Chapter Text
Straw hat with green silk flowers and yellow ribbons
The sweet apple reddens on a high branch / High upon highest, missed by the applepickers: / No, they didn’t miss, so much as couldn’t touch.
105A, Sappho
Eloise had never seen anyone this bright before; the girl was like a beacon. Red hair like a flame. Eloise had not realised until this moment just how muted her family was — with their dusky hair and soft pale colours, periwinkle and lavender and mauve. It all felt rather insipid in comparison, and she was sure the Bridgerton blues would seem very dull and lifeless from now on. Like going indoors after a day spent playing in the sun, blinking around in the cool, faded darkness with splotches of bright orange sunlight tattooed upon one’s vision. How would she go back to blue when she had seen such bright yellow?
And the hat. Eloise had never seen such a hat before. She was trying to imagine her mama in a straw bonnet, or Daphne in a citrus yellow cap with green flowers splotched all over, or the sort of face she herself might make if she were approached with anything that featured such a large yellow ribbon. But — it was rather sunny, this hat, was it not? And while she thought it ugly when it whipped into Colin’s face, and funny when it caused him to fall from his horse, the knowledge that it was the girl’s hat… changed things, a bit. She turned it in her hands, stealing glances at the girl.
“That wasn’t very well done of me, was it?” Colin said, still sitting in the mud where his horse had dumped him. He said it with all his usual easy charm – the same sort of charm Eloise had spent her life trying to replicate. But it never came out quite right with her; her body felt unwieldy, a smile with too many teeth and a voice too loud, too eager. Eloise came to the conclusion that the sort of charm her older siblings possessed required the ability to self-temper. To batten down one’s feelings so as not to seem too hungry or pleased or bothered. Such extremes were not attractive to other people, she gathered. Perhaps it was a hopeless endeavour for Eloise, then; she was, she thought, made of extremes.
But the girl was not looking at Colin. She was looking at Eloise.
No-one ever looked at Eloise when her older brothers and sisters were around.
Their father had a dome magnifier on his desk. At least, that is what Anthony told Eloise when he snatched it out of her hands. It used to sit on Anthony’s desk, until Anthony found Eloise pressing her fingers all over it; now it was on a high shelf where Eloise needed to push a chair against a bookcase to delight in it. The dome magnifier was heavy and smooth, and it made Eloise feel warm and focused and very alive to use it. To choose what might change — to be able to make something so small she might have missed it instead turn large and commanding before her.
She felt the same way looking at the girl, who was stammering “Yes— I mean, no— I mean, I am sorry for— excuse me,” without once looking away from Eloise.
Eloise felt very focused, and she felt very warm. She thought perhaps she had said what was in her head aloud again, just as her mama told her she mustn’t do, for just as she considered how dearly she wished for the girl to come and talk to her, that is exactly what happened.
The girl took halting steps toward Eloise, and Eloise stood very still, and Eloise’s pulse got very fast. Eloise looked at the girl, and the girl looked at Eloise, and with every faltering foot forward Eloise was able to see a little more of this girl that made her feel like her body and her mind and her heart were made of sparkling stars. She saw how cherubic the girl’s face was, and how beautiful and round her cheeks; she saw how the girl’s hair was truly red– Eloise’s eyes had not played tricks on her– and she heard the crisping of the straw hat as her hands flexed with her desire to rub one of the girl’s curls between her fingers. She saw the limpid blue of the girl’s eyes, and the petal pink of the girl’s lips, and Eloise was struck speechless for the first time in her life.
“Good afternoon,” the girl said, very politely, once she stood in front of Eloise. “I am terribly sorry about your—” she turned back for a moment, to see Colin barely out of the mud.
“Colin,” blurted Eloise, and she felt her face heat as the girl turned to her once more, giggling.
“I am terribly sorry about your Colin,” the girl said, attempting to nod solemnly and not quite managing it.
Then they stood looking at each other, blinking, as Eloise willed and willed herself to say something. Something good. Something that was not her brother’s name, for goodness’ sake.
“My name is Penelope,” the girl said, after several moments of silence.
Penelope. It was a very pretty name, and it matched how pretty the girl was. She looked like a little doll, Eloise thought hazily.
Penelope blinked up at Eloise, and Eloise blinked down at Penelope. Eloise wet her lips, and cleared her throat, and Penelope’s eyes fell to Eloise’s hands.
