Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Arriving at her Aunt Joanna’s farm was probably one of the worst experiences of Cressida's life. 

The countryside of Wales was drab and inhospitable in ways Cressida could have never even imagined; the people, as well as the sheep, were completely unwelcoming. The moment she had stepped a dainty silk heel out into some sinking mud, a sheep had immediately charged at her. 

Or maybe it was a ram.

Cressida could honestly not tell anyone a blasted thing about animals– especially not with the way the animal’s body had slammed itself against the old carriage her parents had thrown her in.

The shuddering crack of the carriage, of course, did nothing to soothe Cressida's nerves.

A muffled shout from the driver filtered onto the chilly and barren interior of the carriage. What was he going to do, fight it off?

Cressida had already submitted the idea that the thing would fling open the door and kill her on the spot. Perhaps that would be better than living in Wales.

Jesus Christ.

Eventually the noise died down and the driver rapped his knuckles on the cracked wood of the carriage.

“Miss? It’s gone away. Lost interest.” He said as he opened the creaking door. It stuck slightly as he did so– her parents had really spared every expense, it seemed. Such a disappointment, she couldn’t even ride in the family’s carriage. Oh no, she didn’t deserve to. After all the embarrassment. 

“Wonderful.” Cressida muttered, ignoring the man's proffered hand to assist her in stepping out.

Her shoe was already ruined, what did it matter anyways?

He sniffed before scuffing his boots anxiously in the mud. “Y’sure this is the right place?”

“No. It's very much the wrong place, but unfortunately I will be staying here for…” She trailed off, her lips setting into a thin line, “As long as it takes.”

“As long as what takes?” The man asked, pulling out an old looking pipe from his pocket. She watched distantly as he grabbed a pinch of dark tobacco with his stained fingertips and pressed it into the end with his thumb.

Cressida let out a sigh. “Nothing.” As long as her parents decided to punish her. As long as no one completely forgot about her. As long as–

The man stuck out his grimy hand, “I live ‘round these parts. That’s why your parents sent me over. Let me keep the carriage too. M’name’s Georgie– George. George Caddel.” 

And why should she care? Cressida looked at his hand with distaste before letting out a deep sigh. He was roughly her age, if not a bit older. His dark hair was shortly cropped in a way that was not fashionable in Mayfair, but then again, what did it matter? 

He gave her a desperate sort of smile, the kind that she knew only came from a horribly hopeful outlook on life. One that had become familiar to her though Eloise–

No.

She would not be thinking of her.

Not if she had any say in the matter.

“Cressida Cowper.” She said, taking his hand in her own. It would probably be wise not to alienate the only person who knew she was here, other than Aunt Joanna.

“Lady Whistledown, eh?” Georgie asked, chuckling before taking a puff of his pipe. The smell of the smoke was sweeter than Cressida had expected– nothing like the acrid smell of her father’s cigars. Georgie watched her while he carefully took another drag. He blew it off to the side, making sure the smoke wouldn’t hit her in the face– a consideration her father had never taken. “I take it, that was just a rumour?”

“Of sorts.” Cressida responded. She rubbed the palm of her hand over her tired eyes. “If you wouldn’t mind–” She gestured with her head at the singular trunk secured to the back of the carriage, globs of mud dripping down the sides. She only prayed that the dresses within had not succumbed to the same dirty doom. 

A sheep bleated in the distance and Cressida could feel bile rise up from her stomach at the sound. 

A goddamn sheep farm.

Georgie grinned at her. “‘Course.” He stuck the pipe into the corner of his mouth, chewing lightly on the end of the wood, and hoisted the chest off of the carriage. It landed on the wet ground with a heavy thump. She winced slightly at his carelessness.

“Thank you.” Cressida said. She turned to look at her aunt’s humble home, situated atop a grassy knoll. The pathway up seemed to be in poor condition– pockets of watery mud littered the walkway. She could already feel the exhaustion take over.

“I can help you take it up–”

“That's quite alright.” Cressida said, already regretting her words when Georgie looked at her with uncertainty.

“Are y’sure? It's a long ways up.” He said, scratching the back of his head. 

Cressida grimaced. It did look like a long way– much farther than she would be able to carry anything. Especially at such a steep incline. She sighed. “Fine. You're– you're right. I suppose.” The words felt almost painful coming from her lips. She could feel any energy she had completely leave her body.

“Right then.” Georgie said, glancing upwards when rain began to lightly drizzle on them. He bent down at one of the ends of the trunk and looked at her expectantly. 

Oh.

He really did expect Cressida to help him. 

She glanced down at her feet, shoes already caked with mud and the hem of her fine floral dress– one of her favorites– already speckled with dirt and mud. She let out a heavy sigh and walked over to the other side of the trunk. If she had known she would be lugging the thing up to Aunt Jo's home, she wouldn't have packed it so full. Dresses completely crammed to the brim, to the point she had to sit on the trunk to get it to close.

She knew her father would probably discard all her things as soon as she was out of his sight, so she felt the need to save as many articles of clothing as she could.

Not that they would be of any use to her on a sheep farm.

She bent down and on Georgie's count, lifted the trunk by the leather straps adorning the side. She grunted, the exertion of lifting something so heavy after her entire life spent being catered to was almost shocking to her body. They hadn't even begun the ascent up the hill and her arms were already shaking, muscles already burning.

Georgie looked at her with sympathy. “You'll get used to it, soon enough.”

Used to it?

“What do you– mean?” She winced when the straps nearly slipped out of her grasp when the rain began to soak her hands.

He continued their slow climb up the hills, walking backwards, looking at her with consideration. “The muscle’ll start to grow. Sooner or later.”

“I'm not going to be– I'm not a farm hand-” She snapped, losing her footing slightly on the uneven ground. “I'm not going to be doing any work–”

“S’not what I heard.” He mumbled and Cressida felt a lightning bolt of fear pass her.

She stopped walking, dropping her side of the trunk onto the ground, a puddle of mud splashing up at the impact. Georgie yelped, dropping his side as well.

“Explain.” Cressida said almost menacingly. She watched as he shrunk slightly, shoulders rising to his ears.

He squinted at her as the rain began to reach a torrential downpour. Water dripped down his face, soaking his wool shirt. Cressida could feel the water work its way through her dress, through her shift, through her stockings. But it didn't matter to her– all she could focus on were the words that were going to leave Georgie's lips.

“Your– your father–”

“What did he tell you.” She hissed.

Georgie swallowed heavily, looking away from Cressida. “He didn't tell me anythin’. I overheard him. While I was setting the carriage up.”

Cressida shut her eyes tightly. The rainwater soaking her hair– the carefully crafted hairstyle completely falling apart the longer she stood out there. He continued after a moment.

“Said your Aunt Joanna was lookin’ for a farm hand. That it'd teach you a lesson.” His voice was barely audible over the rain hitting the ground. But she heard. 

“And you–” The words came out strained, tears welling in her eyes. She knew he they didn't know each other. But she had still hoped– “And you still drove me here?” Their eyes met and his looked back at her mournfully. 

“I didn't have a choice. Y’know that.” He replied softly. Apologetically. “I can help you as much as I can– but I'm working too.” 

Cressida put her face in her hands. They might as well leave her trunk out to get washed away by the rain. To sink into the mud, never to be found again. Why would she need her fine fabrics, her beautifully tailored garments out working on a farm. 

Because she wanted them–

She bent down once more to lift the trunk, Georgie scrambling to follow suit. They walked up the rest of the hill completely silent. Cressida staring ahead, just part Georgie's shoulder as her looked at her guiltily. Her muscles hurt– she had never done an ounce of physical labor before and it was dreadfully clear that she would be completely out of her depths.

What would her aunt have her do– rear the sheep? Heard them? Shear them? She really had no clue what was done on a sheep farm. 

She supposed she was about to find out.

They dropped the trunk in front of the entry doorstep of the pitiful looking house. 

Geogie opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something before closing it. His eyes seemed downturned, sad. 

Cressida let out an irritated sigh. “What?!”

He grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know you– You probably don't like me too much now, but you're welcome any time. To- to my family's home for supper. It gets lonely out here.”

She looked at him, her eyebrows raising dispite herself. Was he hitting on her?

He flushed, as if suddenly realizing what his words sounded like, “No– I mean, I have- I have a sister. A little younger than you. I'm not– I mean, you're beautiful, sure, but I'm seeing someone–”

Cressida held up her hand to quiet his rambling. “Fine. Just– please leave.”

“Right.” He nodded his head, before putting a hand to his forehead. “I’m sorry if I offended. I did not intend to.”

Their eyes met as Cressida looked up at him sharply. He was apologizing?  

His hand dragged across his face. “I shouldn't’ve said anythin–”

“That's– alright.” Cressida rolled her eyes to the heavens, not sure why she was humoring her driver, for God's sake. “I understand.” Their eyes met and he nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Right.” Georgie said, his arm reaching out to pat Cressida’s shoulder lightly. “Really, if you need help with somethin’, just let me know. M’family’s farm is just down the road. Crops aren't doin’ too well. That's why I'm pickin’ up these odd jobs.”

She looked at him, finally feeling a sort of sense of relief. “You know things about sheep?”

He laughed slightly, “Probably more than you.”

“Yes.” She said with a sigh, “Probably.”

Aunt Joanna– or Jo, as she preferred to be referred to as, was a gruff woman. The spinster sister of her mother. While Cressida's mother took after Cressida's grandmother, Aunt Jo was quite honestly the spitting image of her grandfather, down to their hefty forearms. Her sleeves were nearly permanently rolled up– the rough linen fabric of the undershirt she wore beneath her simple brown dress always wrinkled. 

It did not matter how cold it was, Aunt Jo was almost always in a state of feeling overheated. In response to this feat, her home was barely heated– Cressida, walking in completely soaked from the rain, could feel a deep teeth-chattering shiver work its way through her body. 

Aunt Jo took one look at her and her mud soaked trunk and banished her to the bath, muttering to herself about Cressida's worthless father as she looked at the dirt tracked in with distaste.

And Cressida could only agree. Her father was worthless. Sending her here to help a woman run a farm where she clearly preferred someone experienced. Who had muscle. Who wasn't deathly afraid of animals larger than sparrows.

Her aunt only had one servant. She was not a wealthy woman, but she was not necessarily destitute either. Her home was tidy, but it was worn. Cressida's mother's had managed to worm her way into society and leave behind the farm in search for a husband who could support her. 

Luckily, or unluckily, Lord Cowper was who she had found.

He had seen a woman easy to mold, easy to manipulate, and just pretty enough to pass as a formidable wife. The fact that she did not come from a wealthy family had been completely glossed over by the ton. 

Nobody dared question Lord Cowper.

The servant, a woman by the name of Margaret, was halfway between Cressida and her aunt in age. A few strands of silver hair in her dark curls could be seen in the soft glow of the candlelight as Margaret slowly filled the tub. Cressida watched as she boiled a kettle to ensure its warmth in the fireplace. 

They did not speak, but not out of dislike. Cressida, feeling out of sorts after her conversation with Georgie, could only stand there, shivering, as Margaret methodically drew the bath for her. 

Eventually, Margaret nodded to her, and with a terse curtsey, exited to room, giving Cressida privacy to undress and sit in the tub.

Her hand dipped into the warm water, the smell of lavender rising with the steam. Cressida let out a deep sigh when the dirt on her fingertips swirled into the water.

She dropped her sopping clothing onto the floor and gingerly stepped into the tub, sinking in slowly. She groaned at the sensation of the warm water– it felt like a balm on her tired and strained muscles. 

The steam rose slowly from the water and Cressida glanced around the sparse bath room. The singular claw foot tub was the only thing that occupied the room other than a small wooden stool. Tiles worn, but seemed to be regularly scrubbed clean. It was nothing like the room in her father's estate– lavish and ornate. Rich green tile covering the surface, long flowing fabric over large windows that faced the perfectly kept gardens.

A stark contrast– but one Cressida supposed she would have to accept sooner than later.

Even as the tears finally began to stream down her cheeks and drop into the murky bathwater.

She clenched her eyes tightly shut, a sob working its way out of her body. Her hands clenched tightly and she dunked her head beneath the water, not caring that her hair would become even more of a mess at the action.

The clips in her hair still tugged at her strands tightly and Cressida let out a scream– the water bubbling with the action. She heaved herself out of the water, holding to the sides of the tub, and sat there panting.

A farm hand.

She was expected to do manual labor–

But how exactly? Simply carrying her trunk with Georgie’s assistance was hard enough– Lord knew she would drop dead if she had to deal with live animals.

A shudder worked its way through her body and she stepped out of the tub, grabbing the threadbare towel Margaret had left on a stool for her to use. She scrubbed her skin dry, until she could no longer see any speck of dirt. Just her skin angry and pink.

She looked blankly at the plain linen shift Margaret had left behind and let out a strangled scream of frustration.

She didn't care if she was going to live on a goddamn farm– she wanted her clothing! Her pretty dresses! Her old life–

She kicked over the stool, feeling like a tempestuous child, and began to cry in earnest. She didn't have an old life. She didn't want to go back– to her father, to her mother. Even if they told her they had forgiven her. She just wanted to be free. Free of the burdens put on her. Free of the constant need to find a goddamn husband.

Fine! She would be a spinster– a sheep farmer, of all things– she pulled the rough linen over her body with a shudder.

Just because she had to, didn't mean she would like it.

Aunt Jo looked at her with distaste before tucking in to her supper; a bland assortment of vegetables and a small cut of steak. Cressida picked at her peas with the tongs of her fork, not feeling an appetite grow, even despite the difficult journey.

“Do you know a single thing about sheep?” Aunt Jo asked, her fork scraping against the worn china.

Cressida looked up before frowning tightly. “No. I do not.”

Aunt Jo rubbed a hand across her face. “And all you brought were your society dresses?”

“Yes.” Cressida said, an angry flush rising up her neck. “I didn't know I'd be put to work–”

“You didn't know?” Aunt Jo asked with disbelief colouring her tone, “What did you expect? Dances and galas in the middle of nowhere? Our closest neighbor is two kilometers away!”

“I don't know what I expected!” Cressida shot back, slamming her fork down onto the table with a clatter, “My parents throw me out of my home because I don't want to marry a man who could be my great-grandfather and my punishment is living on a farm– and now I have to toil away? Labor for God knows how long–” The tears began to stream down her cheeks, “I've never done this! I don't–”

A hand touched her back and Cressida flinched. Margaret's voice washed over her, “Jo– please.”

Cressida blinked with surprise when Aunt Jo slumped forward slightly and nodded. Margaret's hand soothed down her back until the tears subsided and she could feel as if she could breathe normally again.

“I didn't– your father is probably the worst person–” Aunt Jo winced before taking a deep breath. “I know you did not want this.”

“I didn't.” Cressida replied softly, still staring directly at her plate.

“I–” Aunt Jo pressed a hand to her brow, a headache probably steeping in her skull. “I'll do my best to be patient.”

“Thank you.” Margaret's voice replied softly, surprising Cressida once more. Why was the servant speaking so freely? 

Aunt Jo picked up her fork and knife once more and began to eat. She cleared her throat slightly, “I assume you'd like to rest for as long as possible before you begin to work.”

“Yes.” Cressida replied, eyes closing. She felt faint with exhaustion. “It's been a long day.”

“I could tell.” She replied, taking the food from her fork and chewing thoughtfully as she looked at Cressida. “Rest tomorrow. But I'll need your help very soon– a few of the sheep are about ready to give birth and I need someone to help watch over and ensure they aren't stillborn.”

Cressida swallowed weakly. “And how does… one do that?” 

Aunt Jo looked at her tiredly, “Blood flow– if the lamb doesn't breathe immediately, you have to keep it warm. Make sure the blood’s pumping. Rub your hands on its chest quickly. But I don't expect you to do that– I just need you to get me if anything goes awry.”

“Right…” Cressida responded slowly. “And the– the chest rubbing usually works? On the lambs?”

“Most of the time.” Aunt Jo replied. “The sheep I'm having you look after is going to give birth to around three ewes, based on her size– means more likely that one of them is weaker than the rest.” She said with a shrug. “Just need you to do your best– can't keep my eye on all of ‘em.”

“Can I ask– why are you doing the work yourself?” Cressida's mouth ran before she could stop herself.

Aunt Jo paused, blinking at Cressida. “Why wouldn't I be?”

Cressida flushed, looking away, “Ah– I assumed that the owner of the land wouldn't have to do much of the labor–”

“You thought wrong.” Aunt Jo interrupted, “If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.”

“Right…” Cressida replied weakly, “Is that why you haven't hired anyone else?”

“Yes.” Her mouth was affixed into a tight line of displeasure. “No one has been satisfactory enough to keep long term.”

And I doubt you will be, remained unspoken but implied.

Cressida could feel the despair claw up her throat. If she failed at this would her parents send her away to an asylum? Try to set her up with another old man? She let out a shuddering breath, “I– may I retire to my chambers? I'm feeling rather tired.” Her voice was barely over a whisper but Aunt Jo heard her and nodded slightly.

She stood up unsteadily and made her way down the hall and into the bare room that she would learn to call her own. Her trunk, clear of mud and debris, sat in the corner, while a small bed was pushed against the other.

Harsh voices rose from the dining room and if Cressida strained slightly to hear, she could recognize Margaret's voice.

How strange that a servant would be speaking to her aunt in such a direct way. Cressida could still feel the soothing touch on her back from the woman– a comfort that was so foreign to Cressida she could feel her body react with a shiver.

She sat down heavily onto the bed, the springs inside squeaking loudly and she flopped back against the stiff mattress. Her thoughts raced back to the events that led her here– the utter failure of her plans for freedom. 

The loss of her only true friendship.

The devastation rose within her without notice and the tears began falling once more. She turned over, slamming her face into the stiff down pillow and let out a strangled scream.

It was foolish to think that Eloise Bridgerton would have been able to save her from her fate of being discarded in the way she was. All the girl cared about was her own family. Penelope Featherington– Bridgerton.

Cressida was, and will always be, an afterthought.

A way to distract.

To fill time with empty-headed opinions.

Cressida fell into a fitful sleep, tear stains across her face as she dreamed for a better life. One where she wouldn't have to toil endlessly for approval.

The boots on her feet were two sizes too large. Her feet slipped within them as the uneven ground that she and Aunt Jo trekked along became more muddy, the further out they walked from the main abode. Cressida could feel the water seep in through the worn seams of the leather, trying to hide her grimace with the scarf tied securely across her face.

“How much farther?” She asked, almost slipping once more, grabbing ahold of Aunt Jo’s firm shoulder for support.

The walking stick Aunt Jo used was suddenly thrust in her direction. “Spare me with the whining.” She muttered, “Almost there– try not to fall on your face. The doctor lives twenty kilometers from here.”

Cressida took the stick, stabbing it into the ground tempestuously as she followed Aunt Jo up the incline of her land. “Maybe next time I can stay back–” She froze at the look Aunt Jo sent her way and swallowed.

In the distance, a wooden hut where the pregnant sheep resided came into view. She could hear some of the sheep bleating from within, and the smell of hay and animal musk hit her when Aunt Jo opened the door.  She motioned for Cressida to follow and Cressida stepped inside, wincing at the smell.

“You watch over the one to the left. I'm worried that the one to the right will have a hard birth.” Aunt Jo said, crouching down to look at one of the large sheep.

Cressida looked at her with disbelief. “I'm supposed to– you want me to help it give birth?”

“No. It can do that on its own.” She replied with an eye roll. “I just need you to watch– it may take hours. If you think the birth is going poorly, you come and get me. The one I want you to watch has been going through labor for some time– thing's about ready to pop.”

“And– the other one? The one with a hard birth?” Cressida asked weakly.

“She's got some time, still.” Aunt Jo dusted her hands, standing up. “I've got to rebuild a part of the rock boundary wall– I'll be right outside.”

“Can't I do that instead?” Cressida tried.

Aunt Jo let out a scoff, “I really doubt you can build a proper one– takes practice and skill. I really can't have it fall down within the first storm.” She looked at Cressida with something akin to pity and Cressida felt herself flush with anger. 

Was she not even clever enough to fix a stupid fence?

“Fine.” She ground out, crossing her arms. The cold seeping in through the fine fabric of her dress gave her an even keener sense of irritation, as she was unused to being in spaces that were not properly heated. But she couldn't part with her dresses. Farming be damned.

Aunt Jo nodded to her tersely before walking out of the enclosure and back into the rain. Cressida huffed, sitting down on the hay flooring and looked at the sheep standing before her with distaste.

“Do you even have a name?” She muttered, grimacing when it made a grumbling sound in response. Cressida considered the animal, mouth tightening with distaste. “You look like Daphne Bridgerton. With those big stupid eyes.” 

“Bah.” The sheep replied, its tongue sticking out slightly with the noise.

Cressida snorted. “Of course, Your Grace,” She mimed curtseying as she sat on the hay, “Cressida Cowper, goddamn sheep herder, at your service.”

It looked at her with a blank expression and Cressida let out a heavy sigh. Two days here and she was already speaking to the sheep? Was she already losing her mind?

She leaned back against the wooden wall, resting her head against it with another sigh. Daphne-the-sheep simply continued to stare at her before walking forward slightly. “Eugh– get away–” 

Daphne-the-sheep nosed at the hem of her dress before her lips curled back slightly to reveal her teeth. Cressida let out a yelp when she bit down on her dress and began to pull.

“Get– off–” She snapped, pulling at the dress with her hands, trying to dislodge it from the sheep's teeth. Daphne continued to chew on the fabric, the tearing sound bringing the fear of God into Cressida's heart. Her favorite dress– 

“Get off, get off, get off-!” She shrieked, pushing the sheep's head away with all of her strength, which decidedly, wasn't very much. 

Eventually, after much cajoling, Daphne backed away, as she chewed on a piece of Cressida's green dress. Cressida stood hand pressed against the wood wall of the hut and looked down at her ripped hem with horror. 

A massive bite mark exposed her shin to the cold air. Even her shift had not managed to escape the mauling and Cressida let out a disbelieving laugh. The tears only began streaming down her face moments later. She only managed to fit five dresses in her trunk, not including the one she wore on her journey to Wales, which was completely mud-stained and ruined from the rain.

That number was dangerously dwindling the longer she spent on this farm. 

Jesus Christ.

She refused to let the tears of frustration fall, instead sitting atop a hay bale with her arms crossed as she watched Daphne lumber around the enclosed space. Stupid Daphne-the-sheep.

Stupid Aunt Jo making her sit here in silence.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

She looked at the other sheep when it made a soft bleating sound, a deep grimace overtaking her features. “You're just as ugly– if not uglier.” 

The sheep in question looked at the wall blankly. It was massive– larger than any sheep Cressida had seen before, granted she had never really spent much time with them prior to this moment. 

“What's your name?” She asked, sprinkling some hay onto its back from atop her perch. It shook its wooly mane at the sensation, before lipping at the new hay on the ground. Cressida snorted at the sight. “You’ve got to be a Featherington with that simple look on your face.”

The sheep bleated, almost as if in agreement.

“Miss Philipa Featherington, hm?” Cressida said, chuckling when the sheep looked up to stare at her blankly. She watched as a fly landed on its nose. It did not move. “Miss Featherington, it is.” She said, leaning her back against the wall to look at Daphne-the-sheep once more. “I suppose I really should be calling you Your Grace, should I not?”

The sheep did not respond, of course, and Cressida almost wanted to slap herself for continuing to speak to the animals. She felt as if she were going completely insane.

Hours passed– maybe even days, if Cressida wanted to be dramatic. Realistically, it had only been about three hours since her aunt had left her to watch the sheep. Her stomach rumbled and she hoped that Aunt Jo did not forget she was still with the sheep. 

She let out a tired sigh, glancing down at the sheep from her perch once more. A groan made its way out of her mouth when she observed that nothing had changed since the last time she had laid eyes on them.

The sheep she was referring to as Lady Basset stood still, perhaps sleeping as it stood– Cressida didn't really know how these creatures acted. But eventually she moved and began to paw at the ground rapidly. The other sheep, Miss Featherington, was definitely not sleeping, slowly walking to and fro, stumbling slightly on the ground every few steps. It was almost painful to watch for such an extended time.

For the first time in her life, Cressida wished she had brought something to read. Something to occupy her time with, other than imagining the way Eloise had turned her away when she had requested her help in writing the column. She turned the moment over in her mind again and again, as if unable to bring further pain into her heart. 

Flashes of her father looking at her with keen disappointment. Her mother allowing her father to send her to a farm, of all places. Penelope Featherington, of all people– reveling in her suffering.

But it was Eloise– Eloise who remained on top of the pile of her worries. Of her worst memories.

The same girl who saw her suffer and rooted for her downfall. Who did not even seem to care when she was being pawed off to a man the age of her grandfather. Someone she had trusted– had loved–

She did not love her.

Cressida put her hand over her shuddering heart. She wanted to cry again, but she felt empty.

Spent.

Lady Basset made a loud sound– something akin to a groan and Cressida's eyes widened when she noticed the way she had laid down in the hay she had pawed at. The area almost looked like a nest– the sheep laying directly in the center of it as she breathed heavily through her nostrils.

Cressida stood up, getting off of the hay bale she sat on and watched, slack-jawed as the lamb slid out, front legs first with its head tucked in between. Another lamb quickly followed. The first one began snorting, alerting the mother of its presence. Cressida watched the second ewe with bated breath, waiting, hoping that it would begin to make a sound.

After a long sustained moment, it too began to snort and Cressida made a whooping sound, before slapping a hand across her mouth at the veracity of her reaction.

A chuckling sound came from behind and Cressida immediately turned around. Aunt Jo looked at her with an amused expression and a wicker basket in her hand.

“It never stops being incredible to witness.” She said with a slight shake of her head, looking at the small ewes trying to stand up as the mother cleaned them off.

“Is it always this…” Cressida trailed off, “This dramatic?”

“It only gets worse– especially if the lamb is the wrong way ‘round. More likely to miss its opportunity to get air in. That's where the blood flow thing is important.”

Cressida nodded slightly, biting down on her lower lip. “When is the other sheep due?”

Aunt Jo hummed in consideration as she began to unpack the wicker basket onto the same hay bale Cressida had been sitting on. “Probably a couple of days. Safer to have you to watch though.” 

“Oh.” Cressida replied before swallowing, “Could I– would I be able to read here? While I wait?”

Aunt Jo shrugged a shoulder, “Don't see why not. I usually carve something while I wait.”

“Out of wood?”

“Out of dirt– of course out of wood.” She snorted, handing Cressida what seemed to be an egg sandwich. “Don't think I didn't notice you not eating yesterday. I don't know what lies your mother's been feeding you about figure, but in my house, you need to eat. Especially if you'll be picking up some of the work after the ewing season.”

Cressida felt faint at her words. “What– what kind of work?”

“You'll help me with herding in a few weeks. In the summer you'll be shearing, milking, maybe even skinning–”

“Okay– okay.” Cressida replied, feeling weak at the prospect of skinning an animal. She glanced at Miss Featherington’s sweet fluffy form. She could not imagine doing that– “Any way I could not do the skinning?”

Aunt Jo considered Cressida for a moment before sighing, “I suppose I can just send everything out to the local tannery.”

Yes, please.

Cressida opened her mouth to respond before immediately being shushed by Aunt Jo, “This– this is my favorite part.” She looked at the sheep with a smile on her face and glanced back at them.

She gasped when one of the lambs began to stand on its spindly legs, shaking as the mother groomed its wool. The other lamb stumbled sideways before standing upright.

It was incredible– seeing how quickly these animals were able to stand, to walk. It was almost incomprehensible.

“Makes it all worth it, I think.” Aunt Jo said softly and Cressida couldn't help but agree as she took in the sight of the ewes pressing their small bodies against their mother's.

Cressida took in the torn hem of her dress with despair, laying it beside the three other dresses already ruined by being on the goddamn farm. She wistfully touched the fine material and let out a sigh, trying to decide, which of the last two she would subject to the rough outdoors.

She chewed on the inside of her cheek, settling on the one she had foolishly bought in Bridgerton blue before falling out so horribly with Eloise.

If anything, now she hoped this one would get completely ruined. Chewed up by another sheep. Run over by a carriage.

She might even gift it to one of the ewes, if she was feeling particularly giving.

One thing she did not want was to succumb to the drab dresses her aunt and Margaret wore day in and day out. Just seeing them put her in a bout of depression. She could not imagine what wearing such a garment would do to her. 

No, she would continue wearing her clothing, even if that meant leaving them in tatters.

The sheep that Cressida privately referred to as Miss Featherington, had a very dramatic birth. Not difficult the ways that Aunt Jo had expected though– all seemed well for the lambs in the end. But the sight of the second lamb's hind legs coming out first put the fear of God into Cressida. She nearly sprinted outside to inform her aunt of the turn of events, but the lambs had immediately made the telltale signs of life very soon after breaching.

The third lamb came out without a problem as well and even to Cressida's awe, a fourth ewe emerged unscathed.

All four babies’ voices began to fill the space and Cressida ran out to inform her aunt of the turn of events.

Aunt Jo stood by the stone barrier, chipping away at a stone with a larger one when Cressida approached.

“Four lambs– she gave birth to four.”

Aunt Jo turned around sharply, the rock falling from her grasp, “And all are alive? Well?”

Cressida nodded with a smile, unable to help herself even as she thought about how keenly she disliked being here. Taking care of these animals. “Come see.”

They quickly made their way into the hut, laughing at the sight of the lambs beginning to walk for the first times in their lives.

“You're right, this is really the best part.” Cressida said softly.

“Glad you'll have something to hold onto. The herding and the other things are much less rewarding.” Aunt Jo said before glancing at the blue dress Cressida wore, speckled with mud and dirt. “You're going to need something a lot warmer than that for the journey.”

Cressida swallowed, thinking about her last wool dress, cream with pink floral accents across the bust. “I– I don't have anything else.”

Aunt Jo sighed heavily, putting a hand to her brow as she thought. “I think this is probably the best time– I will be wearing breeches for herding.”

Cressida blanched, “And?”

“And? So will you. I honestly thought I could keep up with this damned dress but–” She slapped her hands against the excess fabric, “I can't do this anymore.”

“You–” Cressida's brows furrowed, trying to understand what it was her aunt was trying to say, “You mean to tell me that before I came here, you only wore breeches?”

Aunt Jo looked at her sharply before nodding, “Yes. I am working– I don't quite– it's easier.”

Cressida glanced down at her filthy dress with a sigh, “I understand.” If she had worn a borrowed pair of breeches and a wool shirt while working, would nearly all of her dresses be in a state of such disrepair? Probably not.

“I have a pair that can fit you– be a lot warmer than what you're wearing.”

“That's– alright. I just– I can't be in these dresses any longer.”

Aunt Jo gave her a pitying sort of smile, “I'd imagine.”

Cressida grimaced at the feeling of wearing breeches for the first time in her life. The fabric encased her legs in a way that she was keenly uncomfortable with. The undergarments Aunt Jo had produced were tight against her legs– wool and scratchy, but much warmer than what she had been wearing previously.

The shirt she wore was made from a thick wool– an animal hide vest atop the ensemble. She continued to wear the wool coat she had brought with her– floral and still fetching despite the stink of animal musk seeping into the fabric. 

It made her feel like herself– rather than what she really was, which was a woman foolishly wearing the forgotten clothing left behind by farmhands who had passed through the property.

If her parents could see her now, she was sure that they would call her as she was. A disappointment. But then again, they would have to say it to her beside the rather formidable woman in a pair of breeches as well.

Her Aunt Jo– who, in the largest surprise of Cressida's life, wore breeches so naturally. So comfortably. But she supposed it made sense. Out in the middle of nowhere, working her land, there was no one who could see her. It was nothing like the life Cressida had experienced in Mayfair– every decision, every movement exposed to the judgment of hundreds.

The woman was so different to her mother– it was no wonder they rarely spoke. Even when Cressida tried with all her might, she could not see any family resemblance between them. It was almost as if she had been sent to stay with a stranger.

The boots she wore were still too large and she continued to stumble, even as they led the herd up to graze on another knoll. The walking stick in her hand did little to help her unsteady feet. And the kilometers they had already traveled had already left their mark on Cressida's physicality.

Her muscles ached in a way she had never felt before. Her thighs burning, her back hurting– all she wanted to do at this point was crawl into a hole and wither away. 

If her parents had intended to punish her for her misdeeds, they were succeeding.

Every step was a struggle and it wasn't even noon yet. The food Aunt Jo had packed for them sat tantalizingly in her satchel and Cressida could only pray for the time to pass faster.

Eventually, the sheep began to graze comfortably on some fresh grass that had not been ravished by frost and Aunt Jo settled down on a rock to rest. Cressida scrambled to do the same, not even caring about the way the hard surface dug in uncomfortably as she sat on it.

Aunt Jo handed her a sandwich wrapped in cloth and quickly fumbled with the twine holding it together to immediately inhale the food.

“Slow down or you'll choke on it.” Aunt Jo said with an eye roll as she watched Cressida devour her food. 

Cressida ignored her, feeling as if the dried meat and cheese sandwich was the most incredible thing she had ever eaten in her life. Even better than every supper at her parent's home. Even better than the food the queen has supplied during various parties. 

“We're going to need to build up your stamina.” Aunt Jo sighed, handing her another sandwich the moment she had finished her first.

Cressida vaguely nodded, enjoying the feeling of being sated for the first time in the day– she had been unable to stomach the large portion of eggs and sausage Margaret had cooked for her. Aunt Jo had warned her that it would probably be best to eat as much as she could, but her nerves did not allow it. 

She regretted that decision.

“Have you been enjoying yourself?” Aunt Jo asked between bites.

Cressida paused, looking at her. “No.” Before continuing to eat.

Aunt Jo snorted, “I had guessed.” She watched as the sheeps grazed peacefully in the clearing and sighed, looking back at Cressida. “Did you have to ask Margaret to give you such a ridiculous hairstyle this morning instead of helping me pack for the trek?”

Cressida felt a flush of anger pass though her and she chewed aggressively before swallowing her food. “That's none of your damn business–”

“It is.” Aunt Jo said, narrowing her eyes at Cressida.

“And so what– okay– I wanted to feel good– is that such a bad thing?” Cressida snapped, her hand reaching up to touch the elaborate braids Margaret had managed to put together for her before breakfast. 

“There's no one here to see you!” She replied with a scoff.

“I did it for the sheep.” Cressida said sarcastically, “They love my hair–”

“I’d say, it's quite the opposite.” Aunt Jo muttered.

“What are you talking about?”

Aunt Jo let out a laugh and stood up, dusting her hands off. “The amount of times I had to stop a sheep from trying to take a bite from your head would almost be funny, if it wasn't so tragic.” 

Cressida flushed with anger. Now she had to stop wearing her hair up? This place would be the absolute ruin of her. Her dresses completely irreparable– having to wear breeches like a man. Now her hair was subject to these dull standards? So, what? The sheep wouldn't eat it?

She kicked the rock she sat on with the back on her heel angrily. “Can I not have anything that makes me feel good? Is everything going to be taken from me? I might as well have married that disgusting old man– at least then I wouldn't be working!”

Aunt Jo looked at her blankly, before her eyes narrowed, “You were dressing for your rank– and right now your rank, your job, is to work.”

“I didn't want this!” Cressida screeched.

“And I didn't ask if you did.” Aunt Jo responded, voice dangerously low. “Here at least, you will not be forced to lay with a man triple your age. If you want to wear your hair in whatever pretty style, I will not stop you. If you decide to continue wearing those ill-suited dresses for work, I will not say a word. It is your choice– but your choice has an effect on others. You are no longer insulated from the harsh realities of labor.”

Cressida put her face in her hands. “I want to keep wearing my hair as it is. It makes me– it makes me feel like myself.”

“Then you may– but if a sheep chews on it, don't say I did not warn you.”

“And I take your warning to heart– I just– I understand the clothing, I really do. The breeches, the wool, everything. I just can't relinquish this last part of myself yet.” Cressida said in a whisper. She swallowed down a wave of tears.

“Do as you please.” Aunt Jo responded softly, before gesturing for Cressida to follow her in leading the herd down to another clearing.

A sheep eventually did get a good bite of her hair– right from the front. She had been milking it, per her aunt's directions, and the thing turned around and ate a chunk of her braid.

Cressida should have known better than to trust the sheep she had named Penelope Bridgerton.

