Early February 1815
Madame Delacroix's, Mayfair
Madame Delacroix's fitting room still had the chill of the early morning air as Penelope stood in the centre and ranted. The dress of the day, a garish yellow and pink number, would be the last garment she wore in such affronting hues.
"I do not wish to see a citrus colour ever again; I fear if I do, I shall fall ill from sheer disgust. No more bright and fanciful yellows and oranges, and greens from here on out must be dark. I can no longer tolerate appearing as if I am some overripe fruit, still clinging onto the boughs of a tree." Though it made Madame Delacroix's job more difficult, Penelope moved her hands in wild gestures as she spoke. She had come early in the morning so as to avoid the judgmental eyes of her family, but the modiste's was not entirely empty as she had hoped. Though alone in the fitting room, the women still had to be cognizant of how they spoke. Lady Whistledown was not the only woman who kept her ears perked for gossip.
"Sour colours, indeed. But what has brought about this sudden desire for change? Your mère, surely, is not the cause for such a modification to your wardrobe. Her love for such hues supersedes the good sense that tells any observer it does not suit a complexion such as yours." Genevieve kept up the ruse of her French accent as she gathered various bolts of fabric and held them up for inspection.
"I cannot live at home for any longer Genevieve." Penelope shook her head in disapproval at the red satin Madame Delacroix had held up to her shoulder, "It has been hard enough, living under my mother's rules; the comments on my figure, the hovering about, dictating what books I may read and how many, it has been excruciating. But my sisters…To live at the whim of either the most cruel or the most simple persons I know…"
"You do not think they would extend you the grace that you are owed as their family?" Genevieve sifted through her fabrics before she lifted a soft lilac to Penelope's face. As customers, the Featheringtons were horrid; they were late to pay her and terribly fussy about styling and colours, but Genevieve had hoped that they might be a bit more genial when in the comfort of their own home.
"I know that Prudence will not, she has said as such herself. As for Phillipa, well, Mr. Finch cannot find it in himself to deny her anything, which may be sweet now, but shall not be nearly as charming when she spends what little money we have left on frivolities like insect pinnings." She sighed, "I must take a husband before that happens."
Penelope did have the funds to live as a spinster, the sales of Lady Whistledown had accumulated to a pretty penny, and it had been her plan to live off them when she still thought her mother might remain as Lady Featherington. But the race for an heir had thrown a wrench into the whole plan. She had not made nearly enough to support both herself and her mother, not with Portia's extravagant tastes and penchant for dramatics, without raising suspicion. Even then, Penelope was positive that she did not want to spend the rest of her life under the same roof as her mother. The woman was tolerable in small doses, but entirely too overbearing in extended exposure. She could not live life in the face of her mother's ceaseless scrutiny.
"I see." Madame Delacroix's smile was genuine, she had always thought that Penelope would suit the role of a wife wonderfully, if only the men of the ton would take notice, "And does my lady have a certain suitor in mind? Men will turn up their noses and say they have no opinions on such foolish womanly things as fashion, but I know otherwise. I know Lord Cho, for example, is far more amiable to ladies in purple gowns. If the gentleman you are after has a preference, I will make sure that you catch his eye especially." She never had the chance to attend such fancy events as balls, not as a working woman who barely earned enough1 to put food on the table, but wielding fashion as a means of matchmaking was as close a thrill as she could get.
Penelope hesitated, she did indeed have a very eligible bachelor she should have liked to impress, but hope only killed practicality and paved the way for failure. She turned her mind away from Colin, he himself said he could never want her in that way. "I should like to be sensible; I am no magnificent catch by the ton's reckoning. I am old, and with few prospects, and have strange hobbies, I cannot expect many men of high rank. Someone kind would do well, and who allows me my privacy for obvious reasons. Perhaps someone who is away with work often or has such driven interests that he does not feel the need to be at my side every waking moment."
"You are underselling yourself, Miss Featherington, but if sensibility and elegance is what you desire, you shall have a dress that puts the grace of all others to shame. You will not end this season as a spinster wearing my gowns."