“Thank you for rescuing my bonnet,” Penelope said. Her voice was high and silvery, and Eloise wanted her to keep speaking forever.
“Your bonnet,” echoed Eloise. She held it up triumphantly between them, and Penelope giggled again.
“That is what I said, yes,” Penelope agreed pleasantly. “Mama would have been so cross if I had lost it. Would you help me put it on? I cannot tie it nicely yet.”
Eloise had never thought once about whether she could tie a ribbon nicely, but it became suddenly imperative that she be able to do so. Her mouth had gone dry, though she was not thirsty, and her face grew even hotter, which she did not know was possible, and her hands trembled as if she were in the cold, though the day was warm indeed.
Penelope tilted her sweet little face up as soon as she asked for Eloise’s help and, when she saw Eloise shivering and bursting with her task, smiled even more sweetly and closed her eyes.
This surely should have helped Eloise feel less nervous, not more.
She realised then that she had closed her eyes too — which was very silly indeed. She was not sure whether it was because she found herself wanting to copy the girl, to be in some secret closed-eyed world together with her, or because it helped her better enjoy the feel of the soft ribbon and the even softer cheek her knuckles brushed against. Either way it was very, very silly, because on reflection Eloise was fairly certain tying a bow nicely was not one of her skills and she needed to focus.
She had, then, a distant memory of Daphne showing off one of her new dresses after a trip to the modiste. Eloise always regarded these fashion shows with a sort of curious dread, for she knew in a year or two those dresses would end up being handed down to her, and though she would much rather be reading or making up games or annoying her brothers, she always forced herself to pay attention. Prepare herself for the coming horrors.
Daphne showed off her dress with a blue satin bow on the bodice and Eloise remembered that she kept tying it and untying it in front of the looking glass. Look, Eloise, Daphne said, in the bossy voice she used sometimes, as if she was imitating their mama. Watch how I do it. The rabbit ears are much better for this sort of bow. See how I can adjust them?
Rabbit ears; yes. Eloise focused on making two big loops from the soft sunshine ribbons and tied them in a knot. Her fingers brushed Penelope’s chin and neck (Penelope, Penelope, Penelope) as she adjusted them just like Daphne had with that ugly dress, making sure the ends were even and the loops sufficiently primped.
“All done,” she said, and her voice was much higher than usual. She felt Colin looking at her curiously and she stuffed her hands underneath her armpits so her brother would not see how they shook.
Penelope’s soft orange lashes fluttered open and she gave Eloise a pleased smile. Her little fingers stroked the yellow ribbon contentedly. “Thank you.”
“Would you like to come and play with me?” Eloise blurted out. Immediately she wished she had not, because she was eleven, not a baby, and she could hear Colin snickering and Eloise’s throat started to burn and her eyes turned swimmy and she wished, for once, she would think before she spoke.
“Oh!” the little girl said, her eyes widening. Then she smiled, her top teeth digging into her lower lip. There was a pleasing little gap between them, Eloise noticed. “I should like that very much. Only — you must tell me if it seems like my bonnet will fly off again. I would not like to hit any more boys on horses.”
Eloise heard a strange buzzing noise in her ears. She agreed with a smile, and she and Penelope went off to play, leaving Colin still sitting there in the mud of Hyde Park.
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Yellow day dress in cotton law with white flowers and a bow
Friendship, that Love’s elixir, that pure fire / Which burns the clearer ‘cause it burns the higher.
Friendship, Katherine Phillips
Violet had recently discovered a way to make Eloise agree to almost anything: she would inform Eloise that Penelope would be there. If that was not plausible, she would assure Eloise that Penelope could accompany them. Eloise spent quite a lot of time before she met Penelope wanting to establish herself as different from her siblings. As someone who mattered, and someone who must be considered, and someone with a mind of her own; a very easy way for her to do so was to put her foot firmly down. To not do things. To not go.
Eloise now thought very little of not going, because if Penelope would be there, there was nowhere she would rather be. It did not matter if Colin snickered behind his hand at how readily her new friend’s name disarmed her, and it did not matter if Benedict liked to tease her by looking over her shoulder and exclaiming “Penelope!” It did not matter that she would look excitedly behind her every time. It did not matter that the space behind her was reliably bereft of her friend, or that Eloise would whip back around to glare at Benedict — only to find him pretending to be asleep. It did not matter because it was so very good when Penelope was there, and the more honest Eloise was about that, the more her mama sought to arrange time for them to play.
