloise replied. “And she is the one divorcing?” Eloise asked, narrowing her eyes.
“She went abroad for her health some time ago. Did not return.”
“She had children.” Eloise was marveled, a divorce...
“They remain with their father.” There was a pause, brief but telling.
“Miss Thompson was very much admired in her season. But she retired to the country years ago, and Sir Phillip has not been in London in even longer.” Continued Anthony giving context to Kate. Eloise said nothing, she picked at her scone.
“So,” she said finally, “Lady Crane is simply… gone.”
“That is the understanding.” Anthony met her gaze.
The weeks that followed were unremarkable in every respect. Calls were made. Teas attended. Conversations drifted through the usual topics without arriving anywhere of consequence.
Eloise helped her nieces and nephews with their sums. She read. She walked in the park and critiqued the latest fashions with Hyacinth, who she had begun to find middle ground with. The Season progressed in its predictable rhythms.
She found herself thinking about Marina Thompson at odd moments. Not the scandal itself, which had been Colin's disaster more than anyone else's. But the fact that Marina had simply left. Legally.
It was an odd thing to admire. And yet Eloise could not shake the feeling that there was something courageous in it. Marina had looked at her life, at the marriage she had entered out of necessity, at the future that stretched before her, and had chosen to walk away. She could not help a flicker of respect for a woman who had refused to simply endure.
She had tea with Penelope once during this period. Eloise had forgiven Penelope for the betrayal of their friendship. Or she had tried to. But forgiveness was not the same as forgetting, and some things, once broken, could not be made whole again. Penelope had also nearly ruined Marina Thompson all those years ago. Had exposed her in the most public, most damaging way possible, when Marina had been desperate and alone and trying to survive. And now Marina was gone. Living somewhere abroad under an arrangement that let everyone pretend she had never existed at all.
Eloise could not quite separate these two facts in her mind. Could not stop wondering whether Penelope ever thought about Marina. Whether she regretted it. Whether she even remembered. She did not ask. They drank their tea and parted cordially, and Eloise walked home feeling more tired than she had before.
When Benedict's letter arrived inviting her to visit My Cottage, she accepted without hesitation. She always did. Benedict's home was the one place where she was not expected to be anything other than herself.
Benedict's cottage was smaller than Bridgerton House, though "cottage" was a generous term for a residence with twelve rooms and a conservatory. It suited him. Books stacked on every surface. Half-finished canvases leaning against walls. Evidence of a life lived without the constant pressure of social performance. Eloise felt herself breathe more easily within an hour of arrival.
Benedict's children helped. The three boys were energetic and curious, always underfoot, asking questions and demanding stories. The baby, Violet, was still in the nursery most of the time, though Eloise visited her there and found herself oddly charmed by the small creature.
Sophie watched this with quiet amusement one afternoon as Eloise sat explaining something about the solar system to the eldest while the younger two built a precarious tower of books nearby. "You're very good with them."
"They're easy," Eloise said. Benedict made a face at Sophie. Their boys weren't easy.
They fell into comfortable rhythms. Long walks. Conversations that wandered wherever they pleased. Benedict had always been the sibling most willing to let her simply be. It was on the third evening, over wine after the children had been put to bed, that the subject of their childhood arose. Sophie was telling Eloise about her own unusual-but-usual upbringing. And as with everyone who had a childhood like theirs, there was a story about a governess.
"Did I ever tell you about Mrs. Fairfax?" Benedict asked Eloise.
"Rings a bell, but I honestly don't remember," Eloise said.
"You wouldn't. You were barely walking. But she had the most extraordinary speech impediment. Couldn't pronounce her 'r's properly at all."
"And this matters because...?" Eloise asked, raising an eyebrow ready to defend a woman she didn’t know.
"Because she insisted on teaching me French," Benedict said. "For three years. My accent was ruined for life. I still can't say 'arreter' without sounding like I'm gargling."
"It's true. His French is appalling." Sophie laughed.
