Work Text:
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: February 27, 20:53Phillip,
I hope you don’t find it too weird that I found your e-mail online; it seemed a little more efficient (if admittedly less personal) than sending international letters back and forth, and I wanted to thank you so much for the beautiful pressed flower you sent. It was such a lovely surprise when it floated out of the envelope—and such a nice memento of Marina.
I see from your company page that you work with plants—no wonder you included the flower’s Latin name (making it an educational as well as sentimental gift!). Was botany your chosen field of study? Can you explain to me what exactly you do, or would it be lost on someone who isn’t what someone—well, anyone—would call scientifically inclined?
If my endless curiosity and impressive Googling skills are offputting in any way, please feel free to ignore this e-mail and we’ll pretend it never happened. Deal?
—Eloise
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: March 3, 08:01Dear Eloise,
After the silence of a few days, you probably thought I had chosen the route of ignoring and pretending as you suggested at the end of your e-mail, and I apologize for that. My weekend was full and the time got away from me; an abysmal excuse, I know, but I hope you’ll accept it. Trust me when I say I’m far from off-put. I can’t imagine it took much effort for you to find my information, and I’m pleased you wanted to expedite our communication—a desire I share—enough to go through said effort.
Botany was, and continues to be, my chosen field of study, yes. I’m working on my doctoral dissertation while working at Romney International, and the work I do here on sequencing plant genetics informs my own research. I’ll spare you the details (you’re right to assume that they would only be interesting to someone dull enough who’s chosen to make it their life’s work), but in short, I manipulate plant genes to create hybrids that grow in different ways. Right now I’m working on vegetables, specifically peas. I’m happy to provide links to further information on the off chance that this actually does interest you. (And if not, feel free to humor me; I’ve spent too much time on my bibliography to let it go to waste.)
I’d like to once more extend my apologies for the delay in responding, and reiterate that I’m more than happy to expedite our communications this way. I’d like to hear about your chosen field of study as well, if you’re so inclined.
Sincerely,
Phillip
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: March 4, 10:00Dear Phillip,
As you might have guessed, it was definitely a relief to see your e-mail! I’m pleased to hear that you’re interested in continuing our correspondence, and that I haven’t scared you off with my eagerness. It’s probably not the sort of thing I should admit, that that happens more often than I’d like, but there’s a sort of freedom in being totally honest with a relative stranger on the internet, don’t you think? The sort of thing real friendship is built on…
The entire subway trip from her dorm room to the other side of the city, Eloise reads and rereads the e-mails.
There are easily over a hundred of them, spread across a few different threads, spanning over five months. They range from a few sentences long (Phillip’s, of course) to hundreds of words in dense paragraphs (Eloise’s, of course). The third longest pause between them is six days, when one of Phillip’s children had a fever and he had barely had time to do anything but care for her.
The second longest pause is eight days, between Phillip’s e-mail expressing romantic interest in her (to which she didn’t respond) and his follow-up, acknowledging that he had scared her off, apologizing for doing so, and accepting that she probably didn’t want to hear from him again.
The longest pause is fifteen days and counting, since the sending of the follow-up e-mail.
Eloise knows that she’s taking a huge risk, showing up at his home uninvited and with no warning whatsoever. By now Phillip’s probably decided he’s never going to speak to her again—has possibly already forgotten about her. It’s unforgivably rude, not to mention terrifying, to plan on just showing up at his doorstep, introducing herself, and announcing that she’s going to be in London for the next three and a half months, so maybe they could spend some time together after all?
He’s going to think she’s crazy. Hell, she’s pretty sure she’s crazy.
But the alternative was trying to think of a reason why she took so long to respond to his e-mail—explaining to him what she was thinking when she’s not sure of it herself—and most of all, committing. If she turns around and heads back to the university now, if she chickens out mere feet away from his house and goes to dinner in the city instead, no one but her will know how close she came. She can slink away in defeat and her shame will be only her own. But if she’d committed to it, told Phillip she was coming, she wouldn’t have had a choice, and maybe she’s being a coward, but she’d rather be that than trapped.
She’d been shocked when she received his penultimate e-mail.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: July 31, 23:29Eloise,
This isn’t easy for me to write, but I’ve been thinking it for so long, I can’t keep it in any longer. You deserve to know how I feel.