It was very clear that everyone in her family knew how dearly Eloise loved her friend. Eloise thought it should bother her more than it did.
So she found herself in the market with her mother and Daphne. Formerly the last place she should wish to find herself, because there was only so long Eloise could listen to her mother talk about ribbons and feathers before she would grow so bored that it turned into meanness. She would sulk and tell Daphne she thought her ribbons were ugly (even if they were not) because it felt so very unfair that Eloise was forced to be here when her brothers were not. As though because Eloise was a girl she must automatically be fascinated by ribbons. Eloise did not like herself very much in those moments; better not to come along at all than make her sister cry for no reason.
But today Penelope was here with them and all the boring bits of the market did not seem so. Penelope had never been to the market before and so wandered around with blue eyes exceptionally wide. Eloise felt very pleased to be able to show her things — this is the lady that sells the lace things Daphne likes and Mama likes the silk feathers this gentleman has but she says his prices are a racket. She walked behind Penelope, bending every now and then to speak into her ear, and she realised that her finger and thumb had captured the back of Penelope’s cotton lawn skirts. Eloise rubbed the nice soft fabric, yellow with tiny white flowers all over. She knew she should probably not touch her friend’s dress without permission. But the market was so busy and Penelope so small and Eloise worried that if Penelope wandered off they might never find her again.
Eloise was not used to feeling so concerned over anything or anyone. Additionally, she was not used to feeling pleased about being concerned. It was a pleasant ache, a smooth stone in Eloise’s pocket she might trace her thumb over. It was like life had bestowed upon her a secret responsibility: to look after Penelope. Had it not?
It was not clear to Eloise what else this relentless tug to her friend might be. When they played in her room she felt compelled to ensure Penelope was enjoying herself, and when Violet had Penelope over for supper Eloise felt compelled to secret away to the kitchens to tell the cooks that Penelope liked dark meat best. Now that they were walking single file through a bustling crowd, Eloise felt compelled to keep Penelope near and safe.
There was so much she wished to tell Penelope about the market that her mouth was moving and her words were flowing without much active effort on her part. She was grateful for this ability, as she could not spare any of her attention; it was all required to focus on Penelope in front of her. On the feeling of the weave of her dress’ fabric between her thumb and forefinger, and on hoping someone might elbow her again so she might drift too close and catch the skin-soft scent of her, and on not taking hold of the ribbon done up behind Penelope’s waist. On not pulling, just enough, so she might see the ribbon untie. There was nothing after the untying; Eloise simply pictured it, over and over, the bow losing its form and floating to nothing as Penelope hurried forward. The idea made Eloise feel sweet and pleased, and she did not notice her aching feet, or the press of those around her, or the acrid smell of so many market-goers in one place.
She was so focused on Penelope, how clear she shone in Eloise’s vision and how easily blurred the rest of the world was when she could look at the vibrant outline of bonnet and curl and puffed sleeve and the soft flare at her waist, that she did not notice Penelope had stopped moving. This meant, naturally, that she stepped straight against her, tangling their skirts. Eloise braced herself against Penelope’s shoulder with the hand that was not holding onto her, and the air pressed out of her lungs in an unladylike Oof. Penelope made an adorable little squeaking sound as Eloise crushed lightly against her back, and Eloise took the opportunity to close her eyes and breathe in her friend’s sweet, fresh scent. Then it was over as quickly as it began, as she was wrested back upright by her heavily-sighing mama.
“Honestly, Eloise,” Violet said, but there was too much warmth in her voice for Eloise to feel properly chastened.
The fine silk of her mama’s glove on Eloise’s arm felt grounding. She had been hauled apart and away and over more often than a girl was supposed to be, but Violet always told her she would raise each of her children as God gave them to her. She often said this, mostly to herself, as the hauling was occurring — but it was true and it suited Eloise quite well and so she thought of it fondly.
“As I was saying,” Violet continued, holding Eloise’s arm firmly so she might listen to her until she was finished talking. “I know you do not enjoy looking at ribbons, Eloise. Do you see that the stall is at the end of this row? Your sister and I will go and take our time there, and you and Penelope may stay here and look at the quills and paper and pamphlets to your hearts’ content.”
