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Violet knew her children, but she did not always understand them. That thought struck her at around midnight, when she was standing by her bedroom window, unable to sleep, and her daughter came home in a carriage.
Eloise hurried inside, followed by one of their footmen, and Violet felt her heart sink into her stomach.
She knew her daughter.
But she did not understand. She couldn't—shouldn't—assume Eloise was sneaking outside the house with any bad intent… It is only if she had been seen by anyone else, the neighbour's, Whistledown, any servant, then whispers would travel on the wind faster than birds in flight, and their family would crumble from the mountain top.
They had a long way to fall.
If she didn't know her daughter, Violet would have rushed to Eloise's room, grabbed her by the shoulders, and shaken her until answers fell out. But she knew enough that such actions would be a futile effort—she'd be better off shouting at the wall—and any attempt to pry the truth from Eloise would result in silence.
There was a lot of silence between them. Broken, sometimes, by snappish comments. Occasionally, a witty remark and a smile, and Violet clung to those moments.
No, demanding answers wouldn't work. She'd have to wait.
Violet could be very patient when she needed.
In the morning, she summoned Mrs Wilson. The familiar, reliable woman carried a tea tray in one hand as she opened the door and greeted Violet with a smile. Unlike most days, Violet didn't have one to give in return.
Sensing her mood, Mrs Wilson put the tray down and didn't say a thing until Violet was dressed and ready to face the day.
"Is something wrong, my lady?" Mrs Wilson asked carefully.
Finally, Violet said, "The next time a footman prepares a carriage in the middle of the night, we will follow and find where Eloise has been going."
"A footman—what, Miss Eloise?—oh, my word."
Quite.
"John is awake, my lady, and… I saw him at the stables, preparing a horse," Mrs Wilson whispered.
"I recall our butler was a good carriage driver in his youth. It is why Edmund and I hired him in the first place."
Mrs Wilson hurried down to the servants' quarters.
Violet had almost married a Duke. Her mother had certainly wanted her to marry the Duke. Everyone had expected her to marry the Duke.
It was many years ago, now, and most had forgotten the gossip of the old days. What use was remembering small scandals from years ago when the latest gossip was far more shiny? So, no, most people didn't remember that Violet had narrowly avoided marrying a Duke and instead had chosen a much poorer Viscount. Most people didn't remember that the Bridgertons hadn't always been one of the richest families in Britain.
Most people, if not all (even Violet herself, some days), had forgotten… Once, she had been wild. And free.
The sort of wild girl who'd climb down a tree outside her bedroom window at night, skulk through the garden gate to the stable, and give her pin money to the stable boy. Then she'd leave in her mother's favourite carriage in the middle of the night to a friend's house on the other side of Mayfair.
Edmund was always there, waiting for her, with open arms and a boyish grin.
She thought about that girl as Mrs Wilson dragged the butler into her rooms at ten o'clock on the fourth night of them waiting for Eloise. She thought about those nights long gone when she'd worn her hair down just to see Edmund flustered when she arrived at his door.
She thought about her own mother and what Lady Ledger would have done if Violet had been caught. Likely, she would have been slapped and engaged to the Duke the next day.
"My lady?" the butler—David—said, and, oh, he seemed so tired but made no complaint of her urgent demand of driving the carriage.
He hadn't all those years ago, either when she had been little more than a girl and he a stable boy.
"Did you know about this?" Violet asked.
"I knew John would leave sometimes at night," he said. "But, my lady, please understand, he was doing that long before this season. He's a young man. I thought little of it. Though if I had known your daughter was leaving the house, I would not have known how to tell you."
Mrs Wilson looked enraged, but Violet accepted this with a nod and stepped into the carriage with her old friend's helping hand.
Bloomsbury. Why Bloomsbury?
They parked the carriage once they saw Eloise's carriage come to a stop further down the street, outside a printing shop, and Violet realised she didn't need to be sneaky at all as none of Eloise's attention was on her.
She could imagine her daughter sneaking away to a coffee house (though she dreaded to think of it), to see Penelope perhaps (though she doubted Penelope would do anything to risk the wrath of her Mama)… What on earth was in Bloomsbury that Eloise would risk her reputation for, her family's reputation—
Oh.
The boy who opened the door to greet Eloise possessed a boyish grin, honest eyes, and hands that knew hard labour.
