Carefully choosing a white day dress adorned with blue flowers, Emily made her way down to the morning room, her heart light with the promise of the day. Inside, the buffet breakfast awaited: a display of eggs, bacon, sausages, and fresh coffee filling the air with warmth. She served herself, casting a hopeful glance across the room. Benedict was already seated, though—much to her dismay—surrounded by eager admirers. She offered him a quiet smile when his eyes met hers, a polite look that concealed the way her heart raced. He responded with a wide, genuine smile, though his attention was soon demanded by the other young women peppering him with questions.
Settling at a nearby seat, Emily joined in polite conversation with those around her, though her heart fluttered whenever Benedict looked her way. When her plate was taken away by a footman, Benedict seized the moment, moving close enough to murmur, "Are you ready for a tour?"
Her face lit up, and she rose eagerly. "A tour?" Before she could respond, Mrs. Grace, standing nearby, leaned in with a too-bright smile. "Mr. Bridgerton, a tour sounds wonderful. Of course, my daughter and I would be delighted to join!"
A small wave of horror prickled through Emily. The sheer boldness of the Graces was almost dizzying. Benedict looked between Emily and Mrs. Grace, clearly weighing his options. But with a resigned nod, he forced a smile. "Of course, it would be my pleasure." His glance back at Emily was apologetic, but that did little to soothe the frustration bubbling in her chest.
Soon, a small group of seven gathered around Benedict as he led them through the grand entrance hall. His tone was courteous as he pointed out the intricate stained glass windows that cast playful patterns across the marble floor. Emily, trailing toward the end of the group, found herself exasperated by her company—Miss Grace was standing closer to Benedict than seemed necessary, clinging to every word and laughing a touch too loudly at innocuous comments.
They crossed into the formal drawing room, a magnificent space with high-backed chairs, plush sofas, and an imposing fireplace at its center. Emily drifted closer to the fireplace, studying the delicate carvings along its edge.
Benedict moved beside her, his voice soft as he explained, "This was actually put here by my great-grandfather. It's one of the original features of the house."
Emily turned to ask about the carvings, but her question was cut short. Miss Grace swept in, tugging at Benedict's arm. "Mr. Bridgerton, you must tell me about this painting over here." She leaned in, her voice tinged with unearned familiarity as she drew him away. Emily clenched her jaw, inhaling deeply to quell her mounting irritation.
"The gallery has many more fine portraits," he announced, leading the way into a long room lined with family portraits and vivid landscapes. Emily trailed behind, eventually finding herself in front of a painting of a stately oak tree, its branches stretching with quiet dignity. She settled onto a nearby sofa, captivated by the image's haunting beauty.
Benedict joined her, taking a seat beside her and looking up at the painting. "What do you think of it?" he asked softly, his tone intimate amidst the hushed gallery.
Emily studied the painting thoughtfully. "It's beautiful, yet haunting," she said. "There's something about this oak—it seems both proud and solemn, as though it's seen ages of joy and sorrow pass beneath its branches. It's almost as if it's quietly watching over this land, bearing witness to every change and every person who has walked here."
Benedict listened intently, his gaze fixed on her rather than the painting. She turned to meet his eyes, drawn in by the quiet understanding between them. "I painted that one. My…my father is buried there." His voice softened, and in that moment, the rest of the world faded for Emily. Benedict sat before her, vulnerable and hopeful, revealing a piece of himself she sensed few others had seen. Her hand moved instinctively toward his, wanting to offer comfort, to close the unspoken space between them.
But before she could touch him, an exaggerated cry shattered the moment. "OH! Ow, Mr. Bridgerton, come quick!" Both turned to find Miss Grace clutching her ankle, her mother calling for Benedict's assistance.
"My ankle, I do believe it is twisted, Mr. Bridgerton," she claimed with a plaintive tone, though Benedict's expression hinted at skepticism. A flicker of annoyance passed over his face before he rose, walking toward her.
"Can you walk on it?" he asked evenly.
"I think so," Miss Grace replied, her voice laced with exaggerated bravery, "but I shall need your assistance to finish the tour. Lend me your arm, if you would be so kind."
With forced patience, Benedict replied, "Miss Grace, if you believe it twisted, perhaps you should retire to your room to rest it?"