"Thank you, darling, very supportive," Benedict said. "I went to Paris once and a shopkeeper asked if I was German."
They reminisced for a while, trading stories of the succession of nurses and governesses who had passed through Bridgerton House. Most had been kind. A few had been incompetent. All had been, in retrospect, remarkably patient.
"Though I suppose we were manageable," Benedict said, refilling his glass. "Well. Most of us."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Eloise asked.
"Madame Bissette," said Benedict as if the name alone told the story.
"She was not qualified to teach," Eloise said immediately.
"She lasted six weeks," Benedict said to Sophie. "You made her cry twice. Once over the proper way to enter a room, and once over... What was it? Needlepoint?"
"She said a woman's worth could be measured by the evenness of her stitches," Eloise said. "I was making a philosophical point," she said to Sophie in a more even tone.
"By needling a bad word in a pillow?"
"It was effective."
"It was mutiny, and I ended with a long letter from mother, angry for teaching you those words," Benedict said indignantly, but he was grinning. "Still. Compared to what is said about the Crane twins, you were practically biddable."
"The Crane children?" asked Eloirse.
"Mmm. Sir Phillip's estate is only a few miles from here. The children are... well. Local legend, really. They've sent three governesses fleeing in the past year alone. The last one didn't make it a fortnight."
"Children aren't unmanageable," Eloise said at once.
"These ones might be. And that's coming from someone who once barricaded herself in the library to avoid dancing lessons." Benedict raised an eyebrow.
"That was different. I had principles."
"I'm sure these children think they do too."
"Children respond to their circumstances. If they're difficult, it's because something is wrong, not because they're innately monstrous."
"Perhaps," Benedict said mildly. "Though the local consensus is that they're quite impossible. No one will take the position anymore."
Eloise frowned. The information from Anthony's tea returned, not as abstract London gossip but concrete, local reality.
"What happened to their mother?" she asked, though she already knew.
"Went abroad for her health some time ago. Didn't return." Benedict's tone was carefully neutral. "There was a quiet divorce. Very unusual. Parliament granted it."
"I heard something about that in London," Eloise said.
"Did you?" Benedict looked at her with mild curiosity. "I didn't realize you paid attention to that sort of gossip."
"I don't, usually." Then she said to Sophie, "She was nearly married to Colin. Marina Thompson. Before she was Lady Crane."
Understanding crossed Sophie's face, though she said nothing.
"The children," Eloise said finally. "What are they like?"
"I've only seen them at a distance. Wild, from what I heard. The boy climbs everything. The girl bites. Or perhaps it's the other way around. In any case, no one can manage them,” Benedict was that type of person that knew things because people just told them to him, she should know. He was her to go sibling.
The walk to the village was longer than Eloise remembered, though Benedict's eldest seemed to consider this an advantage. He darted ahead with his brothers, pointing out birds and interesting rocks with the enthusiasm of someone who had never been required to sit still more than ten minutes at a time.
Eloise had always loved the country. Even as a girl, when the family would retreat to Aubrey Hall after the Season ended, she had felt something loosen in her chest the moment they left London behind. The city was all crowds and schedules and being looked at. The country was space. Room to breathe. Room to run without someone telling you it was unbecoming.
She remembered racing across fields with Benedict and Colin, mud on her skirts, her hair coming loose from its pins. How glorious it had felt to simply move without consequence.
The village was small and charming. A church, few shops, and houses. The sort of place where everyone knew everyone, and strangers were noted immediately.
Eloise had a letter for Francesca. It had taken her three attempts to write it. Widowhood was still so recent, and Eloise had no idea what to say that wouldn't sound either dismissive or… morbid. In the end, she had settled for brief and factual. An offer to visit. An acknowledgment that grief was complicated.
The post office was a single room with a counter, a sorting desk, and a notice board on the wall. When Eloise entered with Benedict's boys, there was already a woman at the counter, middle aged and neatly dressed with the composed manner of someone who managed a large household. Two children stood near the notice board.