"Oh, my word," Mrs Wilson murmured.
Violet recalled her mother's look of disapproval more clearly than any other expression. It was that face, that stone-carved frown, that made Violet pause and breathe before she went any closer.
She didn't know what face she would make when she saw Eloise, but she wouldn't be a mirror of her own fears.
The butler cleared his throat, then said, "You could speak to John. If it is like… If it is as you were when you were young, my lady, he would know some of it."
Mrs Wilson gave her a curious look, but Violet nodded and told him to stay with the carriage, while she and Mrs Wilson would speak to John.
John was usually an easy sort to talk to. An agreeable man. Always wearing a smile, sometimes a cheeky one, friendly but professional. When Violet knocked on the side of the carriage that night, and John saw her face, it was the first time she had ever seen the man look frightened.
He turned to her and spoke frantically, speaking so quickly she didn't catch all of it, but managed to get the drift.
"It's not what it looks like, really," John said, trailing off into a worried frown.
Mrs Wilson sighed. "And what does it look like, John?"
"But—they're not—you must understand, I can see through the window from here and trust me, they have not been—forgive me, my lady—they have not been intimate. They have not even kissed."
Mrs Wilson looked ready to commit murder, so Violet locked her arm with hers as though seeking support, and the other woman cooled her temper enough to snap with less force than she otherwise would have, "You think it will matter? If our lady did not catch her, and someone else did, do you think they would have bothered to care or ask? Good Lord, John, have you no thought for her reputation?"
"Mrs Wilson, I have thought for her happiness, even if no one else does—"
Violet cut him off with a sharp comment of, "Excuse me?"
John's lips snapped shut, and he sheepishly took a step back, then bowed his head. The humble servant act did little to settle her nerves, as it was precisely the sort of thing she would have done in the face of her Mama's anger.
"Enough," Violet muttered.
She rubbed her forehead and waved John away, sending the footman into a retreat back to his seat on the carriage. Mrs Wilson grumbled under her breath, but didn't stop him.
"Are you well, my lady?" Mrs Wilson asked.
"If Edmund were here..."
Mrs Wilson softened and patted her arm, but it wasn't the comfort Violet needed. She knew her children, but she had understood her husband, and as she looked at the door to Chancery Lane, she could hear his laughter on the wind.
"History repeats itself, my dear."
She couldn't laugh about it yet, but the memory of his voice softened her jagged edges, and when she approached the shop window, she did not feel like shattered glass.
She hadn't seen Eloise smile like that since she was a little girl. Before Edmund had passed away. Pure joy. Giddy. Like looking in a mirror, all those years ago, and Violet couldn't stand to look a moment longer. Instead, she turned to the boy.
Her first assumption—a working man—was correct. His clothes were worn, though of decent quality; his shoulders were broad and arms strong, though his eyes were gentle. It would have been easier if he were not a good man. If he were instead taking advantage, Violet would feel better about tearing Eloise away.
As it was, Violet knew her actions were going to make her daughter hate her.
Just as Violet had hated her own mother.
She could see it play out in front of her—Eloise would go home, lock herself in her room, and be silent the next day, and everyday after that. Eventually, she would become desperate to leave, so desperate she would be even more reckless, seeking an escape in any form she could get it. Violet was lucky she found love. Lucky she had found Edmund, a good man, and not a villain, who would have known the taste of a desperate need to be loved on her lips.
"What should we do?" Mrs Wilson asked. After waiting a moment for Violet to answer, she continued, "We could wait, if you do not wish to interrupt, and you could speak to Miss Eloise in the carriage."
Perhaps that would be best. Let them have one last conversation, she thought, without knowing the end was near. It would be kinder. It's what she would have wanted if they had been in Eloise's position, and it was the sort of grace her mother never would have granted.
She would have to send Eloise to Daphne. It would be for the best.
The boy would have to be sent somewhere. Very far.
In that moment, the second Violet decided she would not interrupt, papers slipped to the floor, and the two dropped out of view.
"John says they have not…" Mrs Wilson shifted uncomfortably. "I would not have guessed from the way they look at each other."
"I would have. That is longing you see, Mrs Wilson, longing for a moment they haven't yet shared—"
Then Eloise and the boy stood, uncertain and shy, and she remembered showing up in the dark with a ribbon in her hair that Edmund had slipped into her hands at a ball the night before. How her stomach flipped upside down when his half-closed eyes stayed on her lips…
Even though Mrs Wilson tugged insistently on her sleeve, Violet was frozen on the spot.
