Early February 1815
Mayfair, London
Mayfair had once more become lively with the hustle and bustle of the incoming upper-class. The season (1) had been set to a peculiar start, and families less in the know had found themselves quite rushed in their journeys to and from the ton. Carriages came in droves from the still winter-frozen countryside as eager families raced to officially start the social season. The permafrost in the soil had not yet the chance to melt, much to the relief of the coachmen who led the horses and carriages on roads of rock-hard frozen soil. It was not especially pleasant riding, the hardness and immovable texture of the frozen dirt made the trip far bumpier for the passengers, but most coachmen – and horses – agreed that frozen roads made for quicker and easier travel than the spring muds that would trip the horses, sink carriages, and rip wheels straight off an axle. With clear skies and not a snowstorm in sight, the gentry descended rapidly on the ton like flies upon a day-old ham hock.
The excitement for the season was palpable as people hurried about their day. There was much to talk about, as there often was, and even the women could not be kept from hearing of the daily politics. For one, that foolish war (2) in the Americas seemed well on its way to settling down, to the great relief of many a parliamentary lord; for they would much rather worry about the greater military issues of the day. Namely the looming cloud that was Napoleon's fall. The so-called Emperor of France had been exiled and replaced by a proper monarch (3), yes, but the Congress of Vienna had dug its bureaucratic heels into the ground and failed to make any progress whatsoever with what to do next, and it troubled the politically minded gentlemen a great deal. The social season, in its own odd way, gave the gentry a pleasant escape from their troubles and worries, and many had been looking forward to the chance to shift their attention to the breathtaking balls and beautiful debutantes they knew were soon to arrive.
Always perfectly timed for the utmost convenience and drama, the first Whistledown pamphlet of the season had arrived only a few short days after the first of the respectable ton members. Paperboys flitted about the London Uptown with poorly concealed glee; their best source of income had finally returned. Upon familiar pages read:
Dearest Gentle Reader,
We have been apart for far too long. At last, London's fashionable set has made its return. And so too, has this author. Have you missed me as greatly as I missed you? Well, most of you. I have at the very least, missed the drama that ensues when you find yourself together for the season, and I suspect you feel very much the same. It is not quite as exciting in your quiet country homes, is it? As the season begins, the question on everyone's mind is, of course, which newly minted debutante will shine the brightest? This author finds herself practically chomping at the bit to see the fresh batch of respectable ladies who will make their appearances. The crop this year appears to be rather dazzling. There is the exquisite Miss Malhotra, said to be quite a catch. Miss Stowell is thought to be a most accomplished young lady. The mild-mannered Miss Hartigan will certainly appeal to genteel suitors. Miss Kenworthy is a welcome entry, brimming with confidence and charisma. And then there is Miss Barragan, who certainly stands out in a crowd. And let us not forget, should we all need a little excitement, there is another Bridgerton making her debut this year. Alas, we must wait for the Queen's patient discretion to truly start the festivities.
Debutantes aside, there is also the question of which gentleman will reveal himself as the prize of the season. For our young ladies will certainly need someone dashing at whom to set their caps. Whoever it is that makes the finest match this year, let us hope that their pairing brings some titillation. For of the status quo, this author quickly grows weary. How can the ladies of the season be expected to feel anything but the blandest of interest if the fine gentlemen of the ton cannot step up to capture their attention? Must we wait forever for someone gallant to rise the ranks and spark excitement in the hearts and minds of us all?
Until that spark comes, I am always listening.
Yours truly,
Lady Whistledown.
Penelope could not help but smile as she stepped out of the carriage; all around her people read the Whistledown pamphlets. Her pamphlets. Ladies and men alike, young and old, respectable and… less so. All read her heard work. The fruits of her labour. If Penelope was to be shunted to the side and ignored in perpetuity, she could at the very least revel in her hidden fame. There were rather splendid perks to being unnoticeable, and if the ton did not enjoy the sight of their personal business published in her gossip sheets, perhaps they ought to learn to keep their fat mouths shut. Or to check for listening ears, at the very least.