The boy was systematically removing pins from the lower notices and reinserting them slightly crooked. The girl had taken down someone's advertisement entirely and was folding it into some kind of shape.
"Oliver, put those back," the woman said without turning around. "Amanda, that is not yours."
"I'm making it better," Amanda said. "It says missing cat. If I fold it into a cat shape, more people will notice it."
"The owner of that notice did not ask for your improvements."
"They should have," Amanda muttered.
Oliver had moved on from the pins and was now testing whether the notice board was securely mounted by pulling on one corner.
"It's loose."
"Oliver,” said the woman.
"It’s…"
"Stop observing and stand still."
"What are you doing?" Benedict's eldest had wandered over.
"Testing structural integrity," Oliver said seriously. "This board is attached very poorly. Look." He demonstrated by pulling on the corner. The entire board shifted.
"Can I try?" Benedict's boy asked.
"No, you may not," Eloise said firmly before Oliver could respond.
"I'm placing another notice," Mrs. Henley said to the postmaster. "Governess position. Romney Hall."
The postmaster glanced at the paper she'd written. "Another one, Mrs. Henley?"
"Another one."
Amanda had abandoned the cat advertisement and was now examining the other notices with Benedict's middle boy peering over her shoulder.
"This one has three spelling errors."
"Really?" the boy asked, interested. "Which ones?" Amanda pointed.
"See? 'Miscellaneous' is wrong, and 'available' has too many Ls."
"How do you know that?"
"Because I can read," Amanda said, as though this were obvious. "Can't you?"
"Of course I can read. I just don't notice when things are spelled wrong."
"That seems like an oversight."
"Amanda, stop correcting the village notices," Mrs. Henley said without turning around.
One of the pins Oliver had removed earlier rolled off the counter and across the floor, chased immediately by Benedict's youngest, who thought this was a game and kicked it. It came to rest near Eloise's foot.
"Oh. Sorry," said the small child, his disposition similar to his mother. Eloise picked it up. All five children had somehow migrated toward her, forming a small cluster.
"Are those your sons?" Amanda asked, looking at Benedict's boys.
"My nephews."
"Oh." Amanda studied them with open curiosity. "Do you live here?"
"I'm visiting my brother," Eloise said.
"Is he important?"
"He's an artist."
“What does he paint?" Oliver looked interested.
"Landscapes, mostly. Sometimes portraits."
"Our father studies plants," Amanda said. "He has a greenhouse with specimens from all over the world. He brought one back from India that only blooms at night."
"That sounds fascinating," Eloise said.
"Though he won't let us touch most of them. He says we're destructive," said Oliver.
"Are you?" Benedict's eldest asked.
“Accidentally," Oliver considered.
"We broke three pots last month," Amanda added. "But only because we were trying to reorganize them by species. Father had them arranged by height, which makes no scientific sense."
"Third governess this year," the postmaster was saying to Mrs. Henley.
"Third," she confirmed, her voice tight. "The last one stayed nearly two months," she lied.
"We made her cry," Amanda said to the group at large, as though this was a simple fact. "But only twice."
"Amanda," Mrs. Henley said sharply.
"Well, we did. Though the second time wasn't entirely our fault. Oliver didn't mean to put the frog on her desk."
"It was supposed to be educational," Oliver explained to Benedict's boys, who were listening with rapt attention. "Frogs are amphibians. She should have been interested."
"She wasn't interested," Amanda said. "She was alarming. That's different."
"Why did she cry the first time?" Benedict's middle boy asked.
"We hid all her books," Oliver said. "We were testing whether she'd actually look for them or just give up."
"She gave up," Amanda added. "After twenty minutes. And cried."
"That doesn't seem very kind." Eloise found herself torn between disapproval and reluctant amusement.
"It wasn't," Amanda agreed readily. "But she kept saying we needed discipline and structure, and we wanted to see if she actually had any methods or if she was just saying words."
"She was just saying words," Oliver concluded.
"Do you like frogs?" Benedict's youngest asked Oliver.
"Yes, they transform."
