Chapter 3
. . . you will see why I could not accept his suit. He was too churlish by half and positively possessed of a foul temper. I should like to marry someone gracious and considerate, who treats me like a queen. Or at the very least, a princess. Surely that is not too much to ask.
—from Eloise Bridgerton to her
dear friend Penelope Featherington,
sent by messenger after Eloise
received her first proposal of marriage
By afternoon, Eloise was almost convinced that she had made a terrible mistake.
And in truth, the sole reason she was only almost convinced was that the only thing she hated more than making mistakes was the admission thereof.
So she was trying to maintain a proverbial stiff upper lip and forcing herself to pretend that this ghastly situation might all work itself out in the end.
She had been left stunned—openmouthed, even—when Sir Phillip had departed with barely more than an “Enjoy your food” and then stalked out the door.
She had traveled halfway across England, answering his invitation to come and visit, and he left her alone in the drawing room a mere half hour after she arrived?
She hadn’t expected him to fall in love at first sight and drop to his knees, professing his undying devotion, but she’d hoped for a little bit more than a curt “Who are you?” and “Enjoy your food.”
Or maybe she had expected him to fall in love at the first sight of her.
She’d built an elaborate dream around her image of this man—an image which she now knew to be untrue.
She’d let herself mold him into the perfect man, and it hurt so much to learn that he wasn’t just imperfect, he was quite close to abysmal.
And the worst was—she had only herself to blame. Sir Phillip had never misrepresented himself in his letters (although she did think he ought to have mentioned that he was a father, especially before he’d proposed marriage).
Her dreams had been just that—dreams. Wishful illusions, all of her own making. If he wasn’t what she’d expected, that was her fault. She’d been expecting something that didn’t even exist.
And she should have known better.
What’s more, he didn’t seem to be a very good father, which was as black a mark as anyone could get in her book.
No, she wasn’t being fair. She shouldn’t judge him so quickly on that score.
The children didn’t look ill-treated or malnourished or anything so dire, but Sir Phillip clearly had no idea how to manage them.
He had handled them all wrong this morning, and it was clear from the way they behaved that his relationship with them was distant at best.
Good heavens, they had practically begged him to spend the day with them.
Any child who actually received enough attention from his parents would never act in such a way.
Eloise and her siblings had spent half their childhood trying to avoid their parents—lack of supervision being, of course, more conducive for mischief.
Her own father had been splendid. She had been only seven when he’d died, but she remembered him well, from the stories he wove at bedtime to the hikes they had taken across the fields of Kent, sometimes with all the Bridgertons in tow, sometimes just with one lucky child, chosen for some special alone time with Father.
It was clear to her that if she hadn’t suggested to Sir Phillip that he find out why his children were screaming and knocking over the furniture, he would have left them to their own devices.
Or, more to the point, left them to be someone else’s problem.
And by the end of their conversation, it was apparent that Sir Phillip’s main aim in life was to avoid his children.
Which Eloise did not approve of at all.
She pushed herself off of her bed, forcing herself upright even though she was bone-tired.
But every time she laid down, something began to quicken in her lungs, and she felt herself gasping in that awful precursor to not just tears, but true, body-shaking sobs.
If she didn’t get up and do something, she wasn’t going to be able to control herself.
And she didn’t think she could bear herself if she cried.
She wrenched the window open, even though it was still gray and drizzling outside.
There was no wind, so the rain ought not to blow in, and what she really needed right now was a bit of fresh air.
A slap of cold on her face might not make her feel better, but it certainly wasn’t going to make her feel worse.
From her window she could see Sir Phillip’s greenhouse.
She assumed that was where he was, since she hadn’t heard him here in the house, stomping about and bellowing at his children.
The glass was fogged up and the only thing she could see was a blurry curtain of green—his beloved plants, she supposed.
What sort of man was he, that he preferred plants to people?
Certainly not anyone who appreciated a fine conversation.
She felt her shoulders sag. Eloise had spent half her life in search of a fine conversation.