Eloise had almost interrupted her mama when she spoke about ribbons, for Eloise found the waiting and looking and prattling about colours intolerable. But — she thought Penelope might not. And the thought of Penelope wearing the dreamy little smile Daphne did made something swoop inside her chest. She wondered if Penelope would smile at her if Eloise brought her to the ribbons, and if Penelope would remove her bonnet so she might hold up different colors to her hair, and if Penelope might ask Eloise for help again once it was time to put her hat back on. Sometimes she was sure she could still feel Penelope’s softness against the backs of her fingers, and she wanted keenly to feel her so once more.
But quills and paper sounded nice now that she considered it — perhaps she and Penelope could pool their money and buy some special parchment for their stories, or a quill they could share. Eloise thought it might be rather enjoyable to share, perhaps taking turns writing a few lines each, passing the pen back and forth, reading over each others’ shoulders. Perhaps they could even buy one of those old-fashioned types of pens with the large feathers, and she imagined tickling it against Penelope’s cheek to make her giggle and turn pink, or under her neck, or —
“Eloise.” Her Mama was using her patient voice. Sometimes Eloise wondered if Violet quite might like to shake her, just a little. “Listen: it is very crowded today. You must take Penelope’s hand so that you do not get lost. Do not let go of one another.”
“Yes, Mama,” Eloise said right away. Her mama looked astonished then, because Eloise never agreed to anything without quarrelling first. Eloise clasped Penelope’s soft, small hand in hers. “I shall not let her go, Mama.”
Once when she was eight years old, Benedict had let Eloise spend the day watching him paint. She sat upon the grass in the spring breeze and watched her brother wash a whole world onto the canvas, no sounds but the birds and the wind in the trees and the soft plink of Benedict’s brush into his cup of water. The watercolour was almost finished when Benedict announced he had forgotten a special sort of paintbrush in his bedroom. He had turned to Eloise and asked her very solemnly (Benedict was never solemn) if he could trust her to watch the easel whilst he fetched it. You must watch very carefully, El. A strong wind could knock it over, so you must sit here — just like this — and hold it tightly.
Then — and now, with Penelope’s warm fingers in her own — Eloise’s grip had felt like the only thing standing between heaven and utter disaster. The thought of Penelope being lost in this crowd was unbearable, just as the thought of the beautiful canvas falling into the dirt had been; so she would do just as her mama asked and hold her friend tight.
And so her mother and Daphne moved away and Eloise and Penelope were left alone — well, she supposed, not really alone, for they were surrounded by other shoppers. Here there was a lady with a little dog in her arms dressed in a velvet jacket and there was a gentleman with ridiculous, curly sideburns and of course there was the man behind the stall with the very thick glasses, peering at them. So not alone, quite, but with their hands cupped and Eloise’s mama out of earshot, it felt nearly as good.
Penelope ran the fingers of her left hand over everything upon the table — paper and pens and inkwells and pen knives — and though Eloise knew from experience the man did not like it when one did that, she did not have the heart to tell her because Penelope looked so very pleased. Her face seemed to glow with joy, and Eloise thought then that Penelope was even more beautiful than Benedict’s painting.
But then Penelope’s fingers slipped out of Eloise’s to pick up one of the leather-bound notebooks. Eloise did something that she should not — she grabbed Penelope’s elbow, her fingers digging in hard in her agitation. The elbow was very plump and round (not pointy like Eloise’s own) and Eloise’s fingers sunk into it so easily, the skin even softer than her cheek. Softer than satin, softer than that yellow ribbon on her hat.
“Pen,” she said sharply; sharp enough that Penelope dropped the notebook and looked up at her in alarm.
Eloise felt wretched (even worse than when she made Daphne cry for no reason) for Penelope was so delicate and sweet. Eloise wanted only to be gentle with her, take care of her like the little doll she was, and yet still she had grabbed her hard as though she was one of Eloise’s stupid big brothers (who deserved to be pinched hard and often).
She felt an overwhelming urge to apologize, and to soothe the creamy skin she had treated so unkindly, and to find some way to erase the worry from Penelope’s wide eyes. Eloise had spoken to Penelope like she was bad, when she was only curious and good, and the clamoring certainty Eloise had that the sorry and the soothing and the removing of worry were equally important meant instead she stood frozen, achieving nothing, with her fingers sunk still into the swell of her friend’s arm.
“El?” Penelope asked.
