Chapter Text
“How does a lady come to be with child.”
Cressida should have expected someone of Eloise Bridgerton’s temperament to turn a ball on its head. The question seemed to be on the lip of every Debutante...or at least the lady in question seemed to go from group to group to ask the inflammatory question.
“I do believe there is a bird involved,” Phillipa Featherington interjected, looking like a colorful bird in the yellow gown.
“It’s a stork, you dunce,” Prudence Featherington responded, the bright orange gown a tad lighter than the deep red locks that curled atop her head.
“A stork. Love makes more sense than that.” Eloise said. The woman’s light blue gown gave her an ethereal appearance.
“But storks can fly. Love cannot,” Prudence interjected while twirling long fingers through a lock of red hair that fell over her shoulders. “However will the babe arrive without wings?”
The emotion, the shock, the disbelief played across the newly debuted Bridgerton’s expression. She exchanged a long glance with Penelope Featherington who shrugged shoulders encased in an exceedingly unappealing gown unless one wished to ward off every possible suitor.
Really, that color yellow with that skin tone and hair color was a monstrous eyesore, but her eyes as ever returned to Eloise Bridgerton who stammered, “It does not stand to reason that it would be a stork or love. We must discover the truth. How else are we going to avoid becoming in the family way? We have much to accomplish, Penn.”
Cressida always found it enchanting how expressive the girl was, how she wore her emotions plain for all to see.
“Eloise, it is not proper,” Penelope Featherington interjected, eyes darting nervously around.
The brunette seemed not to hear her as she scurried away to the next group of young ladies. Cressida’s lips curled up in fond amusem*nt. The day when she could be friends with Eloise Bridgerton had long since passed, but she did enjoy watching the erratic, whirlwind stomp her way through every ball. In truth, that remained the only reason she attended these outings.
The Lady Cowper had only a second to cast her gaze to the Bridgerton girl until every second and third son of the Ton descended upon her. In another life, she might simper and lie and fake injuries to capture the men, to become a bride to a man she felt no desire to wed and bed. In this life, she met them with cold smiles and curt answers before excusing herself from the throng to fetch refreshments.
Dearest gentle readers,
The return of the new season, the selection of a new diamond by our illustrious Queen, is as ever superseded by scandal and change of the highest order. The Cowpers, one of the oldest and most proper members of the Ton, have met a truly tragic end that cut Lady Cressida’s first season regrettably short.
It truly had been a marvel watching the schemes of the eager, young viper as she attempted to ensnare a Prince of the highest distinction, but times changed and with the Lady’s ascension to Viscount due to, according to my sources a clerical error on the part of the Cowper’s lawyer, the Lady has shunned all suitors for her hand since the start of the season. Not once has she stepped onto the dance floor to twirl about with the most eligible men of the Ton.
Is this the price of our illustrious Queen allowing a woman to ascend? What other societal rules might Lady Cressida upend next?
In another more salacious note, one Eloise Bridgerton seemed disinclined to engage in polite conversation at the latest ball. How does a lady comes to be with child, is now the question on every lady’s lips to the displeasure of every Mama of the Ton.
Maybe Lady Cressida Cowper might be able to offer some illumination on the topic for the young Miss. Bridgerton—she is after all now a lord.
Yours Truly,
Lady Whistledown
Cressida Cowper stood on a platform at the modiste as Madame Delacroix took her measurements. The lady’s ringlets fell across her brow as she wielded her measuring tape.
“You are sure, my lady?”
“It is time I try a new style, Madame Delacroix.”
“It will not be flattering to your skin tone, to your hair,” the Modiste warned.
“I need not advertise that you created the gown, but I know what it is I need. You can create it, yes?”
The modiste stood and fiddled with the black ribbon wrapped around her neck. Those dark eyes studied her before a mischievous smile bled free. Those dark eyes scanned the room to ensure no customers had wandered in. “You wish to discourage suitors.”
The smallest of inclines of her head are all the answers she provided.
“I know of no one with a worse fashion sense than Lady Featherington. That is the style I will require.”
“You swear no one will trace the clothing back to me?”
“I can imply I procured the gowns from your competitor if you would like.”
The Modiste let out a bark of laughter. “Let us wait to see if the new Viscount does not somehow turn turds into gold.”
Cressida grimaced. No doubt with her odd luck that very thing would happen. The locks piled atop her head with more hairpins than found in all of the Continent tugged uncomfortably. If she could not trust her clothes to discourage suitors, she might need to see about altering other aspects of her appearance. “You have this in hand, Madame Delacroix. If you finish one gown by Friday, I will pay you triple.”