And that is when Eloise's eyes found hers.
Over the thundering in her ears, she could hear Theo whispering an apology, but she couldn't even open her mouth to respond, didn't even know what to say, because her Mama was right there at the window.
She knew her Mama, though there had never been a day when she had understood her. She didn't understand why her Mama locked herself away in her room after Papa had passed, and why she never answered when Eloise knocked, and why Benedict had been the one to pick her up and take her away to play outside when all she had wanted was a hug from her Mama.
She hadn't understood how Daphne coped with all the dance lessons, the language lessons, the pianoforte—Daphne's entire day was organised and constructed from the moment the marriage mart loomed overhead like a damn rain cloud. And Daphne could say she loved it all as much as she liked. Eloise had been the one to be there whenever the dam broke, and Daphne paced the length of her room just to release the nervous energy the pressure placed on her shoulders.
She hadn't understood when her Mama had pushed her into the marriage mart herself, like "love" itself would wash away all of Eloise's complaints, like her interests and thoughts were nothing more than a passing whim.
Her Mama confused her. Her Mama frustrated her.
Her Mama had never scared her before, but then she had never seen her as Lady Violet Bridgerton, the widowed Viscountess, the mother-in-law of a Duke, the favourite of Lady Danbury, and one of the most influential and connected women in the entire country.
In the split second Eloise's eyes met her mother's, she saw the worst-case scenario play out. Her Mama would take her home, lock her away, and Eloise would never speak of Chancery Lane again in her life. Theo would be swept away like dust, thrown out onto the street, perhaps beaten within an inch of his life if her Mama told Anthony, or Simon, or even Colin. Benedict, maybe, would be the one to drag Theo up from the floor, shove him into a carriage, and send him across the border with a bag of her pin money, a kind but stern word—she would never see him again—and God knows what would happen with his career after his apprenticeship would have been abruptly ended.
If her Mama were feeling kind, Eloise would be shipped off to Daphne and the Duke's estate. She would be a burden to her sister; Daphne would have to watch her and report her every move to their mother, and it would chafe them both.
Once her Mama thought her properly humbled, Eloise would be dragged back to London and pushed into the arms of a man everyone else thought suitable.
Theo was the furthest thing from suitable. It was why she hadn't kissed him, because the resulting scandal would ruin them both, but if ruin was going to come anyway—
"Forgive me," Eloise said, then grabbed his shirt, pulled him close, and kissed him.
She wasn't sure she did it right. It was a clumsy thing—she kissed the corner of his mouth, missing her aim due to her haste and lack of practice—but it evolved in the turn of his head, the press of his lips against hers, and his shaking hand reaching to hold hers.
"My mother is here," she told him. "I wanted to kiss you, just once, before she makes me leave."
"Do you have to go?" he asked. "Is that it for us?"
She did her best not to cry—she wasn't sure she was succeeding—but she thought crying would have made it even worse.
He squeezed her hand, just once, then let go. With tears at the corners of his eyes, he told her, "I'm going to miss you more than you know. But if you want to leave—"
"What I want isn't the question. My family would never allow it."
Eloise glanced at her Mama, who was frozen at the window, face carved of stone, while Mrs Wilson's mouth moved at a rapid pace.
Theo looked over then, breathed out once, then twice, and asked, "Is that all that is stopping you? Is the disproval of society the only thing between us and happiness?"
"Theo, it is hardly an easy hurdle to overcome."
He responded with a wry grin. "Then it's a good thing you're more stubborn than the devil, and I'm no stranger to hard work."
With that, Theo squared his shoulders and marched to the door. He flung it open, and Eloise rushed after him, grabbing onto his arm, though she wasn't sure if she was going to stop him or if she was going to pull him into a run down the street and away from the consequences that would fall on his head.
Her Mama looked pale in the moonlight, but her expression was unreadable. Mrs Wilson, however, made no secret of her feelings and let no one else get a word in edgewise.
"Miss Eloise! I never! In all my days—good Lord—your poor mother has been worried sick. Sneaking off in the middle of the night, to meet a man no less, with no escort—yes, no escort, don't look for John, that boy hardly counts, my word, when I get my hands on him, he will wish he was employed by the Cowper's! And you, sir, I have no idea who you are, but Miss Eloise is a good young lady who has only come out to society this season, and already you have dragged her reputation into the mud through your actions! Where is your mother, hm, what would she say if she saw you allowing a young lady into your workplace in the middle of the night?"