For once, Penelope found herself agreeing entirely with her mother. It was very good to be back indeed.
Girls poured into the modiste's, each with a copy of Lady Whistledown clutched in their delicate hands, and tittered over what was written about them. They beamed with such joy and pride over a simple mention of their names, over a few polite but impersonal words. Several times, Penelope had to keep herself from laughing at the delighted exclamations of 'look, mama!' and 'she mentioned me, can you believe it?'. If only they knew the woman who had them so captivated stood right beside them, patiently waiting while her own mama fretted and fussed over the new batch of dresses for her two now-married daughters. It was a good thing, Penelope had learned, to start off the season on a pleasant note for everyone. The confidence it inspired in the ton ladies led to better, more scandalous, gossip, and made Lady Whistledown's sheets all that much more interesting to read. She could not very well keep customers with a dull scandal sheet, now, could she?
Madame Delacroix's business was nothing less than thriving, thanks in no small part to Lady Whistledown's defense of her the year prior. The other modiste, the new one from last season, had not seemed to open shop this time around. The storefront of the lesser modiste remained dim and empty, void of dresses and of ladies. Penelope felt pride at the sight; the day she let a woman as good and accommodating as Genevieve Delacroix be run out of business by some false French upstart would be a sorry day indeed. She did not know where the new modiste had slunk off too, a feat in and of itself as Penelope was rather used to knowing things, but she could only hope that the woman had gone back to France in defeat with her tail between her legs. Madame Delacroix had since been sure to show her appreciation, and if Penelope's dresses always had an extra bit of tasteful embroidery or beading, free of charge, then it was rightly earned for defending the livelihood of a fellow woman.
Her fellow woman. It was a phrase she had picked up from Eloise, one of her favourites whenever she would so passionately speak on the politics of personal rights. If Penelope was honest, she did not listen to Eloise's musings as often as she pretended to; there were only so many lectures on feminism one could stand before the mere thought sent her into a veritable fugue state. Eloise was, had been, a great friend for many years; an incomparable playmate in childhood, a wonderful alibi whenever Portia Featherington became too overbearing, and a staunchly loyal defender of Penelope's when no one else spared her a second thought. She was, above all, someone with whom Penelope could share her love of reading and writing without judgement. For the longest time, it had not mattered that their other interests were so terribly opposed; Penelope yearned for true love, Eloise desired emancipation, Penelope longed for the ton to accept her while Eloise desperately wished for refined society to leave her alone. They were, in many ways, as different could possibly be. But none of that had mattered because they would both end up in the same place; spinsters living with their mamas. They were to be friends forever, sharing in the single life; one single by choice, the other simply never chosen. That was the plan until Eloise had to muck everything up and get herself in hot water with the Queen, anyway.
Who had given her the right to lift Penelope's floorboards and rifle through her drawers in the first place? That was her own private domicile, thank you very much, and how Penelope chose to pursue her hobbies was, quite frankly, no one else's business. Especially not the business of someone like Eloise, who had the perfect life and had never once had to face the isolation of not being accepted by one's own peers. If Penelope had been a Bridgerton, as she so often dreamed, she would be nothing but grateful for the life she was given. She had published Eloise's secret in Whistledown, yes, but only out of necessity. It was done out of love, for Eloise's best interest! It brought her no joy to slander her dear friend's name in such a way. What other options were there? Penelope could not, would not, give up something she loved, the only source of joy and power she had in her dull life, simply because Eloise had gotten on the wrong side of the Queen. Queen Charlotte wouldn't have even been suspected if Eloise hadn't been sneaking off to the dangerous ends of London to meet with a man. Besides, Eloise was a Bridgerton; that family shrugged off scandal like water from a duck's back. The off-season had provided ample time for the whole mess to blow over, she was sure of it. Penelope simply needed to find a moment with Eloise and get her to listen. Perhaps if she made her way to Bridgerton house, she would at least be able to see her dear friend and start mending their relationship.