Penelope spotted a fashion booklet that rested upon piles of fabric bolts and had an idea. France, though stifled by the war, was still the peak of fashion. Colin had become quite the magnet for young ladies after he adopted more continental stylings. Could Haute Couture not do the same for her? "Perhaps, you might make me something like what they wear in Paris?"
Early February 1815
Bridgerton House, Mayfair
Francesca relished in the great joy that was an afternoon jaunt with a good sonata or concerto. The warmth of the sun, which shone just so through the sitting room windows, provided the perfect light with which to read sheet music. She played with the precision that years of practice had gifted her as her younger siblings clattered about the room in delight. Francesca had never felt more pleased. The Queen had bypassed her entirely, had done the season's debutantes a great favour and not declared a diamond at all. The monarch had seemed almost bored with the season, to the point that she hadn't even shown up to the first event to meddle. Though it had been a matter of great stress to the other ladies, Francesca could have not been more delighted in the Queen's waning interest. She could go about peacefully and with a clear mind with which to pick the best fitting suitor. There was no heavy pressure upon her shoulders, no lofty expectations, and it was gloriously freeing.
The other ladies' question from the day in the gardens had plagued her nightly, so as she played, she ruminated on it. What did she look for in a husband? Naturally someone kind, but the others were right in that it was hardly enough to whittle down the extensive list of eligible men. Anthony, as older brother and man of the house, would do his due diligence to weed out the unkind men, but that would leave well over half the ton's men for her to consider. Educated and titled men, as the gentry were, were not often inclined towards cruelty to their wives, not like the men of rougher upbringing. Francesca decided that she needed to find other qualities to look for in a husband, otherwise she would find herself entirely too swamped in suitors. She thought she should like this hypothetical husband to have some appreciation for music. Naturally, anyone with a disdain for her favourite art was completely incompatible. Francesca would not mind if he could play an instrument of his own, but unless he was a truly splendid player it could be tiresome to dull down her skills simply to suit his ego. Perhaps a humble man would suit her; she could not stand a braggart. She did not want someone too loud, either. The wild and bombastic men excited some ladies, but they only made Francesca stressed. She'd much rather have a stoic, composed, husband. He must also, naturally, get along well with her family. He need not be some great speaker, but as much as Francesca wished for the peace of an empty home all her own, she could not bear the thought of never again visiting her family after marriage.
So that was it. A man who was kind, serene, and appreciative of her hobbies and desires. It was still not much to go on, but it would do. Traitorously, her mind reminded her of the way Miss Livingston had giggled over her more physical stipulations for a husband. It would by no means displease Francesca if her husband was handsome. She cared little for height, but found that the thought of large, warm, hands and an open smile pleased her very much. A good voice too, she thought, could make a man rather attractive. Something deep, and accented. The though made her flush, if only slightly. But those things were of lesser importance, she would not base such a crucial decision on mere attraction. She refocused her mind on the new musical piece Colin had gotten her and let the buzz of excitement from her other siblings was over her and tint the air a warm amber.
Gregory marvelled over his new bow as he drew back the string and mimicked firing it. It was a fine composite recurve2, one that bent well on the draw and seemed to have a sturdy dustar. Gregory was no expert on bows, he simply enjoyed shooting them, but he knew skilled craftsmanship when he saw it. He, like many other boys and men of the ton, had a healthy appreciation for the art of the hunt. The thrill of the chase, the rocking of his mount beneath him, the mastery of skill required to track prey, Gregory admired it all. Unlike his fellow gentry, Gregory had a deeper reverence for the bow than the gun. A gun was a fine weapon, to be sure, but he had always considered it a bit of a cheat. It shot too violently and hunting wild things with a metal machine seemed to Gregory like a bastardization of an otherwise noble sport. The bow, he had decided, was far superior both in nobility and functionality. The bow did not give away one's position, and could, by a skilled archer, be fired far quicker than the tedious cleaning and reloading of a rifle would allow. Gregory had bullheadedly insisted that he would never hunt with a gun and had indeed never learned to even shoot one. Such was his loyalty to the great bow. "I love it brother! Where is it from?"