Her aunt did not have many mirrors in her home– to be precise, she had one mirror. A hand mirror than was actually Margaret's. Cressida surveyed the damage while Margaret looked at her rather mournfully.

“Is there– can I fix this?” Cressida whispered.

Margaret swallowed, before gently taking the mirror from her hand, “I'll do my best.”

Her best was trimming some of the surrounding hair to give her something akin to long bangs. Cressida's blonde coloured hair had dulled with the lack of sun in the winter, turning it to resemble straw– a theory that Margaret had shared as to why the sheep had been so entranced by the intricately woven braids.

Fine.

She had managed two months doing her hair as she pleased– it was exhausting, though. Aunt Jo had been right. 

And now she had paid the price. 

Miss Penelope Bridgerton, the sheep in question, got to enjoy the last bit of Cressida's stronghold of her old life. She ended it with a single well-placed bite.

What an appropriate name for the animal.

The winter had turned over into spring much quicker than Cressida had expected. Ewing season had come and passed much quicker than Aunt Jo had expected as well– leaving them with about a dozen lambs to care for.

If someone had told Cressida she would be caring for lambs, herding sheep across acres of property, working on a sheep farm, she would have assumed that they were completely out of their mind. Cressida Cowper? The very same girl who wore the most elaborate gowns, had the most intricate hair, working on a farm?

Completely unthinkable.

She stopped checking how she looked in the mirror soon after her disastrous run in with that horrible sheep.

The image that she saw staring back at her was not one she recognized anyways. Straw coloured hair. Her slowly tanning skin underneath a billowing linen shirt– and the goddamn breeches. She couldn't stand it.

In an attempt to stop the freckling on her neck, she had tied a kerchief she had fashioned from one of her ruined dresses around her neck. The fabric, silk and pink with lovely decorations of flowers, brought a pang to her heart. She missed her dresses– she missed feeling beautiful. 

But the kerchiefs she made were the only things now that held over from her life in Mayfair.

It was depressing.

The only dress she did not touch was the one that was Bridgerton blue. It still disgusted her to look at. She did still have a perfectly pristine dress carefully packed away– for what? She wasn't sure. Perhaps one day she would be able to leave her aunt's farm.

Not any time soon, though.

Her mother had written to her, in a very terse hand, that her father considered Cressida dead to him. And by extension, she had to as well. They did not speak of their only daughter. Did not acknowledge her. 

Cressida did not write back.

She fed the letter to Lady Millard, a sheep that had become her favorite in a short span of time– sweetly laying beside her while Cressida allowed the herding dog to wrangle the sheep into their nightly enclosure.

She was small– barely past the age of being a lamb, and out of a bout of indulgence, Cressida cut a strip of fabric from one of her old dresses to affix to Lady Millard's ear in a small bow. 

Aunt Jo indulged her by allowing this action to remain unmentioned. 

Cressida, in response, began creating small bows to denote her favorite sheep in the herd, matching them to the kerchief she wore around her neck and sometimes wrapped her hair in as she worked.

Shearing season was nearing and Aunt Jo had her preparing by teaching her how to use the large shears on a hedge as practice. Painful calluses formed on Cressida's hands, resulting in Margaret needing to wrap them in cotton, soaked with a medicinal balm that she had at the ready.

She was not enjoying herself– and Cressida supposed that it was the whole point of her being banished from Mayfair. She did learn to empty her mind, her body doing the work of milking, rearing the lambs, and clearing out the thick brush on the property. Cressida had finally managed to borrow a pair of properly fitting boots from Georgie that no longer left painful blisters behind. 

It was her only relief.

“Do not nick their ears– please–” Aunt Jo said as she held one of the smaller sheep in place as Cressida carefully attempted to shear the wool off of the sheep’s stomach. 

She should have asked for another sheep though– Lady Danbury did not have the temperance to stay still for long, much like her namesake.

Cressida did her best to quickly clear the overgrown wool from the sheep, grunting when Lady Danbury kicked her leg out at her arm.

“Go quicker–” Aunt Jo groused, sighing with relief and dropping Lady Danbury when Cressida had finished with the underside.

“You should've picked Lady Millard, she would've been more temperate.” Cressida muttered, collecting the wool into a canvas bag.

“Did you name my sheep?” Aunt Jo asked, squinting at Cressida. 

Cressida flushed, “I– well, what else was I supposed to do? Call them by their numbers?”

“Don't call them by anything! They're sheep!” Aunt Jo replied, a hand reaching up to press against her brow. The sweat gathered there, with a light pinkish tone denoting a burn from the unforgiving summer sun. 

“Your skin is burning.” Cressida responded instead, sitting down heavily onto the grassy ground.

“And, so what?” 

“Margaret won't kiss you better if that's your attitude. She told you to wear a hat.” Cressida responded, smirking at the way Aunt Jo flushed heavily at her implication.

“Kiss– what? You're– go clean up the latrine!” She snapped, face getting even redder, if possible.

Cressida laughed in response. She had heard Margaret sneaking out of her aunt’s room early one morning after checking up on the lambs. It was almost sweet, the way they acted around each other. Too bad it was Aunt Jo– a shudder ran through Cressida's body. Spinster she was not–

It seemed she had inherited something from her, after all.

She stood up, dusting her hands off. “Fine. I'll clean the latrine. But I need you two to stop waking me up before the sun comes out–” She ducked when Aunt Jo threw her walking stick at her.

A routine had formed, quicker than Cressida had expected. Somehow she slot into life on the farm with much more ease than she had initially anticipated. As soon as she had let go of any notions of comfort, of style, of the normalcy of her prior life, everything had relaxed. She stopped fighting back– the urge to stay prim and proper had been completely worn away. 

She was dirty nearly all the time, it was completely inescapable. The dirt stayed under her nails, on the back of her neck, on her brow as she wiped away the sweat that formed. At first she had tried to fight it– running a washcloth over her skin, scrubbing it raw in an attempt to stay clean. But soon she realized that it was a pointless endeavor.

The shirt she had borrowed had eventually ripped at the shoulder when she had hefted a rather overgrown lamb over it– she was unsure of how it had happened. Margaret laughed at her when she had showed up back at the house for it to be mended; citing that the whole thing should be used as rags, as Cressida had clearly outgrown it.

“Outgrown it? I am twenty years of age? I am no longer growing–” Cressida tried,  only to get interrupted by Margaret's laugh.

“Cressida, the eggs and steak you have been devouring for the past year have seen to the fact that you have grown. You'll probably tear right through your breeches as well if you bend down far enough.” Margaret said with another laugh.

Cressida flushed at her words, looking down at her rather broadened form. Had she really put on so much muscle that she was tearing through another farmhand’s clothing?

Apparently so.

“Is there– can I wear anything else?” Cressida tried after a moment of Margaret's continued laughter.

“Your aunt should have something that will fit you.” Margaret said, standing from her seat by the fire, handing Cressida the ladle she used to stir the stew they would be having from supper.

Cressida felt faint at the words– would she really be able to fit into her aunt's clothing? The woman was so robust, clearly strong in a way that the women of Mayfair were not. She looked down at her calloused hand with a grimace as she stirred the stew. “I'll probably need to get my own clothing soon– perhaps a dress?”

“If you wish.” Margaret replied distantly from inside the room she shared with Aunt Jo as she rummaged around for something suitable.

Cressida closed her eyes, suddenly wishing she had never come here. Had simply run off to the city, perhaps married a man she could never love. 

But she couldn't– not after the way she recalled Eloise looking at her with so much sadness. So much disdain for only trying to ensure her own survival. She could never live in the same town, see her face as she promenaded– dealt with the fallout of her insane plot to be known as Lady Whistledown 

It all seemed so distant to her– as if she was looking onto the life of someone else completely. She was not the same girl anymore. And she realized she didn't want to be.

But she also knew she was unhappy as she was here. Finding that she needed to fill the expectations left to her by her aunt. 

And who was she if she was not trying to please another?

Even as the next ewing season came and went, even as summer loomed over the farm again, Cressida continued to feel out of sorts.

But then again, she was unsure that the feeling of uncertainty would ever leave her.

Lady Millard had given birth at a very inopportune time– completely unexpected, right at the end of spring and into summer. She had mothered two ewes, one perfectly healthy, bounding about almost as soon as she had arrived into the world. The other had been a runt.

The first runt that Cressida had encountered during her tenure working on her aunt's farm.

The ewe barely moved. It was roughly half the size of her sister, uniquely pathetic in a way that only reminded Cressida of Eloise Bridgerton, of all people.

It was almost sad, really, the way Cressida's heart had immediately latched onto the poor thing, despite her aunt's warnings against such an act. It was rare for a runt her size to survive after a couple of weeks, especially with the way Lady Millard could barely produce enough milk for her healthy baby.

So, of course, being the fool Cressida was, she decided to rear it by hand.

Named her Eloise, almost out of spite of everything that had happened to her at the hand of the other woman.

Eloise the ewe was sweet, so sweet that as she held her soft body, Cressida could only think of how she would do anything to protect her. In a moment of insanity, she even tore a strip of fabric from her untouched Bridgerton blue dress to craft a small bow for the animal. 

She was losing her mind.

She knew this, even as she allowed the ewe to sleep on her bed with her every night, afraid that the other sheep would accidentally trample her in the night.

This should have been Cressida's first sign that things were about to change irreparably, two years after arriving at her aunt's farm. Her heart had softened in ways she could not have foretold.

Of course, as it was, she was inside the day they received their first visitor. Her aunt and Margaret were on a walk together at Cressida's behest, she had assured the two of them that she would be able to care for the home in Margaret’s stead, as they enjoyed each other's company.

She sat by the window watching with a sort of distant interest as an unfamiliar carriage made its way up the trail to the base of the knoll the house was situated atop. 

Eloise the ewe had, of course, decided that now was the best time to cry for milk. So Cressida stood from the stool, stretching out her back as she did so, turning from the window to fetch the ewe some fresh milk from outside. She had kept another mothering sheep nearby for such occasions, setting her up in the stables attached to the home during the day.

A knock eventually sounded at the door as Cressida filled a glass bottle with the milk. She sighed, putting the ewe in the crook of her elbow as she fed it, walking to the door in order to answer the call. 

Another impatient knock sounded and Cressida rolled her eyes before flinging the door open.

Suddenly she was face to face with the woman who haunted her dreams, her waking thoughts, her nightmares–

Eloise Bridgerton, in the flesh.

She looked older, slightly more worn, but in an attractive sort of way that suited her. Time had been kinder to her than to Cressida. She looked more beautiful than Cressida could remember– soft, sweet, the clean blue tone of her dress was almost shocking to see in the light of day.

“Hello, I am looking for Cressida Cowper– does she, uh, live here?” Eloise asked after a moment of silence between the two of them.

Cressida's brows raised at the question. Was she really so unrecognizable? 

Their eyes met when Cressida did not respond immediately and suddenly Eloise's eyes widened with recognition. She looked almost ill at the revelation.

“Cressida-?” She whispered, shock colouring her voice as she took in Cressida's form– broadened shoulders filling the doorway in a way she had never been able to before life on the farm.

Cressida gave her a sardonic smile, “Eloise Bridgerton,” She felt herself wince slightly when Eloise could only look at her with shock, mouth agape, “It's been a long two years.”

Eloise's ears flushed at her words and she looked at Cressida's form almost helplessly, “It really has.”

Chapter Text

You shall not be afraid of the terror by night.

Psalms 91:5

The death of John Stirling did not sit well with Eloise– did not sit well with anyone.

Francesca was beside herself in grief. On the ground, fingers tearing at the rug when the doctors told them the news. She watched faintly as Michaela pulled Francesca to her body, holding her tightly as the sobs wracked through her.

Two years in Scotland with them. Two years growing, traveling, learning with the Kilmartins.

Two years and John was dead.

Francesca was a widow.

Eloise was completely lost– alone, with no one to turn to.

It was difficult– more difficult than Eloise had ever imagined. She had never lost anyone before. Not like this.

Not so quickly.

Just yesterday– yesterday– she had spent hours with him. Playing chess, having light conversations about what books they were reading. His company relaxed her, comforted her in ways she had not foreseen when requesting to tag along with her sister and her new husband.

John was, in all senses of the word, her brother. Family.

And death had taken him in a moment. More quickly than a blink of an eye.

If Eloise was being honest, above all else, it scared her completely. To the bone. The idea that within a split second, all could charge irreparably. Someone she loved, valued, looked forward to spending time with would be gone. The fear clawed up her throat– sickness coming just as quickly.

It was a fear that she had always had– the one thing that had stayed with her through her years. To think that in a split second, she could be gone. Her loved ones could be gone. All without true feelings, without any honesty flowing between them. 

And Eloise's regrets continued piling up every moment she remained passive to her needs, to her feelings.

It felt selfish. To think of herself, rather than the very real loss that stood right before her. The pain she felt was deep, was all-consuming, but as always, her thoughts returned to the same subject.

To the same person that haunted her dreams.

Her every thought.

A specter just out of the field of her vision– looming for two painfully long years.

Cressida Cowper.

Her biggest regret of all.

It took time before Eloise realized things were not the same after the funeral. Michaela had not gone back to her wing of the house, instead keeping Francesca in constant companionship. Their hands nearly always touched, stroking against the skin of the other. Against a palm, knuckles, the inner side of a wrist– and Eloise had initially thought nothing of it.

Until she had overheard them whispering fiercely– arguing, really. Eloise stood, back pressed against the wall as the words floated over to her. Each sentence made the bile in her stomach rise higher and higher to her throat.

“I don't – I don't care. He's gone– I can't–” Francesca's voice broke and Eloise could hear the soft rustling of fabric. A deep shuddering sob.

Michaela let out soft soothing sounds– perhaps they were wrapped in another embrace. Though, something felt different. Weighted in Francesca's words. It stopped Eloise from entering the room.

“Darling, it's only been a month since– we can't–”

“But I need you-!” Francesca's voice was cutting. Eloise could feel her heartbeat in her throat. This wasn't – they couldn't–

Eloise felt a rush of anger course through her– how could she– The soil hadn't even settled on John's grave and Francesca was already moving on. Already finding comfort in another.

Not rotting away like Eloise was.

Her insides festered with an inexplicable feeling– a guilt that refused to release its grasp on her every thought, every dream.

She slept fitfully for two entire entire years; running away to Scotland had done nothing to ease her conscience. If anything– it had made things worse. The quiet was suffocating. It was too much. And yet, she did not leave.

Perhaps she imagined that she deserved the punishment.

Nothing around her to keep her thoughts occupied; only books and short conversations that did nothing to stop the overwhelming tide of her worst moments washing over her. Not even in her sleep did she receive a respite. 

Especially not in her sleep.

It was the same things turning over in her mind. Again and again. 

And she could do nothing except allow the thoughts to ruin her– she was too cowardly to act on anything. 

I love–

She couldn't stand to–

Please, stop them from–

Eloise put her face in her hands, the tears leaking out, despite her best attempts. A clatter sounded in the room Francesca and Michaela were in– perhaps a vase or a tea cup. A sharp gasp–

“I'll be– right back.” Francesca said, and Eloise's eyes widened. She needed to– to get away before Francesca found her eavesdropping. 

But Eloise was not quick enough. Francesca managed to catch a glimpse of her back at the entryway into the next room.

“Eloise?” She whispered and Eloise froze at the sound of her sister speaking to her directly for the first time in weeks.

“I– yes-?” Elose said, wincing as she turned around to face her sister's wide eyes. A fearful expression flitted across her face and Eloise swallowed at the sight.

“How much– how much had you just heard?” Francesca’s voice was hushed, not wanting to alert Michaela and Eloise felt a flush of anger rise at that knowledge.

“Enough.” Eloise's voice was colder than she had thought possible. Especially towards her own sister– 

Francesca’s face fell and she clenched her eyes shut. Her brows knit together tightly, as if she were in pain and Eloise did everything in her power not to allow her heart to sink with her reaction.

A grim line formed on Francesca's lips, “And you disapprove.”

Eloise could only laugh in response, the disbelief at her sister's words completely evident, “Disapprove? John's body is barely cold. But– you were his wife, hm? ‘Til death did you part.”

She watched as Francesca's teeth gritted together, the muscles in her jaw protruding as she took in a shuddering breath. “That's not fair–”

“Not fair? No– what's not fair is the way I had spoken to him– sat with him the day before, and he just died,” Eloise snapped her fingers together in front of Francesca’s eyes, “Just like that.”

“You think I wasn't there? That I didn't lie beside him in bed when it happened–?”

“You sure aren't acting like it.” Eloise hissed, “Moving on so quickly.”

“At least I've moved! Done something! What can you say you've done– running away to Scotland instead of dealing with–”

Eloise's heart dropped. “Stop–”

“You think you're the only one who is fit to throw accusations? That no one else saw–”

Eloise slammed a fist into the door frame, stopping the next words from coming out of Francesca's mouth. She could not– She could feel the bile rising up her throat. Francesca knew?  

Her voice came out hushed, pained, “How– How long have you known?”

Francesca looked at her with more pity than Eloise knew what to do with. Her eyes shut on their own accord as Francesca’s voice washed over her, “You cry for her. In your sleep.”

A sob bubbled out from Eloise's throat without her consent. She could feel her legs nearly give out from under her. “How long–?”

“From the carriage ride here. The very first night.” Francesca said softly, her hand reached out to touch Eloise's arm– which was quickly jerked away. Francesca’s face immediately set into a stony expression. “You cried for her forgiveness. For lying. For being a coward–”

“Stop–” Eloise pressed her face against the frame of the door, tears gathering in her eyes before dripping down her cheeks. “Please– I can't–”

“You can't? Or you won't?” Francesca slumped forward, shoulders hunching slightly as all the fight seemed to leave her body. “I'm sorry that you lost her– that you let her go, but I cannot allow you to judge me for trying to find my own happiness.” Her voice was soft, yet firm. Another difference in Francesca since John died. Since spending all of her time with Michaela. She had more resolve than Eloise had ever seen.

It was something to behold.

Something she envied. 

Eloise knew she hid behind her convictions– convictions she didn't even uphold herself. She lied. She ran from her problems. She stood motionless as she allowed Cressida to be exiled from her home. 

The pale hands grasping at her skin as they breathed in tandem– please, please–

She didn't know where Cressida was. She had been too afraid to find out. Too much of a coward.  

Francesca was right.

The tears fell in earnest as she sank to the floor.

She cried for Cressida. For John. For Francesca.

For herself.

And the arms that wrapped around her, though not the ones she yearned for, still gave her hope.

Perhaps not everything was truly as irreparable as she had imagined.

As his sister-in-law, Eloise's mourning period for John was six weeks. 

Francesca’s was much longer; the black dresses she worn made her pale skin look sallow and grim– so different from the beautiful pastels that complimented her perfectly.

Michaela continued to wear her mourning garments– her relationship with Francesca growing closer by the day. Their hands never separated and Eloise watched from the corner of her eye, the jealousy, the distaste rising each time the two pressed in closer. Allowed themselves the comfort of one another's' company.

Neither Eloise nor Francesca had written to their family about the tragedy. They hadn't agreed on it but for some reason, the extended silence and solitude only felt right. 

Eloise kept her mouth tightly shut– watching as Francesca’s eyes grew softer with love. Her body nearly relaxed as Michaela spoke to her in soft tones, just soft enough that Eloise could not overhear. She did not speak to her– what used to be long spanning conversations about anything and everything, had shortened to less than even a ‘good morning’.

Perhaps Eloise had earned that, though. Her words had risen much louder than intended as she sharply told Francesca how she felt. Michaela had, without a doubt, heard her call her own sister selfish. Guilt her because Eloise could not bare to cope with her own litany of emotions. 

All tangled up into a grotesque knot within her body– fleshy, bruised, and bleeding. Infected.

She had been idly reading when Michaela spoke directly to her for the first time in weeks. The three of them sat in hours of silence in the sitting room, the tension only growing the more time passed. Eloise didn't quite understand why she kept coming back. Why they kept coming back– the castle was massive, cavernous even. Eloise was always the first to rise– her nightmares grabbing hold of her by the scruff of the neck and throwing her into the waking world unceremoniously before the sun rose.

Sleepless nights and her wanderings should have been a normal sight. Her presence should have been expected.

But, still, Michaela's voice carefully reached out to her the moment Francesca had left the room in search of a book in the library. “You should go.” 

Perhaps not all was as it seemed. Had they planned this?

Eloise's eyes glanced away from her book and she met Michaela’s gaze blankly.

The other woman gave nothing away in her expression, only blinking slowly as Eloise processed her words.

“I– what?” Eloise eventually said, sitting up and dropping her book beside her thigh with a startling thump. “Did Francesca say anything-?”

“No.” Michaela interrupted, “She did not have to.”

Eloise swallowed, grimacing as she felt the tears well up her throat at Michaela's words. “So I should leave.”

Michaela sighed, her dress ruffling as she stood from the small loveseat she'd been sharing with Francesca. Eloise’s eyes were firmly trained on the floor before her, watching as Michaela's feet suddenly came into view. Her hand reached out to lightly touch Eloise's shoulder and a sob shook through her body at the touch.

“Eloise. It's not that we don't want you here. It's just,” She let out a heavy sigh, almost pained, “I think you've been running from something– I know you have, actually. If what Francesca has told me is true.”

“What has she told you?” Eloise whispered.

Michaela took a deep breath from her nose, her hand almost absentmindedly making soothing circles on the skin of Eloise's arm. “Nothing in detail.” Their eyes met, Eloise's gaze pained as she took in the sadness in Michaela's expression. “But I don't think you've shared the extent of it with her– or am I mistaken?”

Eloise swallowed. “You are not mistaken.”

“Have you spoken to anyone about it?” Michaela asked softly and Eloise felt a thrum of hopelessness rush through her at the question.

“No. I didn't think– I didn't realize I had been–” Her voice broke and Michaela’s grasp on her arm tightened in response, “Have I really been so awful?”

“I wouldn't say awful.” Michaela replied, “Just…” She considered Eloise before her as she trembled heavily, “Unwell. I just do not believe that quiet is what you need– It seems to be making things worse.”

Eloise swallowed and she bit down on the inside of her cheek hard enough to draw blood. “I don't know what to do.”

“I'm going to be frank with you, Eloise– this hole you've been digging for yourself–”

“I–” Shame rose up Eloise's spine at her words, “I wasn't aware that I–” Her voice broke again. What had happened to her? Well, she knew the answer. It always came back to the same fateful night.

The same person.

The same betrayal.

Michaela looked at her with more kindness than Eloise strictly knew what to do with, “Francesca and– and John,” Her voice stuttered over her cousin's name, “Believed you would be able to pull yourself out.”

“And you did not?” Eloise could not help but let her mouth run. Her tone was borderline accusatory and Michaela only looked at her with a tired expression.

“No. I did not.” Michaela replied. She let out a sigh before settling down beside Eloise on the settee, moving her book onto the floor. “We are very similar– you and I.” She said after a prolonged moment of silence.

Eloise simply blinked at her– this was something she knew. Their interests, sense of humor, and even pastimes almost all lined up. It had become a running joke during Eloise's stay.

John, most of all, found their similarities amusing. He had taken to calling them ‘double trouble’ whenever they shared a look at his expense.

Those days had come and gone, though.

Michaela let out a short chuckle, “So it came with almost no surprise to me, that these…” She trailed off, considering Eloise beside her, “These decisions have been haunting you. That this girl has been plaguing you.”

“It's– she–” Cressida was plaguing her? She could feel herself wanting to fight against the words presented to her instinctually– But her traitorous memories flashed back to the night–

‘Don't let–’ Hands against skin, pressing, desperate– 

‘-you, too–’ A lie. Heavy on Eloise's tongue.

‘-promise?’ Anguished, hopeful–

‘I promise.’

The promise. Her promise to Cressida. Immediately broken.

She put her face in her hands, a sob breaking from her dry lips. Sweaty, hurting, skin itching just beneath the surface. What had she done?

What was wrong with her?

Michaela pulled her in, wrapping her arms around Eloise's shuddering body and Eloise was helpless to do anything except completely melt against her. Her friend– her family. Someone who was trying to look out for her. Care for her.

“When I was, I don't know, around your age–” She began, her voice low but still audible over Eloise's own shaking breath, “I had made a promise I could not keep. To someone that mattered greatly to myself.”

“Was it like–”

“Yes.” Michaela said, cutting off Eloise's words.

Like you and Francesca.

Like me and–

No.

Eloise felt a wave of hopelessness pass through her– crushing. Leaving her gasping for air once more.

“Her mother forbade her from seeing me.” Michaela continued, her arms tightening slightly around Eloise as she spoke. Unaware of the thoughts racing through Eloise's mind, though, perhaps, perceptive of the change in her posture. 

“And– what did you do?” Eloise found herself asking the woman. Perhaps– perhaps she would know–

Michaela looked at her grimly, “I ran away.”

Oh– “You ran?” Eloise asked, “Where– when was this?”

“A few years ago. Kilmartin Castle is where I find myself hiding out when all feels hopeless. I use the solitude to re-energize me.” Her thumb brushed against Eloise's shoulder, “I suppose this is where our paths diverge. I know how to forget. How to leave the past behind.”

Eloise's stomach dropped. 

Michaela smiled at her sadly. “Do you know where she is?”

She closed her eyes. “Somewhere in Wales.”

“Well,” Michaela said with a tone of finality in her voice that made Eloise stiffen, “I think it's about time you found out where exactly.”

Eloise wrote to Benedict. Her letter was short– to the point. Urgency flowed within the words and she knew that Benedict would see this letter lacking its usual banter and prose with a grim realization. She needed help. Things were not alright– though her words on the page did not necessarily indicate that. Only someone who knew her very well would be able to come to such a conclusion.

She was somewhat afraid that he would show up himself, but she had made sure to only request information. Nothing that would necessitate his presence.

It took weeks– an agonizing amount of time in a home where Eloise knew she needed to vacate. Michaela was still cordial, obviously, but the problems that arose between Eloise and Francesca had become too frequent to ignore.

Eloise had always had a short temper– something she knew from a very early age. Something Francesca knew as well, for they were exactly a year apart in ages. What should have been a very close childhood, was not necessarily so. They were too different.

Eloise was too difficult. Fussy. Had too many opinions.

Opinions that Francesca did not mind, of course, but she did not have the drive to debate, to argue in the same way Eloise did. She enjoyed silence. Solitude.

For once, their roles had reversed.

Francesca sought Eloise out– wanting her to open up. Wanting her to unload some of the burden she was clearly carrying with herself every single day. At Michaela’s side, Francesca had opened up. Spoke more. Gave her opinions.

Eloise withdrew from company.

Hid away in her bedroom, unable to sleep, unwilling to eat. Until Benedict’s letter returned with the information she needed.

So, she and Francesca fought. If that is what you could call it.

Eloise, mouth pressed firmly into a thin line, as Francesca begged her to talk to her– say anything. She knew Eloise was hurting, she knew she wasn't sleeping. The dark circles around Eloise's eyes said as much.

It had hit a boiling point mere days before Benedict’s letter arrived.

“Please– Eloise, I don't know how many times– you don't have to carry this alone. I'm here, Michaela is here.” Francesca's hands tightly clasped Eloise's sweating palms.

Eloise closed her eyes, silent.

The hands around her own tightened– “Eloise– what happened?” Her voice had become so delicate, so mournful, that it broke Eloise– a shudder wracking through her body as the words tumbled out–

“I deserve it– okay?” The truth always reared its ugly head.

The silence that greeted her words made her open her eyes up slowly.

Francesca, kneeling before her, looking stunned as her hands lost purchase around Eloise's own. Her mouth opened before closing. “There’s nothing– deserve it? What– what have you done?”

Eloise put her face in her hands, palms pressing into her eyes hard enough to make her see stars. “I do deserve it. The question is, what have I not done? What have I stood by– What promises have I broken?” Eloise let out a wet laugh, “Too many to count.” She stood suddenly, startling Francesca.

They stared at each other– Francesca’s heartbroken expression making Eloise turn her eyes to the wall. 

“I cannot– do not ask me what had happened. I cannot speak of it.” Eloise said after a moment, swallowing down the bile that threatened to rise.

“Can I ask why?” Francesca’s voice was barely above a whisper. 

“Because I am ashamed of my behavior.”

Eloise,

I am assuming that your first letter to me in months comes with a sense of urgency. It would be remiss of me not to remind you to write back to our mother. We had all assumed that your great adventures were simply too grand to be put to paper, but as it seems as though you may not be returning home for quite some time, please attempt to write regularly.

Mother's heart can hardly stand it anymore. 

Michaela writes to her more than you do.

As you had requested, here is the approximate address of Miss Cowper's current residence. It seems to be a rather small sheep farm, much to my great surprise.

She resides in the village known as ‘Abergorlech’ in the Welsh countryside. Do with that as you will. I could not find it on a map.

Much love, et cetera, et cetera,

Benedict (You owe me)

Eloise roughly folded the parchment shut– her eyes tightly closing. 

Fuck–

The news came with no sense of relief. Just the looming knowledge that she would be setting off to Abergorlech soon and come face to face with Cressida for the first time in over two years. 

She felt an uneasy feeling rise in the pit of her stomach.

Prior to Benedict's letter, it had all been abstract. A pipe-dream, really. She did not think that Benedicts would truly be able to track down Cressida's whereabouts with such ease.

It only made her feel worse– was the answer really so accessible? Could she have gone to see her earlier?

Eloise brought a shaky hand to her brow, wiping at the cold sweat that beaded there. She really had abandoned Cressida. Completely and without a doubt. She truly deserved the worst– that much was clear now.

She would not even blame Cressida for throwing her back out onto the street if she showed her face. After what Eloise had done– promised her–

Eloise pressed a hand to her mouth, trying to stifle the building bile that was threatening to escape.

I love you–

I'll do everything I can to–

She keeled over, the contents of her stomach emptying onto the floor before her. This was what she had chosen. Rather than stay beside Cressida– help her escape, the no doubt, perilous situation she had been in, Eloise simply fed her the lies that she knew would quell her fears in the moment. And she did not have the strength, the follow through, to do anything else.

Staying in Scotland had done nothing to make her forget. If anything, it made it fester. Eloise had to be ill– must be, after the amount of time she spent agonizing over her treatment of Cressida. Her abandonment of someone who loved her.

Leaving Scotland was even more somber of an affair than John’s funeral, if possible. Francesca tightly gripped her wrist as she cried, imploring Eloise, for the last time, to unload some of the burden that was holding her down. Drowning her.

For Francesca’s sanity, Eloise told her one thing. The only thing she could think of to explain her behavior.

“I need her forgiveness.” Her voice was quiet, and the shocking silence that followed the utterance only set Eloise’s resolve to travel the great distance to the Welsh countryside.

Francesca, of course, knew who this ‘her’ was instantaneously. The name Eloise cried out for in her sleep.

Cressida, Cressida– please–

Her hand loosened its grasp on Eloise’s wrist with an exhausted finality. Francesca’s mouth had set into a grim line of understanding. A deep steadying sigh left her lips before she spoke. “Before John had died, I had said something to him that I regret to this very moment.”

Eloise watched as Michaela swallowed heavily, her hand retracting from its position on Francesca’s back. 

“He had asked me if I was happy.” She said softly, eyes closing in the memory of her late husband.

“What did you say?” Eloise asked, her tired eyes meeting Francesca’s.

“I said that I loved him.”

A shock of pain coursed through Eloise’s chest– words that were familiar to her– something she had done two years earlier–

“You understand– I wish I could take back my words. Be as truthful to him as he was to me in the moment that he responded, ‘Love and happiness are not equal,’.” She let out a wet laugh as the pained tears swam across her eyes, “I knew I had made a mistake as soon as I had said it. He knew immediately that I was unhappy. That I was lying.”

I need this– I need you, Cressida’s voice echoed through Eloise’s mind, Please, please–

Eloise shut the door of the carriage without another word, the short, yet expressive embrace they shared, the very last thing she would recall from her stay in Scotland. Other than Francesca’s sobs muffled through the door.

It took nearly a week straight of travel to reach Wales. Abergorlech was nearly on the opposite side of the country as Kilmartin and the carriage ride there was agonizing– the longest Eloise had ever traveled. According to her driver, the journey was nearly eight hundred kilometers. And the longer she spent, cooped up in the carriage, the more stir-crazy Eloise became.

Dreams morphed into nightmares morphed into the specter of Cressida pressing down on top of her as she whispered into her ear– go home– I hate you– abandoned me–

It was hard to tell what was an illusion and what was reality. The hands on her felt so real– the cold, boney fingers pressing into her neck, Eloise waking as she gasped for air. The lips pressing, biting– drawing blood–

Eloise cried.

She cried until she fell asleep once more; her dreams just as agonizing as they had been in Scotland. 

Eight hundred kilometers of painful memories without respite. 

By the time they had stopped for their last night before reaching Abergorlech, Eloise was weak, jittery. Unable to even look her driver in the eye before she slumped down on the thin boarding house mattress. Less than twenty four hours until the familiar figure that haunted her would be standing before her.

Would Cressida be just as run ragged as Eloise was? Would she be living in terrible conditions, toiling on farmland as her evil aunt stood by and watched?

Would she even want to remember Eloise? Would her mind be cleared of everything they had shared?

Eloise felt empty– she wasn’t sure if she would ever be ready to face Cressida again. Especially not after two years of absence. After their last moments together.

But she couldn't go on living like this– Michaela had been right. She was dying a slow and painful death as her heart was being choked with the guilt of her past actions.

Her lack of care.

Eloises pressed her face to the sill of the open carriage window, nausea overwhelming her as all movement came to a rolling stop.

She had arrived. 

She did not move.

The driver slowly dismounted from his position at the front of the carriage, boots crunching against the gravel of the road. Eloise listened as his footsteps came to a stop before the carriage door.

“Miss Bridgerton?”

Eloise sighed, lifting her head from the sill, looking tiredly at the driver. “We're here?” She asked, even though she knew the answer. The sheep bleating in the distance clearly gave their location away.

He nodded, opening the door with his gloved hand. She stepped out carefully, her silk shoes disturbing some dust in the gravel– a small cloud billowing up at the impact of her step. 

She glanced up the knoll, a small winding pathway leading up to a stone home with a thatched roof. This was where Cressida resided–? She hoped that the innkeeper’s directions had been incorrect. Perhaps it was all an elaborate prank.

But she knew that was not the case. The innkeeper had insisted that a young woman was living in the farm that matched Cressida's description. Mostly.

His nephew lived nearby and had befriended her–

Befriended? Cressida? Eloise was skeptical.

There was only one way to find out.

“Would you like help with your trunk?” The driver asked and she nodded. 

“Just up to the doorstep.” She replied, “You can drop it off there, I'll have someone deal with it later.”

He nodded, grabbing her trunk by the handles and slowly making his way up the pathway. Eloise watched, leaning against the dust-fogged side of the carriage tiredly. 

Eventually he made his way back down, tipping his hat at her as he did so. “Should be ready. Do you want me to stay put?”

“Yes.” Eloise responded. Perhaps it was a mistake having the driver carry her trunk up– God, what if Cressida did not want to see her– threw her out-?

“Right, then.” He replied, interrupting her destructive train of thought.

She swallowed, looking up at the home again. A small horse stable was attached to the rear– she could see it from the angle she stood at. What if Cressida was out working? What if she was locked in her room? What if–

What if, what if, what if–

A chant that looped again and again with each subsequent step she took. Then, suddenly, as if she had magically appeared, she stood before a worn wooden door; panels of wood knotted and rough with age. 

She hesitantly raised her hand to knock on the door, knuckles anxiously rapping against the splintered wood.

Some clattering from inside could be heard. A door opening then shutting firmly. Eloise let out an anxious breath, heart beating in her throat. 

The door eventually creaked open, revealing a rather formidably strapping young woman holding a lamb over her arm as she fed it. Eloise eyed the animal with her brows slightly furrowed, the silence between them stretching longer than strictly comfortable. 

She cleared her throat– perhaps this farmhand would be able to assist, “Hello, I am looking for Cressida Cowper– does she, uh, live here?”

The woman continued to stare at Eloise, and Eloise found herself shifting slightly in the discomfort of her gaze. Why wasn't she responding?

Eloise's eyes eventually dragged upwards from the feeding lamb, and to the woman's face. Her eyebrows were raised and Eloise felt suddenly off-kilter. The familiarity was striking, it was–

Their eyes met.