I know we’ve never met, but we’ve been talking so much these past few months, I feel like I know you. I know you’re smart and funny, that you can sometimes talk too much (but it’s endearing, I promise), that you love your family more than almost anything, that you’re passionate about writing, that you’re dedicated and determined and maybe even stubborn, that you take your responsibilities seriously, that you know who you are and stay true to it no matter what.
I don’t know if you can tell from the way I’m talking about this now, but the truth is that I like you. I like you a lot. Is it still weird, in this day and age, to be able to develop feelings for someone you’ve never actually met? I don’t know, but I can’t deny that it’s happening. I know it’s a crazy idea, but I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if I didn’t give this a try. I want to date you, Eloise.
I know it would be a difficult situation to work out, with your being in the States and me in England. I know my kids make everything even more complicated than it already is. I know it’s probably not a commitment either one of us should make before spending some time together in person. So I wanted to make another crazy suggestion: is there any chance you would be willing to visit during one of your school vacations? Obviously you should bring your family, and to reassure you I’m not a serial predator or anything, I’ve attached pictures of myself and my children, as well as my house and its address. (Here’s hoping you’re not a serial predator, either, right?)
Eloise, I know this is a crazy suggestion. (I said that already, didn’t I? I’ll say it again.) But I can’t help but feel I want to give it a try, and I truly hope you feel the same way. If not, please tell me—I’m happy to go back to a friendly correspondence. It won’t break my heart if you think this is too fast or too soon. I don’t want to pressure you, and I don’t want to scare you away. I just wanted to be honest with you, and all I ask is for you to tell me the same. Do you think there’s any chance this could work?
Hopefully,
Phillip
Eloise had stared at that e-mail for a full few minutes, unblinking, before closing the tab and walking away from her computer.
It wasn’t like she had never thought about it before that day. When her best friend and her favorite brother had started dating earlier that summer, she’d thought about it a lot—but she hadn’t been able to separate her feelings about Phillip from her desire to no longer be alone, and she hadn’t thought that was fair to him. (Or maybe she had been able to do so all along, but she was too scared to admit it. That would have been keeping with this whole cowardice thing, after all.)
But when he brought it up, her foremost emotion had been panic. What was he doing? How could he ruin what was the perfect relationship—no fights, no real disagreements, no serious consequences, no disappointments? She knew him, yes, and very well, but a person could present whatever personality they wanted to online. Phillip himself freely admitted how much time he spent crafting his e-mails to her; what if he was completely different in person? If they actually met and spent time together, more likely than not things would get messy. He would realize just how much she was frequently unable to stop talking, just how impatient and stubborn she was. She might realize that he didn’t like to chat as much as she did or that he was—that he was—
Honestly, based on what she knew about him, she hadn’t been able to think of any serious flaws that would be dealbreakers for her. And as long as she was being honest with herself, she could admit that she’d spent a lot of time looking at his picture. He didn’t look anything like how she’d pictured him, but he was really, really handsome. Not to mention that his children were adorable.
And that was another thing. Children? Eight-year-old children? How could she possibly commit to that at the age of just-barely-twenty-two?
Not to mention the whole living on separate continents thing. It was crazy. It was beyond ridiculous. She wasn’t going to entertain it for a second.
She thought about it so little that she deliberately didn’t respond to Phillip’s e-mail, which wasn’t like her at all, hence his follow-up eight days later.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: August 7, 07:58Dear Eloise,
It seems clear by now what your answer to my last e-mail is; I can read between the lines. If there’s a chance that your response has been lost in the depths of the internet or if something else is factoring into this delay, please let me know—but there’s a much simpler explanation, and I’m willing to accept it.
I’m very sorry if I came on too strong or if you felt as if I was pressuring you or if I simply offered too much too quickly. If you want to resume our usual friendly correspondence, I’m happy to do so; if you would rather never hear from me again, I’m happy to oblige. I’ll leave the ball in your court as to whether we communicate again in the future.
I wish nothing but the best for you, now and always. Take care, Eloise.
—Phillip
And that should have been the end of that.