"I like them too."
"We should be friends, then," kids thought Eloise.
Mrs. Henley had concluded her business with the postmaster and turned to find all five children clustered around Eloise, talking over each other about frogs and Latin and spelling errors. She crossed the room quickly.
“I'm so sorry. They've disrupted your errand."
"They haven't," Eloise said. "We were just talking."
"They're very good at talking," Mrs. Henley said dryly. "It's the listening that proves difficult." She placed a hand on each twin's shoulder. "Come along. We've taken enough of this lady's time."
"But she knows Latin," Amanda protested.
"I'm sure she has better things to do than discuss it with you."
"Actually, I don't mind…" Eloise began.
"You're very kind," Mrs. Henley said, but there was a weariness in her tone that suggested she'd heard kind platitudes before. "But we really must be going. Say goodbye, children."
"Goodbye," Oliver and Amanda chorused, though Amanda added, "It was very nice meeting people who know things."
Mrs. Henley's expression flickered with something that might have been embarrassment or resignation. "Amanda, that's rude."
"I didn't mean it rudely. I meant it factually."
"Out. Now."
She steered them toward the door with practiced efficiency, offering Eloise a brief, apologetic nod as they left. Through the window, Eloise watched them disappear down the street. Eloise handed her letter to the postmaster.
"Those were the Crane children?" She ventures to guess from the conversation the woman was having under the children's one.
"Yes, miss. Sir Phillip's twins." He nodded.
"They seemed bright," she said, roaming through her purse.
"Oh, they're clever enough. Too clever by half, if you ask me." He took her coin. "It's the minding that's the trouble."
Eloise collected Benedict's boys and headed back toward My Cottage.
But as they walked, she kept thinking about Amanda's ink-stained fingers and Oliver's earnest interest in “structural integrity”. About the way they'd both perked up when asked questions. About Amanda asking if she could read Latin, as though testing whether Eloise might be someone worth knowing.
They were mischievous, certainly. Deliberately so if one was being honest. But underneath it was something else. Intelligence without outlet. Energy without direction. And no one staying long enough to give them either.
That evening at dinner, Sophie asked about the trip to the village.
"Uneventful," Eloise said. "Posted my letter. The boys were very helpful," she said, seeing the oldest one chest puffing with pride.
"We met other children," Benedict's middle son announced. "They knew about frogs."
"And spelling," added the eldest one. "I liked them. They were interesting."
"They pulled the notice board off the wall," the youngest added, which was an exaggeration.
"Were they supervised?" Sophie looked concerned.
"Their housekeeper was there," Eloise said. "She seemed... capable."
"She'd have to be," Benedict said, knowing immediately which kids those were.
"Poor things," Sophie said softly. "To lose their mother and then have no stability..."
"You spoke with them, then? The children?" Benedict was watching her with that particular expression he got when he was trying to figure something out.
"Briefly. They asked if I knew Latin."
"Did they?"
"Amanda did."
"And do you?"
"Some," she admitted, she had told Amanda most of the Latin she remembered.
"I'm sure that impressed her. She struck you as bright, then?" Benedict smiled faintly.
"Very." Eloise paused. "They both did. Oliver was examining the “structural integrity” of the notice board. Amanda was correcting spelling errors. They admitted to hiding their last governess's books to test whether she'd look for them or give up."
"Good Lord," Sophie said, hiding a smile behind her napkin.
"They're not malicious, entirely…" Eloise said. "They're conducting experiments. Testing hypotheses. They're using the scientific method, just... badly applied."
"Well," Benedict said. "That’s slightly dangerous that just being difficult. The poor governesses trying to teach them not just have to survive mischief but scientific observation."
"If they are trying to teach them," Eloise said. "From what I gathered, most of them are just trying to survive them."
"For what you say, something must be sticking," said Sophie with her kind demeanor.
"Yes, I think they're understimulated." Eloise set down her fork. "They're bright children with no outlet and no consistent guidance. Of course they misbehave. What else are they supposed to do?"