“Cressida-?” Eloise whispered in shock– it couldn't be– her focus darted back down to her toned forearms, up to her biceps– to her bronzed skin and rough hands– She felt weak. This was impossible–

“Eloise Bridgerton,” Cressida's familiar voice came from this goddess of a figure before her. Eloise had always heard about the Amazons, but to find herself face to face with one– all she could do was stare in shock. Cressida's face twisted into a confusing expression of amusement and distaste. “It's been a long two years.”

Her voice brought another jolt of something through Eloise's body– her eyes continued to devour every exposed glimpse of skin. Arms, neck, jaw, hands–

Eloise began to feel faint. This was not the same woman she had last seen two years ago– frail and shaking. Delicate features contorted into a pained expression. Cold hands grasping Eloise's biceps as she shuddered–

God– Eloise swallowed heavily, nearly sinking to her knees at the sight of Cressida before her. Broad shouldered and healthy– healthier than Eloise had ever seen her. 

She let out a shuddering breath, feeling a heat travel up her neck as she looked at this utter stranger. “It really has.” 

Cressida let out a soft breath and Eloise nearly shut her eyes at the sound. The fear of finding her near death, seeping right out of her. She seemed to be doing so much better than Eloise had been– had she forgotten?

Their eyes met again and the stoney expression just behind the veil of disinterest gave Eloise a unique sense of hope mixed with despair. It was completely unnerving. 

Cressida stood slightly aside from the entry, “I'm assuming you'd like to come in?”

Eloise nodded dumbly, following her inside and closing the door behind herself with a solid click.  

It echoed in her mind as they walked through the small living quarters and into the dining room towards the back of the house. 

They sat across from each other, still not uttering a word. Eloise's eyes found the small lamb again and Cressida let out a sigh. “I am making sure she receives enough nutrients– she was the runt of her litter.”

Eloise hummed, face contorting into one of confusion. For how long had Cressida been caring for sheep? Rearing them? Who was this woman before her? 

“You– ah, take care of the sheep?” Eloise asked, wanting to smack herself across the face for the idiotic question that had left her lips.

Cressida looked at her blankly, “Yes. Clearly.”

Clearly–

Eloise slumped forward in her seat, accidentally elbowing a half-empty bottle of milk that Cressida had clearly been filling before she had arrived. 

“Oh– shit–” She grappled for the glass, barely managing to keep it from tipping over and spilling across the worn surface of the heavy wooden table between them. Cressida's hand instinctively reached out to steady Eloise and the gasp that tore from Eloise's throat had been utterly unexpected. 

By both of them, it seemed.

Touching her, looking at her felt different– the hand encasing her own, so callused and warm. The cold boney hands that had reverently slid up her body were gone. It was like seeing double– the girl she had befriended and this woman, full of life. A different life.

A life without Eloise in it.

Cressida jerked her hand away from Eloise as if burnt, jolting back and waking the sleeping lamb in her arms.

The lamb began to bray– loud and discontented at being jostled around and Eloise watched in shock as Cressida pet the animal, bringing it closer to her chest. 

“Shh– please, El–” Cressida's eyes shot up in panic, meeting Eloise's, her mouth set into a grim line.

Had she named the lamb after Eloise? That would be– that couldn't be true–

Eloise's face flushed, but she kept her mouth firmly shut. 

Cressida cleared her throat, embarrassedly, “What brings you to Abergorlech?” Her words were tight with displeasure. Eloise watched as she continued to stoke the lamb's coat, the animal settling contentedly back in her arms. It shot her a distrustful look before nosing its face into Cressida's sleeve.

Eloise cleared her throat lightly, tearing her eyes away from the lamb. “My, ah– John Stirling has passed.” She could feel a sweat build at her brow– no windows were open in the space and the small of animal musk was nearly overwhelming. She could barely think– especially with the way Cressida's hands distractedly flexed against the lamb's soft wool. 

Strong.

Solid.

Her eyes traced up along the defined musculature of her forearms before flitting back up to take in Cressida's displeased expression.

“So you came to me for comfort?”

Eloise winced– was she really so easy to read? But Cressida's tone was tired, almost resentful, and it made Eloise take a deep stuttering breath.

What did she mean exactly-?

“I– I mean, in a sense–”

Cressida's chair screeched against the floor as she stood up suddenly. “Perhaps it would be best if you went home.”

What?

Just like that?

A flash of anger coursed through Eloise without her control and she stood up, the palms of her hands hitting the table as she hoisted herself out of her seat, “I traveled eight hundred kilometers– I'm here to apologize–”

“And you're doing an absolute lousy job of it.” Cressida hissed, clearly trying to keep from irritating the lamb in her arms further. It didn't seem to work though– and the lamb wriggled out of her grasp, falling onto the table with a thump, before charging at Eloise.

Eloise scrambled backwards, knocking her chair over, when the bleating animal jumped at her. “Jesus Christ–”

The lamb's body hit Eloise's arm and she yelped, tripping backwards over her chair. 

“Get away from me–” Eloise's voice was cut off by the loud sounds of the animal’s yells. “Oh my God–”

“Eloise!” Cressida snapped, effectively arresting the scuffle that had broken out before her. 

“What-?” Eloise asked weakly, watching as the small lamb trotted back to Cressida who was avoiding eye contact with Eloise as she flushed. 

Cressida bent down to pick up the lamb. “I– wasn't speaking to you–” Her eyes immediately shifted away from Eloise.

Oh–

“You really named that lamb after me?” Eloise could not believe her ears. Perhaps she was still dreaming, body limp in the narrow seat of the carriage on her way to Abergorlech. She pinched her thigh, wincing when she could feel it– clear as day. Her mind was not playing tricks on her. Cressida was muscled, sun-kissed, and caring for a lamb that she named after Eloise. 

Cressida’s eyes narrowed as if she could hear Eloise’s stricken thoughts, “She looked pathetic. It seemed fitting.”

Eloise grimaced, putting a hand to her brow. She could not parse through the litany of emotions that were rushing over her at Cressida’s words. Pleasure? Offense? Sadness? Guilt– definitely. Eloise’s guilt had not stopped for a single moment. Even as she sat sprawled on the stone floor of Cressida’s aunt’s home. She eventually gained the wherewithal to stand up, brushing her hands off on her dusty dress.

“Do you want me to leave?” Eloise asked eventually, the silence that had stretched between them becoming too much to bear. 

Cressida’s jaw set, tendons becoming more defined on her neck as she considered Eloise. Eloise did the same to her– eyes sweeping over her face once more. She looked tired– her eyes dull. Only when she looked at the content lamb in her arms, did her expression soften– it brought a panging pain through Eloise’s chest as she remembered what it was like being on the other side of that look.

And how she took it for granted.

“Where did you come here from– you said you traveled eight hundred kilometers.” Cressida eventually said, her voice quiet in the stiflingly hot room. Eloise watched as a bead of sweat traveled down in front of her ear, tracing her jaw, before dropping down her neck.

“Ah– yes. From Kilmartin.” Eloise replied, before quickly amending, “K-Kilmartin, Scotland.”

“I remember.” Cressida responded wryly before sitting down in her seat again. She brought a hand to her sweating brow and muttered something to herself. With the movement, she noticed the way the linen sleeve of her cream shirt-smock was speckled with mud and she brushed the dirt off with irritation. “That still does not explain why you are here. Instead of with your family.” Her words were terse. Jagged.

“I wanted to see you– apologize–”

“Whatever for?” Cressida responded, distractedly feeding the lamb in her arms once more. “You never liked me– you said it so, yourself.”

Eloise’s eyes widened at her words. “You– when did I say that?” She responded, voice weak.

Cressida’s eyes met her own, a resigned look settling upon her face, “‘I do not think I even like Cressida as much as she seems to love me’, spoken to a Miss Penelope Bridgerton on the night of her engagement.” She tilted her head slightly at the responding gasp, watching as the tears welled in Eloise’s eyes, “I do not dwell on it. I have forgotten long ago– two years is a very long time to move on.”

Eloise put her face in her palms– how had Cressida heard her-? How had she moved on so easily? She could feel the hopelessness settle even more firmly in the pit of her stomach. She had come all this way just to confirm what she had already known. Cressida no longer cared for her– did not think of her in the same way Eloise did. The feelings that had not been there at the start had built and built and built the longer she spent remembering their time together. The love that she had been looked at with.

“I– can’t–” Eloise gasped out a despairing sob, jumping when Cressida’s warm and solid hand touched her elbow.

She looked at her with more kindness than she had been expecting– though, mixed with a sort of distant pity that Eloise had never seen. 

Her words were soft, quiet. “It will pass.”

Eloise felt the hysteria rise up her body– gripping her by the throat, and threatening to throw her to the ground. There was– she could not breath– the air in the room was stifling–

She stood up, eyes darting across her surroundings, trying to find an exit– an escape– anything–

Coming here had been a mistake.

She couldn't breathe–

A door in the back corner caught her eye and she made a dash for it, her throat swollen with panic. But before she could make her escape, a solid arm held the door closed with a sudden thump.

Eloise's tearful eyes turned to meet Cressida's incensed expression.

“You leave me in the dust and now you want me to feel bad for you?” Cressida ground out, hand still firmly pressing against the door, arm above Eloise's head. “You came here for comfort? For sympathy?”

“No– I–” Eloise pressed her eyes closed, resting her head on the rough wood of the door, tears leaking from her eyes and dripping onto the floor. “I w-wanted to see you–”

Cressida barked out a laugh, “After two years? Suddenly you need to see me? You–”

The front door swung open, the sounds of chatter filling the small entryway– and Eloise scrambled out the door with Cressida's distraction. The lamb in her arms leaped down and ran out with Eloise into the open field behind the house.

“Eloise–! Shit–”  

Eloise knew she wasn't calling after her this time– she was only going to chase that ridiculous animal. She darted into the stables, sitting down heavily on a pile of hay and allowing the despair to take over.

She was going to have to go home– face her mother. Benedict. Gregory, Hyacinth, Anthony– everyone.  

She would have to push down this failure even further down. Allow it to dig its talon even deeper into her chest. Cressida didn't want to see her– never did. And the thing was, Eloise understood why. 

Perhaps never sleep again, so that her memories of the other woman would stop haunting her in her dreams. 

Eloise pressed her palms to her eyes, pushing them into her tightly closed eyelids. She tried to calm herself– center herself by listening to the soft snorts of the horses that occupied the structure.

But, unfortunately, God had other plans for her.

“Hello-? Cressida?” A woman's voice called out into the stables and Eloise felt herself grow anxious– who was this woman? She sounded a bit too young to be Cressida's aunt.

Why couldn't she be left alone-? Why did God seem so bent on punishing her? Wasn't it enough that it was confirmed to her that Cressida had moved on? Did not care for her any longer?

The woman's footsteps were muffled by the hay that littered the ground, but Eloise could hear the light crunches of the dry hay giving way. “Cressida?”

Eloise took her hands off her eyes, vision swimming, as a slightly older woman stood before her. The woman looked at her with a mixture of confusion and sympathy.

“You're not Cressida.” She said with a slight upturn of her lips. Her brows furrowed at the sight of the poor state Eloise was clearly in. “Was that your trunk by the front door?”

Eloise sighed. “Yes– I– that was mine. Probably wise not to bring it in, though– I shan't be staying long.”

“No?” The woman asked, head tilting slightly. Her brown curls bounced with the movement, “Are you a friend of Cressida's?”

“I am not– I was, though, perhaps ‘friend’ is not an accurate descriptor.” Eloise replied, voice tight with guilt and displeasure. The bile sloshed in her stomach at her words. 

Were they ever really friends? Or did Eloise simply use–

“Ah. I see.” The woman said, interrupting Eloise's thoughts. “How long have you been traveling?”

“Too long.” Eloise responded, slumping backwards against the pile of hay she sat in. Her body was wrung out physically and emotionally. It was a wonder that she would be able to stand after this conversation.

“Mm– I'm Margaret. Joanna's–” She froze, mouth twisting into a sort of grimace, “The maid.”

The maid? Eloise would have thought she was the lady of the house with the way she conducted herself.

It was no matter– Eloise blinked at her before swallowing, “I'm Eloise Bridgerton– I knew Cressida in Mayfair. Before she came here."

Margaret's expression tightened, “Oh? Well.” Eloise watched as she audibly swallowed, “You should at least stay for supper.”

“I– I could not–”

“After such a long journey, Joanna would wring my neck if I didn't extend an invitation to you.” Margaret cut in and Eloise had a feeling that this was probably not the case.

She didn't know Joanna at all, yet Eloise could sense that Margaret was stretching the truth quite a bit. 

They stared at each other for a prolonged moment before Eloise sighed in acquiescence, “Alright. I will stay for supper.”

“Lovely,” Margaret responded, the Welsh lilt in her voice giving Eloise a strange sense of comfort. “Would you like to assist me in gathering some vegetables from the garden?”

Eloise's brows furrowed, “I– suppose.” It would be rude for her not to agree, would it not? As a guest– even if this woman was simply the maid.

Margaret offered her hand to Eloise in order to assist her in standing. She nearly stumbled into the other woman– she had known her legs would barely be able to support herself after such an exhaustive journey and confrontation.

Sturdy hands grasped her shoulders, righting her. With a curious smile, Margaret took in Eloise's form before her. “How far did you say that you traveled?”

“I came from Scotland.”

Margaret let out a low whistle. “Quite the journey.” Her hands dusted some hay off of Eloise's cornflower blue dress, “Just to see Cressida?”

Eloise found herself flushing, unable to help herself, “Yes. Well. There had been a death in the family.”

“So, you decided to pay your friend a visit.”

The gall of this maid-!

“Yes.” Eloise said, jaw tightening, “I needed to be sure of something.”

Margaret hummed, “Long way– would a letter not have been more suitable?”

Eloise thought back to Cressida's mournful eyes– exhausted, pitying, as she looked at Eloise. “No.” 

She needed to see for herself.

It will pass.

It will pass.

It will–

She followed Margaret out to the garden.

The dinner table was silent.

Eloise's eyes darted between the two surly women staring back at her with twin expressions of distrust. 

Joanna, as Eloise had quickly learnt, was a stern sort of woman. Quick to anger and distrust– something that was suddenly very familiar to Eloise in Cressida.

They looked like mother and daughter. Cressida's wheat-toned hair, matching Joanna’s exactly in the dim candlelight of the dining room. Their shirtsleeves rucked high up their forearms as they stabbed at the food on their plate. 

Eloise's eyes met Margaret’s, who had taken to standing by the entryway to the kitchen with her hip against the wall. Her eyebrows raised in humor and Eloise held back a snort at the look. It seemed as though this wasn't necessarily an uncommon dinnertime behavior.

“Where'd you come here from, again?” Joanna said, spearing one of the snap-peas that Eloise and Margaret had picked in the garden earlier with the tongs of her fork.

“Ah– Kilmartin. Scotland.” Eloise said, a flush rising up her neck when Cressida's eyes rested upon her face as well. 

“Not Mayfair?” She asked with a tilt of her head.

“No– I, ah, left. Two years ago. To live with my sister and h-her husband.” Eloise’s voice stuttered at the memory of John.

Brightly smiling at her–

–Lying dead–

Lowered into his grave.

“Any particular reason for your visit?” Joanna’s voice interrupted Eloise's racing thoughts.

Cressida's hands slammed down on the table, rattling the china. “I've had enough of this.” Her chair screeched against the floor as she stood and Eloise felt the urge to cry again at the sight of Cressida so incensed.

“Sit down.” Joanna hissed, commencing some sort of nonverbal sparring match between herself and Cressida. “Just because you work the land, does not mean you have the liberty to act like an animal–”

“Oh? Excuse me–” Cressida mockingly mimed a curtsey, “Would that please you, Your Majesty?” She threw her napkin down on her still full plate, “I want her gone by morning.” Her tone was firm and borderline menacing as she turned to leave the dining room. No doubt, to her sleeping quarters.

A door slammed distantly.

Eloise shrunk down in her seat, watching as Joanna put her fingertips to her brows. “That girl–”

“I think you should stay.” Margaret interjected from the entryway of the kitchen. “It's late, anyhow. We won't be sending you eight hundred kilometers this late at night.”

Joanna turned to look at Margaret, a sigh escaping her lips at the sight of Margaret’s stern expression.

Maybe she really was lady of the house–

“Right– well. There's an extra cot in Cressida's room–”

“Oh– no, no.” Eloise shook her head immediately, “I am not sleeping in the same room as her, thank you very much.”

Joanna snorted at Eloise's tone, “Don't have much of a choice.”

Eloise's heart dropped. Maybe it would be best if she left–

“Just give her a bit of time.” Margaret said before biting on the inside of her cheek in thought, “I think this is exactly what she needed– you coming here.”

“Did she-? Mention me?” Eloise found herself asking, voice quiet and hesitant.

“Not in so many words.” Margaret replied, shooting Joanna a look when she scoffed into her food. 

“The girl's been stewing over something. Wouldn't say a word about it.” Joanna said, brows knitting together slightly. “I'm assuming it's got something to do with you– I haven't seen her act this way since she first came here.”

Eloise sat with those words for a moment, taking a deep breath from her nose. Had Cressida really managed to move on? It was hard to tell.

Her words echoed in Eloise's mind again– 

It will pass–

Would it, though? Did it for Cressida?

All signs pointed to yes. Except, that is, for her reaction at the dinner table.

Her eyes narrowed and full of anger– looking at her with more emotion than she had during their entire initial conversation. Eloise wanted to grab onto that singular strand of hope with the two of her hands and pull with all her might.

Perhaps there was still one part of her that missed Eloise. Did not want to forget their time together.

The only thing Eloise could do now was bide her time– wait to see if Cressida could ever forgive her. 

She had already traveled eight hundred kilometers. How far could the distance between their hearts really be?

Chapter Text

Have mercy on me, O God, according to your unfailing love; according to your great compassion blot out my transgressions. Wash away all my iniquity and cleanse me from my sin.

Psalm 51

“I'm through with all of this. I've sent a letter to your aunt Joanna. You're leaving in two days time.” Lord Cowper growled, as he stared at Cressida with disgust and disappointment written all over his face.

“Aunt– Joanna?” Cressida replied weakly, “Mother's sister who lives in Wales?”

“Yes.” Lord Cowper said, leaning back against his leather desk chair. Cressida shrunk down in her small seat across his desk. “She lives on a sheep farm.” The tone he took was unpleasant and a glimmer of amusement glinted in his eyes. 

That was not something that brought Cressida much comfort– her father's joy usually stemmed from petty acts of one-upmanship.

It looked like, today, he was putting her in her place.

“A farm?” She replied weakly, hands brushing against the fine silk material of her pink dress. She was being hung out to dry– set up for failure it seemed.

Lord Cowper smiled, his pleasure at her pain evident, “Yes. Perhaps it would do you good to be deprived of the fine life you have become so accustomed to, that you take for granted.”

Cressida felt a wave of nausea rise at his words. What would she do on a farm– a sheep farm, no less? Her skills did not lie with living amongst animals. It barely lie with socializing with members of the ton.

She grit her teeth before responding with a tight smile. “If that is what you wish, father.”

He looked at her with barely suppressed disdain before waving a dismissing hand in her direction. “Pack your things–”

“How long will I be sent away for?” Cressida cut in anxiously, swallowing when her father threw a disgruntled look in her direction as he looked up from his paperwork.

“As long as it takes.” He responded cryptically.

Cressida held back the tears at his words. He really was ridding himself of her. She clenched her eyes shut for a moment before meeting his cold ones and nodded.

“Can I– would I be able to see a friend before I set off?” She asked, voice weak– it was pathetic, really, the way her mind constantly fluttered back to Eloise even as her life was essentially coming to an end.

“That Bridgerton girl?” Lord Cowper responded, a grimace upon his lips as he referred to Eloise.

Cressida nodded weakly.

He sighed, rolling his eyes. “Fine. Tomorrow– but only for an hour. I want to see her gone before I return home from my meeting with Lord Galley at noon.”

She nodded again, not trusting her voice to come out properly. 

One hour– one hour– to say goodbye to Eloise. To grovel once more for her attention, her affections.

I genuinely enjoyed her at the start–

Cressida stood from the small chair in her father's office, the legs screeching loudly against the parquet flooring. Lord Cowper narrowed his eyes at her but she immediately fled the room, closing the door behind her with a solid click.

Eloise's words bounced around her head, hitting her mind with outstanding force. Battering her, beating her to a pulp.

I do not think I even like Cressida as much as she seems to love me.

And love her Cressida did. As much as she tried to stop after the first time their lips touched– after learning the truth of Eloise's true feelings. How the care Cressida felt for her was not reflected in any way– she was simply a placeholder for when something better came along.

Someone better.

It was all a joke to be played at her expense, it seemed, with everyone in on the plot to ruin her.

Eloise, Penelope, her parents, and even Eloise's ridiculous brother. Benedict.

Making such sly comments when she shakily made her way out from Eloise's chambers early in the morning before anyone else had awakened. 

“Well gooooood morning, Miss Cowper. Get any sleep?”

She wanted to break something– break someone–

A maid had overheard Eloise's dismissive words to Penelope on the night of her engagement– a maid who used to work at the Cowper residence, before picking up work at the Featherington estate after being severed for ‘getting too close to Cressida’, as her father had put it.

Of course she could not befriend anyone– especially not the help.

The maid– Hannah– had come to her bearing the words she had heard Eloise utter with a mournful look in her eyes. Pity.

And perhaps Cressida really deserved the pity; especially with the way she kept crawling back to Eloise for a single ounce of attention. The closest thing she'd ever felt to love in her life.

All from a girl who could hardly stand her company. Life was funny in that way. 

She called for Eloise, regardless.

Self-respect was not something Cressida was known for.

Eloise shut the door to the Cowper sitting room behind herself– Cressida could hardly look at her without her heart thrumming with pain. She looked unreasonably beautiful in the soft sunlight streaming from the tall window behind her. Blue dress so bright, so pure it hurt to look at. Her figure– the one Cressida had become so familiar with, encased perfectly in the simple fabric.

Cressida felt a wave of anxiety pass over her as Eloise considered her with a tilt of her head.

“Any reason for the abrupt invitation? I thought your father had barred my visitation rights.” She said, glancing away with discomfort as Cressida's pleading eyes met hers.

“It was my last request.”

“Last request before what? Are you being put to death?” Eloise snorted, brushing an overgrown strand of hair from her brow. She remained firmly at a distance from Cressida– nearly ten meters from her right by the door, as if she was preparing to dart away at any moment.

Cressida, regardless, reverently tracked the movement with her eyes, before meeting Eloise's questioning gaze once more. “Something like that. I– today is my last day in Mayfair.”

Eloise looked slightly taken aback by her words. “It's– what? Where are you going?”

“To Wales. My aunt, Joanna, runs a farm there.” Cressida replied, voice weak as she recalled her miserable future abroad.

“A farm?” Eloise snorted, “What– are you going to work the land?”

Cressida felt the tears bubble up at Eloise's words. “I don't– I hope not–” Her voice broke and Eloise seemed to have the wherewithal to look slightly guilty at her words.

I do not think I even like Cressida–

Eloise slowly approached Cressida, who remained slightly slouched over in her seat on the settee. Her hands reached down to take Cressida's in her own and the stuttering sob that left Cressida's mouth could not have been stopped, even if she had tried.

-as much as she seems to love me.

“Cress?” Eloise's voice reached out to her hesitantly.

I genuinely enjoyed her at the start–

Would she enjoy her at the end?

She supposed there would only be one way to find out. 

Cressida pulled Eloise down by her hands, grappling at her back as she pulled her in for a clumsy kiss. Eloise groaned at the contact– or perhaps the loss of balance, but Cressida liked to imagine that it was the effect that she had on the other woman.

But she knew, in her heart of hearts, that it was simply a game to Eloise. She was a bit of fun. The seriousness of this last moment would always be lost on Eloise and Cressida would have to hold that knowledge inside of her for the rest of her life.

Even as their lips continued to press together, even as Cressida wanted to completely devour the other woman– to Eloise, this was a simple farewell. 

How many women had Eloise taken and tossed aside like Cressida? There had been rumors– whisperings from the other debutantes. Nothing solid, of course, and Cressida did not believe their nattering until the obsession for Eloise had eventually consumed her. Her need to touch the other woman, to hold her in her arms, to have her– was suddenly unmistakable.

Cressida should have known better.

But with the way Eloise's hands slid up her dress, the sensation of her warm hands softly caressing her thighs, Cressida could almost believe that Eloise was just as in love with her as she was with her.

Wasn't that how it was meant to be? This intimacy shared between two people who referred to each other as lovers? 

Rather than some twisted excuse to press into Cressida breathlessly, lavishing her neck with kisses, before pulling away and speaking ill of her. Telling everyone how much she disliked Cressida. How much of a snake she was.

But, God help her, she still loved Eloise. Still wanted her. Needed her.

Eloise's hand reverently brushed against the tidy hair she kept on her most private areas and the groan of appreciation almost made it all worth it. 

She was wet– exceedingly so. Embarrassingly so. And the amused glint in Eloise's eyes conveyed that she knew as well.

It pleased Eloise– how much Cressida seemed to need her. How much she wanted her.

She was the first person to ever show Cressida how gentle a touch can be. So, how could she not have expected the litany of emotions that came with that title?

If anything, Eloise was the fool. Not Cressida.

Cressida, who had been drawn in through a singular touch of their lips, sweet and hungry in the Bridgertons' entryway closet.

Cressida, who had only followed suit after Eloise made the first move to pull the clothing off of Cressida's body.

Cressida, who only pressed Eloise closer to her as her fingers searched through the dampness for the spot that made her jump and twitch beneath her. 

She hadn't asked for this– hadn't fallen to her knees and begged Eloise to touch her. That only came after Eloise had reverently kissed her way down Cressida's abdomen on a hazy morning after she had slept over.

And of course she didn't want to go to a farm– God, she didn't want to leave Eloise. She loved her, she wanted her for the rest of her life. This feeling of satiation that only followed the confident touches by Eloise's hand.

“More–” Cressida gasped, her own voice cutting through the thoughts swirling in her head. 

I do not think I even like–

I do not like–

Eloise's tongue pressed against Cressida's as she swirled two fingers across the length of her, catching on the sensitive spot that only she was able to activate so thoroughly. God knew, Cressida had tried to chase the feeling, copy the movements of Eloise's hand, but nothing compared to the real thing.

Nothing compared to the weight of Eloise settling on top of her, the sight of her sweat dripping down her jaw as she pressed into Cressida again and again.

Don't let them take me–

The blue of her dress brought tears to Cressida's eyes; the colour of the sky was nothing in comparison to the shade that Eloise favoured in the summertime. Her hands grasped the material tightly, helplessly.

I love you, I love you–

“What?” Eloise said freezing, her fingers still deep inside of Cressida as she shuddered beneath her.

Had she really spoken aloud? 

The look on Eloise's face showed interest, not shock– perhaps she had only begged for more. Deeper, harder, more–

“I–” Cressida's voice was cut off with a gasp when Eloise twisted her fingers just so– “Please–”

“Please what?”

Why was she being so cruel? Did she understand that this wasn't a game? That she would never be coming back-?

The words escaped her before she could stop them, “Don't let them take me.” Cressida's voice was scarcely above a whisper and Eloise's eyes widened at the sight of Cressida's hopelessness.

Eloise's mouth opened before closing, “Are you– you're not coming back?” 

“I don't think–” The words were choked off by Cressida's rising tears.

“I– I won't let them take you–” Her other hand reached up to brush one of the tears that fell down Cressida's face.

The look in Eloise's eyes could only be described as guilt– she was lying. Of course she was. 

Their lips pressed together suddenly, Cressida's hand fisting the front of Eloise's dress in a desperate attempt to wipe the pitying look from her expression. Pressing her hips up to distract her from the words that had almost inadvertently spilled from her lips.

I love you–

Fingers curling perfectly inside–

Don't leave me–

A thumb brushing against her clit in a perfunctory way– automatic, with a practiced efficiency that made Cressida burn with anger and want.

How many promises would she allow Eloise to break?

Teeth pressed into her bottom lip and she could barely stifle the groan in response– Eloise had never been so firm with her touches. They were nearly unforgiving.

Was the guilt taking over?

Was it that she finally realized the fact that she was using Cressida? Wringing her out like a wet towel to be dried off on a clothesline. Hanging limply in the wind. Lying boneless in Eloise's arms as she had her way with her– the distress of her future taking over her entire mind.

I love you–

–do not even like–

Cressida's fingernails dug into the fabric on the back of Eloise's dress, hoping that she left long red streaks underneath her clothing as she grappled for purchase underneath her. 

“You're so good–” She could hear Eloise distantly mutter against her throat before pressing her teeth against the skin.

A deep groan left Cressida's body as a shudder passed through her, unstoppable, uncontainable. If she shut her eyes tightly enough, she could pretend that Eloise was doing this out of love instead of pity.

A last request before the ax fell.

Her hands fumbled for the buttons on the back of Eloise's dress before she could think twice, forgetting that they were still in the sitting room and not somewhere blissfully solitary. Forgetting that she had never been allowed the privilege to do so before.

“No– we can't–” Eloise's hands pressed against Cressida's, stopping the attempt in its tracks.

Of course. Only Cressida could be the one stripped bare. As she was in every one of their meetings prior. Eloise fully dressed with barely a strand of hair out of place, while Cressida was a stuttering mess. Red in the face, sweating, her dress rucked up over her body. 

Absolutely ravished.

She felt useless. Even in her last moments with Eloise she could not get anything she truly wanted. The love was not, and would never be, returned.

So she took Eloise's fingers between her lips and cleaned herself off– the debasing action bringing a flush up her neck. But she was too desperate to care. Too beyond reason to allow herself to focus on anything except for the lust that clouded Eloise's eyes with the action.

Their lips met again, Eloise groaning against her at the taste. 

It was torture– hearing Eloise like this. Knowing that it would be their last time together. Moments that Cressida knew she would play again and again in her head as she headed into the middle of nowhere. Onto a farm of all things.

Suddenly she was on top of Eloise, flipping them over on the small settee, a gasp of pure surprise disconnecting their lips for a moment. 

“What are you–”

“Please– just this once–” Cressida pleaded, her hands touching the buttons on Eloise's dress once more. She felt out of her mind in need. 

Eloise's eyes met her own and the hesitant nod was all Cressida needed before immediately unbuttoning and rucking the dress down Eloise's body. Pale, beautiful skin on display– a sight that Cressida never wanted to forget.

Something she would need to forget in order to be able to continue life after this moment.

She pressed her lips to the small imperfections on Eloise's chest, reveling in the nearly imperceptible gasps in response to the sensation. Had Eloise ever allowed anyone to touch her like this? Or was Cressida the first– only out of sympathy and an inexplicable urge to acquiesce to her last wishes in Mayfair?

Perhaps this would be the closest to love that Cressida would ever come to.

This hesitant acceptance of her affections.

“God– Cress–” Eloise's hand grasped Cressida's hair, undoing the careful braids her maid had plaited just that morning.

“Please-? Can I-?” Cressida continuing to beg for permission to touch Eloise was nothing out of the ordinary. She had never allowed her to go this far before. Her lips had only managed to touch down on Eloise's neck once before she was unceremoniously pushed away.

“Yes– yes–” Eloise hissed, hand fisting the hair at the base of Cressida's neck with more force. 

Cressida was a starving woman– a buffet suddenly laid out before her. Eloise was hers for the taking. Even though that wasn't the truth, she liked to imagine it was as she fell to her knees on the hardwood floor and took Eloise reverently into her mouth as if she were at communion.

Do you take the Body of–?

She moaned at the taste– her first taste of Eloise after more rough fumbles together than she could count.

A hymn played in her mind as she laved her tongue along the length of her.

I surrender all,

I surrender all,

All to thee, my blessed Savior–

Her mind always fell back to faith when she was on her knees– it was instinctual. Reflexive. And yet, she had never felt closer to God than at this moment. Ascending reality, as it was, as she allowed the very last vestiges of her pride fall from her grasp.

Even as her loosened hair fell into her eyes, she continued.

Even as Eloise shook as gasped, pressing her head in closer, she continued.

Cressida nearly laughed out of hysteria as the next lines of the hymn slammed into her head.

All to Jesus I surrender,

Humbly at his feet I bow,

Worldly pleasures all forsaken,

Take me, Jesus, take me now.

She rested her head against Eloise's naked thigh, slick dripping down her chin and onto her neck.

Something had to be wrong with her. She still wanted more– more of Eloise, more of this moment. 

She was clearly in love with an idea, with  concept– a woman who loved her back just as fiercely as she loved her. An impossibility.

The tears dripped down Cressida's cheeks, mixing in with Eloise's essence in an appropriate sort of ending to their tryst. So, it was no surprise that these words left Cressida's lips without her consent.

“I love you.” Whispered against Eloise's cooling skin. She couldn't help herself anymore– what did she have to lose?

Cressida could feel Eloise jolt underneath her cheek, the muscle of her thigh twitching mightily.

“You what?” Eloise's voice was low, hushed in the cavernous space of the Cowper sitting room.

“I love you.” She raised her head, teary eyes meeting Eloise's wide ones. Perhaps she had enough sympathy– enough pity in her heart to take those words and decide to do something and save Cressida from this situation.

She knew it was desperate– knew that it was more likely that she would be abandoned, but, again– what did she have to lose? Her life was already over.

What was another bridge to burn?

“I–” Eloise swallowed, her eyes darting to the door, “I love you too.”

Cressida's heart dropped. 

Suddenly, everything had become very clear to her. 

Eloise's presence, her actions, her words. All a way to soothe her last moments in Mayfair– give her the dream she had always thought she had wanted. 

But now, faced with this poor imitation, she simply wanted to keel over and die.

The shame, the embarrassment rose up her stomach like a nasty bout of food poisoning. 

She closed her eyes. She would play out the motions. See what Eloise would say if she followed the appropriate script.

“And you’ll– you'll stop them from sending me away?” Cressida asked, feeling her heart break apart from her body when Eloise nodded, “Do you promise?”

Eloise's eyes would not meet her own as she uttered her next words, “I promise.”

Cressida watched distantly as Eloise buttoned her dress up, smoothing her hands against the fabric in an attempt to remove the wrinkles Cressida had left behind with her body. It was for naught, and they both knew it, but who was Eloise if she was not performing for an audience. 

I genuinely enjoyed her at the start.

Would she tell everyone that she had genuinely enjoyed Cressida at the end now? That Cressida had gotten down on her knees and prayed before her? Given up the very last part of her soul?

Cressida could not say she enjoyed Eloise at the beginning or the end of their relationship. 

The first time their lips had touched had been nearly heartbreaking for her.

The last time– which she already could not remember– her heart had already been surgically removed from her body. No hope was left within her at that point. 

And Eloise seemed to see that in her expression.

“Your hair.” Eloises said softly, carefully into the terse silence between them.

Cressida's hand reached up to touch the rats’ nest Eloise had left behind with a heavy sigh. She would have to find a her maid to–

“Let me fix it.”

“What?” Cressida asked before she could stop herself.

“I said, let me fix it? If you'd like?”

Cressida would not like her to. “Alright.” 

Eloise sat back down on the settee, patting the spot next to her, right beside a rather mysterious looking damp spot that made Cressida shiver at the memory of.

She sat down, carefully avoiding the spot and carefully avoiding pressing her body against Eloise's.

Cressida put her back to Eloise at her request and felt as her hands tentatively stroked through the tangled strands. Methodically, she removed the clips and pins holding together the braids, carefully handing them to Cressida as she took the elaborate style apart.

The hair tickled the back of Cressida's neck, bringing a shiver down her spine at the sensation. Eloise's hand softly pressed against the skin and Cressida had to hold back the whine that threatened to leave her lips at the touch.

“You should leave your hair down more often.” Eloise said softly as she stroked her fingers through the braids, taking them apart.

Cressida snorted, “And what? Be the laughing stock of the ton– oh wait, that is already my reality! Why don't I just waltz out in a bathrobe while I'm at it!” 

Eloise remained silent at her words and a flush of anger rose through her. Why couldn't she have anything? Why did Eloise always have to come out on top, in power, constantly one-upping her? She hated her– hated the way she softly braided her hair, fingers brushing against Cressida's as she took the pins from her outstretched hand.