It made Eloise’s stomach lurch further. There was a little tremor to Penelope’s voice, and her bottom lip quivered, and her eyes were beginning to glass over, and it made Eloise feel desperate to act. To explain herself, and to say how very important it was that Penelope stayed safe, is all, because Mama told Eloise they must hold hands, and how pleased and greedy Eloise had felt at the thought of holding Penelope’s hand for ages and how jealous and snarling she felt for it to be cut short, and because Eloise could not stand the thought of any harm coming to her, and how wretched Eloise felt that she had caused harm, and how she would never, ever do it again for Penelope was so darling and dear and delicate.
Eloise thought of how Mama and Anthony could speak in a way that was a promise, voices serious and low, and wondered how exactly they did so. If she could school herself and hold Penelope’s face in her hands and say It was wrong of me to treat you so, and I will never hurt you again, and I will always touch you sweetly I promise I promise I will.
“You let go of my hand,” Eloise heard come out of her mouth instead. She sounded petulant and what Colin called babyish, and it was so wrong she could scream.
“Oh,” Penelope said, her lips pouting into a worried little circle.
Apologies did not come naturally to Eloise. They seemed to her to be an admission of guilt, and she felt she spent half her life with her mama and siblings attempting to wring them from her while Eloise remained adamant she had done nothing wrong, and if they would just listen for a moment to her side of things they would see she was utterly blameless, that no one in her shoes would have behaved differently. But she would be wheedled and needled and shouted at and eventually one would be dragged through hot, self-pitying tears and spat out of unwilling lips.
She did not feel so now. Now she felt utterly wretched once more and she would have done anything to smooth out the concern from Penelope’s lips and brows and cheeks, wished to run her thumb over her face and rub away the little grooves of worry.
“Sorry,” she blurted out. Not nearly enough; not a promise (she vowed she would listen harder next time Anthony and Violet spoke like that, would practice it in the mirror until her voice echoed theirs).
Penelope blinked at her and Eloise waited for it: yes, you should be sorry indeed, you are the cruelest girl in the world, Eloise.
Except that did not happen. Penelope’s eyes widened and her face softened and her lips almost curved into a smile. “Well, if you still wish to hold hands,” she said — as if that had ever been in question! As though Eloise wished to do anything else with her hand! “Then perhaps we might —”
Penelope slipped from Eloise’s hold and shuffled behind her. Then Penelope’s left hand took Eloise’s right, and this time Penelope laced their fingers together. Like the teeth of two matching combs pressed to one another, perfectly locking. Penelope held up their joined fingers triumphantly and smiled at Eloise.
“See?” she said, and she sounded so pleased that Eloise’s heart ticked and skittered in her chest. “Now I might touch things easily with my right hand and we need not be parted.”
Eloise could only nod, too overcome to speak, and though she wished to squeeze Penelope’s fingers tightly she forced herself to be gentle, and she vowed that from that moment forth if she was ever permitted to touch Penelope again, she would do so very, very softly indeed.
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Blue velvet outdoor cloak with hood
Through you I drink up all I taste of gladness / and for you I’ve spent many hours sighing.
Among the Trobairitz, Bieiris de Romans, translated by Samantha Pious
“Eloise, you must be still.”
There was very little patience left in her mama’s voice. Eloise knew she was being impossible — or Anthony’s new favorite word, incorrigible, which made Eloise feel proud and rankled in turn. She was jittery, and had not been able to stop her mouth from moving for the last two solid hours of the carriage ride home.
It is not that Eloise did not enjoy Aubrey Hall. She did — there were empty halls down which to bellow, and she could be so much freer there, and she loved spending long hours wading in the shallow creek that ran through the property.
But there was no Penelope there. And there were only so many times she could persuade her siblings to help her post a letter, and no matter how desperately glad she felt to see Penelope’s sweet, looping handwriting (she could not stop touching the parchment, and looking at the parchment, and feeling the golden glow of some secret satisfaction take hold of her when she thought of Penelope biting the tip of her tongue in concentration to not spatter ink off of the nib so it would be nice for Eloise) it was simply not the same as when they were together.
So Eloise thought she had done a rather excellent job, actually, of keeping her chattering excitement limited to only a few hours. And only when they were so near Mayfair! She should be congratulated for her self-control, she was sure of it. But none of her siblings knew quite how often she thought of Penelope, even if they knew she thought of Penelope often, or very often. These terms felt insufficient for the breadth and depth of the attention Eloise gave her favorite subject.