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Early February 1815
Bridgerton House, Mayfair
The lilting tune of the pianoforte drifted through the house as four nosy Bridgertons crowded around the door to Francesca's room, already dressed and prepared for the day (truly a feat as the two youngest Bridgertons rarely bothered to rise before ten). Violet, hair neatly pinned up and decorated with a fine string of pearls, pressed her ear to the panels of the door and listened for something. Anything, any sound which might confirm that Francesca was alive and readying herself in her room and not drowned in the bath or unconscious from sheer fright. Gregory, who had yet another growth spurt over the off-season and was well chuffed to find himself finally taller than Hyacinth, mirrored his mother and listened for signs of life through the door. Aforementioned sister, Hyacinth, paced restlessly in the hall and swung her fan to and fro. She was, as she had been for all of her sisters' debuts, more excited than the debutante herself. Eloise leaned against the wall and impatiently watched her family make a fuss. She wished for the whole fanfare to be done and over with so she would not have to wear her elegantly decorated frock for longer than was strictly necessary. It was a lovely dress, finely embroidered with a delicate lace and tulle collar. The dammed dress even had a silk bow fashioned neatly at the neck, which only served to make Eloise feel even more like a particularly pampered animal to be trotted out and sold to the highest bidder. Eloise despised it with an ire specifically reserved for the asinine and ever-changing fashion trends. She had promised to behave and keep her head down for the season, though, and so wore it without a single complaint.
"I cannot hear a thing from Francesca's room," Gregory was quick to inform Benedict as the second son joined the awaiting family crowd. He looked as impatient as Eloise felt and kept his hands on his hips intentionally to convey exactly that.
"Probably because she knows we are eavesdropping and would prefer to spare her privacy." Eloise attempted to grab both her mother and younger brother to pull them away from the door, and received a disapproving tut from Violet for her troubles. "I am sure she is well enough to peacock about exactly as the Queen wants her to."
"Oh, perfectly fine, as you were last year? I seem to recall you drank enough water to drown a fish, as if that would calm your nerves." Benedict could not help but to needle at his dear sister who had, during her first season, looked so extraordinarily out of place in the feather headband and crème gown that he had to ask her if she wasn't ill at least six times before they even made it to the carriages.
"This is not last year," Violet beat her daughter to the response, and a good thing for it, as Eloise seemed very close to demonstrating her especially unladylike vocabulary, "Francesca is…" she struggled to find the words that would best prove her point without insulting anyone in the process.
"Very quiet." It was an accurate description of Francesca's character, she was indeed a quiet woman, but at that particular moment Gregory had meant the observation to reflect on the sounds, specifically the lack thereof, that came from Francesca's room.
"Perhaps," Hyacinth's chipper mood would not and could not be brought down by her family's morning moodiness, this was an exciting day, even if she was the only one to be excited for it, "perhaps she has been stunned into silence by the beauty of that giant feather!" Hyacinth was the only one who found the feather fashionable and was very eager to wear it herself one day, a thought which she happily voiced to the waiting family.
Because there were not enough people crowded in the hallway to wait for Francesca, Anthony and Kate stepped out from their room to try and usher along the still waiting group. The piano tune changed, as the previous song finished, and the player downstairs moved on to a new piece.
Violet sighed, between the piano music and the entire family around her, she did not expect to be able to hear what caused her daughter to dawdle so. "Would you mind asking whoever is playing downstairs to quieten down so that I might hear?"
As if only just processing what she had said, and after a bit of mental arithmetic in which she concluded that all her other children were upstairs with her, Violet turned to the stairs and led the charge of Bridgertons to the drawing room.
Benedict sniggered and turned to Eloise, "Who else would be playing pianoforte in this house?"