Hated the way she didn't love her back. Told her what she needed to hear. Lied to her.

She hated Eloise Bridgerton completely– entirely. Her awful mournful eyes that looked at her with a deep, gut wrenching sort of regret. It made her want to keel over and die, quite honestly. It made her want to reach up and slap the expression off of her face. 

It was sickening– being so beholden to her. A woman who had the reputation of a rake.

Someone that Cressida should have stayed far away from.

Not someone she should have allowed to ruin her.

“I'll miss you– when you're gone.” Eloise said quietly and Cressida's body flushed with a deep anger at her words. She would be glad Cressida was gone. So she could move on to the next unsuspecting girl– ruin another life.

That was what happened to Marina Crane, was it not?

Dropped completely– left to rot.

Cressida swallowed down the bile that was threatening to rise at Eloise's words. Did not respond. Could not respond.

A gentle hand stroked through a few wayward locks that had not been captured by the first braid Eloise had woven. 

Cressida felt like she was going completely out of her mind– almost as if a bout of rabies had taken hold of her– she wanted to chew off the hand that was touching her. Make sure it could never touch again–

Draw blood– break the fine bones–

With startling realism, Cressida pictured herself turning around and slotting the letter opener on the table before them snugly between two of Eloise's ribs. Watching as she spluttered for air– reached out to Cressida because she needed her for the first time they've known each other.

To save her, to heal her. Perhaps Cressida would hold her in her arms as she cried for forgiveness. Pressed her to her breast, rested her cheek on her perspiring brow as she panted. 

Would she be just as heartbroken when Cressida watched the life seep from her body? Would Eloise finally understand how she felt as her hands softly caressed the back of Cressida's neck?

She gasped when lips pressed gently on the nape of her neck.

“I'll miss that sound.” Eloise whispered softly against her skin.

Cressida would prefer to be dead than to feel this pain.

The tears came without warning, falling down her face, down her neck, and onto the bust of her dress. The fine silk immediately soaked it up– leaving dark splotches on her pastel dress.

“Can't you–” She groaned, almost as if in pain, the words struggling to come out, “Run away with– go somewhere with me? Somewhere else?”

She could feel Eloise's heavy breath against her skin and the silence that followed completely unsettled her.

“Yes.” She said, words too light to be anything other than a balm in the moment. “Let’s go somewhere. Tomorrow morning.”

This was something she thought Cressida could hold onto in the future. 

She was wrong.

Eventually, Cressida numbly watched as Eloise stood from the settee as the clock struck at the next hour. She straightened out her rumpled dress with a wry look on her face. Cressida could not tell how she was feeling– but perhaps that was for the best.

After this moment, she never wanted to see Eloise again. That was something she was settled on.

And she knew she probably wouldn't. Eloise was not known for dwelling on her past pursuits.

She probably had another girl lined up for the moment Cressida's carriage had set off to Wales.

For once, Cressida was glad to be leaving. She didn't know if she could stomach the sight of someone else wrapping their arm through Eloise's in the same way they used to as they promenaded through the green. Watch as fingers softly brushed together, shoulders bumped, smitten smiles we exchanged.

She'd seen it happen before, as it had happened to herself, as it probably will happen once she had gone.

“I'll figure something out.” Eloise whispered softly, soft eyes meeting Cressida's once more and all Cressida could do in response was sigh and nod.

Their hands tangled together and Cressida felt so numb, that she could not even feel Eloise's thumb as it brushed against her own. She could not register anything except for her thundering heartbeat in her ears and the way she was counting down the minutes before Eloise would be gone from her life forever.

Even as she could still taste Eloise lingering in her mouth. 

The door closed firmly behind Eloise with a firm click. Cressida pressed her back against the solid oak door– feeling spent. Used.

Sleep had not come easily to Cressida– she had given up on the idea of resting the moment her head had hit her plush pillow. Her heart simply beat at an uneven rhythm as she played the events of the day over and over again. 

I love you, too.

What an absolute fool Cressida had been made out to be.

When Cressida had imagined her last moments on the earth, she had always imagined herself remaining formidable. Strong. Not bowing to anyone.

In her mind, perhaps a criminal tried to pilfer her valuables in the dead of night. Instead, managing to take her life. She would not beg for mercy. She would remain staunch in her resolve to die with dignity.

Or perhaps she would board a ship– disaster striking as it began to sink. She imagined that she would stay put and go down with the ship, not coming to hysteria– crying for God. For someone to save her. 

The realization that she was as weak willed as everyone had made her out to be was a startling thought. Faced with her final moments, as far as she was concerned, what was it that Cressida did? 

She begged to get down onto her knees and pleasure the woman who had broken her.

When the maid came to fetch her for breakfast, Cressida was already awake. Body aching, numb, and having accepted that her life was completely over.

I love you, too.

She did not say a word to her father, to her mother. Did not touch a morsel of the food that had been set out before her. 

A farm– What was she going to do on a farm? 

I love you–

“The carriage is ready, Cressida.” Her mother said, almost gently, into the terse silence of the room. Her father's fork scraped across his plate as he ate the last of his food. His appetite seemed to be firmly in place, regardless of the fact that his only father was being banished from the only home she'd ever known. 

Cressida simply stood, chair screeching against the hardwood floor, and made her way outside to where an ancient looking carriage stood waiting for her. Her eyes shut tightly when the driver tipped his hat in her direction. 

“I will miss you.” Her mother said quietly to her– so quiet she could hardly hear her over the ringing in her ears.

Cressida simply took her mother's hand in her own, briefly squeezing before stepping into the carriage. She took the driver's gloved hand and sat on the uncomfortable bench within. The seats were so old that there was hardly anything cushioning her from the hardwood beneath.

She watched as bright specks of dust passed through the sunlight streaming through the window of the carriage and felt another ripple of hopelessness shoot through her body. Her eyes opened.

Her mother was standing still– so still she could be mistaken as a marble statue in their front garden, if it weren't for the way her dress moved with the breeze. Cressida swallowed, feeling the tears well at the sight, turning her eyes to stare out the other side towards the street.

A figure stood beside the entry gate– distant enough that a face was not clearly visible, but the bright coloured garments gave the individual's identity straight away. Bridgerton blue.

I love you, too–

With a snap of the driver's reins, the carriage slowly set off. Cressida's eyes did not leave Eloise's figure once. Not even when the tears slid down her face– not even when Eloise's mournful eyes met her own as she passed by.

She could feel the rage bubble within, and given the way Eloise's eyes widened in fear, she imagined that it was evident in her expression.

Cressida awoke with a start– loud pained groans filtering into her ears as the dreams subsided. 

What was-?

The small lamb in her bed pressed her head against Cressida's chin– wool soft and familiar in the darkness of her small bedroom. She pressed a hand into the wool, fingers flexing comfortingly against the animal's back.

Was she hungry?

It was still dark–

Another pained groan filled the room and Cressida squinted her eyes into the darkness, waiting for her vision to adjust. The moon was not bright– barely any light filtered in through the window, but Cressida could tell immediately who was making the sounds when a familiar gasp sounded.

Eloise?

“Cress–” Another pained groan, “Please–”

A ripple of heat coursed through Cressida's body at the sound of her name. This had to be a nightmare.

“God– I–” Eloise began to sob and Cressida's eyes finally adjusted to watch as the woman thrashed around in the small spare cot in the corner of her bedroom.

Eloise the ewe bleated softly, pressing her head harder against Cressida's cheek. Cressida watched as another gasping sob escaped into the stifling night air. She had forgotten to open a window– a drop of sweat beading down her brow.

“I love– no–” Eloise cried, “I'm sorry–”

Cressida sat up quickly, looking at Eloise’s form with disbelief. Her legs were kicking out, body damp with sweat as she panted. 

“Cressida– please–”

Cressida stood, feet unsteadily finding purchase against the hardwood floor. Eloise– the ewe– whimpered in tandem with the real Eloise. The Eloise that was sobbing for her in her sleep. 

She quickly picked up the animal in her arms, watching in shock as Eloise began to hyperventilate– air seemingly not coming into her body quick enough. A panic completely overtaking her. It was unnerving to witness.

Cressida felt the urge to reach out– to brush a soft hand against Eloise's perspiring cheek. Wake her gently from the nightmare.

Instead, she fled from the room; door clicking behind her at a startling volume as the sobs continued behind the door.

Dazedly, she walked into the kitchen, the ewe still securely tucked into her arms. Eloise the ewe let out a soft snorting sound against the skin of her arm. Cressida swallowed, her name groaned out in the night air still bouncing around in her mind. Clear as day, as if she had never left the room.

Cressida took the filled pitcher of water that Margaret had taken to leaving on the counter and filling a glass cup with it. Water sloshed inside unsteadily, Cressida's grip on the handle shaky and unfocused. Water spilled over onto the wooden counter, dripping down onto the floor and soaking Cressida's bare feet.

She did not register the feeling.

“Cressida?” A voice reached out to her in the silence and she jolted backwards, nearly knocking her glass onto the floor as well.

She turned– Aunt Jo stood, eyebrows raised slightly as she took in Cressida's unsettled form.

“What are you doing up?” Cressida asked, eyes blinking tightly, nervously.

“I heard a sound–” Aunt Jo paused, lips tightening, “I suppose it was the same one you heard.” 

Cressida swallowed. “Yes– I–” She pressed an anxious hand into the ewe’s wool, “I– I don't know what to do.”

Aunt Jo snorted lightly, before grabbing a kitchen rag and handing it to Cressida. “I wouldn't know where to even begin. It would help if I had some context, though.”

Rather than answering straight away, Cressida swept the rag against the puddle on the floor, soaking up the water she had spilled. “It’s not–” She let out a frustrated sigh, “It's not a very short story.”

“I have time.” Aunt Jo responded, opening a cupboard and grabbing a glass for herself. “Anyways– I cannot sleep after being woken up. One of the hazards of farming, I suppose.” 

Cressida poured water for Aunt Jo, focusing on not spilling anything else. “I, well, I'm sure you have some assumptions.” 

“I do.” Aunt Jo replied simply, eyes considering Cressida, even as she took a deep drink of her water.

“And, so, they are probably correct.” 

“That doesn't explain why she is here, though.”

Cressida's brows furrowed, “No. It does not.” Her thumb tapped against the side of the glass as she thought. “I had assumed she had forgotten about me as soon as I had left for Abergorlech.”

“Evidently not.” Aunt Jo said, “But it seems as though you have.”

“I–” Cressida swallowed, “I have not. I never could have. Even after what she had done– I suppose that's the problem, isn't it?”

Aunt Jo sighed, sitting down heavily in the stool that Margaret usually sat in while she cooked. It creaked slightly, the old chipped wood doing its best to support her weight. Cressida watched as she took another sip from the cup, her swallow almost loud in the quiet of the house. Distantly, she could still hear Eloise’s whimpers from behind the closed door of her bedroom. “No, you haven’t forgotten.” She puffed out a breath, “Do you want to forget?”

Cressida thought of her past self– the self that boiled with resentment, with hatred, with spite. So different from how she conducted herself after two years of living a calm and simple life. Would inviting Eloise ruin her completely? Send her spiraling back into the darkest places of her life?

“I don’t know.” Cressida said, her lips betraying her true thoughts. Up to that moment, she had been resolved to exorcize Eloise from every aspect of her life. To forget her completely– especially the last day they had seen each other. 

“I need to know if I should throw her to the curb the moment the sun rises.” Aunt Jo responded, her eyes boring into Cressida’s before dipping down to look at the ewe in her arms. “What did you say that ewe’s name was?”

Cressida suddenly wanted to keel over and die– “Eloise.” She responded faintly, voice weak. She watched as Aunt Jo tilted her head slightly to one side.

“Eloise.” She said, a grimness in her tone that unsettled. She stood from the stool, standing across from Cressida, their eyes leveling out as she did so. “I think that may answer my question.”

A stab of sickness coursed through Cressida’s stomach, almost as if she was being sliced through with the scythe she used to trim the green. Their eyes met once more in the darkness and Cressida could see the way Aunt Jo’s gaze had softened at the sight of her despair.

“If you do want her gone, tell me before she wakes. I will do whatever you feel is right– but if it means anything to you,” She paused, a silence stretching between the next part of her statement as she thought, “You have an opportunity to see something through. Do not live with that regret.” She turned to leave, her hand light squeezing Cressida’s bicep.

Only when a door distantly closed– the room Aunt Jo shared with Margaret, did Cressida allow herself to feel the overwhelming wave of emotion wash over.

Cressida assisted Maragaret with breakfast. It was so recent that Cressida was not able to care for herself– the undertaking of dressing herself, bathing herself, cooking– It was not something she had ever learnt in her father’s home in Mayfair. Margaret was patient with her– loving in a way she had never known. At first, her gentle affections were met with a confused glance– and uncomfortable wince. Over time, though, Cressida found herself leaning in. Her parents had not been affectionate people. Never touching her unless it was to firmly chastise, to discipline. 

The hand on her back made her feel centered in ways she had not imagined prior, as she stirred the porridge Margaret had started in the brick-and-mortar fireplace. The flames licked the sides of the cast iron, heating the area where Cressida’s hand was situated as she stirred. Despite the oppressive summer heat, Cressida still preferred eating a hot and hearty breakfast every morning. 

“Sausage?” Margaret asked over her shoulder, holding up some of the preserved meat they had stored away. 

Cressida nodded as she added some sugar to the pot, carefully stirring it in. Her eyes burnt with the lack of sleep– Margaret finding her slumped against the countertop, slightly snoring. It was embarrassing– but no worse than the state Aunt Jo had found her in that very night.

The door to her bedroom slowly creaked open, indicating that Eloise had finally awoken.

“Good morning, love.” Margaret said brightly. Cressida glanced at Eloise from the corner of her eye– startling slightly at the rumpled and exhausted state she seemed to be in.

“Morning.” Eloise responded quietly, chair screeching against the floor as she pulled it out from its place at the table. “I'll be out of your hair first thing–”

The wooden spoon in Cressida's hand clattered loudly against the pot, interrupting Eloise's words. She could feel eyes on her, burning at her skin as she attempted to ignore the sensation of embarrassment. She continued to mix the porridge in the pot.

“Oh,” Margaret said after a moment, “There's no need– why don't you stay for another day or so? I hear the weather is going to be a fright this week– torrential downpour. Happens every season.” 

She could hear Eloise swallow loudly, gulping almost. “I– ah, I don't know.” 

Cressida picked up one of the ceramic bowls Margaret had set out on the floor beside the brick-and-mortar fireplace Cressida was kneeling before and began to spoon the porridge into it. She turned to the table, a stuttering breath making its way from her lips as her eyes met Eloise's bloodshot ones. 

“Good morning.” Eloise tried, wincing at the way her voice cracked slightly with the greeting.

Cressida simply nodded, and deposited the bowl before her without thought. 

“Oh– ah. Thank you.” Eloise said, eyeing the large bowl with a stunned expression. Perhaps assuming that Cressida would ignore her for the day– tuck into her food without a word.

“Of course.” Cressida responded, turning back to the stovetop stiffly. Her back hurt– muscles coiled in anticipation of the worst. It was– it was not pleasant. Being faced with her past so frankly. So suddenly.

She spooned a portion of porridge for herself and remained standing as she dug into the bowl, electing to stay as far from Eloise as she possibly could. It was rude– she knew it was, but she could not stomach the sensation of being so close to her. Fingers perhaps brushing as they reached for the shaker of salt at the same time.

“How did you find the cot, Eloise?” Margaret asked, as she put down a heavy pan on the rack within the fireplace that housed the fire they used for cooking. It was primitive, in a sense, but it certainly did the job. Cressida no longer had anything to complain about– especially with the way Margaret had with cooking. It was otherworldly– better than anything Cressida had eaten in Mayfair.

But then again– she had never had a need for an appetite in Mayfair.

“It was perfectly fine.” Eloise replied faintly, spoon clicking against the ceramic as she moved the porridge around her bowl idly. “Thank you again for setting it up for me.”

Eloise? Thanking someone? It was strange to hear– Eloise usually moved through her life without a second thought to the others around her. Cressida had seen the laissez faire way she had treated her waitstaff.

“Of course, darling, it was no trouble.” Margaret's Welsh accent gave every word that left her lips a sweet lilt, almost as if she were singing softly. It was comforting to hear– even though it was directed towards the bane of Cressida's existence.

A clatter sounded somewhere from within the cottage, an expletive following closely behind, indicating that Aunt Jo had risen for the day. The pink flush on Margaret's cheeks only said as much– her love for the curmudgeony woman was clear as day. 

Aunt Jo walked in, slippers sliding against the hardwood, hand rubbing the back of her scalp.

This was another thing Cressida had to get used to over time. Aunt Jo and Margaret’s lax attitude towards propriety. Though initially shocking, it was freeing. Not needing to be dressed for breakfast, not needing a chaperone to every place Cressida wandered off to– it was such a change of pace from her life in Mayfair.

Walking down the road to meet with Georgie and his sister Lillith was almost too easy sometimes. Not that Cressida would complain– having friends was something she was not accustomed to. It was a welcome addition to the rather solitary life she had left prior.

She glanced at Eloise, who seemed completely taken aback by Aunt Jo's casual dress and she let out an amused snort. 

Eloise met her eyes helplessly, a lovely flush traveling up her neck and Cressida had to look away, lest she do something she regretted.

“Damn cat jumped on my face.” Aunt Jo muttered, sitting heavily onto her usual worn chair at the dining table. Margaret bent down to give her a kiss on her brow as she placed a fresh plate of eggs and sausage before her.

The damn cat in question, an orange fellow that Margaret and Cressida had come to call Lord Catper for his bristly personality and tendency towards violence, simply stood by the entry to the kitchen. He idly licked his front paw, eyeing the group distrustfully. He was the resident mouser– and a rather good one at that. If it weren't for his skill with the pests, Aunt Jo would have tossed him outside ages before.

“Sleep well?” Aunt Jo asked Eloise pointedly, receiving a sharp glare from Margaret in response.

“Ah– no– I have trouble sleeping in new places.” Eloise mumbled, scooping a bit of porridge onto her spoon, lifting it to her mouth. Her brows furrowed as she groaned in appreciation of the taste.

Cressida nearly dropped her bowl at the sound– how long had it been since she had heard such a sound come from Eloise?

Their eyes met, but Cressida had to tear herself away immediately. No– she could not– she could not fall into the same trap she had two years before.

She had grown– changed. Things were different. She was stronger. More self assured. Eloise was not the answer. Not any longer. She ignored the pleading glances sent in her direction, biting harshly on the inside of her cheek. The taste of blood against her tongue almost soothed her.

“Are we shearing today?” Cressida asked Aunt Jo, rather than respond to Eloise's words.

Aunt Jo glanced up at her in between bites of the scrambled egg Margaret had made for her, brows raising. “Am I hearing excitement in your tone? I must be dreaming.”

Cressida huffed, crossing her arms together tightly across her chest, feeling the way her shirtsleeves tightened against her biceps. It was unnerving– the way she outgrew clothing. One would think the growing had stopped long ago. “You detect wrongly. I am simply wanting the day to be over quicker.”

“Don’t rush me.” Aunt Jo muttered, taking a sip of the strong tea that had been laid out on the table. Cressida huffed, taking to the cup that Margaret had laid out for her– strong as well, to her specifications. 

“What–” Eloise blew out an anxious breath, the corners of her eyes creasing in concern, “Should I leave?”

The displeased face that made its appearance on Cressida's face made Eloise shrink in her seat in response. “No–” Cressida rubbed a hand across her brow, “Margaret mentioned poor weather– Just– just for the time being.”

Eloise straightened up slightly in her seat, her breath coming out quicker at Cressida's words. “Really? I can–”

“Don't–” Cressida pressed the meat of her palm against her temple to try to ward off the impending migraine, “I'm done talking about this.”

“Oh– right. Okay.” 

Cressida could see Aunt Jo and Margarita exchange glances over their heads and she let out a heavy sigh. “I will be checking on El– the runt. Lady Millard's runt.” She had almost uttered the ridiculous name she had given the ewe once again and wanted to smack herself for it again. Why did she do such a ridiculous thing–?

The realization pressed down on Cressida's heart suddenly.

Right.

She had not expected to ever see Eloise again.

Her eyes eventually trailed to where the large orange cat sat as he swatted at a fat horse fly idly. His fur was long– greying near his mouth. How many pests had he killed during his tenure at the cottage? Probably too many to count. Suddenly, as if by a strange force, she felt a certain kinship to the animal; its solitary nature, general displeasure with life.

She had not gotten along well with Lord Catper at the start of her stay– evident in the way she continued to use his ridiculous name. Georgie had eventually told her the secret to befriending felines– a piece of sausage from her own plate, placed on the floor without another glance.

An offering.

An offering she made once more, as she did every morning, bending down slightly to rest a piece of her food onto the hardwood floor. His watchful gaze took it in– her eyes immediately looking away when he glanced at her.

Georgie would be proud of the progress she had made with the cat– she would have to tell him after setting about her morning duties on the farm. 

She felt a familiar pair of eyes on her and bit on the tender part of the inside of her cheek. She would not acquiesce. She couldn't.

Especially not after all this time–

“What's his name?” Eloise's soft voice cut through her thoughts like a hot knife– her brain soft butter, the kind that Margaret faithfully churned every week.

Cressida looked at Eloise, a firm expression upon her face. She didn't want to share–

“Lord Catper.” Margaret tittered as she poured Aunt Jo another cup of tea.

Eloise snorted in response– her nose wrinkling in the familiar way it did when she found something especially silly. A dull ache rose up Cressida's chest at the sight. “Really? Like your father, Cress– ida?” She had almost called Cressida by the nickname she had come to refer to in bed.

Cressida left the room without a response, depositing her bowl roughly onto the countertop. She could not deal with the emotions bubbling just under the surface. The sight of Eloise's sweet face– only slightly aged by the time and distance between them, was too much for her to handle so early in the morning. She might as well have been dropped from Cressida's nightmares into the only place she had ever felt closest to home.

It was– she hated Eloise for this. For ruining yet another thing. Breakfast with Aunt Jo and Margaret. It was not even necessarily something she had realized was valuable to her until she was standing outside in the overwhelming heat of the stables. The stench of animal musk and hay cloying at her senses. 

She wanted things to go back immediately– but even if Eloise left, she knew that would be impossible.

The door had been opened by her appearance back into Cressida's life.

The question now was what was Cressida going to do about it?

She looked at the runt in the stables, sleeping fitfully in much the same way Eloise had that very night. Watched as Lady Millard pressed her cheek to the top of the ewe’s head in an attempt to calm it.

Watched as the ewe kicked her legs out, hitting Lady Millard’s face, surprising the sheep backwards away from her.

Cressida sighed when Lady Millard tempestuously walked away, feet scraping at the hay on the ground as she did so. She slowly lifted the ewe off of the ground, cradling her to her chest in an attempt to calm her down. Immediately, the ewe nuzzled closer, body relaxing against Cressida's skin. Cressida shut her eyes at the sensation. 

Mother nature seemed to be just as vengeful, just as random, just as haphazard as anyone's lot in life. 

Cressida being born into wealth; learning propriety and spending her time familiarizing herself with the duties of being a part of society– only to be sent off to work as a farmhand in Wales.

Eloise having the privilege of a loving family, but shirking it off in order to chase pleasure– only now to find a horrible guilt rising from deep within. How could a rake come to regret her past actions, if those actions were what had brought her so much pleasure in the first place?

How could Cressida forgive her?

She looked down at the ewe in her arms, her resolve nearly breaking at the sight–

I love you, too–

It needed to pass. It had to. For her sanity. For her survival. Eloise needed to let go of her. She was not the same girl in Mayfair two years earlier– nor did she want to be.

So, with resolve, Cressida knew that this time, she would not get on her knees.

Chapter Text

Lord, I deserve Thy deepest wrath,

Ungrateful, faithless I have been;

No terrors have my soul deterred,

Nor goodness wooed me from my sin.

My heart is vile, my mind depraved,

My flesh rebels against Thy will;

Hymn by Basil Manly Jr., 1850

Humming as she took the proffered drink from the woman, she set it down on the table. The golden candlelight illuminated the side of her face– she was pretty. Not in a jaw-dropping way, but in a way that still made Eloise more nervous than it ought to.

She was around pretty women daily– women much more beautiful, well off, proper than the woman she was about to hand a bundle of her money to.

A hand stroked across her cheek, bringing Eloise back to the present.

“What are you thinking about?” The woman asked, her bright red mane reflecting beautifully in the candlelight. Copper tones swam across Eloise's vision, temporarily dazzling her before she had the chance to respond.

The cold glass was pressed into her hands again and she took a deep drag– coughing slightly with the burn. “What's– what's your name?” The first thought that popped into her mind as the woman sat down on the edge of the bed.

The woman tilted her head, her body shifting slightly as she did so, and the shift she wore revealed more of a lovely freckled collarbone. Eloise's eyes tracked the movement, taking in the newly exposed skin. “What would you like to call me?” She asked instead.

Eloise shifted further back against the plush armchair facing the bed. She’d never felt more out of her depths than in this very moment. “What do you mean? What is your name?”

A wry smile crossed the woman's pink lips, tongue darting out to wet the bottom. “Hazard of the job, I suppose.” She leaned back on her arms looking at Eloise with her full attention, “How did you find out about me?”

“A friend.” Eloise replied, breathing out a deep sigh from her nose. The image of Lady Arnold briefly flashed before her eyes, before she refocused on the woman.

“Mm,” She hummed, hand reaching up to toy with the collar of her shift. She smiled when Eloise immediately glanced downwards at the sight. “You may call me Julia. If you like.”

The name suited her– though Eloise could immediately sense that she was lying.

“Julia.” She echoed quietly, “Do you know why I am here?”

Julia's mouth twisted into a pleased smile, “Yes.” 

“And why is that?” Eloise asked, taking another sip of the whiskey in her glass, fingers trembling slightly as she did so.

“Well, to fuck me, of course.”

Living away from the rest of her family at Aubrey Hall had been quite the adjustment– being away from the constant chatter of her siblings. She had made her debut a few years earlier– her mother returning to tend to their main residence in the countryside once Anthony had married Kate and Daphne had left with the Duke.

Eloise was capable– that was the reasoning behind the easy retreat back to Aubrey Hall. Her family's comfortable and peaceful life in the countryside was the balm that was needed after such intense seasons. Violet, especially needing a respite.

And so, Anthony functioned as Eloise's official chaperone. Not that it was necessary, of course. Eloise found herself in the company of men as infrequently as an un-debuted prospect. Which suited her perfectly fine– no chaperones were needed in order to seek out ‘friendships’ with the ladies of the ton.

She could be alone with any woman for as long as she wanted.

That was what Lady Tilley Arnold had told Eloise, anyways. A wonderful friend– one that Eloise had not expected to find, especially after discovering said woman in bed with Benedict and another male lover. Benedict– bless his soul– did not realize the grave error of inadvertently introducing the two of them. Eloise, held back by inexperience and trepidation, was set free by the introduction to some of Lady Arnold’s closest friends.

And so, that was how it all began– her insatiable need. To have and to want without remorse. Nothing was holding her back any longer– well, almost nothing.

“You do realize, you cannot be spending so much money without Anthony catching on– or Kate, really. The true mastermind behind the operations.” Benedict said, crossing one leg over the other. He took a sip from his teacup, slurping loudly over the breakfast table.

Eloise shuddered at the sound, making a face of displeasure at him, “We have an understanding–”

“An understanding in which he knows you've fucked every available woman in Mayfair?”

“Jesus–” Eloise put her hands over her heated face, “Not so loud-! I– I'm only really seeing one person–”

“Julia? Again? I thought she had ended it.” Benedict took a messy bite from the pastry on the plate before him. The jam inside spilled out the seams, dripping down his chin.

“Can you eat like an adult– or is that simply impossible for you?” Eloise muttered, throwing a napkin in his direction.

He caught it with his left hand, shaking it out with an annoyed look on his face. He wiped the jam off. “Can you stop paying Julia to sleep with you, or is that simply impossible as well?” He shot back.

Eloise flushed, “I– I don't pay her– I'm not paying her!”

“You mean not anymore? What's one more pity fu–”

“Benedict–” Eloise hissed, interrupting his words, “Just– no. Absolutely not. You of all people do not get to tell me a thing about how I decide to conduct myself.”

Benedict put his hands up in surrender. “Ouch– okay. Fair enough.” He picked the pastry up again, taking another bite from it. “Any other prospects though, or is it all speculation from our esteemed Lady Whistledown?”

Eloise snorted, leaning back in her seat. That ridiculous rag was starting to play on her nerves. “Speculation. Definitely speculation.”

“So you are not becoming fast friends with the lovely Marina Thompson?” Benedict asked, his teacup clicking against its saucer as he lifted it up to take a pointed sip.

“Well.” Eloise blinked at him, “Wait– was that really reported on?” Benedict passed the paper in question across the table and Eloise scanned the words, brows raising. “That's not good.” She muttered as she read the words Marina Thompson seen leaving Bridgerton House late– “Jesus Christ.”

“Mm,” Benedict hummed, “Does Tilley know of this?”

Eloise shot him a confused look, “Why should she?”

“She has become your advisor in ‘rakery’, has she not?” Benedict responded snidely, and Eloise could detect a hint of jealousy as he mentioned his ex-lover. 

“Oh yes, that amoungst other things.” Eloise said with a smile. She was bluffing, of course, and Benedict knew that– but it didn't stop him from twitching with discontent. She propped the end of a thinly rolled cigarette between her lips, striking a match against the roughened edge of the table. “But no,” She blew out a pale cloud of smoke, “I will not be speaking to Tilley.”

“And why is that?” Benedict said, eyeing her with faux disinterest. “She would be–”

“If you were about to say ‘proud’, we both know you are lying.” Eloise cut in, swiping her tongue against the back of her teeth in anxiety as she thought. Tilley had explicitly told her not to involve herself with the young ladies of the ton– it was so hard though. They were so lovely, so sweet. 

“You should talk to her, you know.” Benedict said, pouring another cup of tea for himself. He was, of course, referring to Tilley once more.

Eloise sighed. “Yes, I know. And you should too.” She threw a wry look in Benedict's direction. She knew he wouldn't– it'd been a long time since the two of them had spoken. His clean break from her to explore whatever it was he wanted to explore had left her in a rather rough state.

Not that Eloise would ever tell him.

She was about to call on Marina anyhow.

Julia pressed Eloise against the door with her body– warm and soft in the way she had become familiar with.

A breath caressed the shell of her ear, “Are you going to allow me touch you?”

Eloise felt a shiver ratchet down her spine with the force of a natural disaster. She wanted to– God, she wanted to– but that was not part of her agreement with herself.

Giving. Not taking.

She shook her head, skull knocking slightly against the hard wood of the door.

Julia let out a soft laugh, “One day, you'll want me on my knees– Well. You already do want it, but you won't allow yourself.” Her hand pressed against Eloise's cheek. “Why?”

Eloise swallowed, mouth dry, head leaning hard against Julia's hand. “I need to learn–”

“You've learnt enough.”

Their lips pressed together and Eloise groaned deeply. She was meant for this, built for this moment. 

“I don't understand–” Marina let out a frustrated sound, “You're worse than any of the men–”

Eloise winced at Marina's words, “You're upset–”

“Upset? Me? Oh– how absolutely observant of you, Miss Bridgerton!” Mariana smacked her hand against the armrest of her chair as she stood up.

“Why don't we take a deep breath–”

“I want you gone.” Marina hissed at her, “I thought you would be different–”

“Your mistake.” Eloise said with a tilt of her head. “I never promised anything– I never could anyways. So I don't know exactly what it was you were expecting of me.”

“Perhaps not lying with a prostitute? Would that have been so difficult?” Marina snapped at her. She looked absolutely enraged– though for the life of Eloise, she truly could not imagine why. She had made it very clear that it was all a bit of fun. A way to pass the time. 

And even if Penelope and Anthony disproved, there wasn't much they could do about the whole situation. Only Lady Whistledown had managed to crack her resolve quite a bit– reporting on her whereabouts last night. Luckily, nothing scandalous, but for those who knew Eloise closely, it was almost like a nail in her coffin.

This was the first of many house calls she would have to make on this fine Sunday morning. Unfortunate that her weekend shook out to be so disappointing, really. But there was not much she could do except hope and pray for Lady Whistledown’s downfall. 

“She's not a prostitute.” Eloise attempted to defend Julia, though she knew it was for naught. Simply being in the same room as the woman was a sure sign that Eloise had slipped into a back hall with her and had her way with the woman. “Anyways, again, it is not as if I could propose to you–”

“Even if you could, you wouldn't.” Marina said with a scowl. “I don't understand why I let this continue, even with all of the whispers about your true proclivities. I should accept that marriage–”

Eloise stood, putting her untouched teacup onto the side table with a clatter, startling Marina with the action. She stalked forward, watching as Marina's breath quickened immediately, chest heaving over the collar of her dress. Eloise's eyes dipped down and she found herself smiling. A bluff upon a bluff.

“Perhaps you should– what was his name? Philip?” Eloise asked with a tilt of her head, “Weren't you in love with his brother, once upon a time?”

“Get out of my house.” Marina's voice was so faint that Eloise had trouble hearing her. 

“You really want me to?” Eloise asked, “If I leave you'll never hear from me again.”

“Good.” Marina sounded pained as she uttered the singular word. 

It was fine by Eloise, as it was one less thing to worry about. The door to the sitting room shut behind her easily as she walked out. The sounds of Marina’s cries chasing her out of the house.

“Darling, you're looking rather… tired.” 

Eloise looked up at the sound of Lady Tilley Arnold's voice gently reaching out for her and let out a heavy sigh. She continued to read her book, as if she had not even been addressed. “That's because I am.”

“I heard that you have been quite the ladies’ woman.” Tilley said with an amused lilt to her voice.

“Mm? And where did you hear that?” Eloise replied with a laugh. Had Benedict crawled back for more? Her weekly lunches with the woman always revealed a bit too much about her personal life– but to be fair, Tilley could say the same thing about her.

Eloise had somehow gotten tangled up with four ladies of the ton– Marina Thompson having just left in a fit of despair and tears, that had dried up rather quickly once she had gone to marry some foolish man who was fine with having Eloise's leftovers. It was almost humorous if it weren't so pitiful. 

Her affair with Julia had been on and off for the past year– never quite tapering enough for them to be considered through with one another. Of course it was difficult ignoring the pleading looks thrown her way– she was trying not to hurt the woman too terribly. Julia who Eloise had her way with countless times even amidst her affair with Marina. Julia, whose body she knew like the back of her hand; delicate, warm, wanting in the darkness. A sinful respite from the expectations to find a husband.

But, of course, she was another woman falling in love with her, despite her constant warnings not to. Any attempt to ward off these growing feelings was always met with a nod and a pleased smile– perhaps I can change her mind.

But, of course, nobody could.

Anthony still expected her to attend every ball– it somehow wasn't enough for her to stomp on each potential suitor’s foot with her heel. Her attendance was expected, proper.  

Even if she stood huddled in the back corner of the ballroom with a group of tittering debutantes– her hand dipping lowly on the back of the girl nearest to her. The shiver of response gave her enough energy to fall into line for one more dance with some ridiculous man before escaping into the night.

Escaping somewhere in which she could finally have control.

“Lady Whistledown has quite a bit to say about you today.” Tilley said, looking over the rag that the ton had deemed worthy of their attention.

“What now?” Eloise responded tightly, teeth gritting at the sight.

Tilley's brows raised, “If this is true, I had thought that I had warned you to be more discreet.” Her fingers tapped impatiently on the table. “What ever happened to Julia?”

“What happened to Julia–? Do you really want to hear it?” She had been essentially barred from the brothel– it was almost comical, the way her life had shaken out. 

Julia had worked in tandem with her needs extraordinarily well until she didn't. Unrealistic expectations were suddenly weighing on Eloise's shoulders– a burden that she had not expected. From a working woman, no less. The threat of love, of devotion.

And so, Marina Thompson was a wonderful distraction from it all. Until she wasn't.

“I wouldn't be asking otherwise.” Tilley said, plucking a cigarette out of the gilded holder on the center of the table. Eloise followed suit, leaning forward to accept the proffered flame in Tilley's outstretched hand. 

She took a deep drag, allowing the smoke to swirl through her lungs, before thoughtfully blowing out a cloud of smoke. “Benedict has shared what had happened to our father, had he not?”

