Nightly Escapades
Summary: At the Featherington residence, Miss Cressida Cowper unexpectedly catches sight of something she's not supposed to see.
Late August 1814
"Your frown lines are showing," Cressida's mama says as soon as they are alone at the Featherington Ball. And she cannot take it.
The cooling breeze proved to be the catalyst.
It was late August, and her attire, a tight, itchy, and predominantly pink garment, clashed with her personal preferences. Her hair, manipulated excessively throughout the day, compounded her discomfort. A deep breath offered little relief as the constricting dress limited her movements, prompting a desire to discard it entirely. Despite her long-standing aversion to the color pink, a sentiment at odds with her mama's predilection, it remained her designated attire.
August breezes can be hot, humid, and uncomfortable. The week has been rainy and muggy, and she is tired of it. She wants the fall to come, with its calm winds and changing leaves.
Cressida wants the season to end.
She dreams of crisp, cool mornings and cozy evenings by the fire, surrounded by the comforting scents of cinnamon and pumpkin. Cressida can already imagine the sound of leaves crunching beneath her feet as she walks through the park, admiring the vibrant red, orange, and gold hues.
Cressida takes a deep breath again and attempts to relax, but the dress again prevents her. She wants it gone.
She tried to remember how her hair used to look, remembering how soft and healthy it appeared when she presented it. These days, she finds herself spending less time looking in the mirror as she notices how dull and frayed the edges have become with each passing day and with every hairstyle she tries.
She yearns for the change in the air, the promise of new beginnings that autumn always brings. The end of summer may be bittersweet for some, but it can't come soon enough for Cressida. She is ready to embrace all that autumn has to offer and bid farewell to August's sticky, humid days.
But that would mean the end of the season.
The stakes were high - the end of the season loomed ominously, symbolizing failure. Her father's lack of tolerance for her was evident. He saw her as a blunder, a mere placeholder to be replaced. Despite her Mama's repeated efforts to provide a male successor, her father's dissatisfaction was palpable.
So, she became Cressida.
Cressida, the girl.
Cressida, a young girl of tender age, was just eight years old when her mama's belly swelled once more. She was truly happy then, truly her. There was an air of excitement in the household as her father anticipated the arrival of a new member of the family, and for a fleeting moment, joy abounded. However, this jubilation was short-lived. Several weeks later, their happiness turned to sorrow as it became apparent that her mama would not bring a new life into the world but a life that had ceased to be.
The atmosphere at home was heavy with grief and sorrow after Cressida's mother suffered a devastating loss. The once joyous anticipation of a new sibling had given way to a palpable sense of pain and sadness that weighed heavily on the entire family.
In the days following the loss, Cressida observed her parents' ongoing struggle to cope. Her mother, though physically recovering, was emotionally shattered. Meanwhile, her father's demeanor grew increasingly distant as he grappled with his own grief and his cooling personality as the days rolled by.
Cressida, the lady.
In a particular phase of her life, she eagerly anticipated her debut in high society. However, her initial excitement waned and became mundane within the first social season. Event after event, she found herself indulging in the sumptuous cuisine and occasionally engaging with the company present, although not always. It gradually dawned on her that she was repeatedly partaking in similar conversations, albeit with different individuals, each bearing unique names, titles, and wealth. She vividly remembers telling the same story to the same suitor on three separate occasions, hoping that he would recall it the next time they met. However, to her disappointment, he never seemed to remember it at all.
She is now in her second season, which is too long for her father's and mama's liking. The Ton and their parties had lost their luster, lost the finesse.
Cressida, the doll.
These days, Cressida is more like a doll. She dresses up, dawned in her gown, paints her skin, and wears her mask. She finds that her mama prefers her this way, this hollow, empty version of herself, lacking dreams and ambition. So, Cressida, the doll, does what dolls do, and she pretends. She pretends she is cheerful. She portrays herself as the focal point of the social gathering. She reminds herself in her innermost thoughts that there is nothing amiss with her family and that she, like any other young woman making her debut, is in search of a husband. A husband with power, status, and enough money to keep her comfortable, and if she must trade an heir to secure a match, she will do what she must.