And if he was such a hermit, why had he bothered to write her back? He had worked just as hard as she had to perpetuate their correspondence. Not to mention his proposal. If he hadn’t wanted company, he had no business inviting her here.
She took a few deep breaths of the misty air and then forced herself to stand up straight.
She wasn’t certain what she was expected to do with herself all day.
She’d taken a nap already; exhaustion had quickly won out over misery.
But no one had come by to inform her of lunch or of any other plans that might extend to her as a houseguest.
If she stayed here, in this slightly drab and drafty room, she was going to go mad. Or at the very least cry herself into oblivion, which was something she did not tolerate in others, so the thought of doing it herself was horrifying.
There was no reason she couldn’t explore the house a bit, was there?
And maybe she could find herself some food along the way.
She’d eaten all four muffins on the tea tray this morning, all with as much butter and marmalade as she could politely slather on, but she was still famished.
At this point she thought she might be willing to commit violence for a ham sandwich.
She changed her clothing, donning a dress of peach muslin that was pretty and feminine without being too frilly. And most importantly, it was easy to get on and off, surely a critical factor when one had run from home without a lady’s maid.
A quick glance in the mirror told her that she looked presentable, if no picture of ravishing beauty, and so she stepped out into the hall.
Only to be immediately confronted by the eight-year-old Crane twins, looking very much as if they’d been lying in wait for hours.
“Good afternoon,” Eloise said, waiting for them to come to their feet. “How nice of you to greet me.”
“We’re not here to greet you,” Amanda blurted out, grunting when Oliver elbowed her in the ribs.
“You’re not?” Eloise asked, trying to sound surprised. “Are you here, then, to show me to the dining room? I’m quite hungry, I must say.”
“No,” Oliver said, crossing his arms.
“Not even that?” Eloise mused. “Let me guess. You’re here to take me to your room and show me your toys.”
“No,” they said, in unison.
“Then it must be to take me on a tour of the house. It’s quite large and I might lose my way.”
“No.”
“No? You wouldn’t want me to lose my way, would you?”
“No,” Amanda said. “I mean yes!”
Eloise feigned incomprehension. “You want me to lose my way?”
Amanda nodded. Oliver just tightened his arms across his chest and speared her with a sullen stare.
“Hmmm. That’s interesting, but it hardly explains your presence right here outside my door, does it? I’m not likely to get lost in the company of you two.”
Their lips parted in befuddled surprise.
“You do know your way around the house, don’t you?”
“Of course,” Oliver grunted, followed by Amanda’s, “We’re not babies.”
“No, I can see that,” Eloise said with a thoughtful nod. “Babies wouldn’t be allowed to wait by themselves outside my door, after all. They’d be quite busy with nappies and bottles and the like.”
They had nothing to add to that.
“Does your father know you’re here?”
“He’s busy.”
“Very busy.”
“He’s a very busy man.”
“Much too busy for you.”
Eloise watched and listened with interest as the twins shot off their lightning-fast statements, falling all over themselves to demonstrate how busy Sir Phillip was.
“So what you’re telling me,” Eloise said, “is that your father is busy.”
They stared at her, momentarily dumbfounded by her calm retelling of the facts, then nodded.
“But that still doesn’t explain your presence,” Eloise mused.
“Because I don’t think your father sent you here in his stead.
. . .” She waited until they shook their heads in the negative, then added, “Unless . . . I know!” she said in an excited voice, allowing herself a mental smile over her cleverness.
She had nine nephews and nieces. She knew exactly how to talk to children.
“You’re here to tell me you have magical powers and can predict the weather. ”
“No,” they said, but Eloise heard a giggle.
“No? That’s a shame, because this constant drizzle is miserable, don’t you think?”
“No,” Amanda said, quite forcefully. “Father likes the rain, and so do we.”
“He likes the rain?” Eloise asked in surprise. “How very odd.”
“No, it’s not,” Oliver replied, his stance defensive. “My father isn’t odd. He’s perfect. Don’t say mean things about him.”