Tilley nodded, flicking ash off the end of her cigarette. “He hadn't shared much, but I was able to put together what had happened.”

“Mm,” Eloise hummed, “Did he mention our mother at any point?”

“No– well, I'd met her. Very lovely woman.” Tilley replied, her thumb tapping against the arm of her chair lightly as she considered Eloise before her. Smoke swirled around them, making the cool air hazy with the scent of sweet tobacco– a familiar and comforting scent. One that reminded Eloise of her father's study.

“Yes, yes. She is.” Eloise replied, already fumbling for another cigarette. Tilley's hand pressed lightly to the back of Eloise to steady her and Eloise flinched back. She rubbed at her face tiredly and swallowed. “When my father died– I was there. Anthony forgets that sometimes– but I was there. I held him in my arms, waiting for help while he ran inside and fetched our mother.” 

Tilley considered Eloise gravely, expression serious in a way that was uncommon to see on the other woman. She looked concerned.

Eloise let out a heavy sigh, “I was there when my mother threw herself down at his limp body– her cries–” Her voice broke off and she glanced around the room with a wince, “Do you have anything stronger than tea?”

“Of course.” Tilley said, immediately standing to fetch a decanter of liquor from a table by one of the bookshelves that surrounded them. She watched faintly as Tilley filled a heaping glass of brown liquid. Eloise slightly nodded her head in thanks when it was handed to her.

She took a sip, relishing in the harsh burn as the drink made its way down her throat. “I couldn't– I won't do that.”

“Do what?” Tilley asked softly.

“Allow myself to ever come close to feeling that same pain– to allow anyone. If I can help it.”

“What made you this way?” The woman asked, her hands tracing along Eloise's clothed back.

The woman's body was completely bare– only a blanket rucked up to cover a thigh. Eloise turned her head, cheek pressing against the silk bed sheet underneath. “What do you mean?” Eloise knew exactly what she meant.

“Untrusting.” She said wryly and suddenly Eloise wished she could recall her name. 

“Mm– untrusting? What makes you say that?”

“You're still clothed– you won't let me touch you–” Her hands flexed slightly against Eloise's back and Eloise immediately shifted away, as if proving her point.

“Ah– well.” Eloise turned over onto her back with a sigh. “It's a bit of a long story, but I suppose there's no fooling you.”

“Might as well pass the time with something– you did pay for the night.” The woman smiled, bright teeth on display. Eloise's eyes dipped down to watch the flush rise up the woman's chest–

“I can think of better ways to pass the time.” She said with a growing smile. Her eyes flickered over to the other woman resting beside her. Benedict was wrong– she was not wasting money. It was all for such a good cause.

Her freedom. Her pleasure.

Not that he should be privy to that particular information.

It was quiet– in an unsettling way. Being back in Aubrey Hall after such a trying season was enough to make Eloise want to lock herself in her chambers and never leave again.

Which is, of course, why the universe decided to punish her by giving her a visitor.

Cressida Cowper of all people.

She would rather crawl into a hole and wither away– and Eloise is sure that she'd said as much when Cressida had come with a suit for her friendship all those years ago. It did not matter how pretty she was, Eloise could not stand a woman without substance. Without charm.

And there was so much charm to be passed around in Mayfair– enough that Eloise never had to seek the company of the other woman. That was, until now, she supposed. She was a bit too far away from the bustle of the city to really be choosy about who she should spend her time with. Wrung out from her sham of a friendship with Penelope, back in the country estate with her family as Francesca prepared to make her debut, Eloise was tired. She had been for weeks. 

So, if a beautiful woman decided to pay her a visit out of so-called propriety, who was she to refuse?

She sat back, watching as Cressida nervously took another sip of her too hot tea. Her fingers tapped a loose beat onto her teacup in tandem with the branch that brushed against the drawing room window. The sill rattled lightly with each point of contact and Eloise could feel her patience begin to wear thin at the sound. That, along with Cressida's voice attempting to fill the silence.

“Why are you even here?” Eloise cut in– she couldn't take it anymore. Cressida's wide eyes met hers in surprise and Eloise could not help admiring the blue-green shade that stared back.

Tap–

Cressida's brows furrowed, “You are the only other person suitable for me to speak to– or did you not notice the lack of company?” Her brows rose and Eloise could feel herself flush at the question, “I do find that unlikely though.” 

How did she– “Is that so? Perhaps you should not be here– seeing as you are an avid follower of Lady Whistledown’s writing–”

“I am no such thing.” Cressida cut in, leveling Eloise with a stern look. “Do you forget the ways in which she had dragged my name through the mud?”

In all honesty, yes, Eloise had forgotten. She slumped down in her seat. “I suppose the enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

Cressida's brows rose again. “Is that how you see me? An enemy?”

“Well, what else? You hadn't been particularly kind to myself or Pen– Penelope.” She hiccuped over Penelope’s name and winced– it was so unfortunate that what had happened weeks ago had affected her so. Writing that she had been getting inappropriately close to Theo of all people. Her only other friend!

At least Penelope had only hinted at Eloise's proclivities otherwise. Being written about so savagely would not be fixed with a simple jaunt to the countryside. No– she would have to go and live on a farm somewhere. Tending sheep, or something equally ridiculous.

She snorted. For once, she had something to thank God for.

“No.” Cressida replied eventually, “I haven't been particularly nice.” Eloise could hear her swallow loudly and she sighed. “Though, you haven't given me much reason to be.”

“I haven't given you any reason?” Eloise asked, fingers tapping a bit harder against her cup. 

“What was it that you told me when I offered my friendship-? Ah–” Cressida smiled self-consciously and Eloise felt a ripple of shame pass through her body before dissipating, “‘I would rather die’, wasn't it?”

Eloise's eyes shifted over to watch the branch scratch at the window pane once more, mouth settling into a frown. She had said that. That was a fair assessment– though, beyond wanting to make Penelope snicker, she could not recall why she had been so mean-spirited. She usually entertained any woman who came to speak with her– no matter how dull or vapid. 

“I– apologize.” Eloise said after a strained beat. She wasn't exactly sure why she had spoken those two words, but with the way Cressida straightened out in surprise, perhaps it wasn't such a poor choice. “Considering as we are the only two in the vicinity who may have conversational topics to share– why don't we call a truce?”

“A truce.” Cressida deadpanned. She set her teacup and saucer delicately on the table between them. “Now, why would I agree to that?”

“You did call on me, did you not?” Eloise responded with a quirk of her brow. She watched as Cressida's eyes flickered up at the action before meeting her gaze once more. The woman became slightly rosy in the soft light coming through the window.

Tap, tap–

Eloise looked at the branches once more with distaste. Why hadn't the groundskeeper done anything about–

A soft beam of light passed through the overgrown branches and Eloise followed it with her gaze as it landed on Cressida's jaw and collarbone. Eloise suddenly felt breathless– had she always been this beautiful? This warm and inviting? Her eyes reverently traced down Cressida's flushing cheek, stopping at the tensed muscle of her neck. If she removed every sour memory of the woman– she could easily imagine pressing her lips, her teeth long the pale column of her throat.

She wondered why it took her so long to notice. Cressida Cowper may actually be the finest woman in all of Mayfair. Her long elegant limbs, delicate hands, and fine features. All hidden underneath her garish dresses and hair. The realization passed through Eloise like a bolt of lightning. 

Oh– She glanced around the empty drawing room and rubbed her thumb against the teacup in her hand again. Perhaps staying in Aubrey Hall would not be such a terrible thing this summer. Perhaps Penelope had even done Eloise a favour. How long had it been since she had last spent all of her energy on one woman?

Her mind flashed back to Julia for a moment before she blew out a slightly frustrated breath. No– this was a good thing. It had the possibility of being better than her tryst with Julia, than with Marina. With every other nameless woman she had spent her time with– whether society woman, widow, or prostitute.

Her eyes met Cressida's once more and she smiled lightly, watching in interest as the woman's head tilted slightly and she followed suit.

Cressida becoming a fixed point in Eloise's day to day was not something she could have foreseen back in Mayfair. But that wasn't necessarily such a bad thing. Eloise genuinely found herself enjoying Cressida's snide comments whispered lowly in her ear when it seemed as though no one was watching.

And, of course, she did not miss the way Cressida's eyes lingered on her when she thought Eloise was not looking. She did not know that Eloise had a premonition for when a woman's interest was piqued around her. It had become uncanny, almost– the accuracy to which Eloise could sense eyes on her. 

So, Cressida's gaze continued to linger. And Eloise bid her time. Why–? She wasn't exactly sure. Nothing was technically holding her back. Her mother was busy preparing Francesca for her upcoming debut and everyone else in the house seemed to be doing their absolute best to give her space. She supposed that was an appropriate response to the way she'd acted when she had first arrived– snappish and deeply unhappy to be pulled away from her life in Mayfair. But she was perfectly pleasant now. Gregory and Hyacinth immediately turning the other way when they saw her was beginning to get tiresome.

Unfortunate that Penelope had done even more damage than she had intended. 

Eloise would snicker to herself at the thought of walking by the woman, arm in arm with her absolute worst enemy in the ton.

Perhaps that was why Eloise continued to entertain the friendship between herself and Cressida.

Amusement.

Definitely not because the other woman managed to enchant her, sometimes to near speechlessness when she tossed her loose hair over her shoulder. Eloise was, perhaps, simply struck by the sight of Cressida allowing herself the respite of living in the countryside. It looked pleasant on her– the sun, the balmy air, the lightweight dresses.

Eloise felt the way she had felt when she had first begun to see Julia– excitable, warm, young. And she was young– sometimes she forgot. It was easy to, living alone with Benedict, Anthony, and Kate for most of the year. 

She rarely saw Kate or Anthony, as they were still in the throes of their lovesickness, leaving Eloise and Benedict searching for peace and quiet in some rather unlikely places. Luckily, they did not patronize the same businesses after dark.

Cressida's hand lightly grasped her wrist as she attempted to retrieve her attention and point at a bird that swooped lowly along the stream they walked along. Eloise gave her a perfunctory smile, and watched in wonder as Cressida's face lit up in response.

Eloise felt her heart beat wildly, suddenly. Oh– What was this feeling? She swallowed, watching as Cressida walked slightly ahead of her to stare down into the river. “What are you doing?” She asked.

“I heard that there may be eels in the river.”

“Eels?” Eloise stopped walking, watching Cressida confoundedly. “What do you mean eels?”

Cressida snorted, glancing back at Eloise, “Do you need me to describe to you what an eel is? I thought you were the book-smart one between us.”

Eloise huffed, “I don't know if I like your implications. I've never seen an eel in the water here– that's ridiculous.”

“Worth looking, anyways.” Cressida said with a shrug, leaning over to glance down the sloping bank. Eloise looked at her profile with disbelief. Was this some sort of joke?

“Do you see anything?” Eloise asked after a prolonged silence between them.

Cressida tore her eyes from the sparkling water to look at Eloise. The sun made her skin seem as if it were positively glowing– soft– touchable. Eloise swallowed heavily. Her eyes traced the bright blonde hair, lightened from their frequency spent outdoors and she was completely struck by the other woman's beauty once more. It always seemed to sneak up on her at the most inopportune times. 

The corner of Cressida's lip turned upwards in amusement, “No. Perhaps I was being tricked.”

“Who told you this information?” Eloise asked, still reverently tracing the slope of Cressida's sharp features with her eyes. It was as if she could not help herself. What a lovely sight on a beautiful summer's day.

“My previous lady's maid.” Cressida said, eyes meeting Eloise's. The blue-green irises glimmering in the sun– clear as day. “She said she'd seen some slithering about in the Thames.”

“Oh, well, she's right– but this isn't the Thames.” Eloise said, gesturing at the stream they stood beside with her hand, “This is– I don't know what it's called, but I don't think the water is right for eels.”

Cressida let out a laugh, “So you are as clever as they say.”

“What, you had doubts?” Eloise asked. The flirtatious lilt in her tone came out without intention and she watched as Cressida's cheeks flushed lightly at the borderline salacious timbre of her tone.

“No– of course not.” She stuttered out and Eloise felt a flash of want pass through her at the sight of the woman at a loss for words. 

Eloise blinked dazedly at her before smiling, “Good. I'm glad– I would have felt rather upset if you had said yes.”

“You care what I think of you?” Cressida asked quietly and Eloise took a sharp breath at the way she looked at her through her lashes– long and golden in the sunlight. 

Eloise realized what this was suddenly and felt a stab of disappointment in her abdomen. Was Cressida befriending her in the hopes of experiencing an affair with her? She had clearly heard the rumblings of the ton of Eloise's true proclivities– A headache began to form between Eloise's eyes.

She smiled weakly at the woman, deciding to play along after a beat. “I do– of course I do.”

The flush rising up Cressida's chest simply affirmed what Eloise had thought. She sucked a cheek between her teeth, pressing down sharply. Even in the countryside she could not escape these expectations, could she?

“I did not think you would– it barely seemed as though you liked me. In Mayfair I mean.” Cressida said, looking down at the overgrown grass beneath their feet.

Eloise took a breath from her nose. Cressida was right, of course. She did not particularly care for the woman's company prior. “That's not true.”

She watched as Cressida's brows rose, “Somehow, I doubt that.”

Her hand found Cressida's wrist, almost without thought, and her thumb brushed against the soft delicate skin that she found there. Their eyes met again, this time with a feeling of something swirling in the air between them. Charging it.

It unsettled Eloise a bit– something about it did not feel as illicit as her past affairs. Not even Marina had looked at her with such a flavour of tenderness– their relationship had begun as roughly as it ended. Which was, of course, thoroughly unexpected from such a well-to-do marriage prospect in the ton. 

Eloise looked away, eyes glancing down at the water once more.

If you had asked Eloise who had made the first move, she would have steadfastly held that it was Cressida who had managed to so easily seduce her– pushing her into her entryway closet and having her way with her.

The reality was not so straightforward.

As Eloise welcomed Cressida into her home, taking her sun hat to be hung into the closet, Cressida's foot had caught on the entryway rug. If Eloise had been paying attention to anything except for the way Cressida's beautiful linen dress draped across her body, she would have reacted in a timely manner.

She would not have allowed herself to be accidentally shoved into the closet with Cressida sprawling haphazardly above her. Eye to eye with her bosom– the only thing Eloise could think of while the door slammed behind them was how Cressida's lips would taste against her own.

So, before any logical thoughts could even cross her mind, she leant up and gently pressed her lips against Cressida's.

The responding whimper only propelled Eloise to tightly grip at the hips above her own, slotting a thigh between–

“Fuck–” Cressida cried out, her head dropping onto Eloise's clavicle. Eloise could feel the sweat beginning to form on her brow as they panted into the dark, stale air of the closet. 

This was moving much faster than Eloise had intended, but she found herself unable to bring herself to stop. Unable to halt the way she pulled Cressida's body closer, gripped her harder, pressed her leg up more firmly.

There wasn't much space– it was a coat closet, for God's sake– and though Eloise's head roughly hit a low shelf with every movement of Cressida's hips against her own, she could not find it within herself to care. Their casual summer dresses allowed much more movement than either of them were accustomed to, and based on the way Cressida shuddered against her, it was a very positive thing. 

“What are you–?” Cressida whimpered when Eloise pressed her mouth against her neck, licking upwards and collecting the salty sweat that gathered. “Eloise–” She gasped, arms wrapping tightly around Eloise's shoulders, preventing her from doing anything except roughly sucking the skin between her lips.

Cressida's hand grappled at the base of Eloise's head, at the nape of her neck where all of the loose wispy strands escaped her simple bun. The grip tightened at every thrust, the pleasure of the moment mixing with the lovely pain. She could feel Cressida's breath become laboured against her body and the way her delicate body tensed.

“God– Eloise–” She gasped and Eloise's eyes nearly rolled into the back of her head at the sound of her voice being uttered with the reverence of a prayer. Her body twitched heavily, hips first and rolling up her spine with the overwhelming pleasure she was experiencing. 

Her body lay limply against Eloise's, soft and pliant under her soothing hands against her back. Had Cressida ever experienced anything like this before? Was Eloise her first? 

“Have you thought about this? Before?” Eloise found herself asking as Cressida attempted to catch her breath. Eloise's eyes had nearly adjusted to the darkness of the closet, propping her head up to try to meet Cressida's eye.

“I–” Cressida's hands released themselves from the tangle she had made of Eloise's bun, and Eloise could hear the joins faintly pop at the strain of gripping so tightly. A swallow– “What if I said yes?” Her voice was hushed, hoarse.

Their noses touched and Eloise swallowed as well– the tension was– she could not allow herself to– “Then I'd say you aren't the only one.” Her tone left nothing to imagination, completely breaking apart any semblance of romance or heartfelt affection. This was a tryst– that's all it could be.

Cressida let out a scoff, as if in disbelief, before shifting away from her. Eloise watched distantly as she fumbled for the ivory door knob and allowed a flood of blinding light inside from the foyer. She felt a sigh of relief tinted with slight disappointment escape her lips. 

The footmen that normally tended the front door were, thankfully, off doing who knew what– Eloise did not tend to concern herself with the comings and goings of the workers in the house. This time, it seemed luck was on her side– otherwise, some interesting thumping would be audible from the entry closet.

Which would only bolster the growing distasteful opinion that was held regarding Eloise's morals and place in society. Other than the women that Eloise enjoyed the company of and curious young ladies of the ton, no one seemed interested in pursuing any type of relationship with her beyond one of a salacious nature.

“Do you think anyone heard-?” Cressida asked, rosy flush travel up her neck. Eloise's eyes focused on the sizable mark she had left behind with her teeth and the suction of her lips. “Eloise?”

Her eyes snapped up to meet Cressida's worried glance. “No– no, I don't think so.” She leaned against the door of the closet awkwardly after closing it behind them and anxiously rubbed her hands across the front of her sweat-damp dress. 

“What–” Cressida swallowed, looking away from Eloise before glancing back. “How did you–?” 

“How did I know you wanted me to have my way with you?” Eloise asked, not one to mince words. Cressida looked faint– pale suddenly– and nodded minutely. Eloise let out a laughing breath, “I didn't– I just didn't want to let the opportunity slip through my fingers.”

“And if I had pushed you away?”

“Well, at least I would have gotten to taste your lips one time.” Eloise responded with a cheeky shrug, turning to lead Cressida to the drawing room where they usually spent their time. 

Unfortunately, she had already requested for an assortment of sandwiches to go with their tea and her mother would wonder where they had gone off to if she decided to push Cressida back into the cramped closet.

They did not speak of what had occured– it was almost as if it did not happen. Of course it did, though, if the permanent rosy colour that graced Cressida's cheeks meant anything. Or the hastily covered bruise that Eloise had impatiently sucked into the delicate skin of her neck. Their eyes would always steadfastly ignore the entryway closet– even to the extent of Eloise completely dropping any sense of propriety in offering to take Cressida's hat at the entry.

It was an interesting experience; being so completely ignored in the only way that Eloise knew she was wanted. She was never sought out for conversation, for meandering to and fro in the countryside– no. Eloise knew what her purpose was as Cressida's friend. What her purpose was as Marina's friend. As Miss Livingston’s, Miss Malhotra’s– and the list went on and on.

Her thoughts flashed to Julia before she frustratedly shook them away. There was no use toiling over the past. Especially not with the way she had just caught Cressida eyeing the line of her jaw when she was distracted.

“Anything you'd like to share with the class?” Eloise asked, peeking over her book. She was nearly halfway through with it– a rather tiresome romantic novel that Cressida had suggested they read together to pass the time.

If hard pressed, Eloise would not admit to believing that Cressida could even read, as impolite as it was to say. She had never seen the woman with anything in her hand but a mirror or the sleeve of a gentleman she was pressing into courting her. Which– was quite funny to watch from the sidelines.

“Oh– Um, just the book.” She replied, lifting the book in her hands slightly as if Eloise did not know what she had been referring to. 

“You're hardly ten pages in, Miss Cowper.” Eloise said with a tilt of her head. Had she been looking at her the whole morning they had been together? “Are you distracted?”

Cressida flushed, slapping the book in her hand shut with a tempestuous energy. A frantic one, almost. “No– why would you–”

Eloise couldn't help herself– a smile lifting the corner of her mouth, “Have you been thinking about me?” She lifted her hand to touch her neck, mirroring where the mark she had left on Cressida's lay, “Do you still feel it?”

She watched as Cressida stood up, dropping her book to the ground. Her gaze was unhappy– confused, yet slightly intrigued. A strange cocktail that Eloise could not make heads or tails of. Cressida's eyes shut as if she were in pain, “If I said yes, what would you do?” Her voice was soft, wavering.

“What would you like me to do?” Eloise asked, standing up as well. She slowly walked over to where Cressida stood, hands reaching out to take Cressida's wrists in her own. The laboured breaths coming from Cressida's mouth told her all she needed to know. She didn't wait for an answer. “Were you waiting for me to bend you over the settee? Take you right here and right now?”

Cressida let out a strangled groan, “Where did you–” Her eyes were wide, pupils blown with lust, “How could you tell I would–” 

Eloise silenced her with a kiss, her teeth finding purchase along Cressida's bottom lip– startling out a heady gasp, opening her mouth for further access. They hadn't had time to– not in the closet– there were too many distractions. Eloise needed to know what Cressida's mouth tasted like. It was all she could dream of; the press of her soft pink tongue against her own. 

She pulled Cressida in closer by her arms, pressing her hands against the delicate nodules of her back, wanting to slip her hands into her dress and brush her hands down the soft plane of her back. 

They parted after a sustained moment, the need to breathe becoming too dire. “How do you know how to do such things–”

“Reading.” Eloise responded with a deadpan, eliciting a laugh from Cressida.

“Perhaps I need to read some of the books you are familiar with.” Cressida said– cheekier than Eloise had expected.

“I don't know…” Eloise wheedled, her fingers finding the miniscule buttons on the back of Cressida's dress, “Are you sure you'd be able to get through any of them?” She said, gesturing at the fallen book with her head.

Cressida flushed with indignation at her words, pulling away from Eloise. “That's quite unfair–”

Eloise quickly pulled her back in, “I was simply having a laugh– I am sorry if that offended you.”

“It did.” Cressida sniffed, lips tightening in enmity, only relaxing when Eloise leant up to press her lips against the junction of her jaw and neck. Eloise could not hold back the smile that escaped as Cressida's body shivered at the sensation of her lips.

A knock sounded on the door– the waitstaff coming in, no doubt, with their tea. Eloise reluctantly pulled away from her. “That would be a footman–” She glanced at the clock, “Tea time.”

Cressida swallowed, stepping backwards from Eloise– her lip paint looked a fright, but, then again, it was probably all over Eloise as well. She quickly took out a kerchief and scrubbed her mouth with it, handing it to Cressida. “What's this?” She asked.

“For your lips.” Eloise said, “Quickly, before anyone comes in.”

“Miss Bridgerton?” 

“One moment!” Eloise called out, sighing in relief when Cressida did as she said. She let out a laugh when Cressida's eyes widened at the mess of lip paint left behind on the kerchief. 

“Perhaps I should stop painting my lips–”

“Never.” Eloise said with a wink, “I would have thought you'd like to see it all over my face.”

Cressida flushed heavily at her words, letting out a disbelieving laugh. “Your words are very daring.”

“Would you like me to stop?” Eloise asked, watching as the door to the drawing room opened and a footman entered with a tray of tea. Peppermint– Cressida's choice. One Eloise could not stand, but would politely sip. But she was a gentleman, was she not?

Cressida's lips tightened as she shook her head slightly in response. No she would not like Eloise to stop. Wonderful news. 

Something was finally going right in Eloise's life.

They did not see each other as frequently as Eloise would have liked when they had arrived back in Mayfair. She watched, with a glower, as Cressida reverted back into the simpering idiot the ton had known her as. Fighting over the same dreadfully boring man that Penelope was. 

She was not jealous– how could she be? Especially when it was she, not Lord Debling, who roughly took Cressida against the wall of her bedroom at any opportunity she was able to.

She was not fixated– that would be ridiculous. She had the choice of any of the wonderful ladies in the ton. It was not her fault that Cressida required so much hands on care. Soothing her worries as she lamented over whether or not she was doing enough for Lord Debling to choose her as his future wife.

And Penelope– awful, horrible Penelope. Doing her absolute best to ruin any chance that Cressida had to begin with. She didn't know whether to strangle her or thank her. No– it did not matter. It did not matter how Cressida constantly needed reassurance. One of the only things Eloise could not necessarily give her. Their relationship was not serious. It was never meant to be. She had thought she had made that abundantly clear in Aubrey Hall.

And Cressida had understood– or so Eloise thought. Never asking for much, beyond physical release. Their friendship, if one could even call it that, revolved around waiting until they were alone. Waiting until Eloise could fall to her knees and press her tongue into Cressida again and again. 

It was exhausting– yearning like this.

And so, Eloise continued to acquiesce to Cressida's growing need to be touched every night– somehow, escalating further the first time she had visited her home while Cressida's mother was present. While anyone could see Eloise walk into the Cowper residence during calling hours.

It was all a bit of fun, of course– Lady Cowper immediately looked at Eloise with so much distaste that the only thing she and Cressida could do was try to have a conversation alone, away from her mother.

“In here–” Cressida whispered, roughly pulling Eloise into a room and softly closing the door behind her with her back. “It will be some time before my father comes home from his meeting.”

“Is this his study?” Eloise asked, looking around herself at the stacks of books and papers littering a large solid wood desk in the center of the room.

“Yes.” Cressida said, licking her bottom lip. “It is.”

“What are you thinking about?” Eloise asked, tilting her head to one side as she took in Cressida's slightly bashful form.

Cressida looked at her, flushing, “No one has ever visited me in my home before– during the day.” Her amendment was added, for they both knew the lengths Eloise took to scale the iron downspout by Cressida's window when the need struck her.

“No callers?” Eloise asked, sitting on the edge of Lord Cowper's desk.

“No. Not one– unless you would like to count yourself.” She replied, her eyes dragging down Eloise's neck with so much heat that it almost felt like a heady touch.

“I don't think I count. Based on your mother's reaction.” Eloise said, watching as Cressida moved away from the door.

“No, you don't count.” Cressida said, eliciting a flash of anger through Eloise’s body. No– of course not. Why would she count when Lord Debling was waiting in the wings to sweep her off her feet–

What was she thinking? What a ridiculous line of thought–

She took Cressida's hand, pulling her body against her own– a soft gasp escaping Cressida's lips at the sudden action. “If I don't count–” She spun Cressida around, pushing her against the heavy desk, “Then, neither does this.” 

Cressida's hands slammed down on the heavy oak, the papers underneath crinkling as Eloise reached down to pull up the hem of her dress.

“Eloise–” She gasped.

“Do you want me to stop?” Eloise asked, hands halting against the soft skin on the back of her thigh. She felt hot– ill almost, as if she had a fever. It had never felt like this– and it scared her– a shiver wracking down her spine when Cressida immediately nodded. “This is what you wanted, was it not? When you pulled me into your father's study?”

“Yes, yes– I did–”

“Bent over your father's desk– What would he say if he saw you now? What would your mother say?” Eloise hissed into Cressida's ear, body pressed against her writhing one as her fingers dipped into the familiar heat she had become accustomed to. “You're sopping wet– do you enjoy this? Being used?”

“Yes– God–” Cressida nearly sobbed in pleasure when Eloise easily slotted two fingers within her, pressing hard with her hips as leverage.

Cressida's hands grappled at the loose parchment paper on the desk– ripping and crumpling whatever Lord Cowper had laid out to review before leaving for his meeting. A strangled moan escaped her lips as Eloise began an unforgiving pace– her other hand roughly gripping Cressida's hip, hard enough to leave bruising in her wake.

“You want more?” Eloise panted roughly, listening to the groan of response with satisfaction. Was Cressida already beyond words? Her hand immediately found the soft plane of her backside, leaving behind a stinging slap.

“Fuck–”  

“I asked you a question–” Each of Eloise's words were punctuated with a rough thrust. 

“Yes– more– please–” Cressida gasped and because she was so polite, Eloise immediately acquiesced, adding a third finger. “God, Eloise– I'm–”

“Tell me– you want me, that you need me–” Eloise said, heart beating in her ears– she was not being touched, but with Cressida's responding words, she might as well have been.

“I need you– God– I need you– only you, Eloise–” Cressida cried, body shaking below Eloise's as she became overwhelmed with the feeling of her pleasure.

Eloise relished in her response, the way her body shuddered and her soft cries. She was meant for this– only this. It did not matter what was required of them in society, all that mattered was Eloise touching Cressida again and again.

It had never been like this– so intense, so consuming– and a sudden flash of fear wracked through Eloise's spine at the sensation as Cressida's body slumped beneath her onto the desk. Boneless, soft, pliant as ever.

She withdrew her fingers, removing her body from up against Cressida's, ignoring the shiver of response from the other woman, completely retreating away from her. From these feelings.

“I– your father will be back soon, will he not?” Eloise stuttered, watching as Cressida slowly lowered her dress back down over her pale body. 

“Yes.” Cressida replied softly, tiredly. Their eyes did not meet. “You should probably go before he does return–”

The front door distantly shut and the two of them immediately scrambled to leave the study, shutting the door firmly behind themselves. Their eyes were wide– Eloise felt an absolute mess, sweaty and hand still covered with slick. Was this how they would get caught-?

Cressida quickly took her hand, running down the hall with Eloise in tow, and pulling her into the sitting room. She immediately handed Eloise a spare throw pillow from one of the seats littering the room. “What's this–”

“Wipe yourself off.” Cressida hissed, her voice sharp and leaving no room for argument. Eloise quickly rubbed her hand across the rough fabric of the pillow with a wince.

“Is he–”

“I did make it clear that it was calling hour.” Lady Cowper's voice came from the hallway, interrupting Eloise's words.

“Certainly, you were not clear enough.” Lord Cowper's voice came from the hall, his footsteps increasing in volume as he made his way nearer to their vicinity.

“Fuck–” Cressida said under her breath, grimacing as he entered, watching as his eyes distastefully took in Eloise's rumpled form beside her on the settee. 

“Miss Bridgerton, if I may speak to my daughter,” Lord Cowper's voice left no room for any response– he clearly wanted Eloise gone, “Alone.” He amended sharply.

“Of course.” Eloise said, standing. She could feel Cressida's pleading eyes upon her, but she steadfastly remained keeping eye contact with Lord Cowper.

“El–” Cressida's voice was so soft, Eloise was sure it was not audible to Lord Cowper. 

She swallowed before tersely nodding at Lord Cowper whose lip curled with annoyance in response. 

As she exited, she could hear Lord Cowper's words to Cressda, clear as day. “You are not to be seen with that Bridgerton girl any longer.” Eloise paused in the hallway, looking back at Cressida's stiff form, still visible through the doorway. Lord Cowper continued, “Do we have an understanding?”

Eloise fled before she could hear Cressida's response– this whole ill-advised visit was such a ridiculous idea from the start. She would not make the same mistake twice in the future.

Things were getting worse– the feelings in Eloise's chest, bubbling out, were becoming more and more unruly. Unhinged. Uncontrollable.

Unhappily, she watched Cressida continue to fight Penelope over Lord Debling– it made her sick to her stomach. She needed to escape– she needed something else.

“You seem distracted.” The woman standing before her said with an amused lilt to her voice. Her hand found Eloise's cheek, drawing her eyes to meet her own.

“I'm– I apologize.” Eloise replied weakly, glancing over to where the other woman stood, silken robe falling over her shoulder as she lazily played with the tie holding the fabric together.

“You've already paid for the entire night.” She said, fluttering her lashes. Eloise had asked for their names, that much she could remember, but she simply could not recall what they had responded with. It did not matter– they had probably given her false names, much like Julia had all those years ago. Juliette– her given name. Close enough to what Eloise had known, but far enough for the lie to sting more than it ought to. After all, what made Eloise different from the hundreds of men who frequented these establishments?

She distantly watched as the first woman removed her robe, allowing it to fall onto the floor with a whisper of silk. 

The answer was that she was no different, really. And perhaps that was absolutely fine.

Perhaps it was because Eloise's relationships were so enmeshed into Cressida's that things seemed to get so cross-contaminated. Colin, back from Europe, was doing his absolute best to dash any chances Penelope had with Lord Debling– a domino effect, leading Lord Debling to leave Mayfair altogether. Leaving Cressida with no prospects.

Nothing except an old man that Eloise could hardly believe was real. Surely, Cressida's own parents were not so needlessly cruel? Surely, Cressida wanting to take credit as Lady Whistledown was nothing but an awful nightmare.

Eloise could hardly understand what was happening around her, each successive situation only becoming more and more untenable– 

And Lord knew, Eloise had tried to stop Cressida from following through with the ridiculous plot to act as Lady Whistledown. Every single day of the season only seemed to escalate– an endless fight between Cressida and Penelope. Penelope and herself. Herself and Colin, and so on and so forth.

The mere desperation of such an action was impossible for Eloise to comprehend– and Penelope's situation only added to the fire. Her own brother, about to marry someone he truly detested. The need to reveal the truth, putting the entire situation she had with Cressida on hold.

Until she could not.

Penelope pulled her into a room, panicked and nearly hysterical in her anxiety. “What will we do– I can't let Cressida Cowper take credit–”

Eloise winced, putting her face in her hands. She still could not believe–

“What had you been spending all of this time with her for? Can you talk some sense into her?” Penelope pleaded with Eloise.

Eloise could not believe it, still, for Cressida to do such a thing– so ill-advised, so– “I don't– I can't believe I trusted her–” She felt like all of the air was being sucked from her lungs. Her absolute worst nightmare, coming true.

Penelope rubbed a hand across her face, anxiety reaching its peak, “I’ve put them all in danger–”

“That was my fault–”

“I've been so reckless, Eloise.” Penelope interrupted tearfully.

“No– I have.” The betrayal clouded Eloise's thoughts, making her second guess nearly every moment she had with the other woman. Every brush of their hands, every press of their lips– it was nothing though, it always had been. Eloise was not beholden to Cressida. She could not be. “It was all a mistake–”

“Why had you even befriended her to begin with?”

“I genuinely enjoyed her at the start.” Eloise replied, thinking back to their first fumble in the closet together, a flush unconsciously rising up her neck. She dashed the memory away, “But, that does not matter– I do think I even like Cressida as much as she seems to love me.” It pained her to speak those words– words she knew from the bottom of her heart, were a complete lie. 

“Oh, Eloise– not Cressida–”

“You do not get to judge me.” Eloise hissed before she slumped forward in her seat. Her head hurt– she was still upset with Penelope. Upset with Colin– with Cressisa– “We are in quite the conundrum, are we not? You with Colin, me with–”

“Yes– but I have a way to solve at least one thing.” Penelope said, standing with determination. Eloise was afraid to ask what it was she was referring to.

“I think–” Eloise felt sick, unable to stomach the situation any longer. Her own words echoing in her mind, her ears ringing. Regretfully. Guiltily. “I think I must retire for the night– I will not reveal to Colin what had happened as a courtesy that you will not speak of my relationship with Cressida.”

“Of course.” Penelope replied distractedly as she clearly had more pressing issues to parse through internally.

Eloise fled the room, her emotions feeling mixed– confused. Anger, fear, and doubt were all taking over her thoughts. What would she do once face to face with Cressida once more. She could not act as if nothing happened. As if everything was alright between them.

What she found, though, was even more unexpected. Cressida pleading for her help writing Lady Whistledown. What could Eloise do except refuse to be a part of such a ridiculous ploy? She had to ignore the way Cressida seemed to break at her words. Seemed to be completely drained of any hope, any energy.

By the time she heard from Cressida the next time, it had already been days. And in those days, it seemed that everything had changed. The plot to take credit as Lady Whistledown crumbling completely– so, when Eloise received an abrupt call from Cressida the next day, her curiosity got the best of her.

Her biggest mistake to date, beyond even beginning their relationship. If she hadn't heeded the call, perhaps things would not have ended so horribly. In a way that absolutely tore Eloise apart the longer she thought about her actions in those last moments with Cressida before she had been sent away.

The despitation behind the ‘I love you’ uttered.

The first time Eloise had let anyone touch her, taste her.

The look in Cressida's eyes when Eloise stood to leave–

Broken.

Defeated.