And it had been weeks since she and Penelope had collapsed in a heap and giggled until tears streamed down their faces, and weeks since Eloise was able to bring Penelope her favorite sweets and see her blush ruby red, and weeks since Penelope had said her name with a voice all soft and secret, El, and Eloise thought she might shake out of her skin if she was not able to see Penelope immediately.
“You told me not to prattle,” Eloise said, rather waspishly. She could not speak, or she could not pace the length of their drawing room, but it did not seem fair to ask her to do neither. She might combust if she attempted it. “Are you sure I might not call, Mama? Just for–”
“It is too late,” her mama said firmly. “You may call on her tomorr–”
“Miss Featherington,” announced John. It was more of a bemused question — Miss… Featherington? — as a tiny figure all clad in blue darted past him.
The announcement overlapped with her mama’s helpless, “Or she will just — of course. It is so lovely to see you, Penelope. John, do send for tea?”
It felt as though Eloise was under water. The individual syllables John said and Mama said were reaching her, but for a moment she could not make sense of them. She felt a hot flush ripple through her body, and the skin on the back of her neck prickled, and the entirety of her wished to sway toward Penelope. Was it possible that Penelope had grown even prettier in the handful of weeks they were apart? Or was it simply that Eloise’s memory could not manage to replicate the tender sweetness that bloomed inside her when she was able to gaze upon her dearest friend?
Penelope darted Eloise a look that pinned her in place, mouth moving dumbly to work through Penelope?, but no sound came. And then Penelope was in front of Eloise’s mama, curtsying and saying “There is no need, Lady Bridgerton. I only wished to greet—”
“Violet, Penelope. I have told you, you must call me Violet.”
Penelope’s cheeks heated pink and Eloise’s tongue felt thick in her mouth at the sight. Her fingers felt fumbling and foolish but she wanted to reach for her, wanted to feel the velvet softness of her cloak and the satin softness of the skin underneath it, just for a moment, just for a little, just a brush of her arm so Eloise might know this was real.
“Pardon me, Lady Bridgerton — oh! I mean — I —”
“Hullo, Penelope!” Benedict called from across the room, as Eloise’s elder brothers all lumbered to their feet. Penelope was not here to see them, Eloise wished to hiss. “Mama, we are off to White’s—”
Benedict stopped talking when Anthony cuffed the back of his head.
“A walk, he meant,” Anthony said seriously, and he and their mama shared a look between them that Eloise could not make sense of but that left Mama smiling and waving her hand.
“Mama, it is not fair they are able to leave when I must remain,” complained Daphne.
“I should like to go for a walk,” added Gregory.
“Children,” their mama said firmly. She turned away from Eloise and Penelope, a hand massaging her brow. “We are just returned, and I wish to linger in the peace given to us by the countryside for a moment longer, thank you.”
Eloise was not paying any attention, for Penelope had turned on her heel to walk quickly to Eloise’s side, and she felt that the grin splitting Penelope’s face had its twin in Eloise’s expression, and she could not bring herself to give a whit what anyone else anywhere had to say at all.
“You are back!” Penelope’s eyes sparkled and the flush had not left the apples of her cheeks. Her arms floated up from her sides and towards Eloise as she spoke, the ghost of a hug enveloping Eloise before Penelope was near enough to clasp. “I have been watching out the window all day for your carriage and I thought perhaps you had been delayed and it would be an entire sleep more before I might see you and I started to feel so out of sorts and I know it was only weeks but it felt an age, El, and when you arrived I simply had to come see you for I truly missed—”
It was not precisely a lunge, but it had indeed been weeks and weeks since Eloise was able to embrace Penelope and feel their friendship fizz between them as they pressed shoulders and arms and faces next to each other. The fondness Eloise had been keeping all bottled bubbled up and out, and hearing Penelope sound like she was just as pleased to see Eloise as Eloise was to see her meant any level of decorum was additionally impossible. As soon as Penelope was within arm’s length Eloise snatched her close and Penelope’s sentence was cut off with a squeaking giggle.
Penelope felt so good to hug. Warm and soft and correct. This is surely what Eloise had arms for, and surely there was no scent more pleasing than that of Penelope’s, clean and her and with the lavender of her soap all woven through it, and Eloise wished for more and more and more. To hug Penelope so thoroughly there was no question of how much Eloise had missed her, and to squeeze her tight and tighter still until the need to do so was no longer so arresting, but she knew she must be gentle.