"Oh no, Mr. Bridgerton. I shall continue on with you. I am not one to complain."
Emily felt a twinge of exasperation, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. How much longer could she bear this display?
The group proceeded toward the sunroom, where wide doors opened onto lush gardens. Despite the open doors, the room felt unbearably warm, and the sight of Miss Grace's constant proximity to Benedict only intensified the heat. Emily trailed behind, feeling her mood grow darker as Miss Grace continued to lean close, peppering Benedict with questions, filling the space with giggles and syrupy glances.
As the group crowded forward, Emily lingered near the entrance, overcome by the oppressive heat and the weight of her own simmering frustration. After a few minutes, she turned quietly, retreating back through the portrait gallery, the echo of Miss Grace's laughter fading behind her. Wandering through the corridors, she took a wrong turn and entered the library, a quiet sanctuary where Benedict's younger sister, Eloise, was seated in a corner, engrossed in a book.
"Oh. Sorry, I must have taken a wrong turn," she said as Eloise looked up from her book.
"Where was it you were trying to get to?"
"Away. So, I suppose maybe there were no wrong turns," Emily added glancing over her shoulder.
"Ah. Fed up with Benedict's tour? He can go on a bit."
"More…with his admirers." She admitted sheepishly.
Eloise laughed. "Ah. Felicity Grace? She's been clinging to Benedict like a barnacle on a ship's hull all season." Eloise laughed lightly but with a hint of sharpness, as though the spectacle amused her only because it was predictable.
She leaned back in her chair, her fingers tracing the spine of her book, eyes gleaming with mischief. "But that's not what you were asking, is it? You're wondering why I don't seem to care much about all this talk of marriage."
Emily glanced up, surprised. Eloise continued, her expression softening. "The truth is, I think marriage is a beautiful thing—for some, of course. But I don't believe it's the only way a woman's life can be full. I mean, I would like to choose my own path, rather than be tied down to someone else's." She grinned. "Not that I'd tell Mama that. She already thinks I'm too much of a wild card as it is."
Emiy was more confused than she had been before stepping into the room.
"But if you are concerned about someone like Felicity, I should at least give my brother the smallest bit of credit and say she is nothing you should feel concerned about. Although I shall deny if you ever tell him I said that."
"We are just good friends, you know," Emily said suddenly. She did not know why it had suddenly become important to tell someone this. Eloise said nothing, but did raise an eyebrow.
Maybe that is what bothered her. That she felt something was missing from her own self. These young women were fighting over one another to secure husbands. To start their own families. Maybe there was a defect deep inside her that she was in defense of.
Yes, she greatly enjoyed Benedict's company. More so than that of any other young man she had ever known. But…was it enough to satisfy?
"There is no reason why any other young woman should not still have designs on him. Nothing…I mean he has not…" Emily blushed deeply, before slumping down in the seat opposite Eloise.
"Your family," she started, slowly, "They seem to be under the impression that there may be an agreement between myself and your brother. There is not."
"Do you wish there to be?" Eloise asked, placing her book to one side. Emily hesitated again, confused as to why she was opening up to a woman she had only had a passing conversation with previously.
"I enjoy our conversations, and sometimes I wonder if there might be a future for me in something more. But… in truth, I do not know that I am destined for marriage. I've seen what it does to women—how they lose themselves, how they are expected to be nothing more than a reflection of their husbands. I wonder if I could be anything more than that, Eloise."
She paused, her fingers tightening around the armrest of the chair. "I've never imagined a life for myself that's confined to the expectations of a wife and mother. What if there is more I could do? More I could be?"
The pair sat in silence, contemplating the words spoken.
"Then what would you do? What would you want to do?"
"I," she started. "I think I should like to make a difference. To leave it a better place. And I am not sure that can be done, as a wife and a mother." Emily bit her lip. It was as though she had just realised the truth to her words. And it broke her heart a bit.
"Please do not tell your brother of our conversation," She added. Benedict had never once suggested to Emily that he was inclined towards marriage. Not with her, anyway. They had of course flirted. But right now, he was in the gardens flirting with Felicity. It meant nothing.
Emily once again felt restless, and after having gained Eloise's word that their conversation would remain between the pair of them, Emily once again went in search of the sanctuary of her bedroom.