Lifeless–

Her mind flashed back to her mother, on her knees, crying out for her father as he took his last gasping breaths. Completely shattered, a strangled scream leaving her lips as he slumped lifelessly in her arms. It was the same expression Cressida wore– the one Eloise had done her absolute best to prevent for herself. The pain, the hopelessness.

In the end, nothing seemed to matter. No matter how hard Eloise tried to keep herself from becoming attached, there was no way she would have been able to stop that from happening to another. And it broke her.

She could not fix this–

Not even when she rushed to whisk Cressida away from the carriage she was being set off in.

That very same expression of heartbreak morphed into one of hate– a complete and utter betrayal.

The second glimpse of her overwhelming failure and disregard of what had been in front of her the entire time. A reciprocated love. One she had managed to completely lay waste to. So destroyed, that it haunted her every thought, every dream.

Meeting Cressida's steely eyes two years later was more difficult than Eloise could have ever imagined. She had completely changed– her body, her mind, her complete outlook on life.

Eloise wasn't even sure if she had the same habits anymore– brushing her long silken hair every morning after waking up. Three hundred strokes every time, with her silver gilded hairbrush. The soft sounds of her hair being tended to, mesmerizing. Eloise would watch her, back facing her, as she spent nearly half of the waking hour brushing through her golden locks again and again.

She could still remember the sound–

Thk– thk– thk–

“I will ask you once more; what made you decide that it would be a good idea to come here?” Cressida's voice interrupted Eloise's memories and she swallowed, biting on the skin of her lip nervously.

“I– I'm not sure.” Eloise replied, eyes finding the dirt beneath Cressida's boots. She did know– but perhaps the whole situation was extremely ill-advised. Cressida did not want to see her. She never wanted to after those last moments of eye contact as she was whisked away in her carriage.

Cressida let out a sigh, eyes finding the looming dark clouds in the distance. “How long was your journey from Scotland?”

“A– a week.” Eloise's voice cracked when Cressida's familiar eyes made contact with her’s. The blue-green tone was the only recognizable thing left of the woman she had spent nearly a year with– known intimately, almost completely. Not enough.

“Then you may stay a week before moving onwards.” Cressida said, hand tucking itself into the thick leather belt across her waist. Eloise's eyes tracked the movement– so unfamiliar to her, yet clearly well-worn and practiced for the other woman. The leather her hand touched was darker than the rest, indicating her hand’s oils had worn the belt smooth where she rested it.

A week.

A week–

Was that all Eloise was allowed before being forced to move on from the only person she had ever yearned for?

The feeling settled in her stomach like a lead iron. It was foolish coming all this way– without even a letter sent prior, without even knowing if Cressida felt the same way.

“Would that be enough time to recuperate?” Cressida's voice cut through her thoughts and Eloise nodded weakly in response. Of course she had to agree– this was already much more than she could have expected given the circumstances. “Good.” Cressida's tone turned downward with the singular syllables. Was she pleased with this outcome? Eloise banished from her life forever?

Distantly, a sheep bleated and she watched as Cressida let out a heavy sigh. “Lady Danbury–”

“What?” Eloise's wide eyes met Cressida's in confusion– who else had arrived–?

“Oh–” Cressida flushed, her hand leaving her belt to rub at the back of her dirt-speckled neck, “That's– err– a sheep. That I've named.”

“Like the runt you're taking care of?” Of course, Eloise was referring to her stead– the poorly little ewe that Cressida rarely put down. 

“Yes.” Cressida’s features pinched together in dissatisfaction at Eloise's words. Could she ever say anything that pleased Cressida? “I named the sheep.”

“What are some of the other names you've come up with?” Eloise was genuinely curious at this point. Who else would be wandering the farm? Perhaps a Penelope? A Lady Malhotra? Cressida mumbled something that Eloise could quite hear. “What?”

“I said–” Cressida winced at the sharpness of her tone before letting out a sigh, “I named them after most of the ton. They were– the only names I could think of for the time being.” 

Eloise let out a pleased laugh, “That's– that's absolutely incredible. Have you been naming the naughty animals members of the ton you dislike? That's what I'd be doing in your shoes–”

“But you aren't.” Cressida interrupted, “You aren't in my shoes– you never have been.”

“I–” Eloise's eyes widened, before her mouth snapped shut. Cressida was right– of course she was right. Eloise could not even imagine what Cressida had gone through. How she had gotten like this. “No, you are right.” Eloise said after a terse moment.

Cressida’s brows furrowed, as if she hadn't expected Eloise to respond in that way. As if she had continued to expect the worst from her. Eloise's stomach lurched at the thought. Cressida's heavy sigh filled the space between them. “I don't know what–” She let out a frustrated breath, “What were you expecting of me?”

“Nothing.” Eloise replied weakly, “I wasn't expecting anything.” She had hoped to apologize– instead she managed to make everything so much worse than she had left it. Which should not have been possible, yet here they were. Cressida grown and changed in so many ways and Eloise–

Eloise stuck in the same moment for the past two years. Her mistakes on repeat. 

Their eyes met and the flash of pain behind Cressida's put a jolt through Eloise's body– one that she wasn't sure was positive or negative. “I–” She swallowed down the rest of the sentence before she could come to regret it and watched as Cressida wordlessly turned to follow the sounds of the sheep in the distance.

I missed you.

Chapter Text

For the life of the flesh is in the blood, and I have given it to you on the altar to make atonement for your souls; for it is the blood by reason of the life that makes atonement

Leviticus 17:11

Cressida had found herself at a crossroads much earlier in her life than she had expected. Her days, run by her duties as a debutante and a society girl, had left her with nearly nothing in terms of her own interests and pursuits. Of course, as she can come to find in some rather unfortunate ways, other girls had not let that stop them.

They read, they painted, they sang, and they played instruments despite (and perhaps to quicken) their requirements to find a future husband. An accomplished woman was desirable. Sought after–

And accomplished, Cressida was not.

The shortsightedness of her parents had ensured that this was the case.

Why spend unnecessary time bettering herself, when she could simply attempt to charm her way into a proposal? She had been beautiful once. The glimpses she had gleaned from the sliver of reflective glass in Aunt Jo and Margaret's bedchamber was enough to put her off for months.

So, her nightly ritual of brushing her hair again and again was replaced by rubbing her thick knuckles against the knots formed in the muscles of her neck, on her shoulders, down her thighs. 

She ached every single day. Horribly– in ways she had no idea a person would be able to ache. But, somehow, there was a familiarity in it– in the pain. In the ritual of it all. In the repetition. When she closed her eyes, she could watch the day play out before her. Predictably. Like a cast of characters in the same play taking to stage night after night.

Aunt Margaret cooking breakfast, chiding Aunt Jo for eating too quickly. Cressida sitting silently to her left, getting handed a heaping plate of eggs and cooked meats. Aunt Jo grousing under her breath about one thing or another. Cressida biting her tongue to keep from making too much fun of the woman–

All of this contrasting with the chilling quiet of the Cowper estate. The emptiness where Aunt Jo's homestead was hot and cramped.

Remembering her time alone at the table, her father having taken his breakfast in his office. Her mother without appetite when she awoke every morning.

Cressida felt empty– felt sick remembering the way she had fallen into the daily humdrum of her life in Mayfair without protest. But, yet, here she was doing something very similar. Could she be faulted for wanting predictability? After all she had been through? 

Living as a farmhand was not something that had come naturally to her. She had to release herself from pining after certain aspects of her prior lifestyle. The beauty of it all. And though it simply hid the rot that lay beneath, Cressida still found herself wanting to stroke her hand against the supple fabrics that had been presented to her on a daily basis.

Wanted her hair to be pinned into elaborate styles– ones that Margaret was unable to accomplish in the short time she had before needing to attend to her duties in the home. And so, it was another thing that Cressida had abandoned over time. For all she cared, someone could shear her locks off with the same tool she used on the sheep. It would make her work easier, her washing up quicker.

After the first summer, everything fell into place. The growing pains had subsided and she fell into a daze. She cleared overgrown brush, repaired areas of the decaying stables, fed the horse, led the sheep to new pasture, and so on, and so forth. Once she had gotten accustomed to the cycle, she fell into it.

Mindlessly, she went through the motions.

Walking the perimeter of the farm felt no different than promenading along the green at the center of Mayfair.

Tending to the aging horse in their stables, brushing at its long mane– it might as well have been her own hair, all those years ago. 

Cressida had accepted her position, much like one would accept a prison sentence. The only respite, of course, was being away from her parents. From her father. Aunt Jo and Margaret made things manageable. 

She felt loved.

It was odd– the feeling. The knowledge that if she failed to return home after a long day of work, they would go out looking for her. That they would be concerned for her safety.

Such a stark difference to the way her parents had treated her. If she had been gone for days, her mother, in her very own haze, would not notice. Spending long stretches of time with the door firmly shut into her bedroom, Cressida's mother preferred absolutely no company. Preferred to stay in her bed for as long as it was proper–

And Cressida understood. After years of her childhood, with her forehead pressed against the darkly painted wood of her mother's bedroom, she finally understood.

The despair of awakening each morning.

The monotonous repetition the day brought with it– the comfort of fading into it, only now to be interrupted by a singular person in Cressida's life. The only person that managed to shake her from the daze she spent her waking hours within.

And that, of course, was Eloise Bridgerton.

It was Eloise Bridgerton, who had completely altered the course of her life in Mayfair. Who had made Cressida feel, for once, that perhaps there was something to life. To love.

To heartbreak.

And so it was Eloise Bridgerton once again who stood starkly in contrast to what her life had become. Who else could it be? 

In Mayfair it had been the brightness she had brought into the utter despair of Cressida’s life that pulled her from a downward spiral into hopelessness. She was unmarketable– unwanted in the marriage mart, and Eloise’s presence was her only balm in the endless days she spent attempting to entrap a man. To make her mother proud. A mother who only found time for her in order to rebuke her actions at every turn; you did not try hard enough, Cressida– when your father hears–

Did she only receive attention when she was a disappointment?

Eloise’s presence in Wales seemed to only taunt her. I love you– What a laughable thing to say after two years. Eloise did not know her, and perhaps never had known her. She did not recognize herself in the warped reflection she saw in the watering trough. Could not even look at her own hands with any sense of familiarity; the rough calluses forming on her fingers looked like they belonged to someone else. Someone who had not grown in the lap of luxury as she did in Mayfair.

And Eloise– Eloise looked so unchanged that it brought a deep pain, stabbing through her chest, as if she had taken one of Margaret’s butcher knives and sawn through the skin, the muscle, the bone. She was exactly as she remembered, only with this deep, heavy tinge of regret that bubbled up every time she so much as looked at Cressida. Her eyes softening into round, glistening spheres– mournful, in the very same way one would look while visiting a grave.

Perhaps it was an appropriate assessment. Cressida trudged through the farm as if half-dead. Eyes downcast, shoulders slumped, merley accepting the harsh beating her body took every day as she worked. She knew what she looked like– and how she was being perceived. What was Eloise thinking? Perhaps if I tried harder, I could have helped her escape this future–

But no, Eloise was not thinking that. She only thought of herself. She was here to relieve her conscience. Disrupting Cressida’s routine– her only grasp onto comfort, showed how little she cared for how Cressida truly felt. Why could she never simply be left to her own devices? She watched as Eloise attempted to assist Margaret with the morning cooking. Watched as she dropped two eggs onto the floor. Burnt the sausage. Hit the heavy cast iron pan against the brick of the fireplace, chipping the cookware and cracking the brick.

“You’re even more hopeless than Cressida was when she first arrived.” Aunt Jo said with a disbelieving laugh from the table. Cressida’s face twisted into bitter discontent at her words. That couldn’t be true, could it?

Margaret patted Eloise’s back as she sported a deep flush on her lovely pale cheeks. “I wouldn’t let it get you down. Joanna can still barely fry an egg–”

“Why are you–” Cressida let out a frustrated breath, wincing when she noticed that everyone had turned to look at her. “I just– you don’t have to cook.”

Eloise blinked at Cressida, her brow furrowing in that irritatingly familiar way that Cressida had memorized years ago. “I just wanted to help.” She replied softly and Cressida felt the urge to get up and strangle the woman. How dare she?

“Well, you’re not being very helpful–”

“Cressida.” Margaret cut in firmly. “Enough.” It was the most stern voice the woman had ever used on her and Cressida felt a rush of shame rise up her spine, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end.

She stared at the table, almost as if if she focused hard enough, the hardwood would catch fire and he actions would soon be forgotten. But, of course, that would not be the case. She could hear Margaret’s disappointed sigh before she continued to gently guide Eloise across the kitchen. She could hear Eloise's footsteps following, dragging along the floor in sadness. And above all else, she could hear Aunt Jo's fingertips tapping along the tabletop in discontent.

Cressida stood, chair dragging behind her with a sharp screech. “I– I'm not hungry.” She muttered, still not meeting anyone's gaze.

“Are you sure?” Aunt Jo's skeptical tone reached her ears. It stung more than it ought to have, hearing her aunt speak to her patronizingly once more. She had thought they had moved past it– but she supposed she was acting rather tempestuously. Impolite to their guest.

“Yes.” Cressida but out. She could feel her stomach protest with a sharp pain of hunger, but she ignored it. She would not look more foolish and go back on her word.

“Fine. Why don't you busy yourself for now. I'll be out when I'm through.”

Cressida turned and walked into her bedroom without a word, the door firmly shutting behind her. She let out a heavy breath, eyes finding the unkempt cot that Eloise had laid on the night before– her whimpers meeting Cressida's ears once more, waking her from the blissful darkness of her sleep.

She never had dreams anymore. Cressida slept deeply, unlike the way she used to in Mayfair; fitfully and lighly, every knock in the night waking her with an anxious shock. Eloise's presence brought back those feelings. Sleep coming much later than she was accustomed to as she listened to the soft breaths and cries of the other woman for the past two nights. 

Please– She would find herself begging to whoever it was that would listen to her, Enough– enough–

But Eloise's cries would only continue. Only increase in frequency.

Cressida please–

Forgive me– please–

And Cressida would slam her pillow over her head, her own cries muffled by the thick down and cotton. 

She thought about praying, about the cold and empty church she and her mother would frequent more often than their neighbours who only came on Sundays. The candles her mother would light without fail. Nameless individuals that she kept in her mind, worried over like the tidewater lapping at jagged rocks made soft by their relentlessness. 

At the time, Cressida could not imagine clinging so deeply to the memory of another. 

Her head touched down on the rough fabric of her bed, nothing like the silk she favoured in her father's house. Her knees already ached in the position she held. 

Would this be enough? 

Her hands tightly laced together, resting on the neatly arranged covers she had laid out when she had awoken before the sun had risen. The memory of her eyes taking in the sight of Eloise shaking and perspiring across the room flashed into the forefront of her mind. 

A soft knock sounded at the door, but Cressida steadfastly kept her head bowed, pressing her brow more firmly into the thin mattress.

“Cressida?”

Please–

“Cressida, I left your breakfast outside– I–” Eloise's voice broke slightly.

Enough– Enough–

Her footsteps receded back into the house and Cressida still was unable to relax. The specter of Eloise's body pressed tightly against her back, suffocating her as her teeth found the worn cotton of her sheets. 

Enough.

She could feel the tears welling for the first time since she had settled onto the farm, dripping heavily into the cotton and soaking through. Her tongue could taste the salt as the silent sobs wracked through her body, crashing into her with all the violence of a ship making landfall.

Why was she back? Why did Eloise feel as if she was the one who decided what their relationship would be?

It was always the same– Eloise the one starting it. Finishing it. Everything was on her terms. Come over– I'll be over tonight– In here– Quickly– Be quiet–

A shuddering sob shook Cressida completely, her teeth gritting as hard as they could, nearly tearing at the sheet as her hands grabbed it and pulled. She ached– the smell of the breakfast Eloise had left behind wafting through the crack beneath the door and Cressida felt breathless with anger, and with the deep sense of loss.

Eloise could not have shown her kindness in Mayfair? Kindness as she struggled with her parents, with the expectations of the ton, with Penelope, with Lady Whistledown?

Only now, two years later, would Eloise deign to come and beg for her forgiveness? 

She pressed her hands to her eyes– hard enough that she could no longer see the light leaking in through her eyelids, vision going from red to black. The sweat that dripped down her brow mingled with the tears that had been running down her cheeks. Her palms slipped against her face and she let out a heavy sigh, still wet with emotion.

Silently, she stood from her knees; her muscles protesting at the action, aching from holding the knelt position for so long. Her hand found the doorknob and she cracked the heavy door open, eyes trained on the floor. 

A plate of her usual breakfast, arranged exactly as she prefered, sat before her feet.

“Cressida!” A voice called over to her as she worked, hunched over and knee deep in a growth of vines that were overtaking the side of the stables.

She ripped out another root, squinting up at the distant figures that were making their way towards her direction. Cressida had managed to steadfastly avoid Eloise's heavy presence on the farm– decidedly spending all of her time outside of the home where she had decided to take up residence for the week.

“It's finally ready!” The voice grew nearer and Cressida could finally make out Georgie’s form as he stumbled over an overgrown root she had failed to tend to.

“What?” She put a hand over her brow, shielding her eyes from the sun low on the horizon. Lilith, his sister, waved excitedly at her, holding up a large jar of amber liquid over her head. Georgie, beside her, copied the action triumphantly.

“The brandy!” 

Oh– Cressida dropped her tools, untangling herself from the brush and meeting her neighbours halfway. “Is it really?” She rarely felt excitement any more– especially since finding herself on the farm. But somehow Georgie and Lilith managed to bring it out of her during their weekly visits when they had time off from working at the mill. Was it Tuesday already? 

“Mum’s been smacking my hands off of it for weeks.” Georgie said with a laugh. His shoulder nudged Lilith’s as she spoke, “Lilith, too, usually– But she's been just as impatient this time ‘round.”

“Not true.” Lilith replied, a flush high on her tanned cheeks. Cressida smiled slightly at the action. It was nice– seeing them after such a tumultuous few days.

It was a yearly tradition for them– making the fruit brandy. Margaret usually supplied the neighbouring family with what she had grown in her small garden– and in return, Georgie and Lilith made the three kilometer trek out to the farm to leave a hefty jar behind. Ever since Cressida had made her residence on the farm, the siblings made sure to share their first spoils with her during a night of heavy drinking out on the pasture. 

Georgie snorted at the look on his sister's face. “Heard you had a visitor–” 

“It's no one.” Cressida cut in, the smile dropping off her face at the mention of Eloise.

Georgie’s eyes narrowed slightly at her tone, his head tilting to the side in interest. “No? Lilith wanted to know if a lady from London really did come–”

“No I didn't–”

“-but if it really is no one..” He trailed off, a smug smile on his face at the shared expression of annoyance on Cressida and Lilith's faces.

“It is. No one, I mean.” Cressida said, doubling down on her earlier words. 

“Well– can we come in, then? Pop open the brandy? The plums Margaret had planted this year are going to be much better than the apricots last year, I think.” He was wheedling– Cressida recognized the mischievous look on his face. It had become quite familiar to her in the past two years.

She sighed, “Fine.” 

“Great!” Georgie said with a grin wide across his lips. 

“Great.” Lilith echoed, definitely weaker for some reason. Was she nervous? 

Cressida sighed, imagining Eloise interacting with Georgie and Lilith with a grimace on her face. She wasn’t sure how that would fare; would Eloise act as she had known her in the past? Patronizing or impolite to the workers in her family’s home– much like Cressida had been before coming to Wales? Would Georgie and Lilith treat her unkindly– it was unlikely, as they were very kindhearted when it came to Cressida herself. Something that she had certainly not been expecting when first coming into contact with Georgie on that fateful day he had driven her from her family’s estate. 

She watched as the sun sank lower behind the horizon, chewing on the inside of her cheek. “I need to tend to the lambs–”

“Why don’t we accompany you?” Georgie cut in, ignoring the look Lilith sent him in annoyance.

“Right– well, if you really want to. It shouldn’t take longer than twenty minutes.” She said, holding the half-door open for the two of them to walk into the stables she kept the young lambs in. She could hear the loud bleating of one in particular and let out a sigh from her nose. Eloise the ewe– she really needed to come up with another name– was crying for her as she did every night for her supper. 

“Margaret told us that you’ve become quite the mother for one lamb in particular when we saw her in town.” Georgie said with a light smirk on his face. Cressida rolled her eyes in response, watching as he shifted the heavy glass jar of brandy from one hand to the other as he spoke. “Is she just pulling our legs?” Cressida bent down to pick up the small bleating ewe and leveled Georgie with a glare, remaining wordless as she walked over to Lady Millard– the true mother– and knelt beside her. She could hear Georgie snort in response. “Maybe she was onto something.”

“Leave her alone, Georgie.” Lilith said with disapproval colouring her tone at his antics. He seemed to enjoy getting a rise out of Cressida– especially over the past few months. 

“It’s just too easy with you two.” He replied with a laugh. Cressida could hear him unwrap the beeswax cloth sealant on the top of one of the jars.

“One of those is for Joanna and Margaret.” Lilith cautioned him as he fiddled with the lid, a loud clicking sound filling the space as he opened the jar.

“I know, I know– why don’t you go and give it to them?”

“Alone? Joanna scares the living daylights out of me– no offense, Cressida.” Lilith said guiltily, meeting Cressida’s eyes as she began to milk Lady Millard with one hand. 

“None taken.” Cressida replied lightly. If anything, she agreed with her. Aunt Joanna was a force to be reckoned with– for better or for worse she had a bit of a reputation in Abergorlech.

The sounds of the small bucket beneath the sheep beginning to fill was the only noise between the three of them and Cressida found herself sighing. For the past two years, their brandy night was her favourite thing during the entire year. Eloise’s sudden presence had shook her mind from it– her internal countdown to the summer solstice had escaped her and it threw her off-balance. She pressed the ewe closer to her chest when she made noises of protests at not being fed quite yet. “Shh-”

“Does she have a name?” Lilith asked, tilting her head as she considered the way Cressida was treating the animal. Perhaps it was rather odd– her taking such a liking to the runt of the litter. There was still no guarantee that she would survive until the end of the summer, and that brought forth and panging pain through Cressida’s chest at the thought.

“She– ah-” Cressida winced, not sure how to proceed. Perhaps lying was her best bet–

“Wasn’t it Elizabeth? Eloise, or somethin’? Margaret was laughing about it at the store.” Georgie asked as he picked the nail of his pinky between his front teeth. 

Cressida grimaced. Damn Margaret. “Yes. Eloise.”

“Nice name.” Georgie replied mildly, distracted as he continued to inspect the jar of brandy in his hands. 

“Yes.” Very nice name. Cressida sighed, wiping her hand on her breeches as she stood from Lady Millard– the bucket filled enough for Eloise the ewe to enjoy a hefty supper. She walked to the back corner, picking up a baby’s bottle to fill.

“Need any help?” Lilith asked, walking forward and gesturing at the bucket still beneath Lady Millard. Cressida’s right arm was still occupied by the tempestuous ewe and she nodded, handing Lilith the bottle. The young woman gently took it from her hand, fingers grazing slightly, a flush still high on her cheeks as she did so. 

Cressida considered Lilith as she focused on the task at hand– carefully holding the bottle between her feet and slowly spilling the milk into it with her two hands securely holding the bucket. Her hair– dark and straight in a lovely way that Cressida had always found herself envious of in other ladies of the ton, shone in the low light coming through the openings in the stable. The ewe in her arms pressed closer to her chin, struggling to gain any traction, kicking her feet out uselessly in the air. Cressida let out a soft laugh at the ewe’s antics and met Lilith’s amused eyes. “She’s very needy.”

“I can see that.” Lilith responded, mouth tilting into a soft smile at the sight. 

Georgie snorted from his perch on the mound of hay he had settled on. “Get a room, will ya?” 

Lilith shot him a displeased look, her mouth tightening into a frown and Cressida couldn’t help but let out a laugh at the veracity of her expression. “You’re very irritating, has anyone ever told you this, Georgie?”

“I tell him every day– yet here he is. Still acting like this.” Lilith said, sticking her tongue out at him after he did the same. Lilith handed Cressida the filled bottle of milk. “Maybe we should leave him out of our plans tonight–”

“Fine– me and little Eloise will just share this jar. You can go tell Joanna that you drank hers.” 

Lilith’s face wrinkled. “Truce- truce. Absolutely not. But just so you know– we would’ve pinned it on you. Two against one.”

Georgie gasped, “You traitors!”

The ewe in Cressida’s arms let out a pleased noise at finally being fed and the three of them let out laughs. Her large ears wiggled with the intensity she drank and Cressida’s heart welled at the sight. She may be small, but there was no doubt in Cressida’s mind that the runt would make it through the summer out of pure spite, more than anything else. Her appetite was almost shocking as well– and it was about time that she weighed her to see if she had managed to grow as much as she ought to have in the past week. 

The door to the back of the house into the stables creaked open slightly. “Cressida?”

Eloise– the real Eloise. Oh fuck–

“Are you in the stables? Margaret wants to know–” Eloise’s surprised eyes met Cressida’s as she realized that she was not alone in the stables as she had originally suspected. “Oh– I– hello–”

Georgie’s lips widened into a smile. “So it is true– a lady from London is here on a visit.”

“I’m– well. I came from Scotland– but yes. Technically.” Eloise’s brows knit together, eyes flickering between each person in the space. 

“Did you know Cressida there? Or are you here on…” Georgie tapped his fingers against the jar in his hands. “Business, perhaps?”

“Ah– we were–” We were what? Cressida wanted to shake her shoulders– push her to the ground– slap her across the face– “Friends.” Eloise settled on after a moment. 

Friends who had tasted each other. Friends who had held each other through climax after climax–

“Yes.” Cressida echoed weakly. “Something like that.”

Georgie’s eyes glanced between the two of them, curiosity finally piqued as he sat up straighter. “What did you say your name was?”

Eloise’s eyes broke contact with Cressida’s. “I didn’t. You never asked me.” Her tone was clipped as she looked down at him, clearly taking in his rumpled appearance; finger bandaged and stained with tobacco. Things that Cressida herself had judged the first time she had met him.

He clicked his tongue against his teeth, “Well, I’m asking now, ain’t I?” His tone left no room for argument, it seemed. Georgie did not like Eloise– clearly by the way he was eyeing up the fine blue fabric of her dress, still spotlessly clean and fresh in ways that was unnatural to the poverty he was accustomed to in Abergorlech.

“Eloise. Bridgerton.” She replied shortly, jaw jutting out slightly in distaste. “And you are?”

Georgie ignored her question and immediately looked at Cressida and the ewe in her arms. She could feel Lilith’s hot gaze on her as well and she swallowed heavily. The stifling silence in the stables was growing to levels that were almost unbearable. Cressida could feel a bead of sweat roll down the side of her face. 

After a few moments of terse silence, Lilith eventually answered Eloise’s question, “I’m Lilith– Lilith Caddel. That’s Georgie.” Her voice was tepid, not necessarily hostile, but not as welcoming as she had been towards Cressida when Georgie had introduced them a few months after her arrival in Wales. 

Eloise’s upper lip curled upwards in dissatisfaction and Cressida could feel her heart beating in her ears; only making the growing pain between her eyes worse with every growing second. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” She said, her hand reaching outwards in Lillith's direction.

Lilith took her hand, gripping tighter than proper, based on Eloise's flinching reaction at the contact. “Pleasure’s all mine, I assure you.” 

“Well–” Eloise pulled her hand back firmly from the other woman's grasp. “Lovely.” She turned to look at Cressida once more, ignoring the twin looks of distaste on Lilith and Georgie’s faces as they considered her. “Margaret wants to know if you prefer the potatoes mashed or fried in butter.”

“Mashed.” Cressida responded quickly, not really caring what the outcome was either way. She really just wanted Eloise away from Georgie and Lilith–

“D’you like brandy, Miss Bridgerton?” Georgie asked, interrupting Cressida's thoughts. 

“Yes– I- I do.” She replied after a moment. Cressida could tell she was confused by this sudden turn in conversational topic.

“Well.” Georgie’s responding smile made Cressida want to run away, suddenly. He was up to absolutely no good. “That's wonderful news– as Lilith, Cressida, and I will all be partaking in this–” He held up the jar, “Lovely drink.”

“And you want to share with me?” Eloise asked, suspicion colouring her tone.

“Well, of course. You are a guest– it would be impolite otherwise.” Georgie said, his voice taking on a false upper-crust accent. It was off-putting, hearing him match Eloise's tone so perfectly– only with him pushing the accent to its limit in his subtle mocking. 

“Right.” Eloise sniffed, glancing at Cressida, who steadfastly avoided eye contact. “If you insist.”

Cressida was definitely taking larger drinks than she should have from the large jar they passed around. Lilith affixed her with a curious gaze that she ignored in favour of barely tasting the sweet plum brandy as she took hefty drinks.

“Maybe y’should slow down.” Georgie said, words slurring slightly as he prodded the fire that warmly lit the surrounding area with a long stick. 

“I’m fine.” Cressida replied shortly, before thrusting the jar into Eloise's slack hands.

Normally, she would be having a lovely time– laughing at whatever ridiculous stories Georgie had saved up from his time working at the mill with Lilith. The two of them getting into more trouble than seemed possible with the man who ran the mill.

Eloise's heavy presence clearly pushed Cressida into a strange mixture of emotions; the foremost one being anger. Anger at her for being there– for accepting Georgie's invitation for her to join them.

“This is–” Eloise hiccuped after she took a rather large drink herself, “Rather strong.”

Georgie and Lilith both snickered at the sight of Eloise sporting a matching flush to Cressida's as she attempted to catch up to her pace. “So– Eloise,” Lilith began and Cressida shot her a disgruntled look, “What brings you to Abergorlech?”

Eloise glanced up, slightly dazedly at Lilith's question, “What do you mean?”

“Scotland's a far journey.” Lilith said. She was fishing– and everyone knew it. Unfortunately for Cressida and Eloise, Lilith hardly cared for how she was being perceived. It was something that had originally drawn Cressida to her the first time they had met– Georgie beckoning her over during a local celebration to introduce them.

“It is, yes.” Eloise responded tightly, her top teeth worrying at her bottom lip, picking at the dry skin. Cressida watched as she pulled too much skin off, a small cut bubbling with glistening red blood in the firelight. She left a small imprint of the injury on the lip of her jar as she took another drink.

Cressida's eyes did not leave the imprint, not even when the jar was passed back to her– lips consciously lining up with the mark, tasting the iron before it was washed away by another wave of amber liquid.

“I wanted to see– visit Cressida, I mean.” Eloise said– Cressida's eyes watering as she nearly choked on her drink. A burn rushed up her nose, closing at her throat, and she took a shuddering breath once she had regained her internal footing.

“And you two were quite close, I’m assuming?” Lilith asked, leaning up against the nearly rotted wood of a dead tree. 

Cressida ground her teeth. “We were– Miss Caddel–”

“Here we go again–” Georgie rolled his eyes, referring to Cressida calling Lilith and himself by their proper names. It was something she could not let go of– her father hammering the propriety into her until she essentially bled. There was no return from it now.

“-I’ve had enough of this line of questioning. Drop it.” She hissed, continuing regardless of the put off expressions of her acquaintances– Eloise included.

Georgie’s brows knit together before he nodded in understanding. “Fine. We’ll drop it. Sorry for being curious.” He said, not sounding apologetic in the slightest. He took another drink from the jar of brandy before sighing. “How was ewing season– beyond the obvious runt you’ve taken a liking to.”

Cressida leaned back on her elbows, looking up at the clear sky above her; all the stars bright and on display on the cloudless night and she let out a soft hum, “Much better than last year so far– no losses as of yet. Last year we had three lambs die of fever before the first week was out.” Her feet stretched out before her, her boots warming in their proximity to the fire. It may be summer– the summer solstice even– but Wales rarely let up in terms of the chill that came at night. A chill that Eloise was clearly unprepared for, based on the way the gooseflesh sat up on her arms as she shivered lightly with each gust of wind.

“That’s wonderful– Did you do anything different this year, or do you chalk it up to luck?” Lilith asked, tilting her head in Cressida’s direction. She had always shown a keen interest for Cressida’s opinions on caring for the lambs, as the Caddel’s family farm was considering purchasing a few from Aunt Joanna this year. Lilith and Georgie’s work at the mill barely made more money than what they had been able to make raising cattle and sheep. Unfortunately– they had been unable to keep up with the appropriate payments to the landlord in time, leading them down the path of needing to sell much of their stock in a short period of time.

“Luck, most likely– though, I will say Lady Dalton has been a wonderful addition to the flock. She’s been able to care for many of the abandoned lambs, other than the runt, this year.” Cressida replied, recalling as she assisted in the choosing of the newest sheep that past fall. 

Lilith hummed as she picked up a long blade of grass, ripping off tiny sections of it as she thought, allowing the pieces to float down like confetti. Cressida’s eyes watched, a haze of the drink she had consumed fogging out the edges of her vision. “Anyone you’ve taken a liking to in town?” Georgie asked after a moment and Cressida’s eyes slowly tracked up to his grinning face.

“What do you mean?” She asked, her arms pushing her upwards in order to sit up straighter. Her elbows ached slightly with the change in position.

“Has your fancy been caught?” Georgie’s brows raised with the question and Cressida rolled her eyes, slumping back down on her elbows. This was not the conversation she was wanting to be having in front of Eloise, of all people.

“No.” She replied shortly. She absolutely hated this line of questioning. It had bothered her in Mayfair– and it bothered her here. “Where would I even find the time? I rarely leave the farm and the only people I regularly see are you and Lilith.”

“Right–” Georgie glanced at Lilith who was tearing at the grass by her crossed legs with a new found aggression. 

“Well, did you, though?” Eloise’s voice startled Cressida from the sight of Lilith’s hands ripping each blade of grass by the fistful.

She made eye contact with Eloise, and felt her heart drop into her throat at the sight of her steely gaze– what right did she have to ask such a question of Cressida? She could feel her mouth draw into a firm line of irritation. “And what if I said yes?” Her words felt painfully familiar– something she had said to Eloise long ago in a completely different context–

Have you thought of this? Before? Eloise’s voice echoed in her mind faintly and the alcoholic buzz in her mind intensified with the despair of the memories flooding her senses. 

Eloise looked as if she was just slapped– clearly the same thoughts made their way into her mind as well and she looked ill. Cressida watched as she stumbled onto her feet, nearly falling over with the desperation of the action. Georgie and Lilith watched her as she mumbled her excuses– essentially running from the small gathering by the fire and back towards the house, just over the knoll. Cressida’s eyes remained firmly on the flickering flames before her and she pressed her teeth into the inside of her bottom lip, tasting a trickle of blood that only reminded her of the flavour she had enjoyed from Eloise’s very own lip.

“What the hell is going on?” Georgie asked, voice startling Cressida’s spiraling thoughts. She looked at him and gave him a sardonic smile.

“Unfinished business–”

“You were involved. Weren’t you?” His voice was low, almost melodic with his accent. It was something that normally soothed Cressida’s nerves, but a wave of anxiety rushed outwards at the content of his words–

“I– no– that’s not–”

“Cressida–” Georgie tried, wincing, “It’s– I’m not upset– we’re not upset.”

“Then– what-?”

Lilith slammed a hand onto the ground, a heavy thump sounding at the action. “It’s not– it’s the fact that it’s her.”

“Eloise?” Cressida’s brows furrowed at the intensity of Lilith’s words and she glanced at Georgie, who was pulling a crumpled cigarette from his pocket. She watched as he lit it with a match, blowing out a thick cloud of tobacco smoke into the night air; mixing with the smoke of the logs burning before them.

“Cress– why is she here?” Georgie asked, his voice tired and soft.

Cressida slumped onto her back, head bumping into a thick root that stuck up from the ground with a painful thump. “Do you really want to know?” Her eyes followed the twin streams of smoke that floated into the night sky with a heavy sigh. A hand touched down on her shoulder.

“We’re here for you– we always have been.” Lilith said, voice barely over a whisper.

And though Cressida knew this– had always known this– it was nearly an impossibility to accept. How many times could she allow her trust to be destroyed before giving up completely?