"I got it from a trader in Marseilles who had it brought over from the heart of the Ottoman Empire3." Colin said with no small amount of self-satisfaction. He prided himself on knowing his siblings so well and took great joy in bringing them such well-received gifts. A present from Colin was second to none, as all the Bridgertons knew; many of the most beloved Christmas gifts had been his idea.
"This tag says my perfume is from Grasse4!" Hyacinth examined the ornate crystal bottle, and gently dabbed some on her wrists. As she had with many other things, Violet had considered perfume too adult an accessory for Hyacinth, and she could not sneak any of her own at home. Perfume was the one thing Hyacinth could not employ Eloise's help in pilfering, as Eloise herself never wore the stuff. Such a gift from Colin, who was usually such a staunch follower of the rules set by Violet, was dearly appreciated. The scent permeated the air as it dried and dispersed on the smooth skin of her wrists, and Hyacinth inhaled unrefinedly so as to smell as much of the scent as possible. The luxurious smell of bergamot, ambergris, and jasmine wafted through the room, and Hyacinth squealed in delight. "Oh, it is positively divine, brother!"
"And where are my handsome new paints from, is this writing Spanish? I thought you had only travelled to France." Benedict barely looked up at Colin has he smoothed his hands over the lacquered wooden box. Inside the box was not one, but two sets of expensive paints. The box folded out like a lady's jewellery box might, into two compartments. The upper compartment housed rows upon rows of the most splendid paint pigments5, ready to be mixed with linseed oil to make the rich oil paints that Benedict favoured. In the lower compartment was a neat set of gouache pigment plates, a painting medium Benedict had never tried, but had been excited to experiment with for some time.
"My sheet music is in Italian." Francesca felt the, uncommon for her, need to add to the conversation. It was a lovely piece, albeit livelier in spirit than the music she usually gravitated to. The music was in Style Brisé6and furthermore in alla breve and made for a rather exciting tune to play.
"Exactly how many cities did you manage to visit in six months? You cannot have spent more than a week in any one place!" Benedict incredulously looked between all the foreign-imported gifts, "Do not tell me you have decided to take up nomadry."
Colin chuckled and shook his head, "I lost count, in truth. But rest assured, I made sure to thoroughly appreciate the great many cities I visited."
Anthony, who had only just walked into the room, snorted and cuffed Colin lightly, "I'm sure you did, but save your tales of appreciation for a time where there are fewer delicate ears about." He then turned, startled, to Gregory who had nocked and arrow and begun to draw back experimentally, "No! Not in here. If you are going to shoot, you must do so outside where mother can't see."
All save for Francesca and Colin rushed out to the gardens, eager to watch Gregory's target practice. And good timing for it too, for no sooner had they left that Violet entered and approached the fortepiano, "Francesca, where is your sister?" She received a slight shrug in response and made her way to the open doorway where her voice would carry better, "Eloise! Come down to the drawing room, it is time for us to visit the modiste." She hurried Francesca up off the bench and out towards the front doorway, and turned to Colin as she went, "Do help us find your sister, we are already late."
Good son that he was, Colin made his way up to Eloise's room, where he was sure she had her nose stuck in some liberalist book. He did not quite understand his sister, no matter how hard he tried; she simply did not respond to him in the way that Daphne, Francesca, and Hyacinth did. Sisters were difficult when they behaved as ladies usually did, but Eloise was a different case altogether, and the two butted heads often. When they got on best, Penelope was usually involved in some way. Colin had not seen Eloise with Penelope once yet in the season, odd, as they were usually so attached to each other. Instead, his sister seemed to have grown a taste for the company of Cressida Cowper, a friendship which he could not dream to understand. Like he had for all his other siblings, though, Colin had brought her a gift from the continent. Though he did not understand, or even feel particularly inclined to agree with his sister's political inclinations, he knew they were to her as pianoforte was to Francesca. So, though it had been no easy task, he had acquired not one but two suitable books for her. He had even sought out German copies specifically, as Violet had mentioned in one of her letters that Eloise had finally rekindled an interest in languages.