"Certainly not me, you know my thoughts on the instrument." Eloise had never been very skilled on the piano, although she was a splendid violinist when she wanted to be. And when her tutor, who had long since left the Bridgerton house after a series of especially vicious pranks several years back, was not set on reprimanding her for playing it like a commoner's fiddle (4) and not the elegant orchestral instrument it was intended to be.
Sure enough, Francesca was sat upon the piano bench, playing away as if the day was no different from any other. Except that, of course, it was. The long and, in Francesca's humble opinion, cumbersome train of her gown had been carefully draped over the back of the piano bench and trailed off well beyond that onto the floor. The feather headband with which Hyacinth was so enamoured had been placed on one of the small side tables. Even as the family filed into the room, Francesca played on.
As Eloise had her books with which to retreat into whenever life got too much, Francesca had her music. The smooth ivory keys and polished brass dampers were as familiar to her as her own mind. There was a soothing quality to a good melody that Francesca simply could not find in anything else. In the Bridgerton house, always brimming with noise and colour and many loud, so very loud, siblings, the piano was Francesca's respite. Each note on a well-tuned piano rang out crystal clear and painted her world in pleasing shades of lilac. Violet Bridgerton maintained that, due to the language of flowers, lilac was the color of first love. If that was true, then Francesca's first love was the brown Broadwood (5) Fortepiano in the Bridgerton drawing room. The melody carried Francesca's mind far away from Bridgerton house, away from the stressful social events she knew would take up much of her time for the foreseeable future. It was not that she didn't like the social season, she was not Eloise, but rather that it intimidated her. Slightly. The mere thought of attending party after party and speaking to a never-ending line of eligible suitors simply exhausted her. Francesca was a quiet girl, calm and practical, and she neither wanted nor needed the dramatic fanfare that had been the love lives of her two married siblings. She wanted a quiet, comfortable, kind of love. Someone she could relax around; someone she didn't need to perform for. Francesca wanted true love as much as any other Bridgerton sister, but she was not naïve. She knew how uncommon love matches were and considered it nothing more than happy chance that Anthony and Daphne and stumbled their way into love matches. Francesca did not need a love match. She needed stability and an uncomplicated life with a man agreeable enough to provide that for her. Marriage first, love later, as was the motto of so many other ton families. Francesca could learn to love a kind husband, she simply needed to find one.
"Francesca!"
Violet's slightly raised voice pulled Francesca out of her musings. She stopped her playing and gave her mother the smallest of disapproving frowns, "There is no need to shout, I can hear you perfectly well."
Hyacinth pouted and looked from Francesca to the direction of her room, where she by all means should have been, "How did you get down here without my noticing? I've been outside your door all morning waiting to see you!"
Francesca smiled demurely at her little sister; however early Hyacinth had risen, she had risen earlier, "I woke up early. Got dressed, took breakfast in the garden. Because it is just another day." She had gotten quite good, over the years, at hiding any nervousness from her family. What they didn't know couldn't hurt them, besides, Francesca knew exactly what it was she ought to do and knew exactly what kind of person she was looking for. She donned her feathered headband and walked out of the room, pointedly ignoring how Benedict explained to their mother which tune, exactly, she had been playing. Mozart's Funeral March. Everything was fine.
In high spirits now that they no longer had to fear that Francesca might flee the coop, the Bridgertons spilled out of the front door and down the fine stone steps, where they were met with a gaggle of women where the footmen ought to have been.
"What are they all squawking about?" Hyacinth had been the first to spot the crowd of noble ladies clustered around an unknown source. Though not particularly kind in phrasing, to call it squawking was not untrue. Adorned in an array of brilliantly bright colours, the flock of women had filled the air with the sound of flirtatious laughter and giggles expertly hidden behind fluttering fans. If one had any sense of imagination and had been to the Queen's Garden sometime in the previous year, one would find a strong resemblance between the tittering ladies and the birds of the Queen's aviary.
Anthony, still jovial from his honeymoon, chuckled, "Looks like they've spotted a side of beef."