Waking with her cheek pressed into a dry patch of grass was not how Cressida had imagined her day beginning. Her headache was utterly overwhelming; her mouth was dry, throat pained with the remains of the sweet alcohol lingering behind with the bile that had risen that night. Lilith and Georgie had comforted her through her attempts to give her history with Eloise– the first time they had ever heard of her mental state when she had first arrived in Abergorlech. Georgie, of course, knew of the Lady Whistledown debacle, working as help in the Cowper residence for a stint before Cressida’s father had offered him the opportunity to drive himself back to his home with Cressida in tow. The horses that had made the journey had long since perished, but the old carriage was still being used by the Caddels to haul their meager goods to market every other week.

Cressida could hear the sounds of Georgie groaning as he awoken beside her and felt the ridiculous urge to laugh. They had all managed to finish off the jar of brandy– a jar that normally lasted the Caddels and Aunt Jo nearly a year before needing replenishment. No wonder they all felt near death. Cressida had probably drank thrice the number of drinks she had ever partaken in during their past nights together, or even during her entire duration out in society. Her stomach felt as if it were ready to empty out at any moment and she scrambled onto her knees in preparation for the oncoming storm.

“Jesus– Christ–” Georgie groaned, coughing up bile into the dirt beneath him, Cressida quickly following suit. 

She squinted up to see Lilith still peacefully sleeping and watched as Georgie threw a stick in her direction. “Fuck-!” Lilith yelped, jolting from her sleep. “Just ‘cause you two are suffering, doesn’t mean you need to take it out on me!”

“How are you not dying–?” Cressida put her head on her forearms in despair.

“She’s got our mum’s fuckin’ stomach of steel.” Georgie muttered before vomiting again.

Cressida stumbled onto her feet slowly, attempting not to fall over as she did so. She could faintly hear the sounds of a lamb bleating and immediately recognized the sounds of Eloise the ewe. “Fuck– I need to–”

Georgie waved her off. “Be a farmer, Jesus– Can’t you take a break?”

“You know I can’t.” She replied, slowly trudging up the knoll. “Come over for breakfast– Margaret probably has the table set for you two as well.”

Lilith put her hands to the sky in a prayer position, “God bless you, Margaret. Shall she never run out of eggs for breakfast. Or sausage for breakfast. Or a hot flame to cook everything on. Amen.”

“Amen.” Georgie echoed, voice muffled as his face pressed into the tall grass beneath him.

Cressida rolled her eyes, nearly at the top– the sounds of the ewe’s cries suspiciously quiet at this point. She opened the door slowly, expecting the worst, but somehow coming face to face with Eloise rocking the ewe in her arms as she fed the bottle of milk into her mouth.

“What-?” Cressida asked weakly– this must be a part of her alcoholic haze still in effect. There was absolutely no possibility that Eloise Bridgerton, Mayfair’s lady-rake, was calming a crying ewe in her arms as she fed it milk.

Eloise looked up, smiling tiredly at Cressida. “I take it you had fun with your friends?”

Why did Cressida feel like a husband coming home from a long night drinking to find his wife taking care of their baby–

God had to be punishing her. There was no other explanation for what she was going through.

“I- yes. What are you-?” Her eyes dipped down to the wriggling ewe in Eloise’s arms. Clearly unhappy with her, but enduring Eloise’s embrace in order to be fed. 

Eloise snorted, “She wouldn’t shut up. So I came out here and just– I asked your aunt, of course–”

“That’s not–” Cressida rubbed her face with frustration, “Why didn’t Aunt Jo just do it herself?”

“She was still eating breakfast.” Eloise responded. “I couldn’t ignore it any longer.” She hefted Eloise the ewe up more securely in her arms, even as the animal attempted to struggle harder as her hunger was less pressing. “Does she only allow you to hold her?”

“Normally.” Cressida replied weakly, unsure as to why the image of Eloise in her fine blue dress, matching the bow on the ewe’s head struck her with such a deep emotion. An emotion she could not quite put her finger on quite yet. “Did–” She cleared her throat, “Did Margaret prepare enough breakfast for Georgie and Lilith as well?”

Eloise’s eyes darkened at the mention of her friends, “Yes. There weren’t enough seats, so I elected to finish eating before you had all woken up.” That did not necessarily sound as if it were the full truth, but Cressida did not feel as though she wanted to argue– perhaps the least amount of contact between Eloise and the Caddels was best.

Cressida shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably, before nodding. “I’m– I’m not sure what had been said exactly– my head–” Her hand pressed to her brow as she wracked her brain for what exactly had spurred Eloise to leave last night, “But– I–” She let out a heavy breath, “I don’t want this to be more painful than it has to.”

“What do you mean?” Eloise asked, her eyes raising from the ewe in her arms.

“I think we should–” The words felt painful coming from Cressida’s lips, even as she knew this would be the best possible solution for their growing animosity towards one another. Their unfinished business. “We need to stay away from each other. I’ll– I’ll take up in the stables. For the week.”

The ewe kicked her way from Eloise’s grasp, dropping to the floor with a thump. The stunned expression on Eloise’s face morphed into one of shock at the action– but the ewe quickly bounded over to Cressida to be held. Cressida bent down and immediately did so before the ewe could loudly protest. Her eyes met Eloise’s after the action– with what looked like tears welling– no. That could not be right.

“You– don’t– I can leave–”

“No.” Cressida cut in firmly, unsure as to why the idea of Eloise leaving forever was somehow worse than her sleeping in the stables. Was the knowledge of her proximity comforting? Knowing that she was nearby, yet simply out of reach?

Eloise tightly pressed her eyes shut. “Your– You should get your friends. Breakfast is probably ready for everyone now.” Without a spare glance backwards, she entered back into the house through the adjoining door into the stables, allowing the heavy wood to shut firmly behind herself. 

Breakfast with Georgie and Lilith ended almost as quickly as it started. Regardless of the fact that Georgie was married to a sweet girl– he always tried to shower Margaret with enough compliments to leave her blushing. Though everyone knew it was all part of a silly tradition, Cressida could not help but want to laugh at the way Aunt Jo stewed in the corner, glaring at Georgie with enough intensity to send a shiver down his spine. The entire town of Abergorlech knew of Aunt Jo and Margaret’s relationship, regardless of how well Aunt Jo thought she managed to hide it with the ruse that Margaret was really her maid. Everyone took it in stride, chalking it up to her embarrassment at being so vulnerable in love with the woman– even though it was clearly etched onto her face every time she so much as thought of Margaret. 

As Cressida bid Lilith and Georgie safe travels home, Aunt Jo thanked them for the brandy they had brought beneath her breath, and they all knew that all was truly alright. She appreciated the fact that their closest neighbours cared enough to visit and share the spoils of Margaret’s fruit trees. It seemed to be a relief for Aunt Jo and Margaret that Cressida had managed to befriend someone that was not a farm animal.

Clearing out the dirtied dishes from the table, Cressida managed to catch the tail end of a hushed conversation between Aunt Jo and Margaret.

“-to town?” Aunt Jo asked, her fingers tapping on the doorframe of her bedroom as Margaret clattered around within.

“I think so–” Margaret replied, her sigh audible from the dining room where Cressida stood. The two women eventually walked out of the bedroom, Margaret holding a letter in her left hand.

“What is it?” Cressida asked, pausing her stacking of the dirty plates and collection of used utensils from breakfast.

Margaret glanced at Aunt Jo nervously. “I just received a letter from my sister.”

“Right.” Cressida responded. It was not unusual– Margaret’s sister lived a mere twenty kilometers from Abergorlech and visited quite often with her son of five.

“She has gotten betrothed– to a man who had been working in the stables on the land adjoining her home.” Margaret said, her fingers worrying at the edge of the parchment paper. She was clearly concerned– but for what? It seemed to be something to be joyously celebrating. A man taking a woman– a widow– for a wife with a son that was not his own was rare. 

“When is the wedding?” Cressida asked, her hands brushing against her breeches in anxiety. Margaret’s countenance did not give her a strong sense of optimism– she felt worried.

“In a fortnight.” Margaret answered. It was essentially an elopement– that was why she seemed so concerned. Did Sarah lie with the stablehand out of wedlock? “Joanna and I must leave today, if we are to make it in time to assist with the preparations for the ceremony.”

“Ah.” Cressida responded. “And I will be remaining behind.” It was not a question– now it seemed as though the rest of the week before Eloise was meant to set off once more would be spent together alone. 

“You must. To tend to the animals.” Aunt Jo responded, she did not seem pleased with the turn of events either– based on the way her lip curled slightly at the words. “I’ll have to wear a damn dress.” She muttered– another thing to be disgruntled about, it seemed. Aunt Joanna and her endless fight against the expectation to wear dresses. The very thing that Cressida so desperately missed about her former life. “Please tell me you’ll be able to handle everything until Sunday.”

Cressida rolled her eyes, they both knew she would be able to– the real question was if she would be able to survive the rest of the week alone with Eloise. The look in Aunt Jo’s eyes conveyed as much. She seemed to be hesitant to leave Cressida alone with what seemed to have broken her all those years ago. “I’ll be fine.” She replied, touched by her aunt’s concern for her. Her eyes met Margaret’s, and she could see the hint of a smile in the wrinkles at the corners of her lips. It seemed to touch her as well– Aunt Joanna, nearly never showing such an outward display of emotion other than anger and annoyance. Concern was new.

Concern from her aunt brought a jolt of anxiety through Cressida’s body. 

If her aunt was unsure how she would fare alone– perhaps she should feel more trepidation about what was to come in the next few days. Hopefully nothing– hopefully she and Eloise would be able to survive without lashing out at each other again.

But, simply based on Aunt Jo’s slightly narrowed eyes trained upon her face, she knew nothing would be so easy. 

God had never been forgiving when it came to Cressida. Even if she prayed– even if she begged. 

The memory of Eloise’s blood on her tongue struck her with the force of a hammer to the skull– only this time she did not have a drink to burn the sensation away. It remained there stubbornly. The heady flavour mixing with the bile rising in her throat at the thought of being alone in the same room as Eloise once more. 

It simply would not do. 

Cressida needed to stay away.

Chapter Text

Have no pity; let life be given for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot.

Deuteronomy 19:21

The silence of the countryside was startling. Unnerving in ways that Eloise had not imagined possible before landing herself in Wales. Her family's country estate of Aubrey Hall was still situated near others– whether that be the workers who tended to the gardens and the home, or the not-so-distant neighbours who resided a stone’s throw away southward. Here, in Abergorlech, Eloise was greeted, not by the nearby stream she could hear babbling from her room in Aubrey Hall, but a stifling silence that did not seem to release her from its grasps. For the first time in Eloise's life, she was completely alone. 

Cressida, having gone to see her aunt and Margaret off early that morning, had stayed away from the main abode after she had returned before the sun had arisen. Based on the lack of noise in the stables, it seemed she had gone traversing through the vast land with the herd. 

So, upon waking, Eloise found herself the only ward of her day. Living as long as she had, she never once had such complete control over her time. No breakfast sat waiting for her, no maids fussed over her, and absolutely no one was around for her to speak to. Even in the vast solitude of Kilmartin, Eloise had found company. Francesca, as quiet as she was, always found time to speak with Eloise when there was something on her mind. John and Michaela, as well. Now, without Margaret or Joanna clattering around the cabin, there was nothing stopping the onslaught of awful scenarios Eloise’s mind thought up.

The distant rumbles of thunder– a sound that usually brought Eloise comfort– sounded foreboding. This was the beginning of the frightful weather that Margaret had heard about earlier that week. It harkened back to a time when Eloise would seek out her mother for comfort– of course, that time had long since passed with the whisperings of Eloise's true proclivities bringing out more discomfort in her mother than Eloise dared witness.

There was not much that Eloise could not bear at this point– or so she imagined, until finding herself completely alone in an unfamiliar home. Thoughts she had not allowed herself to revisit came bubbling to the surface– ones she had not necessarily even known that she had fermenting in her stomach– the acid and bitterness of her imagination only magnified by the silence that surrounded her.

Her mother, sitting heavily upon a chair, nearly tipping backwards in her haste and loss of control as she took in the words that sat before her on the page of Lady Whistledown’s pamphlet. Eloise could clearly remember the feeling of shame– heat– that rose from the pit of her stomach when her mother glanced up at her with wide, horrified eyes at the filth that had been printed.

Filth that was teetering on the edge of propriety and what could only be described as erotica.

It was shameful– there was no doubt about it– and the expression on her mother's face only made Eloise all the more eager to leave with Francesca to Scotland as soon as humanly possible. Her mother had, of course, known about Eloise. Known about her friendships with high class women of the ton. She did not, however, know about Julia. 

Juliette.

The wh–

Even years later, the memory of the woman elevated Eloise's pulse to an extraordinary level. Eloise pressed her brow to the worn wooden table she had settled behind with a hunk of bread she had torn from a stale loaf. 

If she had been lowborn, not a Bridgerton especially, perhaps she could have lived out a similar life to Joanna and Margaret. Found someone– found– stayed with–

Her hand slammed down on the scarred wood. Anger was always the first emotion that came to her. It came quickly, it came often– the same behavior she had seen modeled in Anthony as he toiled in grief and shame before finding Kate.

Eloise laughed suddenly at her behavior. Acting out like a spoilt child in the emptiness of this run-down dwelling. Who was she putting this show on for? It could not be for herself, for she was not one who reveled in the dramatics of emotion. Was it for God? Did he watch as she brought ruin upon her life as she simply acted in the very same ways her brothers were lauded for? Celebrated for?

She took a bite from the bread that sat before her, not out of hunger, but more to soak up the acid that had risen up her throat at the cacophony of memories and emotions she was being tossed through. She felt, distantly, as if she was on the precipice of something, but simply missed a key piece. Her index finger traced along a long gash in the table, a burn mark, perhaps, from a wayward pot or pan set out for supper. If she pressed her nail into the divot, ash gathered underneath the white of her nail bed, dirtying the last vestiges of cleanliness she had managed since staying out in the countryside.

She could hear the door open, a telltale squeak of iron hinges alerting her that Cressida had finally made it back from her journey to wherever it was that she went with a herd of sheep. It was laughable, really, the way that Eloise immediately straightened. Her spine crackled with the swiftness of her movement, still sore from the work she was enduring and the bed she slept on. 

Heavy booted footfalls echoed through the home. Eloise watched as Cressida, soaked to the bone with rainwater, stopped at the entry to the dining space, as if she had forgotten that Eloise had been there all along and was not simply a figment of her tired imagination.

Eloise swallowed, “Hello.” Her voice cracked with disuse and her teeth snapped together in displeasure. She took a steadying breath when Cressida simply continued to look at her blankly, “Did it begin raining?” She wanted to strangle herself– of course it had begun to rain. The fucking lake that was gathering beneath Cressida’s body should have been a wonderfully clear indicator to her.

To Eloise's surprise, Cressida simply snorted in response, an inelegant sort of sound, without a singular biting comment falling from her lips. Eloise had been bracing for it, really, for a mindless blunder of hers to be picked at and torn to shreds by the other woman. But seemingly, that would not be the case.

She watched as the woman silently moved through the space, water dripping from her clothing, audible in the quiet. A wet hand reaching out and grasping onto the very same loaf that Eloise had torn into– flour sticking to the skin of her fingers–

“I am going to fetch some eggs.” Cressida said, voice soft and nearly dull. She took a mighty bite from the chunk of bread in her hand, a droplet of water falling from her egalitarian nose and onto the hard crust. The sight was nearly hypnotizing to Eloise, who had yet to utter another word after her ridiculous question.

She picked a piece of the softer flesh off of her chunk, rolling out between her fingers and forming a tight ball of dough. “Do you–” She paused when Cressida's azure eyes, clear and pointed, met her own, “Ah, what I mean to say is, would you like some assistance.”

The singular brow raised upon Cressida’s face was a startlingly familiar sight. So much so, that the neverending stream of bile that rose up Eloise's throat lurched upwards painfully. “You are asking if I would like assistance. Getting a handful of eggs.”

“Well,” Eloise fought the mortifying urge to flush like a child would upon getting caught stealing sweets, “It is raining rather hard–”

“Oh is it?” Cressida intoned, finally seeming as though she had lost all patience for Eloise– wishing she were smited from the surface of the Earth. “I hadn't noticed the rain. Thank you ever so profusely for electing to share such critical information with me–” Her voice broke off and before Eloise could get a word in edgewise, Cressida turned on the thick sole of her boots and marched out back to where the chicken coop was kept. 

Eloise pressed the ball of dough into the burn on the table, the ash discolouring the bread into a dark charcoal as she continued to push it downwards with her thumb. Cressida's words, her reaction, did not exist– until it did. A slow trickle of shame spread across her body like an aggressive rash. The depth of her mistake, trying to re-enter Cressida’s life, had finally dawned on her. The dough in her hand was becoming harder, more brittle as it picked up more ash, crumbling against the press of her fingers. 

The silence was becoming deafening once more. How did– Was there–? Hysterically, almost, Eloise rushed to the front door, pressing her face into the paneled glass that sat inset at the upper half of the door. The low quality of the glass, paired with the veracity of the rain just outside, warped the image beyond the porch into a stark one. Grey– neverending. She flung the door open in a bout of panic. Though they were still in the throes of summer, a chilly gasp of wind still touched down on Eloise's overheating skin.

The countryside– the true countryside– not the one Eloise had been promenading about in a lavish home during her summers, was almost too honest to bear. There was nothing to distract her from herself. No maids to order about, no ladies lounging about to go and bother. Simply grass, animals, and dirt. So much dirt. 

She took a step out from the home, her slippered foot immediately soaking up the puddles that gathered on the weakened wood of the simple porch that sagged haphazardly. Streams of water flowed with the onslaught of rain, landing clear as crystal only to be muddied by the dirt that was soaked up from the bare earth. Eloise was so accustomed to seeing the laboriously manicured quality of English gardens that true wilderness was almost foreign to her eyes. No walkways of gravel littered the land, looping surreptitiously around maintained shrubbery. The land simply was.

She took another step.

Could she simply be? Who was she without the status of being a Bridgerton? She always imagined her life romantically without the attachments of her name– living freely amongst townsfolk– but clearly, as she was already accustomed to her life with riches, it was doubtful that she could flourish under these conditions. 

Her mind, as always, returned to Cressida.

Did she grapple with the very same thoughts Eloise was wrestling with? Or did she simply bend at the knee to accept her new lot in life? It felt unlikely that the Cressida that Eloise had come to know in Mayfair would surrender so easily– but then again, how well had she truly known her?

Eloise blinked in surprise as the rainwater lapped at her skin. She had stepped out beyond the cover of the porch at some point, her feet now submerged to the ankle with muddy water. She turned back to look at the house with new eyes, startling when Cressida's figure filled the door opening, an unreadable expression upon her face.

But before Eloise could call out to her, she turned back into the house, closing the heavy wooden door behind herself with a thump.

A shiver worked its way up Eloise's spine, yet it was not the rainwater that elicited such a reaction. She swallowed, her slippers squelching with each step towards the door. Her eyes screwed tightly shut as her hand touched down on the worn brass of the door handle, but fell to her side after a moment. Her eyes shifted back to the expanse of nature before her, down the hill she trekked upwards what felt like ages ago. 

She let out a heavy sigh, swallowing down another wave of unwanted emotion and opened the door, the now familiar scents of the soaps Margaret used to clean washing over Eloise softly. A puddle, not unlike the one that had formed under Cressida upon her entry into the dry space of the abode, began to gather beneath Eloise's feet. She toed her ruined slippers from her feet, the bare skin chafing against the roughness of the wooden floor. She rarely went barefoot– and when she did, it was over the soft plushness of imported rugs and carpets that her family's estates had been draped in. 

The scent of fried eggs eventually wafted over to Eloise and, as if possessed by a rather gluttonous spirit, her stomach immediately grumbled. She cautiously moved through the space, attempting not to wince when a splinter wedged its way through her heel. The soft sizzle of fat against hot metal eventually came into focus, Cressida carefully cracking eggs into the skillet she stood before. 

Wordlessly, Eloise returned to the seat she had been occupying before she had– whatever she had just been through. Water dripped from her hair, her face, and onto the scarred table– though this time she stared at the sight before her in a new light. Feeling resigned, feeling–

“For you.” Cressida's voice interrupted her spiraling thoughts, sliding a chipped plate of steaming hot eggs before Eloise. Her thumb traced the edge of the china, catching lightly on the chip with a scraping sound against the hardened skin of her callouses. 

Eloise blinked, mouth opening slightly, watching as Cressida moved to rub at the skin of her thumb. She swallowed, “Thank you.”

A soft breath from Cressida's nose expelled in lieu of response and she moved to plate the other half of the eggs on another plate. 

Waiting, rather than beginning to ravenously indulge herself on the food that Cressida had set before her, Eloise watched as Cressida moved to sit across from her. Silently, they stared, the white steam of the food rising and warping their view of one another. 

Weakly, and with hands still wet from the downpour, Eloise took the cutlery into her hands. Cressida followed suit, though only taking the fork, and remaining hunched over in her seat. She was so– Eloise choked back a despairing laugh, watching helplessly as Cressida shoveled the food into her mouth.

She was completely different.

And Eloise, in all her ridiculous fantasizing, expected to arrive once more into Cressida's open arms–

No.

She had not been expecting that. Eloise had already seen the damage she had left– what she really wanted was assurances. If she was not so thoroughly haunted by the sight of Cressida's hateful gaze as she left Mayfair in her carriage early that fateful morning, would Eloise have even spared her another thought?

It was startling, really, to realize that the world you had taken for granted had already passed you by. Eloise was not a changed woman– not even once arriving into Scotland. She continued to fool about– though she found herself unable to share a bed with anyone but herself. Her nights were sleepless, her dreams terrorized her, and yet she did not change. She certainly was more hesitant to create any type of connection, but it would be foolish to pretend as if there had been no tears shed over her.

“Are you going to eat?” 

Eloise startled, eyes meeting Cressida's across from the table. Her plate had already been scraped clean, and she was leaning back in her chair, considering Eloise with a tilt of her head. 

“I– yes.” Eloise swallowed, blinking, before positioning her utensils to begin eating the now tepid food before her. She sucked her top lip between her teeth, worrying the skin anxiously, before lifting her fork up to her lips delicately– the very same way she had been taught to as a young girl. 

Cressida let out a snort at the sight before standing.

“What?” Eloise shot before her traitorous mouth could stop itself.

“Nothing. I am going to wash up.” Cressida replied.

“No–” Eloise dropped her utensils, almost glad to argue– sitting in silence did not suit her, “Illuminate me.”

“Illuminate you?” Cressida asked, brows raised. “Fine.” She sat back down heavily in her recently vacated seat, “Perhaps this will illuminate you– end your hounding.”

Eloise felt the urge to throw something at the other woman but tamped down on the sensation– she would be flat on the back in moments if she followed her impulsivity. Instead, she gritted her teeth and nodded. “Yes– let's end my hounding.”  

Cressida's nostrils flared before she let out a disbelieving laugh, “You haven't changed– you act as if you did sometimes, but I see right through you. Right through your awful facade.”

Had she somehow heard Eloise's internal struggle–? Eloise felt stricken, suddenly. Was she really so fucking transparent? She slapped her utensils down on the table, loosening droplets of water from her hair and down her neck. “You enjoyed my ‘awful facade’. Sought it out, even, if I recall.”

“And I would go back and warn myself to keep away from you, if I had the ability to.” Cressida hissed in response, a furious heat rising to her neck in a shockingly familiar way. Viscerally reminding Eloise of the way she would press her teeth against the delicate tendons that lay under the pale skin– which was now darkened by labour in the sunlight.

“And deprive yourself of the pleasure of knowing me?” Eloise's gaze darkened, “Of allowing me to taste you?”

A gasp wrung itself out from Cressida's throat before she composed herself and began to laugh, “There she is– I was wondering when the rake would make her reappearance. Being so apologetic does not suit you.”

“I am apologetic–”

“But are you? The very same person who appeared on my doorstep lamenting about lost love without a singular thought to how that may affect me?” Cressida's voice lowered dangerously– she was no longer arguing– it was as if she was simply relaying a truth, “You are the very same pitiful idiot that I had left behind in Mayfair. I have not spared a single moment thinking of you– however you want to delude yourself otherwise.”

A wave of despair overtook Eloise at Cressida's words. It was as if she had taken hold of Eloise's worst thoughts, her worst fears, and threw them back in her face. 

She unsteadily stood from her seat, avoiding the sight of Cressida's expression as if her life depended on it. Weakly, she pushed her full plate of eggs forward on the table, “Thank you for cooking this, it was lovely.” 

“Eloise.” Cressida sighed, rubbing her hand across her face regretfully, “I did not mean–”

“You did.” Eloise closed her eyes for a moment, tiredly. “I deserve every lashing you deign to give.”

“I am not going to give you any lashings–”

“But you should!” Eloise felt the hysteria clawing at her throat, threatening to spill out onto the rough wooden floor beneath her feet. “I–” Eloise let out a pained groan, something between a sob and a laugh, “You say I haven't changed– but I have– I–” Her eyes wildly found Cressida's once more from across the room, “I've never felt like this before.”

“Guilty?”

“No it's–” Eloise grasped at the bust of her dress, wrinkling the damp fabric beneath her shaking fist, “I've felt guilt before, regardless of what kind of monster you think I am–”

“I don't think you are a monster–”

“-it feels deeper–” She continued, completely ignoring Cressida's response. “I don't–” Her palm pressed harder against her sternum, “I don't understand what is wrong with me.”

Cressida audibly swallowed and worried her bottom lip between her teeth before a shrill sound distracted her from the scene before her. Eloise knew the sound– recognized it immediately.

That damn lamb.

She puffed out a breath, shoulders sagging forwards as she sat back down in her seat. The chair she had occupied, sat coldly with the now frigid water that had gathered beneath her. 

With one last hesitant look, Cressida vacated the room, the back door opening with a hefty creak before slamming hard enough to shake the foundations loose.

Cressida had kept her word– sleeping in the stables as if there were no other available rooms in the house for her to rest in. The martyrdom was growing rather tired, in Eloise's opinion– though, perhaps, she was only thinking this because she felt discomfort with being alone once more in the house. The damned lamb had not ceased its crying for hours, not even when Cressida had sprinted off to comfort it during her argument with Eloise.

And so, here Eloise lay on the very same cot she had been restlessly occupying for the duration of her stay in Wales. Her back panged with the feeling of such discomfort and her eyes were suddenly drawn to Cressida's rumpled bed in the pitch darkness of the bedroom.

Her mind, the traitorous thing, was tempting her to do something absolutely ridiculous– yet she could not help the temptation to do it, regardless. 

Would the covers smell like Cressida? No longer the sweet smelling perfumes that she had sprayed on her pulse points in Mayfair, but, rather, a warm mix of sweat and grass. Earthy, unfamiliar–

Her knees touched the worn blanket, a light sort of linen that was suitable for the summer months. A faded floral decorated the front, embroidered with small needlework that had once been a vibrant cornflower blue– the only hint of the colour now being part of the strands that had come loose. Eloise's fingertips brushed the raised embroidery imagining the way Cressida's now roughened hands would do the very same. 

She glanced at the door of the bedroom; the hour was already beyond the normal bedtime hour. Perhaps already three or four in the morning. It was unlikely that Cressida would return. She had made her bed in the hay and the stink of the stables, and now she was going to lie in it. So, Eloise, as if she could not help herself, did the only thing that someone in her position without watchful eyes upon her would do. 

She slipped into the covers.

Cressida's scent– the one she had become familiar with in Mayfair was still somehow woven into the sheets that surrounded her. Had she brought her bottle of perfume with her to the farm? It would not be out of the question. Though– it brought a rather sharp pain to the forefront of her head at the dichotomy between who Cressida was in Mayfair and who she was in Wales. There was a stark difference at face value but, of course, Cressida was always going to be the same person– have the same histories.

Did she dab the perfume to the side of her neck just before she dressed in scratchy wool to lead her herd to pasture? Did she still feel the draw to fine fabrics– colours, embroideries?

Had she chosen this blanket because of the delicate needlework?

Eloise took a deep breath from her nose, allowing the familiar and unfamiliar scents around her to encase her. Her eyes fluttered closed, almost as if the faint scents she had caught from Cressida were finally at a volume that were pleasing. As much as her own motivations confused her– the one truth was that she had missed Cressida. 

Her voice, her face, her smile– even her ridiculous clothing and hairstyles.

She missed the touch of her soft skin against her own, the way the other woman seemed to relax into her when they pressed their lips together.

The perfume– the overwhelmingly floral perfume that had been too much on Eloise's senses, was now dearly treasured. Her nose buried into the flat down pillow that lay beneath her head. But even so, as much as she yearned for the woman that she had known, she throbbed for the woman who stood before her today. 

Her stony resolve, her lithe and capable body. How would her musculature feel beneath her fingertips? Would she gasp and cry out the same way she used to, or would she be louder now in the vastness of the countryside? Her voice muffled against the skin of Eloise's shoulder as she chased her pleasure, no longer hesitant to allow too much sound to leak out in fear of waking her parents in the dead of night. Would she be more expressive? Less fearful? Free?

A shiver worked its way up Eloise's spine at the thought, the sudden need to seek the answers to her questions. She turned her head, allowing herself to breathe in deeply before wetting her lips. 

Would it be too perverse–?

Her hand stroked up her own thigh, as if emboldened by the forbidden nature of what she was thinking of. Just hours ago she was in tears, ready to accept any punishment that Cressida deemed appropriate for her past behavior. 

For her current behavior.

Her other hand gripped the rough covers imagining Cressida doing the same. Eloise did not deserve Cressida any longer– that much had been clear. She was to leave in a fortnight. Back to– where?

She no longer had a place in Scotland. No longer felt at home in Mayfair. Her thumb pressed firmly into the tender flesh of her inner thigh, eliciting a gasp of pain. 

I have not spared a single moment thinking of you– however you want to delude yourself otherwise–

Cressida's voice echoed in her head, spurring her to press the palm of her hand to the junction of her thighs.

Pitiful–

She stifled a groan. Was she really such a glutton for punishment? 

-would go back and warn myself to keep away from you, if I had the ability to–

She was wet, startlingly so. Her fingers brushed against the dampness beneath her nightgown with a fervour she had never known herself to have when she was alone. Her nose pressed itself back into the pillow, suffocating her from anything that wasnt Cressida.

Her body reacted as if possessed; her legs thrashing beneath the covers, a shudder rippling through her with each and every stroke of her fingers. 

To press her lips to Cressida’s once more would be a blessing upon a blessing– but she knew the only way she would be kissing her would be for forgiveness at her feet. Down on her knees, awaiting benediction.

How appropriate for Cressida to become a shepherd amidst this time of unrest for Eloise. 

How fucking biblical.

Eloise could scarcely remember her Sunday lessons in her youth, much less the droning pastor’s sermons she would fall asleep during every holiday that her mother dragged the Bridgertons brood to. She was not a religious woman– it was not within her to believe in an all knowing man in the sky.

She did, however, believe she should be punished for her transgressions. For the pain she caused Cressida. 

Her mind suddenly flashed to the other women she had wronged and tears began to leak from her eyes. Had she always been so unfeeling?

Same pitiful idiot– I see right through you. Right through your awful facade–

Eloise came against her hand with a stuttering gasp, sobbing now in earnest. She was horrible– doing this in the bed of a woman she had failed so thoroughly. She was just as pitiful as Cressida believed her to be, perhaps even more so. Her tears seeped into the fabric of the pillow leaving behind an imprint of where her face lay. She turned on her back, the need to breathe properly becoming too much to bear and removed her sticky hand from between her legs. 

She had come harder than she ought to have in the situation she was in– doing what it is she was during in the cover of darkness. Had Cressida heard her needy gasps through the open window? Unlikely, but the thought brought another shiver of pleasure up her spine.

Pitiful.

Would she even be able to look Cressida in the eyes come morning? Perhaps it was a good thing that the other woman was avoiding her so diligently–

The sound of a door creaking open stopped Eloise's thoughts in their tracks.

No–

She quickly turned onto her side, back to the door.

It couldn't be–

Soft candlight seeped into the room through the open crack, cascading over the side of the back of Eloise's head and onto the wall before her eyes. She remained as still as she could possibly bear– unwilling to give herself away even though she knew Cressida would be able to recognize the smell as soon as she set foot inside.

She could hear Cressida's soft breaths, the catch of her socked feet against the roughness of the wooden flooring as she stepped into the bedroom. The deep intake of breath– taking in the unmistakeable scent of Eloise's sweat and–

A strangled groan at the realization. 

Eloise's body so tense that she could feel her tendons begin to vibrate with overuse. What would she–?

The bed dipped beside her, calves brushing against the rough fabric of Cressida's wool breeches. 

Her hand was still wet with the proof of Eloise's fixation on Cressida– Would she take her fingers between her lips for a taste? Remember the way Eloise shuddered beneath her tongue the morning before she had set off for this damned farm?

It was clear Cressida had known what Eloise had done; her breathing was heavy, nearly labourious. Eloise, on the other hand, felt her vision swim at the prospect of allowing her lungs to make a single sound to alert Cressida that she was awake. If it all hadn't been so horrifically recent, Eloise might have been able to relax. But the reality of the situation was that she had taken pleasure in Cressida bed moments before Cressida had crept into the bedroom. 

Most confounding of all, was Cressida lying directly beside her, despite it all. She knew she was there– it was impossible to pretend that she didn't with the candle still flickering obendiently beside her on her nightstand. Long shadows cast across the room. Eloise could see that Cressida's back was propped against the headboard and with her head turned directly to face Eloise's prone form. 

A mirrored shadow of Cressida's hand reached outwards before pulling back; head turning and a quick blow to extinguish the candle.

Eloise woke with a start, colder than she had any right to be in the dead of summer. Daybreak was breaching the horizon and Eloise could feel her sweat cooled skin ripple with goosebumps at the gust of stormy wind through the open window. A stir of movement behind her indicated that she was not as alone as she imagined– and suddenly the realization of where she was struck her like a tonne of bricks. 

Her head turned to take in the absolute vision of Cressida peacefully sleeping beside her, still in her work clothes, cover pinned beneath her body. A reverent gasp fell from Eloise's lips, eyes greedily taking in every centimeter of the woman's sleeping form. Her slackened mouth, pink and soft– kissable–

Eloise turned back to look at the peeling wallpaper. She did not deserve to rest her eyes on the other woman, perhaps never did. 

She was too good for her. 

Eloise had already had the opportunity to be with Cressida and had completely taken it for granted. Ruined any possibility for forgiveness.

Her body ached as she sat up, but not from a fitful sleep, for once. For the first time since living in Mayfair, Eloise had managed to sleep the night through. A miracle that Eloise could only come to conclude was a product of lying in such close proximity to Cressida Cowper.

What an absolutely vexing nightmare she lived in.

The nightgown she wore had rucked its way up her thighs, exposing the pale skin there to the cool air of the bedroom. A bruise had formed where her thumb had pressed in, dark and pronounced even in the low visibility. 

She could feel Cressida shift beside her in her sleep, a soft sound expelling from her lips. Eloise swallowed heavily, her horrible, traitorous mind finding its way to the filthiest places once more. She felt the urge to put her head through the wall, breaking through layers of plaster and brick. To be so close to what she wanted, what she needed without the ability to do anything about it was never in her nature.

Her feet found purchase against the floor, cooling at the touch of the sloppily lacquered wood. If she focused, she could feel where the sealant had gathered in the cracks of the low quality panels– so different to the precise millwork of the homes she occupied. There was no longer a bone in her body that believed that she could survive in these conditions, though, perhaps, that was a rather harsh assessment of this humble abode.

Eloise had gone with Colin into the depths of London once on pilgrimage to the slums, disguised as merchants in workers garments that he had liberated from a dusty old chest that had sat in one of the estate attics. She had thought the garments to be too old, too tattered, too on the nose for the location they were traversing to, but much to her surprise, the conditions were far worse than she could have envisioned.

They did not stick out like sore thumbs, at least their clothing did not. The expression of disgust on Eloise's face, however, certainly did. 

Muck had covered her boots by the time they had made it into the heart of the areas of lowest income. She shuddered to think what was contained in the buckets that continued to be dumped out into the streets, gathering in puddles that groaning carriages splashed onto any bystanders. Colin and Eloise included.

“Had you known how poorly it was out here?” Eloise furiously whispered, taking Colin by the arm before he stepped into a sludgey puddle.

Colin looked it her with barely disguised pity, “Had you not? What kind of rock are you living beneath?”

“Clearly a lavish one.” Eloise shot back, “One I would very much like to crawl beneath once more.”