Except that one day, Eloise came home to the apartment she and Penelope had shared for the last year and found Penelope and Colin kissing on the couch—and it wasn’t anything new, nothing she hadn’t seen dozens of times already this summer, but it had suddenly occurred to her how often Colin was going to be here now, and how it meant that Penelope would have someone else to occupy her time and attention—and Eloise was thrilled for her, really, she was, and she knew that nothing could replace the friendship that she and Penelope shared, but—
But she wanted that, too, and her older sister Daphne was married, and Francesca had been dating John since practically the first week of college, and it suddenly felt like she was all alone in the world, like she was the only person who didn’t have anyone.
And she began to think.
And two days later, she e-mailed an English professor who had always liked her, and she asked if there was any chance she could be able to squeeze into the study abroad trip to London for the fall semester—and she knew the deadlines had passed months ago, she knew it would be expensive to arrange on such short notice, but if there was any chance at all—
—and he had e-mailed her back within a day saying that wasn’t this a coincidence, there had been a last-minute cancellation and they had a spot for her, and she could have the plane ticket so it wouldn’t go to waste so it would be less expensive than she had thought, and it was irregular to rush through the paperwork so quickly, but he would make an exception for her, since she seemed so dedicated.
Honestly, British literature had been Eloise’s least favorite English class, but at this point she would have professed dedication for a physics study abroad trip if it had been available to her.
It had taken a lot of begging for her mother to agree to it, but Violet Bridgerton knew her children well, and something about the whole venture had made it clear to her that Eloise needed this. So with an ironclad promise from Eloise that she would Skype home at least twice a week, that she would pay back every cent of the tuition, and that she would take extra classes next summer to make up for the missed semester and graduate only one semester late, she agreed to let her go.
And within a week, Eloise was on a plane to London.
And now she’s emerging from an Underground train, squinting between her phone and the street signs, getting ready to make an unannounced appearance at the home of the man she may or may not be dating soon.
It’s thrilling.
No, it’s terrifying.
It’s the craziest thing she’s ever done in her life, and it might just end up being the most rewarding.
The house, when she finds it (it’s not a far walk, and it’s rather nice weather, chillier than what she’s used to in August but still pleasant), is immediately recognizable from Phillip’s picture. It sort of hits her then, just what she’s doing and how crazy it all is—and she reminds herself that she can still leave, that this is her last chance to turn around and walk away.
But the truth is that even though she did this on an impulse, even if she’s been trying not to think too hard about it, even if her actions may not have indicated it—she does like Phillip. She likes him more than almost any other man she’s ever known. She wants to meet him. She wants to spend time with him. And she, too, will hate herself if she doesn’t take this chance and loses the opportunity to find out—what if?
So she walks down the street, and she walks up to his door, and she knocks.
And when there’s no response, she knocks again.
And she’s raising her hand to knock a third time (really, this is way more effort than she anticipated) when the door yanks open and—there he is.
He’s even more handsome in person, though his hair is messier and his outfit less formal; he was dressed in a button-down and a blazer in the picture he sent her, but now he’s in a loose plaid shirt with the top few buttons undone and the sleeves pushed up. He looks like he’s a little out of breath, and he stops for a moment when he sees her, blinking twice.
Eloise would like to think that he’s struck dumb by her beauty, but considering she’s just been on a train for over an hour (including a detour down the wrong subway line and getting straightened out by a helpful young woman in a very cute dress), not to mention she’s not more than pretty on her best days, it’s unlikely. He’s probably trying to figure out who she is—so before he can do so, she finds herself explaining.
“Phillip? Phillip Crane?” And before he even has a chance to nod, she’s off, talking at the speed of light. “I’m so sorry to show up here like this—I didn’t know if everything would work out, with my plans, I mean, I only just got here today, I’m still so tired and jetlagged, and I’m so sorry that I’m so—you know—disheveled, but like I said, I wanted to get here as soon as possible, and I thought that would be best, and if I did say anything, I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to honor it or not, and I didn’t like the idea of having to correct myself or give you inaccurate information, so I just thought—”
“Excuse me,” Phillip says, in a slightly overloud tone of voice, with a hint of impatience that makes her think that maybe this wasn’t the first time he’d tried to say it.
“Yes?” Eloise asks, finding it a little difficult to catch her breath. Honestly, she’s not even sure what she’s said already. Did she apologize? Did she introduce herself?
“Er,” he says, and then he asks, “who are you?”
Well, apparently she didn’t introduce herself.
Here comes the awkward part. She blinks at him, and she clears her throat, and she takes a deep breath, and then she says, “Eloise Bridgerton.”