True to expectations, Eloise was still in her room when she should have been ready for the day. She walked from one end of the bedroom to the other, opening drawers and searching under piles of clothing. "Where has…" she turned around and strode towards her bed, upon one of the posts hung a pearl encrusted handbag, "Ah! Here it is." She had yet to acknowledge his presence in her bedchambers, truly strange for Eloise seemed perpetually ready to shout at him, or any other sibling, that so much as dared to set food in her place of privacy.
"Eloise." She finally turned to face him, "Surely you are not eager to hasten to the modiste?" Colin had been sent to retrieve his sister, but dress fittings could wait a bit longer. Eloise would usually jump upon any chance to postpone a trip to the dressmaker's. She seemed almost impatient, though. Face uncharacteristically impassive, she held a soft, but somewhat strained smile, and shifted restlessly.
"I have something for you, from my tour." It elicited no response. "It is a book." That, at least lit a, albeit subdued, spark in Eloise's eyes, which darted to the package Colin held in his hands. "A set of German texts that I think you'd rather enjoy. By a woman author, even, one Sophie Mereau7."
For a brief moment, Eloise's smile turned genuine, and her eyes glimmered with interest, before she sadly shook her head and once again donned the mellow mask of faux-politeness. "I am already in the middle of reading something, it is called Belinda8."
"A novel? You have never been one for silly romances, I dare say I recall that you proclaimed yourself above such things." Colin paused to take in Eloise's outfit, which was once again less practical and more in-fashion that she usually preferred, "And since when did you wear so many frills?"
"Perhaps my tastes have changed." She paused and failed to conceal her longing glance towards the boudoir, upon which sat a worn leather-bound book. "The writings I read before, of women making their way outside society, those were the romances. This book has humour and truth… the pains of friendship and love. It is altogether more probable. Politics, voting, womens' independence, it is foolish for a lady of the ton to believe she can achieve such things. I can no longer be naïve."
Eloise made to move past him through the doorway, but Colin stopped her with a gentle hand on her shoulder, "Should I take it that your taste in friendship has changed as well? It is unlike you to spend so much time away from Penelope, and even more unlike you to befriend someone like Cressida."
Eloise's expression soured, "Cressida is not nearly so horrible as you all seem to think, you know. She showed me kindness when no one else would. I rather think the ton has misjudged her. As they have misjudged myself."
"And what of Penelope? I cannot imagine that she has been anything but kind."
"Penelope did not write to me once while we were away." Eloise's voice had taken a rather bitter note, she seemed angrier than Colin thought she had reason to be. "We have simply grown apart. It happens, when two people find they are so fundamentally different." Her voice had softened into something more melancholy, "Lady Whistledown nearly ruined me last season. I lost the battle and have no appetite for the war, so I have joined the winning side. Have you not done the same thing? I do not recall that you were so interested in charming debutantes last year. Or is this truly the new you?"
Colin stepped back from the doorway in defeat, another year gone by, and he still could not see eye-to-eye with his sister. He feared he never would.
Eloise gently took the parchment-wrapped books from his still extended hand, "I do appreciate the gesture, brother, but I can no longer afford to be the girl I was last year. It is not your fault so much has changed while you were away."
She opened one of her vanity drawers and, having also picked up the plain leather-bound book, shut them away within. Eloise hesitated as she looked at the now closed drawer. Works on feminism and progressive politics, given to her by people she cared for dearly, hidden away behind an elegant and expensive veneer, what an apt metaphor. She patted Colin on the arm as she left to join Violet and Francesca for their trip to the modiste, he had tried, at least.
Early February 1815
Madame Delacroix's, Mayfair
The modiste's was, as per usual, bustling with mamas and their daughters. Ladies milled about as they looked over fabrics and appliques, and Madame Delacroix moved between groups like a hummingbird amongst flowers. Eloise trailed in after her family and tried her very hardest to not look too put out. Eloise had desperately tried how to put up the air of delicacy that her sisters so comfortably exuded. The social elegance that came so easily to the others remained an infuriating mystery to her. Eloise felt too strongly and wore her emotions on her sleeves; it was not in her nature to mince her words and subdue her opinions for the sake of a man's self-esteem. She'd have to try, though, if she didn't want to cause scandal. Eloise had taken up the modern fashions, read only the favoured books, she'd tried her damndest to act as the rest of her family wanted her to. She highly doubted that she had managed to master such farces, for it truly was an act for her, a bastardization of her personality. She would do it to keep the others happy, though, even if she was terrible at it. Colin had seemed to see right through her, and their conversation remained at the forefront of her mind.