“It will be ready, my lady.”
Cressida clutched at her skirts and stepped gingerly from the block. The door opened as she collected her purse and bid farewell to the modiste.
When she turned, Lady Violet Bridgerton stood nearby perusing the fabric collection. Her two unmarried debuted daughters stood behind her. Francesca seemed to be listening solemnly as her lady spoke. The elder, Miss Eloise, went to slouch against a nearby shelf, the swathes of fabric wobbled precariously, and she jolted forward to try to catch the tumbling fabric.
The expressive grimace escaped as she just barely caught the furthest roll of cloth and then co*cked her head as she tried to determine how to set things right without making it clear to her Mama she’d created what must be one in a series of disasters that must follow the woman.
Cressida could not hold in a chuckle as she walked determinedly to rescue the fair lady from herself. Eloise started at the sound, jumped nearly a foot in the air. The fabric tumbled to the ground one after another, and then when she thought the cacophony was over, Lady Eloise let out an expressive sigh accompanied by waving arms that sent the entire shelving unit tumbling to the floor in a deafening bang.
“Eloise!” Lady Violet Bridgerton snapped.
A wan, crumbling grimace etched itself on Eloise’s oval face. “Would you believe me if I said it the shelf had bad nails?”
The loud, impolite guffaw escaped Cressida. It ended in a snort that her mother would have called horrific, but she could not find it in herself to care. God, it felt good to laugh in a free manner after years of living in the shadow of her parents.
Those brown eyes moved from the lady’s mother to capture Cressida and the laughter faded. The expression warped from chagrin, to wonder, and then to curiosity. Lady Violet began to apologize profusely to the modiste, as Miss Francesca began to sort through the bolts of fabric seeming to replace some, but not others.
Lady Eloise, how fortunate to meet you here, she wanted to say. Her mind moved at impossible speeds to try to determine the best way to talk to this enchanting lady after she’d so insulted the woman’s dear friend the prior season. She should’ve expected Lady Eloise’s sharp, intense mind to move far faster.
“Why Lady Cressida, you must tell me, how does a lady come to be with child.”
“Eloise Bridgerton,” Lady Violet Bridgerton yelled, voice sharp.
“It seems you want me to wake up one day with child. If you did not, I don’t see why this would be a secret that no one will reveal to me.”
It took effort to keep her lips from twitching up. She did in fact know how a woman came to be with child. That was one thing that her mother had been very thorough in describing before she passed. If her daughter was to use unseemly means to attract a lord, she must know what bounds she cannot cross without permanent repercussions.
“I do believe you have brothers Miss Eloise?”
“Miss Cressida,” Lady Violet said, aghast.
Eloise jumped forward and seemed to cling to her like a barnacle, those soft fingers dug into her arm through her gown sleeves. “Finally, someone willing to talk sense. Speak before my mother drags me from this establishment.”
Cressida leaned forward to whisper the words, the clinical explanation in Miss Eloise’s ear. The woman shivered and those find hands shook as they lodged into her arm. The eagerness turned quickly into disgust. “It goes where?”
Those brown eyes glanced down at her own waist and she grimaced. “Thank god, that will not be a problem. I feared it was something more likely than a man putting his—”
Violet Bridgerton groaned and sighed and seemed to have given up on chastising her daughter. Eloise started and then jolted away. “Mama, I must go and inform Penelope of this knowledge posthaste. She will be soo relieved.”
“I would like to return home Mama to practice the pianoforte,” Lady Francesca said, stepping deliberately over the few bolts of wool and velvet fabric still on the ground.
Lady Violet closed her eyes, exasperation plain. She turned to Madame Delacroix to apologize and Eloise turned to Cressida. “You have done me a great service, Lady Cressida. Truly, I am in your debt; I knew it could not be love of all things.”
“It was my honor, Lady Eloise.”
And then, the Bridgerton’s tumbled out of the shop. Cressida turned to Madame Delacroix. “If any of the bolts of fabric are damaged, please add them to my bill.”
The modiste nodded. “You are too generous.”
“It’s an investment in you, madame. I will spend almost any amount to retain my freedom.”
And then, Cressida exited the shop, entered her carriage, and directed the driver to her barber. If she wished to dissuade suitors, she would use every trick at her disposal. And if the barber looked at her as if she lost what was left of her wits, and if she had to push and threaten to go elsewhere to get the women to wield her shears, well at the end of the hour-long session she left with her head feeling ten pounds lighter and a smug smile that would not drop.