But deep down, buried beneath the layers of expectations and societal pressures, Cressida longs for freedom. She yearns to break free from the strings that control her every move and dictate her every decision. She dreams of a life where she can be true to herself, pursue her passions, and chase her own ambitions. To be cut free of her father's strings, which seem to be tangled up and keep her hanging.
The crack in her façade was growing.
So, when she stepped outside into the breeze, she broke. She did not cry, yell, or scream. She stopped. Cressida, the doll, was rotting. And it was rotting away at her. She needed to get out, but she did not know where.
Marriage was one way of leaving. But who would want her? She was clever and ambitious and could be quite pleasant if she put her mind to it. But the men of the Ton had proven to be monotonous.
Cressida has always presented herself as the epitome of grace and beauty, exuding an image of perfection. However, beneath this facade, she grapples with the burden of societal expectations and feels stifled by the confines of her upbringing. The prospect of entering into a loveless marriage fills her with apprehension.
Cressida finds herself standing near the entrance to the ballroom, just close enough to hear the lively music and the hum of conversation filtering through the doors. Feeling overwhelmed by the energy inside, she decides to take a solitary stroll into the garden, seeking refuge amidst the tranquility of nature. She needs some time before she repairs the crack in her facade and spackles over her face with a sneer or a very pointed smile.
As she ventures deeper into the garden, she intentionally positions herself out of sight, allowing the foliage to create a shield between her and the rest of the Ton.
"What of Miss Featherington?" Lord Fife inquired about the whereabouts of Miss Featherington to the foolish Colin Bridgeton. Despite his striking appearance, the Lord was accompanied by his less attractive companions, both his and Colin's. Just beyond the ballroom entrance, a stifling heat lingered in the midst of the summer breeze.
Colin, the fool, Bridgerton, seemed to be caught off guard by Lord Fife's unexpected question. The buffoon stumbled over his words as he tried to come up with a response. He glanced nervously at his friends, who were equally clueless about Miss Featherington's status.
Lord Fife, a man of impeccable taste and refinement, raised an eyebrow at Colin's fumbling attempts to answer his inquiry. The stumbling fool did not realize what he had in Miss Featherington. What a pining mess she was for him.
"Are you really courtingPenelope?" The lord clarifies for the idiot with a smug smirk.
"Miss Featherington?" She heard Collins's voice question. Cressida came around the bend of the bushes to see the gaggle of men standing outside the doorways, chatting, drinking, and smoking.
As the conversation continued, Cressida couldn't shake the envy she felt towards the redhead as their conversation went on. Penelope Featherington was perceptive and compassionate, never resorting to cruelty. Despite appearing harsh to others, Cressida saw her mama as kinder than her own. Portia Featherington protected her daughters from their father's foolishness and never sugarcoated the harsh realities of the world, making them stronger in Cressida's eyes. Better then Cressida.
Despite the stifling heat that hung in the air, Cressida couldn't help but feel a chill run down her spine as he realized that Fife was far superior to the Bridgerton boy in every way.
"I would never dream of courting Penelope." He declared openly. "I'm certainly never going to marry Penelope Featherington."
What an idiot, was her first thought.
As the laughter echoed around them, and before Colin could say another word, Cressida caught sight of a small, fiery-haired girl darting across her field of vision. The girl moved swiftly, almost as if she were a fleeting spirit, disappearing into the wondrous expanse of the Featherington family's vibrant gardens.
Cressida can only imagine the depth of heartbreak the young girl is experiencing, and a wry smile plays at the corner of her lips. It's evident to her that the girl's misfortune is well deserved, considering all that she had done. Cressida's debut season had been marred by difficulties, making it nearly impossible for her to overcome the initial impression she had made on the influential members of the Ton. It was all Penelope Featherington's fault.