Voilet ushered her daughters in, and walked as swiftly as she reasonably could to Madame Delacroix and apologised profusely to the Frenchwoman for their tardiness. Eloise dawdled by the front; she had no desire to be fitted for yet another gown that she would wear only once. Had she not been exposed to the working class, she wouldn't have thought twice about the economic implications of such a womanly frivolity, but she had seen sets of London far poorer9 than Mayfair, and she could not help but to recoil at the waste of money. A single gown from Madame Delacroix would cost a fortune that very few of London's constituents would ever be able to afford. To buy a new one for every occasion, and then never wear the old ones again; it was a fabulous waste of money. Eloise felt guilty in the knowledge that she had spent her life in such opulence, Theo's accusations of her unearned privilege rang clear in her mind. She ruefully reminded herself, once again, that she could not think of Theo anymore. That path was dead. She had distanced herself from him so as to keep him from harm. Her family knowing of her unchaperoned adventures in political rallies was one thing, but Theo was entirely different. Eloise still did not know what it was the Daphne and Simon had done in the gardens almost two years ago, but they had been alone unchaperoned, and Anthony had been willing to duel his closest friend over such an offense. Eloise did not think Theo would even be offered the choice to take up a gun. A rich man could do far worse things to a working-class one than shoot him. Eloise was perhaps not as subtle as she had once thought herself to be, and she could not risk the safety of someone as unquestionably good as Theo. If that meant she must waste her family's money on pointless dresses and play nice with rich men who only saw her for her value as a brood-mare, then that is what she would have to do. It was the life she had been born into, and the world had made it abundantly clear that she could not change such a thing.
Eloise steeled her resolve and turned from the wall of colourful fabrics that she had been staring aimlessly at, only to lock eyes with Penelope. Of course. The Featherington carriage had been parked out back along with a great many others. Penelope's face did not brighten with joy upon her sight as it had in the gardens, a fact which pained Eloise more than she wished to admit. Neither said anything as they stood in uncomfortable silence by the till.
"Miss?" Penelope's lady's maid stood by awkwardly, arms full of hatboxes.
"Could you please wait for me in the carriage, Rae?" The lady's maid took Penelope's dismissal as what it was and left without another word. The bell above the entry door jingled, and still Eloise did not speak.
Penelope squashed down the resentment over Eloise's continued refusal to make first contact, it did not matter. Penelope could be the bigger person if she so wished, she was not beneath extending an olive branch, "I've been hoping to see you, perhaps so we might have a congenial conversation?"
"It did not seem you cared much for congeniality when you threw accusations of spitefulness the very second you saw me in the gardens." Eloise had crossed her arms, and bore her disapproval like a shield, she had become more difficult to read over the off-season, Penelope thought, "You did not seem keen on conversation when you were hiding away in the countryside with ample time to write. I did not receive a single letter from you, so you must not have wished to reconcile very much at all."
Penelope huffed, she felt that she was being held to an unfair standard, Eloise had not reached out either, she was just following suit. She thought Eloise had wanted space to sort out her thoughts, "You did not write to me either, you know. I did not think you would want to hear from me."
"And because you were worried I might reveal your secret." Eloise's face remained impassive, but frustration bled through in her voice.
"I do appreciate you keeping it." Penelope looked at her hands, somewhat shamed. Even with their friendship in shambles, Eloise was loyal. Penelope knew that, if nothing else, she could trust Eloise to never betray her. It was one of the things that made her so dear a friend; no matter what, Eloise would never spread gossip about Penelope, true or otherwise. And with Cressida at her side, Eloise surely had had ample opportunity to thoroughly thrash Penelope's name. The thought was a small comfort; if their relationship was truly beyond repair, then Eloise would have surely thrown her to the wolves already. Or maybe not, Penelope had not known anyone to anger Eloise so wholly. It was possible that even with the truest of hatred that Eloise would still keep Penelope's secret, perhaps her loyalty truly did run that deep. "Eloise, I am so sorry about everything, truly none of this was ever my intention."