The crowd parted like the red sea, and out from the depth, scruffy and weather-worn like Moses himself, strode Colin in sensible, if not a bit frayed, traveling clothes. Evidently, the ton ladies had found something about the week's worth of unshaven stubble, mud caked boots, and salt-stiff brown leather overcoat very attractive. That, or they fancied the new way in which Colin carried himself. He had put on a good tan thanks to his time in the Mediterranean and had about him an air of self-assured confidence that he had not possessed the previous year.
The women sighed and waved their goodbyes as he swaggered over to his kin. "Family! Apologies for my late arrival, I got stuck in presentation traffic." He shot an amused glance back at the lingering few women, who blushed and simpered on cue, "Do you not wish to greet me?"
Penelope watched from behind the hedges of the Featherington house as the Bridgertons crowded their final member. She could not keep the look of immense disappointment, and a small tinge of fear, from her face. Colin, whom she so dearly loved despite her numerous attempts not to, seemed changed. Worse yet, this change caused the ladies to flock to him like bees in a garden. She had known she would not be able to maintain her friendship with Colin forever, that she would eternally be regarded as "Eloise's odd friend" to him, but she had not thought she'd lose the pleasure of his company so early. At 24, Colin was still young to be married, but the idea would not cause people to double take as it had when he'd proposed to Marina two years before. Penelope felt the dread of loss hit her full on as she realized her ties to the Bridgerton family, for whom she had nothing but the highest regard, could very well be entirely severed, and soon. It was bad enough that she had nearly lost Eloise, she could not bear it if her only other friend left her as well.
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Early February 1815
Buckingham House, London
The carriage ride to Buckingham House (6) was a jovial but rushed affair, as far as the boys were concerned. Colin had been made by Anthony to change into a fresh outfit, provided by Benedict who had run back into the house to grab it for him, as a dirtied traveling suit was hardly suitable to hold the presence of the Queen. The men questioned Colin of his second tour while he hastily changed in the cramped carriage interior.
"Upon your return last season, we heard all about your toil across the Mediterranean Sea by the time we broke our first fast. I should not expect to tire of your new adventurous tales until, say, afternoon tea." It was of both personal and professional interest as the head of the household that Anthony asked Colin. The younger brother had never managed to live down his first reckless engagement, nor his ill-advised investment in the estranged Lord Featherington's nonexistent ruby mines, and as such Anthony had made a habit of checking in on Colin to ensure no more frivolous mistakes were made.
Benedict had other interests; he had seen the ladies swoon over his brother, and while a year prior Colin might have been flustered at the onslaught of attention, he now seemed to take it in stride and even revel in it. It was decidedly unlike him, and Benedict intended to get to the bottom of the issue "Indeed. And under what foreign sun did get so sturdy? Squandered all your touring funds and taken up manual labour as a means of survival, have you?"
Colin kept his lips tight, "I was nowhere and everywhere, I shall not bore you with the details like I did last year."
"I must know, who are you and what have you done with our long-winded brother?" Anthony, indeed, had been in far more a jesting mood since his nuptials, much to the relief of the men of the house, who had grown tired of hearing about duty and responsibility at what seemed to be all hours of the day.
"This time away was exactly what I needed." Colin had finished with his shirt and had begun on his cravat, "It has given me some sense of proportion."
"I should like some… proportion." Gregory looked moodily out the carriage window as he tried in vain to dodge Colin's elbows which had made themselves quite the erratic weapon while he dressed. Due largely to years of teasing from Hyacinth, Gregory had acquired somewhat of a complex about his height. It was not enough to be taller than the ladies of the family; he had mama, Hyacinth, and Eloise beat or at least matched, but Francesca still had some inches on him, and he felt positively diminutive next to his substantially taller brothers. Said brothers shared a look and laughed when Gregory said this and refused to elaborate when he asked. He did not think they were laughing about his height, but something else entirely, and he felt rather cross that they would not explain what was so funny about his want for proportion.