"If she were still alive, she would slap me around the ear, drag me home, and shout at me until sunrise or she lost her voice, and then she would deliver me to Bridgerton House to face the consequences of my actions, whatever they may be." Theo turned to her mother. "I apologise, Lady Bridgerton, and hope you can forgive me."
Mrs Wilson huffed, but stepped back, and her Mama asked coldly, "Are you actually sorry?"
"I know I have been foolish—" he began, but Eloise had had quite enough.
"Excuse me, but his actions alone wouldn't have led to this. And I, for one, am not sorry for any of it, Mama, though I am sorry if my sisters—all of my sisters—face any consequences for it, and I hope we can avoid that from happening."
Her Mama sighed and closed her eyes.
"I should send you to Daphne," she said.
"I thought you might," Eloise grumbled. "And I know you want to send Theo packing. To avoid any scandal. Send him off to Scotland or somewhere else. Well, it won't work, you know."
"Will it not?" her Mama asked.
"No. You can send him away, and you can lock me away, and we can pretend this never happened, but in the end, I'll remember it. I'll still never be the daughter you actually want, and you'll still always be disappointed in me."
Her mother's stony expression broke.
"Eloise. I could never be disappointed in you. Ever. I love you more than life. But this? You know what this means. You know what will happen and did it anyway."
"I did," Eloise admitted, squeezing Theo's arm. "It's a long story, if you want to hear all of it, but the truth is I couldn't keep myself away."
Her Mama turned away, hiding her face from them all, and a second ticked by. Eloise waited for regret to strike her. None came, but a pang of guilt did, and that still hurt.
Finally, her mother asked, "Do you love him?"
Eloise blinked, then questioned, "Does that matter? You'll never approve."
"Eloise."
Theo removed her arm from his and crossed his arms behind his back. He said, tightly, "I love your daughter, but I won't be the cause of any harm. My apologies, Miss Bridgerton, for assuming—"
She grabbed his hand and said, "Stop. I care for you very much. But things like this are never easy."
When he looked at her like that, like his heart was hers in the palm of her hand, she felt like she could overcome anything if she got to keep it. But she looked at her Mama again, and the tears falling down her mother's face, and remembered she had younger sisters at home. Duty and responsibility. Frosty reminders of reality.
"Come here," her Mama said.
Eloise didn't move.
Theo lifted her hand to his lips, kissed the back of her hand, and let go.
"I'll wait," he promised.
With a polite nod to a mother, and a tenser one to a very tense Mrs Wilson, Theo returned to the shop and closed the door behind him.
"Come here," her Mama repeated.
Eloise stepped forward. She half-expected to be dragged into the carriage. She didn't expect her Mama to pull her into a hug or for her Mama to sob into her shoulder, all while Mrs Wilson fretted over them both.
She hadn't hugged her mother in a long time.
"Mama? What… What's wrong?" Eloise asked, then bit her lip. Stupid question.
"You're so much like me, it pains me." Her Mama pulled away. She wiped her eyes with a handkerchief Mrs Wilson handed her and sniffled. "If you truly care for him, if this is truly what you want, then we will find a way."
Eloise couldn't believe it.
"History repeats itself," her Mama said, wiping Eloise's eyes. "But I've tried for so long not to be like my own mother. I'm not about to stop now. God knows I crept away in the night many a time to see your father, and you're smarter than me, so you already know how this could end—"
"You sneaked out to see Papa?" Eloise asked, completely stunned.
At least, seeing Mrs Wilson's face, she wasn't the only one. All those times her Mama had said best friends make the best marriages, that she and father had started as friends, put a new light on her own words (hadn't she called Theo a friend?). She wasn't quite ready to see her mother as a girl like her, one caught up in curiosity and excitement, though as the pieces slotted into place, Eloise felt she knew more about her mother than ever before. And understood her much, much less.
"Come here," her mother said and pulled her into another hug. "We'll work this out. Somehow. We always do."
Eloise did not understand her Mama. She doubted her Mama understood her either. But, right then, as she hugged her on the doorstep of Chancery Lane in the middle of the night, Eloise hoped they truly could someday.