“Oh, no–” He said, grabbing ahold of her dusty cloak before she got too far away from him, “This is an education. One that I was put through– and now you must be as well. How lucky we are to not be living in such conditions.”

Eloise, being the fool she had been during that time, a mere five years before she found herself in Abergorlech, let out a scathing laugh in response, “Perhaps– but do you suppose these people ever worry about what is written about what they wore to some dance or another? Or how they stomped on a prince’s foot–”

“Eloise.” Colin cut her off tiredly, “We live very fortunate existences. Be glad that your only worries are of how you are perceived. Not whether or not you have enough money to buy food for yourself.”

“Do not be patronizing–”

“Then do not require it.” Colin said, ending the conversation.

Eloise knew now how ridiculous she had been at the time, lamenting about the problems in her sphere of wealth while others toiled endlessly beneath her to not even be sure of a roof over their heads. No– this home was more than fine. Margaret and Jo took very good care of what they had. Cressida included.

That was not something Eloise had even been able to do. She had others to care for her home, others to clean up the messes she left behind. Others to blame when her relationships went awry.

“I want you gone.” Marina hissed at her, “I thought you would be different–”

“Your mistake.” Eloise said with a tilt of her head. “I never promised anything– I never could anyways. So I don't know exactly what it was you were expecting of me.”

A memory that she forgot she had– Marina. Her own words, more venomous than they ought to have been.

“And you’ll– you'll stop them from sending me away?” Cressida's wavering voice returned to the forefront of her mind and she stood, nightgown falling over her thighs once more. Her eyes took in the hazy view of the greenery through the window, sunlight barely visible over the horizon and through the dark clouds that littered the sky. The rain had stopped, but it only seemed momentary; thunder rumbling just off in the distance.

Her eyes were drawn back to Cressida's form– she could not help herself– startling when she made contact with Cressida's open eyes.

“How long have you been awake?” Eloise's voice was soft, scarcely audible over the sounds outside.

“I never went to sleep.” Cressida replied, voice rough with disuse. Eloise could hear her swallow heavily, “Why were you in my bed?”

Eloise had been dreading this question from the moment she had lay beneath Cressida's covers. She sighed, for once deciding to be truthful in her response, “If I said it was because I missed you, would you hate me for it?”

“I never hated you.” Cressida turned over onto her back to stare at the ceiling. Eloise watched the hypnotic rise and fall of her chest as she breathed deeply. “I never could hate you– as hard as I tried.”

A flood of emotion rose up Eloise's throat and all she could do was simply nod in response. She swallowed once more. “It would be easier if you did– hate me.”

“I know.” Cressida said, more as an exhalation than anything else. She craned her neck to look at Eloise once more. “How do you feel?”

“How do I-?” Eloise screwed her eyes shut, embarrassment and shame rankling her deeply. “Do you mean to provoke me?”

“Not any more than you did, Eloise.” Cressida said, sitting up in the bed. She turned to plant her socked feet on the ground and stood up with a stretch. “I have work to do.”

“The farming never stops, does it?” Eloise muttered, turning to look back out the window at the rain that had started once more.

“And why would it? The world does not stop just because you wish it to.” Cressida said, pulling her cotton shirt back down over her toned abdomen.

“Do you wish it to?” Their eyes met, “Pause time–?”

“It does not matter what I wish.” Cressida said, voice conveying something akin to defeat. “If it mattered, I would not be here to begin with.”

Eloise let out a sigh at her words, deflating completely. “I wish that I could have–”

“No.” Cressida cut in immediately, “I do not want to know.” She rubbed a have over her tired face, looking at Eloise somberly. “You shall be setting off tomorrow morning– the storm should have passed by then.”

“Right.” Eloise felt her resolve weaken, “O-Of course. I will be out of your hair.”

Cressida grimaced at Eloise's words and she felt at a loss at how to respond– was she glad to see her go? It didn't seem that way– though, Cressida did not seem pleased at the concept of her leaving either. 

“I will have your carriage prepared by then– I understand that your driver had vacated his position upon arrival?”

The last thing Eloise wanted to discuss was her former driver– there were so many more pressing matters. Like was Cressida pleased to stumble upon what she had the night before–?

“-to drive you, Eloise?” 

“Pardon?” Eloise asked, refocusing her attention at the words that were coming from Cressida's lips.

Cressida looked unamused, “I can ask Georgie to drive you back– where will you be going? Mayfair? Back to Scotland.”

“I am no longer welcome with my sister.” Eloise replied before she could stop herself. The look of surprise on Cressida's face cowed her slightly. 

“Aren't you and Francesca close?”

She was surprised that Cressida remembered Francesca's name, let alone her relationship with Eloise. Swallowing, she nodded in assent.

Cressida's eyes narrowed slightly, no doubt imagining the worst– which was a fair assessment, all things considered. “To Mayfair, then.”

“Aubrey Hall.” Eloise said without thought, furrowing her brows when Cressida flinched. “What–?” She clamped her mouth shut. Aubrey Hall had been where they had begun their– relationship. And it seemed as though the very same thought was rushing through Cressida's mind. The fateful moment in the entry closet–

“Fine.” Cressida gritted from behind clenched teeth, “Aubrey Hall it is.” She turned to leave, most likely to attend to her duties on the farm, without a glance backwards.

Eloise suddenly felt as if they had taken twenty steps backwards.

Chapter Text

Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.

Psalm 23:4

The soft damp wool beneath Cressida's fingertips was the only thing she could focus on– a distinct feeling of nausea rising was not helping her as she attempted to complete the necessary work she had set out to do. The sheep, recently shorn by herself and Aunt Jo, bleated softly. The sound startled Cressida slightly from the trance she had been under from the moment she had set foot into her bedroom the night before.

Her bedroom.

Her bed–

Still warm, still overwhelmingly smelling of Eloise– a thick bead of sweat gathering at the woman's brow as Cressida surveyed her by the warm candlelight. What she had interrupted was unmistakable– unbelievable, really.

A laugh bubbled from her lips, a deep sort of sense of disbelief at the memory eliciting the reaction. Cressida did not know quite what to do with the cocktail of emotions that gathered in her sternum. Her fingers twisted into the short hairs on the sheep's back before she patted it gently. It gazed at her rather stupidly– blank eyes and its tongue lolling out as it bleated once again, making Cressida feel as though the thing really did earn its name. Miss Philippa Featherington, the poor thing.

Cressida continued her trek up the property, glancing back every few minutes to ensure that the herd continued to follow her. Every day she was forced to lead them further and further out– it seemed as though their hunger knew no bounds. It was typical, as Cressida had come to learn, for a shepherd to continuously travel across the land. Last summer, she had done this with Aunt Jo. After a certain point, it becomes a rather burdensome thing to attempt to travel back to the house, as the untouched pastures become too distant. Today would probably be Cressida's last day where she would be able to return.

She gritted her teeth slightly as her foot caught in a divot in the ground, her boots still much too large to properly support her feet. The ewe she carried in a makeshift sling across her abdomen let out a surprised sound at the way Cressida jostled. She looked down at the ewe with apology in her eyes, as if the animal could understand her.

It was an unfortunate situation– what reason exactly had Aunt Jo decided to leave Cressida to do the tending herself? Although was more than capable now with two years under her belt, the turn in weather concerned her. Even with a hand cupped over her eyes, it was difficult to see what lay ahead. The rain and the fog were too intense– this storm looming over the village.

And still, with all of this pressing on Cressida, Eloise needed to–

She needed to send Eloise away.

Suddenly, viscerally, Cressida faced the memories of herself from the night before. Her body moving and reacting without thought at the first gasp she heard through her bedroom window.

It had been late– hours upon hours after she had last spoken to Eloise. She had spent her time in the stables, the ewe she cared for not resting for a single moment. Saving her from continuing that awful conversation with Eloise, but keeping her awake until the moment it fell into a fitful sleep in the hay. Cressida could feel herself flagging, eyes drooping– head lolling. 

She remembered gently picking up the ewe and nestling her against Lady Millard. 

She remembered resting her head against the rough wood of the outer stable wall in exhaustion– right beside her bedroom window. She should have known better, perhaps– known that Eloise Bridgerton left to her own devices only spelled out trouble.

And so, she heard the first gasp.

What could have easily been mistaken for the sound of sleep if it weren't for the lower groan that followed. The whisper of sheets as legs thrashed against them. Cressida wiped her brow with the collar of her shirt, soaking the droplets of rain that were gathering with her sweat as she trekked the land.

She felt a lingering pain rise up her throat. Was it regret? 

Regret for what?

Her eyes took in the sight of the sheep stopping in order to begin grazing on the fresh land she had brought them to. Their flat teeth ripping at the overgrown brush, flecks of mud and dirt flying upwards each time one of them pulled at the roots. She circled them slowly, as to ensure they would not wander from the pack– the fog had settled so low that she could not see beyond twenty meters.

She rubbed at her face once more, putting the walking stick that Aunt Jo had given her between her arm and her ribs before untying the sling from her body to set Eloise the ewe down into the ground. To allow her to explore. The brush was grown enough to occupy the herd for some time, so she allowed her mind to wander once more, settling back to the night before– the memories were persistent. Prodding at her.

Continuing her survey of the herd, she pressed onwards, putting one foot before the other– distantly watching. 

Distinctly remembering.

The candle she had lit as she had walked into her bedroom had illuminated Eloise's slack hand by her side– glistening with what could only be–

Thck–

Cressida gasped, a sharp whimper falling from her lips as her ankle buckled beneath her. She stumbled forward onto her knees, crying out as her ankle twisted further– the heel of her boot completely lodged into a hole in the ground that some animal had abandoned. One she had not seen due to her distractedness coupled with the low visibility of her surroundings.

Just her fucking luck.

Tears welled up in her eyes involuntary, her breathing becoming laboured and shallow with pain. Her hands gripped at the mucky soil before her, head dipping forward to press a cheekbone to the back of her hand as the pain began to overwhelm her completely.

The sheep continued to eat, their chewing still audible to Cressida even over the pulse that thumped in her ears. 

She let out a shuddering laugh– how far was she from the house? More than a few kilometers probably. She needed to move, try to get up before one of the sheep wandered away. Before the storm continued to rage, before nightfall came. The distant rumble of thunder propelled Cressida to pull her upper body from the ground, her sleeves damp from resting in the muck. The heels of her palms stung slightly– a telltale sign that she had broken skin in her fall. 

Glancing downwards, through the gap between her legs, she could vaguely make out her lodged right foot. Her eyes still swam with unshed tears so she blinked, allowing the heavy droplets to fall onto the ground. 

It seemed as though her boot laces had come undone– not an unusual thing, considering that the boots were much too large for her feet. Cressida shifted her weight onto her left palm, using her right to reach out and touch her leg. Her trousers were completely soaked with mud– the rough fabric of the cotton discomfiting beneath her shaking fingertips. 

She gasped with pain as her fingers tightened their grip on her trousers, her ankle throbbing horribly.

Glancing back up at the placid herd, she grit her teeth and slammed her eyes shut. Her left arm shook as it held her body up, her other hand clenching and releasing her grip on her trousers in preparation for what she was about to do. 

With a steadying breath, nearly wheezing with the nausea that was rising, Cressida began to pull.

The thunder that had rumbled distantly, now boomed directly overhead. The earth shook, tremors of the sound resonating across the land as if God was doling out a physical punishment– a testament of anger and grief rolled together to cover the sounds of Cressida's pained wails.

Not so much of a call and response, but an amplification of her emotion.

Her tears mixed with the cascading water– feeling as though she was the one who had the power to shake the birds from their nests. That she, in all her pain and anguish, was the one whose voice was magnified– each scream accompanied by an earth rattling roar and a flash of lightning from above. Her fists beating down on the soft soil, booming with the might of a thousand men.

And when she, from the exhaustion of having a hand in her own suffering, fell onto her back, the skies closed up once more.

The clouds moved away, as if Cressida really did have control over their movements. 

That now she was wrung out, the heavens no longer had tears to shed.

The ewe she had been carrying came into focus above her; her doleful eyes looking down at Cressida as if she understood the pain that she was in. The soaked blue bow on her head dripped rainwater onto Cressida's cheek before the ewe bent down to press her nose against the dampness.

In comfort.

Cressida closed her eyes for a moment, breathing deeply from her nose. Her hand reached up to thread into the ewe's soft wool, still soaked from the rain.

“We should get home, shouldn't we?” Cressida mumbled softly, as if the animal could understand her.

The soft bleat in response almost made Cressida believe that she could.

Sitting up slowly, Cressida grunted with the effort it took not to cry out once more as her leg jostled slightly.

She knew that the injury was not one she would be able to shake off. Something was broken– she had never broken anything before, but she could feel with complete certainty that she had this time. The closest she had come had been a mild fall while promenading across the green in Mayfair; the doctor wrapping up her hand for the weekend until the small scrape on her palm had healed.

The ewe walked away from Cressida after a moment, siding up to her mother in the grass who was still eating from the bountiful offerings of the land. Cressida's eyes scanned the horizon, pleased to see that the grouping of sheep had not strayed very far from her at all– the furthest one being less than ten meters away. 

She looked back down at her leg, still haphazardly lying at an awkward angle. Even with her trousers covering the area, she could tell that whatever lay beneath would not be a pretty sight.

The walking stick lay beside her, just out of reach from where she sat. With a deep steadying breath, she leaned over to grapple for it– the thing slick with mud and rainwater. Using her sleeve, she wiped at the surface of it in an attempt to create a dryer area for her to use as leverage to stand. With both hands gripping tightly, Cressida pressed the walking stick into the soft earth, using her uninjured leg to stand up. 

“Fuck–” She grit her teeth in the effort it took to not slip and fall once more.

Distantly, she could hear a voice– it couldn't be–

Eyes wildly looking at her surroundings for the source, she gasped out a desperate, “Help!” in the hopes that she would be heard. It had to be– perhaps it was Georgie, Lillith, anyone–

“Cressida?”

God above.

“Eloise.” She blinked at the woman distantly approaching as if she were some sort of apparition. This couldn't be.

“I–” Eloise stopped before her, suddenly taking in Cressida's ragged appearance, but not looking much better herself. Cressida immediately noticed Eloise's soaked form and mud flecked dress; the blue of it no longer as vibrant as it was, now simply a morose muddle of brown and near charcoal. “You're hurt.”

“Why are you here? You–” Cressida paused, shifting against her walking stick with a wince, “I don't understand.”

“I felt–” Eloise let out an anxiety riddled breath, “Something was not right.”

Cressida sucked in a breath, “Did you– did you follow me? Do you always follow me?” The thought was discomforting, though she was unsure exactly as to why. Was it that she had expected a modicum of privacy during the day? Expected that Eloise kept her distance from one thing? Allowed her to–

“No– no.” Eloise pressed a hand to the bridge of her nose, “I never have. Followed you, I mean.”

Somehow, Cressida doubted that. What else would explain her presence? “Then how did you know where–?”

“I did not–” She let out a frustrated breath, “I just– I don't know.” Eloise looked up at Cressida, once more meeting her eyes, “I don't know.”

“You sure are something.” Cressida said, head shaking slightly, “There is no need to lie–”

“I am not lying.” Eloise snapped, “You think I wanted to walk in this goddamn downpour? I had a feeling, alright?” She deflated slightly, “I thought I– that I heard you. Screaming.”

Cressida's lips parted at Eloise's words. Had she really heard her? From such a distance? “Were you outside?”

“Did you really scream? I thought it was just the storm, but I recognized your voice. Somewhere in the noise.” Eloise said, not answering her, eyes focusing on Cressida's heavy lean against her walking stick.

“I–” Cressida swallowed, “I injured myself.”

Eloise suddenly looked extraordinarily worn out, her face haggard with some sort of unreleased emotion. Rather than respond to Cressida's words, she simply moved to stand beside her, arm crooking outwards for Cressida to grab onto. 

“I am not an invalid–”

“Please.” Eloise interrupted, voice soft but not leaving any space for argument. “Just– tell me what you need me to do.” She took a sharp breath, “For the sheep.”

“For the sheep.” Cressida echoed faintly. Her hand found purchase against the damp skin of Eloise's arm and she felt a shudder roll through her at the sensation. When was the last time she had touched Eloise voluntarily? Years ago? Yes, it must have been.

She allowed herself to be led forward slowly, carefully, by Eloise further in towards the clearing where the sheep had spread. Her limp became more pronounced with each step.

Eloise stopped when Cressida let out a thin gasp of pain. “What can I–?” She looked at her with concern, “Tell me what to do. How can I help you?”

Words that Cressida would have given her life to hear years ago–

“Circle the sheep.” She replied tightly, instead of allowing herself to succumb to her emotions once more. “Move in closer with each pass until they are gathered together.”

Eloise nodded, eyes not meeting Cressida's as she hesitantly pulled her arm away in order to follow the instructions.

Cressida watched as she silently circled the herd. The process was slow– much slower than if Cressida had been able to, for Eloise did not know which sheep would attempt to wander away once more. After a long span of time, Eloise eventually gained control of the herd and looked at Cressida in askance.

“We may have to stop a few times for you to check if we hadn't lost any–”

“Do you need me to hold on to you?” Eloise cut in before Cressida could finish her thought. Her eagerness was off-putting, quite honestly, and Cressida wasn't quite sure how to deal with this change in attitude.

“I do not need anything from you, Eloise.” Cressida ground out between her clenched teeth. “Please walk ahead. I will flank the pack.”

Eloise looked at her with a touch of suspicion in her eyes– and perhaps it was warranted. Cressida was barely able to stand; her body had curled forward in a hunch as she dealt with the pain she had been handed. Her right leg did not touch down on the ground, and she stood not unlike one of those tropical birds she had read about during her ill-thought pursuit of Lord Debling.

“Are you quite sure?” Eloise had the gall to ask. 

Cressida could already feel her patience wearing thin and based on the way Eloise quickly turned away from her to lead the herd, it was evident on her expression. She watched as Eloise moved away from her, allowing the herd of sheep to follow before beginning to walk herself.

Each step was a pain– the rugged terrain did nothing to help her in this pursuit and suddenly she wished that she had perished during her fall. Cracked her head on a rock, rather than deal with the awful truth that she required Eloise's assistance.

That she would continue to require her assistance.

What would happen now? The doctor would come, wrap up her leg with a stiff rod alongside it, say something along the lines of ‘Do not return to your normal tasks– you must rest–” and Cressida would be forced to allow Eloise to help her with her duties. With her life. With– good lord– with cooking and walking and bathing–

“Cressida, I really think I ought to help you.” Eloise's voice gently made its way across the clearing to where Cressida stood– a good thirty meters behind the herd.

She pressed her lips together in frustration. Yes, she should allow Eloise to help her. Yes, it would be quicker to get home– to make their way back before the weather took another turn. But the issue was that Cressida simply did not want to touch Eloise again. She did not want her fingers to make contact with the bare skin of Eloise's arm. 

Feel the way goosebumps arose at the touch. 

Endure the keen sense of want that she could not remember feeling towards the other woman since the last time their lips had touched.

No.

Cressida could not allow herself to feel those things. 

But, of course, her wants and her realities almost never seemed to align. 

Closing her eyes briefly to feel the soft mist in the air that surrounded her, Cressida eventually let out a heavy sigh. Heavy with disappointment, heavy with resignation. “Fine. Yes, you are right.” It absolutely pained her to say those words, yet here she was. Saying them. 

She knew Eloise's expression would not hide the shock at hearing what she had uttered; you are right– Unprecedented. So, she kept her eyes shut for a beat longer.

“Stay where you are– I will,” Cressida sighed again, “I will be there in a moment.” She knew she was being dramatic, yet she could not stop herself. Wasn't she owed at least this last bit of pride? 

Her eyes opened to look at Eloise– though what she saw waiting for her was not any smugness in her expression. It was a sort of mournful acceptance. 

Acceptance of what?

Cressida turned the thought over in her mind like a well worn stone on a riverbed as she slowly trudged over to the other woman. Why didn't she look absolutely elated? The Eloise of yesterday would be rubbing the fact that Cressida needed her help in her face immediately. Instead, Cressida could only see a mixture of what was perhaps resignation and exhaustion beneath a sallow complexion. 

Her hand eventually found the skin of Eloise's arm and she could feel a shudder roll through her body at the touch. 

“Ready?” Eloise asked softly, looking straight ahead.

Cressida knew they had to begin moving quickly, lest the sheep got distracted and moved away from the pack they had formed.

But, of course, she could not help herself.

“Why aren't you looking at me?” 

Eloise flinched at the question, a flush rising up high over the collar of her dress. “What do you–? I looked at you.” 

She still was not looking at her.

“You haven't.” Cressida said before her grip tightened on Eloise's arm, “You haven't–”

“What is wrong with you?” She turned to look at Cressida with so much intensity, she felt as though she would burst. “You–” Her other hand moved up to press her fingers to her brow in a tick of anxiety before looking away once more. “I cannot,” She huffed with irritation, voice rising, “Do you even understand what you do to me?”

“What I do to you?” Cressida snapped, “Jesus Christ– it's as if you're doing your absolute best to make me suffer.” Her walking stick stuck momentarily in a soft pocket of soil, making her stumble a bit. She tore the thing from the ground before throwing it ahead of them in a fit of anger.

Eloise let out a disbelieving laugh, “You're serious, aren't you?” She violently pulled her arm away from Cressida before stalking forward to collect the stick from the ground. “You want me gone just as badly as you want me to stay– Can you just decide already–” She shoved the stick into Cressida's slack hands, “Before I do something rash.”

“Like pleasure yourself in my bed?” Cressida said before she could stop herself, “But, oh no, that isn't rash–” She barked out a laugh, “You are simply a degenerate–”

“A degenerate you still lay beside.” Eloise's teeth bared with the words, venomous, yet her hands were gentle as they cupped Cressida's cheeks. Her thumbs lightly brushed against her cheekbones, wiping away errant tears from her outburst. 

Cressida could feel her pulse thunder in her ears, already seeing the apology forming on Eloise's lips before she uttered them.

“I should have done something. To stop them from sending you here.” Eloise said, voice once again soft. “I came– but too late.”

“Yes.” Cressida echoed, pulling away from Eloise's grasp slightly, “You were too late.” She let out a breath, already feeling pain at the way Eloise's expression folded in on itself. “We’ve– I've had enough of this–”

“This?”

“This!” Cressida said insistently. A sheep bleated distantly, yet she pressed onwards, “The constant retelling of what had happened. I want to– need to leave it behind already. It is finished.”

“Retelling? Finished?” Eloise said, the corner of her bottom lip creasing. She looked as if she was ready to begin crying once more. 

“Please.” Cressida breathed out, softening, “Enough. You are leaving tomorrow.”

A flash of lightning illuminated Eloise's heartbroken face. “Even with your injury? With no one around to help you?”

“Even so.”

Somehow Cressida hadn't noticed how close they had gotten once more, how Eloise's nose nearly touched the left side of her jaw. She let out a tumultuous gasp at the sensation of Eloise's hand reaching up to cup the side of her neck.

“You would send me away in this weather?”

“I would.”

“With half your herd wandered away? Gone without hope of you retrieving them yourself?”

“Yes.”

A beat of silence followed before Eloise let out a laugh, moving back and away from Cressida. “You've changed so much.” 

She hadn't really, beyond her physical appearance, and they both knew it. Yet, Cressida could not help her amused smile. “And you haven't changed one bit.”

With Cressida's exacting instructions, Eloise was able to herd the sheep once more and lead them towards the home. And though they did not speak, there seemed to be some sort of resigned inevitability hanging in the air between Eloise and herself. It was odd– their argument had not really been an argument. The more Cressida thought of what had occurred, the more she considered it almost as punctuation in their relationship. 

She had imagined that her leaving Mayfair was the end of their story. The book ending precisely the moment she had sat down in the carriage and allowed herself to be driven to Wales. 

Perhaps it had been utterly foolish for Eloise to show up the way she had; without a single letter previously. Without an attempt to mend their relationship before trying to rekindle something between them. 

But as she limped alongside Eloise, who carefully led her through the countryside, it was completely unthinkable to find herself in this very situation. The Eloise of Mayfair was selfish. She was rude, unkind, over-indulgent– Cressida could think of so many words to represent the woman she knew. 

Yet none of them seemed to apply to her at this moment. 

No– their story had not ended. 

They had simply moved into a new chapter.

Eloise called for a doctor as soon as they arrived back home. The herd was securely within the bounds of stone walls of the farm and Cressida could feel any residual energy leave her as she waited for Eloise to return.

It had already been more than an hour since Eloise had gone, leaving Cressida ti suffer through her pain by herself. Cressida had met the town doctor, a gentleman by the name of Joseph Foulks, once before when Aunt Jo had nearly hacked her finger off skinning a rabbit. He was kind to her, though she saw the way his eyes lingered on Margaret when he believed no one else was watching. The grey dusting in his hair had suggested that he was about Aunt Jo’s age, perhaps younger.

Perhaps around Margaret’s age.

It did not sit right with Cressida, but she kept her lips tight knowing that making an enemy of the only medical man within one hundred kilometers would be a poor choice.

The front door eventually swung open– Cressida was not sure how much time had passed. She simply hoped that she would be administered some sort of drug to ease the pain.

“Cressida?” It was Georgie– his voice was laced with concen and she could hear the clatter of a few more individuals entering through the front door.

“She's through there.” Eloise said, void faint through the walls. Cressida turned her head to rest her cheek on the cotton of her pillowcase. It still vaguely smelled like Eloise.

Another voice had joined the mix, one Cressida could not make out as her tiredness overcame her.

A knock eventually sounded on her bedroom door. “Miss Cowper? I am here to help– it's Doctor Foulkes.”

“Come in.” Her voice was raspy and Cressida could already feel a fever-laden sweat beginning to form on her brow.

The door opened and Dr. Foulkes entered carefully. “I hear that you may have broken your ankle.”

“Yes.” Cressida replied, body shifting on the bed slightly. 

“We’re gonna have to saw it off.” Georgie's voice floated in from the hallway and Cressida couldn't help the breathing scoff that escaped her nose. He peeked into the room, eyes betraying his concern, “Say goodbye to your leg now– I've got Lillith bringing the tools from out back. Axe and all.”

“Oh, really?” Cressida said, looking back to Dr. Foulkes. “Can I have him thrown out?”

“Unfortunately, no.” Georgie said, cutting in before the doctor could get a word in edgewise, “I am his new apprentice.”

“Are you, really?” Dr. Foulkes intoned, “Well then, Dr. Caddel, let's have a look at the patient.”

It surprised Cressida, the fact that Dr. Foulkes was entertaining this situation, but it did make her feel less like dying, so perhaps that was his intention all along. During any of Cressida’s tumbles in Mayfair, all she received was a stern talking to by her mother or father– so pleasant bedside manner was not something she was accustomed to.

“Right on, then.” Georgie said, grinning at Cressida as he fully entered the room. “Wasn't kidding about Lilith though, she's bringing the whole cavalry.”

“What do you mean?”

“She's headed out to the next town over– took a horse and everything. Eloise told us about your Aunt and Margaret out on some sort of excursion.” He replied while he assisted Dr. Foulkes in rolling up her trouser leg.

She did not miss the way Dr. Foulkes jumped slightly at the mention of Margaret, nor the way his brows tightened across his brow at the realization of what Georgie meant. 

Cressida swallowed, glancing away. “Where is Eloise?”

“Pacing a hole through the earth, I reckon. She's just been waiting outside.” Georgie replied.

“Who is this Eloise?” Dr. Foulkes asked as he tore the fabric of the trousers up a bit higher for better access to the injury.

“A friend who is visiting from London.” Georgie responded in her stead, which she was thankful for– still imagining the way Eloise did not enter the house. Did she think she did not want to see her?

“London! My goodness.” He said, motioning for Georgie to assist him with the removal of her boot. The swelling on her ankle had gotten so intense that they needed to unlace the entire boot. “It's wonderful–”

Cressida let out a yelp of pain, interrupting his words. 

He looked at her apologetically, pausing, “I am sorry, Miss Cowper. We really have to get this off of your foot.” He and Georgie had managed to untie it fractionally– the laces still pulled taught against her foot. She usually knotted the thing several times over to ensure that her foot remained locked in. Though it seemed now, that had truly been a mistake.

“Just– please, give me a moment.” She said, voice crackling.

“Of course.” Dr. Foulkes replied, hands stilling over the laces. “Do be quick though, I am sure that cutting the boot off of you would be just as painful.”

“Mm.” Cressida replied before mopping up the sweat that had formed on her brow. “Any chance I could get something for the pain?”

“Not quite yet, Miss Cowper, I am sorry.” He replied.

Cressida let out a heavy sigh before her head tipped back against her pillow. She screwed her eyes shut before nodding for them to continue. Her fingers twisted into the sheets beneath, and a hysterical thought rose to the forefront of her mind as Dr. Foulkes and Georgie continued attempting to remove her boot. 

Did her fingers align with Eloise's as she pleasured herself? Twisting into the sheets as she was sweating now, not with pleasure, but with pain. As she usually did in a stark contrast with Eloise's life.

She had said she did not want to dwell in the past any longer– and she didn't. But how was it possible to keep her word when the line between pleasure and pain was so thin? Could Eloise hear her through the open window in the same way she had the night before?

After a struggle, the boot finally came off and Cressida was able to fractionally relax into the bed. Her face was slick with sweat and her body ached from tensing as hard as it did.

“When did this happen?” Dr. Foulkes muttered, cold hands gently touching her injured ankle to inspect the break.

“This morning.” Cressida replied tightly. “I stepped into a hole and my foot got caught as I fell.”

“Forwards or backwards?” He asked before looking up at her. “Which direction did you fall? I ask so I know which part of your leg will require the most support.”

“Forwards.” Cressida replied after a moment, remembering the way her knees hit the ground. 

“And you walked home?” Georgie asked, eyes wide as he took in the sight of Cressida's injury. It was rather awful looking– her ankle swollen at twice its size, purple and bruised looking.

“Yes– Eloise assisted me.” Cressida said after catching her breath from the pain. 

Georgie had moved towards the back of the room, pipe in his hands as he packed tobacco into the bowl. She watched as his hands idled. “She was out there with you?”

“No. Well– yes, I mean. She was. But after it happened.” Cressida said, sharply hissing when Dr. Foulkes prodded at her ankle once more.

“Ah– I see where the problem is.” He said, interrupting the stand off between herself and Georgie.

She turned her gaze to look at him, “Is it broken?”

“No– though you came very close. Torn ligament.” He bent down to open his leather doctor’s bag with a snap. “It will need to be wrapped up, all the same. But there is less of a risk with improperly setting the bone.” He dug into his bag once again and handed Cressida a dark bottle. “Medical opium– a couple of drops should keep the pain at bay.”

“Right.” Cressida replied faintly before cracking the bottle open and taking the tincture into her hand. Dr. Foulkes mimed dropping it beneath his tongue. Cressida followed suit, grimacing at the bitter taste in her mouth after she did so.

“Just stay off of it. Keep it elevated. Though, there is risk of reinjury, unfortunately.” He continued as he dug around in his bag.

Geogie lit a match, the scent of the burning filtering over to Cressida before he lit the tobacco. “Got a whole army to keep her from standing. Don't worry about it, Doc.”

The sweet and familiar smell of his pipe filled the room and Cressida could feel herself sinking deeper into exhaustion. She distantly watched as Dr. Foulkes began to wrap up her ankle with a long strip of gauze.

“I’m headed out– shift starts soon.” Georgie said, the pipe moving to the corner of his mouth as he bit the end of it thoughtfully. 

“Will she have someone here with her before aunt and… Margaret return?” Dr. Foulke asked, pausing his meticulous wrapping.

“Her friend. Eloise.” Georgie responded, blowing a billow of smoke out from his nose. “Looks guilty as all-hell, but I doubt she'll let her out of her sight.”

“It'll be good to have a friend–” He froze hands in the middle of finishing off a knot. His eyes moved upwards from his hands and to Cressida’s face. An unsettling feeling rose up Cressida's spine at the way his expression turned from pleasant to suspicious. 

She watched as his gaze moved down to her linen button down, and once again to her trousers– ones that mirrored the ones that Aunt Jo wore on a daily basis now. 

Dr. Foulks hands were less gentle now, thumbs digging into the abused flesh of her ankle painfully.

She yelped just as Eloise entered the room and the sudden bout of commotion nearly made her dizzy; Eloise flying at Dr. Foulkes, pushing him away from Cressida. Georgie pounced forwards as well, holding the doctor back from reacting violently, arms gripping his upper body in a sort of lock. 

“What in the-?” His voice echoed through the room just as Eloise's voice reached a peak.

“If you put your fucking hands on her like that ever again I will kill you myself–”

“Eloise!” Cressida exclaimed, “What are you–”

“He hurt you– I saw it– Georgie–” Eloise looked utterly wild with rage, “You saw it too, didn't you.”

Cressida’s gaze moved to where Georgie was still holding Dr. Foulkes in place, his arms tight against his shoulders.

“Georgie…” Dr. Foulkes tried gently, “You know me– I wouldn't–” He let out a gasp of pain when Georgie's grip tightened.

“I know what I saw, Doctor.” He said lowly and Cressida's heart jumped to her throat. “Are you all finished here?”

“I– yes. I am.” 

Georgie released the man from his grip, allowing him to fall to the floor in a heap. 

“I'd say I never want to see your face again, but you'll be back here, won't you? You've got yourself a patient.” Georgie's face was stony in his resolve. A look that Cressida had never seen on him since she had known him. And, well– it was odd. Watching this man, her friend of only two years, stand up to the man who had most likely delivered him as a baby.

“Yes.” Dr. Foulkes’s gaze remained steadfastly on the floor before him before he stood up. “Yes– I will be back in a week’s time.”

“And you will not see her without me present, isn't that right, Dr. Foulkes?” Georgie said, bringing the pipe that had fallen from his mouth during the struggle up to his lips. 

“Yes.” He replied faintly, eyes meeting Eloise's before shifting away quickly. Her gaze was absolutely hateful at this point.

Eloise walked across the room to grab his medical bag. Cressida could not help but enjoy the way that the doctor flinched away from her– a woman half his size– as she shoved the bag into his arms. She did not say a word to him, not even as Georgie led the man out of the room.

“El–” Her words were cut short by Eloise suddenly gripping her face in her hands and pressing their foreheads together. They were so close–

So close that Cressida could count the lashes on her eyelids. So close that their sweat mixed, not unlike when they had been in the throws of passion all those years ago– 

Her lips pressed against Cressida's damp brow before she pulled away and rested her cheek to Cressida's thigh as she sunk down onto her knees beside the bed.

“I wanted to kill him.” She said faintly. “I saw his face. He wanted to hurt you–”

“Eloise…” Cressida cut in faintly, heart still thundering as her forehead throbbed with the ghost of Eloise's lips against the skin there.

“I could have killed him–” Her voice became muffled as she turned her face into the fabric of Cressida's damp trousers. Her nose dug into the hardened muscle of her thigh with the action and Cressida could not help the intrusive thoughts that followed this action. “I'd do anything for you, Cressida.” Her head lifted to look at Cressida once more, eyes searching, “Anything–”

This time it was Cressida who interrupted her words, bending down to press her lips against the corner of Eloise's. Bringing her hands up to weave into the hair at the base of Eloise's head. They were not kissing– no. Not quite.

But their breaths synced as they remained there, Eloise's hands now touching down on the intersection of Cressida's shirt and clavicle. It was more intimate than anything Cressida had experienced in all her years on this earth.

More peaceful than she had ever felt, even as the pain of her ankle encompassed her completely.

Perhaps it was the medicine that Dr. Foulkes had administered, but Cressida had never felt as weightless as she did now, holding onto Eloise. Her vision wavered slightly, and she could feel her exhaustion encase her completely. Leaning back, she pulled Eloise with her as she lay in her bed, hands still lightly caressing the skin of the other woman's neck. 

Down to press lightly against the muscle of her shoulders– thumb brushing against each nodule of her spine as darkness overcame her vision. Completely closing in from all sides.

The lips that finally pressed against her own were not a figment of her drug-addled sleep; she was sure of it. Her mind could not recall the preciseness of Eloise's lips, the softness of her hands touching the skin of her cheek once again. She had tried to recall the feeling, but two years was a very long time to go without a single touch. 

Without Eloise Bridgerton.