Instead she nuzzled her face closer to Penelope’s as they held each other, for was that not gentle? She would be sweet. She would not be a brute. And then she felt the peachy softness of Penelope’s cheek against her nose and she could not help but sigh contentedly and allow her eyelids to flutter shut, for this is what she had wanted, all right here.
It was the most natural thing in the world to trace her nose along Penelope’s cheek, for it felt so nice that Eloise felt her entire body relax — the tenseness that had settled in her shoulders and along her spine from so long apart melting right away. And then she felt her breath skate warm across Penelope’s jaw and she knew she would love it even better if she might feel that softness against her lips, and she needed just the slightest tilt of her head to do so, and she heard Penelope’s little Oh! when she did.
That small noise made Eloise feel so fond that without thinking once about it, she pressed her mouth against Penelope’s cheek in a chaste kiss.
As soon as she realized what she had done Eloise’s eyes shot open and she faltered back, unsure. Her lips were burning and she wanted to hold Penelope to her and kiss her cheeks again and again and hear Penelope make that soft, pleased Oh to meet each one but she was not certain — they had never before —
She pulled back only a little, for Penelope’s small hands were holding Eloise’s shoulders determinedly. Eloise drifted just enough to see the wonder in Penelope’s eyes, and the pleased curl of her mouth.
When Eloise whispered “I missed you as well, very much,” Penelope did not need to say a single word for Eloise to know exactly how happy this made her.
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White cotton gauze nightgown with frilled trim
Thou shed’st no tear but what my moisture lent / And if I sigh, it is thy breath is spent
To Mrs. M Awbrye - Katherine Philips
When Eloise woke up, she did not know where she was.
She had fallen asleep in her own bed, she was sure of it — but her bed linens were duck-egg blue, not this white gauzy cotton, and her pillows were certainly not this soft and warm and plush. Her pillow did not move up and down in time with her own breaths, did not smell so sweetly of heated skin and lavender (the laundry maids at Bridgerton House used lilac soap).
Eloise had dreams like this sometimes, dreams in which she was very sure she was at home or speaking with her family and only when she woke up did she realise the house was in fact utterly unfamiliar and her family had worn the faces of strangers. Unnerving usually, but she did not feel so now. She felt like the light filtering in through the crack in the heavy blue curtains, the light that lay yellow and pink in a beam across her face. That was how she felt — yellow and pink and quiet all over, and if it was a dream then it was a very nice one indeed.
But then her pillow let out a soft little sigh and Eloise knew she was not dreaming; that this was not a pillow but Penelope beneath her cheek, warm and sweet-smelling and moving like the gentle swell of waves upon the shore with each sleep-slowed breath. Eloise realised then that her arm was curled around Penelope’s soft waist and her head upon her bosom; and that Eloise’s fingers were twisted into the gauzy cotton of Penelope’s nightgown and in her sleep she must have tugged it down, for though Eloise’s lips touched white fabric her cheek was in fact pressed against the bare skin of Penelope’s chest.
They had not fallen asleep like this. Eloise had gone to bed curled up into a ball with her back to Penelope, her belly in strange knots and her fingers clasped into fists. It had been a strange sort of evening, and Eloise knew it was her fault for ruining it. They were so rarely allowed sleepovers like this and Eloise had spoiled it with her usual misbehaviour. She wished for once her body and mind would do as it ought, would do as other girls’ bodies and minds did (as Daphne’s and Francesca’s seemed to do, even sweet Penelope’s), and she had fallen asleep with her nails digging into her palms, hot crescents of pain to remind her not to be so wicked.
She supposed the problem was she was altogether too curious. Nosy, her siblings would call it. Penelope had not slept over at Bridgerton House in some months, and Eloise had not realised — well, because Portia always had Penelope in those sweet yellow dresses with short bodices and high necks, the ones with appliqué flowers and intricate beads (Penelope thought they were too fussy; Eloise disagreed, enjoyed running her fingernails against the beads and ruffling the silk petals until Penelope giggled and slapped her hand away) — so one could not see, and Eloise had not realised quite how much Penelope’s body had… changed.