Both of them made their debut in the same year. It was cringeworthy to watch her, and her sisters stumble and wander aimlessly in front of the queen. She couldn't help but feel a twinge of pity for the Featherington girls, who seemed ill-equipped for the challenges ahead. Having been meticulously trained for years in debutante etiquette, she knew how to captivate a man with her charm and conversation skills. Despite the initial setback, she found solace in the fact that it meant less competition for her.
She would have been fine if the girl had stayed away like her sisters, but the little redhead did not. Penelope had ruined Cressida's moment in front of Lord Fife. She felt humiliated. The little ginger girl got in her way as she was trying to approach the lord during one of the opening events of her first season. The girl didn't even seem to care or notice her presence. Cressida was trying to make her move when the laughingstock Colin took her off the dance floor. She stood there talking to him while Cressida was attempting to get to the lord.
Seeing little Penelope Featherington waddling away in her lemon-colored, ill-fitting dress makes her want to laugh. It makes her want to cry. Watching her waddle away with tears streaming down her face makes her preen inside. Watching her walk away, tears streaming down her face, evokes a mix of emotions—amusement at her clumsy gait, sadness at her tears, and a deep sense of pride in her resilience.
As for the Featherington family, a palpable sense of peculiarity seemed to be constantly lingering in their midst, making it difficult to pinpoint the exact cause. Despite their appearances, manner of speech, and lavish spending mirroring those of the upper class, there was an indefinable quality about Penelope's family that seemed to irk her deeply.
Archibald, their father, received a title through inheritance, a common practice among the ton. What sets him apart is that his father didn't inherit the title but earned it.
Portia, their mama, unusually pragmatic and constantly calculating, added an intriguing dynamic to the family.
Prudence, the eldest daughter, exuded a strategic prowess, appearing cold and calculating at times. She held her cool demeanor like a shield, using it to maneuver through social interactions. However, she had a keen sense of art and dance. Out of the three, she was the best dancer, practically silent on the dance floor as she graced it with her presence.
Philippa, the middle daughter, came across as dimwitted and peculiar, adding to the enigma that surrounded the family. Despite her outwardly dimwitted persona, those astute enough to look beyond it noticed flashes of brilliance and intelligence, particularly when engaged in discussions about plants and their well-being. And then there was Penelope.
Penelope, the youngest and most enigmatic member of the group. She seemed to emit an aura of peculiarity, not stemming from status or power but from her exceptional intelligence and astute calculations. Cressida had long realized that Penelope possessed a remarkable talent for strategy and adeptness in games. And it seems she inherited this "intelligence" from her mama.
According to Cressida, Penelope Featherington was the embodiment of aristocratic desire. Her charm and grace captivated the attention and piqued the imagination of many lords, solidifying her status as an ideal figure of admiration within aristocratic circles. But it was her oddness that kept them away—her oddness kept her separated, like her sisters, and invisible.
The Bridgerton boy was reckless, foolish, headstrong, and imprudent. Despite the Bridgertons' wealth in the Ton, it became clear to Cressida that it didn't guarantee the finest gentlemen.
Cressida slowly wanders away from Lord Fife and his friends to find a more secluded spot, gathering her thoughts before she must reappear at her mama's side.
As she meanders through the thinned crowd, Cressida's train of thought is abruptly interrupted as she is jostled by a tall, imposing young man. At first, she doesn't even notice him, but he soon comes into view.
He knocks into her. He is in a rush and silent.
"My deepest apologies." Lord Bridgeton utters as he steps back out of her space. Cressida notices Lord Bridgerton dressed in an eloquent, formal attire: a white shirt, black overcoat, and pants. His hair is trimmed, and even his face is clean-shaven.