Benedict and Sophie exchanged a look.
"You sound rather invested for a five minute conversation in a post office," Benedict observed.
"I'm not invested. I'm observing." Eloise picked up her fork again.
"Mmm."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing at all," Benedict said, but he was smiling.
The conversation moved on, but Eloise found she couldn't quite let it go. Later, alone in her room, she stood at the window looking out at the dark countryside.
She didn't pity the Crane children. Pity was useless. Pity was what people offered when they had no intention of actually doing anything. When they didn’t know what to say about your dead husband…
But she did think someone should do something. And she was beginning to suspect that someone might be her.
Eloise spent the next two days pretending she was not thinking about the kids. She read. She walked. She played with Benedict's boys and admired the baby. She helped Sophie with some mending, which was unusual enough that Sophie asked if she was feeling well.
"Perfectly well," Eloise said, stabbing the needle through fabric with more force than necessary. Sophie smiled but didn't press further.
The problem was simpler than Eloise wanted to admit. She had got stuck in her head that she should and could do something.
She considered, briefly, simply calling at Romney Hall. Presenting herself. Offering her services… help? in person. But the more she thought about it, the more absurd it seemed. She had no introduction. No connection beyond the fact that she had met the children once in a post office. And some passing and awkward connections that were better left unsaid. Appearing on Sir Phillip Crane's doorstep uninvited to announce she wished to teach his children would be... well, deeply strange.
A letter! At least, gave him the option to decline without awkwardness. And to think her completely mad in private. Eloise went to her room and sat at the small writing desk by the window. She pulled out a sheet of paper and stared at it for a long moment. This was ridiculous. She picked up her pen.
Sir Phillip Crane,
I hope you will forgive the presumption of this letter. We have not been introduced, though you may recall my brother Colin Bridgerton, who I believe called at Romney Hall some time, years ago. I am Miss Eloise Bridgerton, currently visiting my brother Benedict, whose estate lies a few miles south of yours.
I write to you on a matter which I am aware may seem unusual, and I beg you will not take offense at what may appear to be an overreach on my part.
She paused. This already sounded ridiculous. But there was no way to make it sound less ridiculous, so she might as well continue.
I recently encountered your children in the village post office. This meeting was entirely by chance, and brief, but I confess it has remained in my thoughts. They struck me as exceptionally intelligent children who are perhaps not being stimulated appropriately.
Too judgmental. She crossed out the last sentence and tried again.
They struck me as exceptionally intelligent children.
I understand from local conversation that you have had some difficulty retaining a governess. I also understand this is entirely your private concern and none of my business whatsoever.
She stopped. Read it back. It sounded like she was apologizing for writing the letter while still writing it.
She crumpled the paper and started fresh.
Sir Phillip Crane,
I am Miss Eloise Bridgerton. You may recall my brother Colin Bridgerton calling at Romney Hall some time past. I am currently staying with my other brother, Mr. Benedict Bridgerton, whose estate lies nearby.
I write to you regarding a matter which I am aware is presumptuous, but which I hope you will at least consider before dismissing entirely.
I met your children recently in the village. I have some experience teaching my nieces and nephews, and I believe I might be of use in assisting with their education on a temporary basis while you seek more permanent arrangements.
I am not a professional governess, nor do I seek employment. I am, as already stated, visiting my brother with no fixed plans for my return to London. If it would be helpful to you, I would be willing to spend some weeks working with the children. If this suggestion strikes you as odd or inappropriate, I would not be offended by a refusal.
I recognize this is an unusual offer from someone you have never met. I can only say that I believe your children would benefit from consistent attention, and I find I am at liberty to provide it.
Yours sincerely, Miss Eloise Bridgerton
She read it over. It was still awkward. But at least it acknowledged the awkwardness rather than trying to pretend this was a normal thing to do.
She sealed it before she could reconsider, addressed it to Romney Hall, and sat there holding it. This was either the most useful thing she had done in months, or the most mortifying. She would find out soon enough.