Eloise’s had changed too, of course. She was fifteen and suddenly everything felt very unruly: hips and limbs and the fine dark hairs between her legs. Her breasts had swollen too and they ached and prickled; sometimes Eloise would lie in bed and cup them beneath her chemise, kneading them as if she might soothe them that way. Often she would find her nipples hardening most inconveniently and her mama had deemed it necessary for her to start wearing stays — which Eloise hated except they saved her the embarrassment of her mama and Daphne exchanging looks every time Eloise felt her nipples stiffen and poke against the fabric of her dresses.
It was not until the maids had left that night that Eloise had realised precisely how much Penelope’s body had transformed. Her friend had always been sweetly, perfectly plump, her skin taut and smooth, pleasing little creases under her arms and around her waist, the backs of her knees. Her hands were still dimpled at the knuckles, as though someone had pressed their fingers into the creamy lemon posset the cook made in summer. Eloise liked to take Penelope’s hands in hers and kiss those little dimples until Penelope turned red from laughing.
She had always been plump, but through the sheer cotton of her nightgown Eloise saw that the babyish plumpness had shifted, reformed itself into something fuller, new curves and swollen parts that had not been there before. Her hips had broadened and her thighs thickened and her bosom (Eloise’s throat felt thick and strange, wet and dry all at once) was very large indeed.
Her breasts sat full and plush like ripe fruit, and Eloise thought that they might from time to time be even more sore than her own, and then she thought about Penelope’s little fingers trying to knead her large breasts and how difficult that might be for her. In the dim candlelight Eloise could see the pink shade of Penelope’s hard nipples, and she almost said aloud: my nipples do that too, but she realised all at once that that was very impolite and that she really ought not to be staring and Eloise remembered then how she had felt when Benedict took her to the National Galleries. There had been all sorts of paintings of naked women and she had been filled with the urge to study them, to press her face close to the paintings, to run her fingers over the brush strokes and learn the shapes under her hands. Her fingers itched with just the same sort of yearning now, to run her fingers over Penelope — just to learn the newness, of course. Perhaps she would cup one of Penelope’s breasts and one of her own at the same time, she thought. Just to compare.
God, she was still staring. She forced herself then to look away, to train her eyes upon Penelope’s face. Still, thankfully, the same perfect doll’s face, even though it now sat upon the body of a woman (Eloise felt very childish indeed beside her). She was focusing so intently on not letting her eyes stray downwards that she could barely hear what Penelope was saying and instead of their usual routine of cuddling in bed with a book held between them, Eloise marched herself to bed and curled up in a ball and did not say another word.
And yet now here she was in the hushed pink morning with her face pressed against the very bosom she had so diligently tried to avoid; here, just inches from her mouth, was Penelope’s peaked, rosy nipple, cotton tenting over its taut, puckered flesh. Sleep-Eloise had dragged the nightgown down so far that the petal-pink of the skin around it was just visible, peeking out above the little ruffled trim. Eloise’s eyes fixated upon that patch of pinkened flesh and the pale blue veins that ran through it, for Eloise’s own nipples were a tawny sort of colour, very different indeed from this sugary blush — almost the precise pink of the cherry sherbet that Penelope and Eloise would sometimes share from the confectioners. She wondered then if Penelope’s skin might taste just as sweet, and in her dreamy haze she imagined tugging slowly upon the nightgown, until Penelope’s nipple was bare in the golden morning light. Pressing her tongue there, just for a moment.
“El?”
Penelope’s breast shifted beneath Eloise’s cheek as the girl woke, the flesh jiggling pleasingly. Eloise knew she should move her head but she found herself fixed, unable to drag herself from Penelope’s comforting warmth. She craned her neck to look up at her friend, her stomach once again in guilty knots. She did not know what was wrong with her, why her body insisted on betraying her at every moment. Her fingers tightened upon Penelope’s chemise, not wishing to let go but certain that Penelope would be dragged from her reach the minute she woke fully and realised how they lay, how close Eloise was to baring her breast.
“Is it not very early?” Penelope asked, her blue eyes dreamy with sleep, voice hushed.
“I suppose it is,” Eloise said. The words felt thick and chalky in her mouth. She was sure Penelope would push her away any moment.
“You should sleep some more,” Penelope said through a yawn. And then she wrapped both her arms around Eloise and pressed her tight to her chest, Eloise’s cheek smushing against her spilling flesh. “How nice,” Penelope hummed contentedly, as if nothing could be more lovely than cuddling so with her friend, and soon her breathing settled into the slow pattern of slumber.
Eloise did not sleep.
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