"Are you really sorry for what you did, or because I discovered that it is you who writes such damning things?" Eloise leaned down to be closer to Penelope and lowered her voice, "You did not seem very sorry for your actions this winter; with what you wrote about the Queen10 over Christmas, it is a wonder she has not yet called for your head on a stake!"
Penelope winced, even with the precaution of whispers, her entire livelihood could be under attack if someone but heard their conversation, "I was lost in my feelings this winter, I will admit. It was a trying time for me." She had been angry and had no opportunity to release the pent up emotions. The drama around the crown's lacking heirs had offered her a much-needed outlet. If her tumultuous emotions had bled unnecessarily into her writing as Lady Whistledown, she could hardly be blamed. There was not an author on earth who hadn't projected their feelings and politics into their works; it was human nature, and half the joy of writing. Written word that was devoid of authorial intent was also devoid of soul, and nothing soulless was ever worth reading. Objectivity was not a boon to artistry.
"Was it not also a trying time for the Queen? Good Lord, Penelope, the woman lost a daughter and a grandchild at the same time. What part of that made you think it was appropriate to needle her about heirs and speculate about her relationship with the King?" The Christmas papers, as Eloise thought of them, had been entirely out of line. There was gossip, and then there was treasonous slander. Even after what she had written about her, Eloise had not thought Penelope capable of such deliberate insensitivity. "I will admit that I am not England's staunchest monarchist, but our rulers are still people. What you wrote it is nothing short of inhumane."
"I have written nothing that has not already been said. I report the truth, Eloise, I am the only person in the ton true enough to tell the facts, and brave enough to call the world by name." The loss of an heir had been tragic, but everyone had been concerned over the future of England. The matter of succession had been on everyone's minds and lips. Quite frankly the number of illegitimate grandchildren the crown had was shameful. If the King died with still no legitimate heirs, the throne would eventually pass on to some distant cousin of the royal family. Someone from the continent or Scotland, and quite possibly someone Catholic. If that were to be the case, the Church of England would crumble, and so too would the empire. "You wish to lecture me on cruelty? Take a look at yourself, you abandon me for Cressida who is nothing less than the most spiteful, hate-filled, person either of us have ever known. I do not know of a single woman who has not been slighted by her; she is ruthless in her disdain for me. Was it not Cressida who tried to blackmail your sister during her season? Is whatever boost she gives your ego truly worth the discredit she does to your character?"
Eloise's expression morphed into one of pure revilement, the same kind of disgust and anger she used to bear whenever she heard people like Cressida and Prudence disparage Penelope's name, "I have had quite enough of people speaking ill of a woman whom they have never bothered to know. You of all people should know that I will not stand to hear slander of my friends. I am loyal to those who are dear to me, unlike some people. I am sorry you have felt the need to hide yourself during our friendship, for if Lady Whistledown is the real voice of Penelope, I have never known you at all. We have our differences, and I can no longer abide them. Let us go our separate ways. I will keep your secret, if only because even I do not wish to see your head upon the Queen's chopping block."
She meant it this time, Penelope realised. Eloise truly wanted nothing to do with her. Her words as Lady Whistledown had wholly shattered the friendship that had so vibrantly coloured her life. "No, El, wait! Please, we can-"
"I wish you very well, Penelope. Now you have your life, and I have mine." Eloise's voice had turned cold again. It was a frigidity that had never been aimed at Penelope before. Eloise retreated to the fitting room where Francesca was, thus killing all hopes of further conversation. Penelope, head hung low, retreated to her carriage. The tears that had welled up in her eyes fell silently during the ride back to Featherington house. Rae did not ask about her distress, which was well enough, for Penelope would not have been able to answer.