Cressida's painted face showcases a beaming smile, sparkling eyes, and a radiant expression—the ideal debutante, just as her mama taught her. It is not the first time she has had to dawn her painted face, or her veneer but it is the first time she's had to place it on so fast, and she fears that it is ill-fitting. As she embodies the epitome of a poised debutante, dutifully following her mother's guidance, she reflects on the familiarity of this age-old ritual. However, the urgency of the moment leaves her apprehensive, as though her carefully crafted facade may not seamlessly align with her inner emotions.
"I beg your pardon, my Lord, I failed to notice your presence," she responded, giving a slight bow to the lord in front of her. Cressida noticed the redness and puffiness around his eyes, suggesting that he had either been crying or trying to suppress tears.
"Everything is forgiven," he muttered with a grimace, almost as if an afterthought, attempting to hasten the conversation. She pondered what had compelled the lord to venture outside. Cressida had heard rumors that Lord Bridgerton disliked social gatherings, preferring the solitary tranquility of his study over the company of others.
"Are you in want of company?" She asked, with a hint of sickly sweetness.
Cressida, always observant, could sense the turmoil within him, and she felt a pang of sympathy for the usually stoic lord. She knew that behind his stern facade, there lay a heart burdened with sorrow and loneliness. She knew about his failed wedding to the younger Sharma, Edwina, and subsequent failed romance with the elder Sharma, Kate. She had heard of the failed proposal that Lord Bridgerton had offered the girl not once but twice and received a decline.
Poor, poor Lord Bridgerton, she thought sarcastically. What a sad sap.
"While I appreciate the gesture, I do not require company." He replies sternly as he moves again to move out of the way.
She hesitated, trying to gauge how much longer she could maintain the strange, awkward tension between them. Quietly, she pondered how far she could push him before he would begin to unravel.
"Are you sure, Lord Bridgerton?" Cressida asked with a tight but cheerful-looking smile, "I can be great company." She concluded.
She hears him sigh, "Rest assured," he stated through clutched teeth, "Miss Cowper, I will manage on my own."
"But it would be remiss of me to see you leave so dissatisfied." She replies, "But if one insists. I can't help but oblige." Cressida ends with a slight bow to the Lord.
Lord Bridgerton stands tense and rigid for a moment before bowing his head slightly to her and walking away into the gardens.
She observes him heading in the same direction as the Featherington girl, which strikes Cressida as odd. For a moment, she considers following him. After all, Lord Bridgerton is quite wealthy. The scandal of discovering the two of them together, secluded in a garden, would surely be reported by Whistledown. This scandal would provide enough assurance for him to marry her.
Cressida makes her decision and walks after him, keeping in mind to keep a distance enough away so that she may not be heard but close enough so that she may see him. He walks through the twisted turns of the maze, which is Featherington's gardens in full bloom, lighted by moonlight. The slights and sound of the ball fade as she follows him.
She moves as swiftly as he does, deftly navigating her way through the intricate gardens, keeping a close distance behind the frustrated Lord. Her aim is to incite a confrontation in the hopes of securing a marriage. Cressida often finds herself lost in daydreams of what her life could be like as a Bridgerton Viscountess. In her vivid fantasies, she envisions the opulence, influence, and prosperity that would accompany such a prestigious title. These daydreams provide an escape from her current reality and offer a glimpse into a world where she has everything she could ever desire, as well as freedom from the constraints imposed by her father.
And then he stops. And then so does she.
Lord Bridgerton knocks into someone again as he did just moments earlier with her, except the person he knocked into has vibrant, red hair, and she is weeping. He pulls the girl in closer before letting go. The lord and the red-headed girl seem to exchange a few words, as she is not close enough to hear them when they whisper before sitting on opposite sides of the pavilion.
She watches and waits to see if there is anything worthy of note to whisper about at future tea parties.
They stay like that on the opposite sides of the pavilion, simply existing in the sounds of the garden that surrounds them. And Cressida becomes bored of watching them as she tries to inch closer. She creeps along some taller hedges, hoping their height covers her movements. Cressida picks up her feet to mute her steps as she edges closer to the pair.