1. Modistes don't make much money, the're working class. Owning a business is expensive and complicated; many female business owners went bankrupt, and Madame D assumedly has employees to pay. Modistes must present as if they lived in the same lavish style as the ton, this means high expenses to keep business running. Like Sienna Rosso, Genevieve likely needs to be subsidised by wealthy lovers to stay afloat.
2. Recurve is the shape of the bow; this is the "traditional" bow shape. Composite refers to the construction made from a layering of multiple materials. The dustar (the part that bends) would be made from a dense but flexible wood like maple or mulberry. The belly (the side that faces the archer) would be horn, Hungarian cattle or mountain goat for European bows. The back (ironically, this is the front-facing part of the bow) would be layed with glue-soaked sinew that binds to the wood layer. Hide glue attaches the horn and wood layers together. This is the closest appearance to the show-bow.
3. The Ottoman Empire was famous for their recurve bows, which aided in their wildly successful expansion efforts. Even as guns became the main war weapon, Ottoman bows were well respected.
4. Perfume is a super old concept, dating back to early civilization. The first recorded chemist (a woman!) was a perfume maker. Perfume was popularized in the 1300s by Hungarian queen, Elizabeth of Poland. Once Perfume reached France, it became the perfume capitol, and Grasse is still known as the place where the best perfumes come from. Bergamot has a citrus scent, jasmine is floral, and ambergris is sweet but musky. Ambergris is only found in the digestive system of sperm whales and is a result of the successful whaling industry.
5. Paint tubes weren't invented until 1841, so oil paints were mixed by hand in the needed amounts. Hue and intensity were determined by how much oil and pigment was used.
6. A style of music the was first popular in 1600s France, and was widespread by the 1800s. This style has a lot of appregiated chords, rhythmic displacement, and mid-line octave changes. It seeks to avoid monotony and repetition. Ala breve is cut time (2/2) which has 2 beats per bar, as opposed to common time's (4/4) 4 beats per bar. This style might be challenging to those who are only used to waltzes in 4/4.
7. A German Enlightenment feminist. There weren't many German feminists in this time, because the German nations were unstable (Germany was Europe's de-facto war zone, and this really screwed them over). The texts are Das Blüthenalter der Empfindung and Amanda und Eduard. The former is a short book about women's rights to choose her own spouse, and the second is a semi autobiographical story about a woman's right to divorce and control her own money. These books are nigh impossible to find in English now, and probably also were in 1815. I know German tho, and do recommend them if you speak the language. There is no Bavarian book on women's rights like what show-Colin offers.
8. Published by Maria Edegeworth in 1801. The focus is on friendship rather than romance. The titular Belinda, is sent to live in the countryside and meets Lady Delacour who thinks she is dying. Lady Delacour becomes suspicious that Belinda is going to steal her husband once she dies, and the two fall out. Lady D finds out she isn't dying, and the two then reconcile. Lady D teaches Belinda how to be a proper lady, and Belinda teaches Lady D to be kinder to those around her. I think this could make a neat parallel between Eloise and both Pen and Cressida. Emma, which show Eloise says she's reading, had not been published in 1815.
9. Bloomsbury wasn't actually that poor of a place, it only seems it to Eloise. IRL Bloomsbury in the 1800s was an affluent residential area in the land belonging to the Duke of Bedford. It housed many famous authors in the 20th century, see: the Bloomsbury Group. It is/was also home to many publishing agencies, like where Theo works. Theo probably only works in Bloomsbury and doesent work there. The rallies probably didn't take place there either; Eloise and Theo likely traveled together to the rallies (scandalous!).
10. Watch Queen Charlotte: A Bridgerton Story; the Lady W pamphlets are real nasty here. Lady W truly mocks Queen C in the face of the death of her family, and openly questions the stability of her relationship with the king. It's bad, and I think it only makes sense if Pen wrote it when she was emotionally unstable. It should take place in 1817 as per history, but that makes no sense in show canon. By that point Lady W would be a public identity. So it takes place in winter of 1814 here. Bridgerton already messes with history anyway, as Victoria wasn't born until 1819, after the Queen's death in 1818. The historical timeline in regards to the royals seems up for grabs, as I doubt the show will kill off the Queen just for historical accuracy.