She can't hear them clearly, but she can catch a few words. It's only when she moves closer that their conversation becomes more distinct. Cressida observes as they sit in the quiet of the night and become very bored quite quickly.
"I must take my leave, Lord Bridgerton," Penelope said after a while.
Lord Bridgerton nodded, not looking at the redhead but at his own hands instead.
Penelope suddenly stopped just as she was about to exit the pavilion, her eyes turning back to Lord Bridgerton with a thoughtful expression.
"Time may not heal all wounds, but it certainly can dull them," she said, her words laced with a hint of melancholy. The girl hesitated, a flicker of realization crossing her face as she recognized the audacity of her words in the context of society's rules. As she turned to leave, the lord gently caught hold of one of her arms.
"Thank you, Penelope," she overheard the Lord says, his tone filled with a mix of gratitude and concern. In that moment, Lord Bridgerton seemed torn, as if deciding whether to release the girl's arm or not, his expression reflecting a myriad of conflicting emotions.
"Lord Bridgerton?" Penelope questioned.
"I…" He pauses.
Lord Bridgerton then pulls the girl in and kisses her—a short and soft brush of their lips lasting just long enough for the span of a breath. Their breath mingles as their eyes both close, seeming to savor the brief but profound connection—Cressida's heart races.
How fascinating, she thinks with a grin.
As they pull away, Cressida watches as Penelope opens her eyes to meet his gaze, her cheeks flushed with excitement and anticipation. Lord Bridgerton's eyes are filled with longing and tenderness, a silent promise of what could be between them.
"Lord Bridgerton," the girl states with a grasp, raising her freed hand to her lips.
"Forgive me," the lord whispers. The lord stands with one hand still on the redhead's arm, seemingly caught in the spell of that brief and gentle kiss.
The fiery-haired woman cast her eyes downwards, her skin tingling at the touch of the lord's hand, which held her arm with a tender grip. His finger moved slowly across the bearskin of her arm.
Lord Bridgerton seems to remember who and where he is and releases the girl's arm, then steps away.
"I apologize," the lord whispers softly with a bow as he turns to walk away.
Cressida watches in both horror and fascination at the exchange.
She can't wait to see what Whistledown writes about these two, for surely a clandestine meeting between the youngest Featherington girl and the Anthony Lord Bridgerton, ninth Viscount to his line, would create such a scandal. Bridgerton and the Featherington have been family friends for years. It would only be polite for the Lord to marry the little girl.
The prospect of a union between the two families would be met with both excitement and trepidation, as the Viscount's reputation as a notorious rake would precede him. At the same time, the Featherington daughter is known for her innocence and naivety. The Featheringtons and Bridgertons have long been intertwined through friendship and familial ties, making the potential match between the Viscount and the young lady seem almost predestined if it was not so sad that the youngest Featherington was head over heels in love with the third brother, Colin, the fool.
And then, of course, there's a deer sweet Eloise, the Viscount's sister and best friend to the youngest Featherington, to be a fly on the wall when the Lord must announce his engagement to the little girl.
She envisions the young couple delicately treading through the perilous realms of high society, where the alliances among the elite are fragile, and reputations can be instantaneously and irrevocably tarnished by the relentless whispers and rumors that permeate their circle.
Cressida can see it now, reveling in anticipation of their impending suffering.
If only I had been faster, she thinks, she could've gotten what the Featherington is now going to receive.
Despite the facades she puts up for the world, there are moments when glimpses of the real Cressida shine through. Moments when her eyes betray a spark of defiance, a hint of rebellion against the life that has been carved out for her. She holds onto these moments, cherishing them like precious gems in a sea of conformity.
But, for now, Cressida will hollow herself out and make room for nothing—the way her mama wants her to be as she walks back to the ball.
For now, she is a doll, but not forever.