The ladies' carriage was somewhat more subdued. Francesca was in no mood for conversation, as she sat with her eyes closed and breathed even rhythmic breaths. She tried, and failed, to tune out the grind of wheel on stone and axle on wheel that sent unpleasant shocks of pea soup green and rust brown behind her eyes. Francesca was calm, and she intended to stay that way, even if she had to try very hard to do so.
Eloise, too, was in a mood, although for different reasons. She was glad indeed to not present to the Queen, that particular torture was to only be done once, but she did not relish in the tangible start of the season. There was no joy to be found in watching the couple dozen new girls walk down the aisle to bow for the Queen. It would be too much time made to pretend she cared for the latest fashions and signifiers of elegance, not to mention she would have to stand for the whole of it. The best she could hope for was that she would manage to situate herself next to Benedict so that they might converse quietly to stave off the boredom. It was not that Eloise wasn't excited for Francesca, alright she wasn't but if this made the rest of her sisters happy then so be it, she just didn't understand why they all must attend an event which paraded girls about as if they were purebred dogs or racehorses and not living, thinking, people.
When they arrived, Violet and Francesca split off from the family to make for the ladies' waiting room. The rest of the Bridgertons filled in the sidelines of the ceremony like good aristocratic citizens. Eloise, at least, secured her favoured spot next to Benedict, though she'd had to elbow Gregory rather hard to get it. Gregory had just righted the wrinkles caused by such a scuffle when the first debutante strode in with her mama. From there, the presentations blurred together, various miss somethings presented by their right honourable mamas of miscellaneous title. Queen Charlotte, sat upon her gilded throne and draped in her cape of fur and richly dyed blue velvet, did not seem impressed. She stroked one of her many dogs idly and made no effort to hide her yawns and bored expressions. The mamas had become antsy with the worry that there might not be a diamond at all. Eloise could not have cared less about the announcement of a diamond, and entertained herself by trying to guess what exactly the extraordinarily large and puffy wig on the Queen's head was made of. Fashionably late, in the sense that he was late because he needed more time to right his fashion, Colin subtly strode in through a side door and joined Eloise at her right. Though he said nothing, he seemed unsettled by Eloise's silent acceptance of the many frills and ribbons she had been made to wear.
In the waiting galley, Violet fretted over her daughter. She straightened the dress's train for the hundredth time and rubbed Francesca's back comfortingly. Francesca rather thought the motion was for her mama's benefit rather than her own.
A bit vexed at her daughter's stony and calm exterior, Violet couldn't help but speak, "It is your debut, Francesca. Are you not excited?"
Francesca kept level, "I suppose entering society means I might meet someone. It would be pleasant to have my own house. I could use the peace."
"Only a week back from Bath and you are already eager to escape us." She hid the pain behind a dry chuckle, "If peace is what you are after, you may find this all rather more overwhelming than you would like. You know, even Daphne—"
"Mama, do not trouble yourself. If I can be at ease in the chaos of our home, surely, I shall find my way in the season." As with any younger sibling, Francesca did not love being compared to her older, infinitely successful, sister. Truthfully, Daphne and Eloise served as two extreme examples of what she did not want this season. Daphne with her whirlwind romance caught between the advances of several men, not to mention her scandalously rushed marriage, had far too dramatic and eventful a season for Francesca's taste. Though it worked for Daph, she did not wish for such excitement. Eloise, too, was not someone whose season Francesca wished to emulate. Spinsterhood and independence suited her sister perfectly well, but those things were not for Francesca. Nor was sneaking around Bloomsbury to attend the rallies of political radicals, though these things had not surprised her nearly as much as they apparently did the rest of the family. Eloise had always been a rebel; it was only a matter of time before she discovered the world outside the ton.
Despite her assurances, Francesca could not help but to freeze as she was announced by the doorman. All of a sudden, the doors were open, and all eyes were on her. Many familiar faces stood watching her, and most importantly of them all, the Queen. Francesca suddenly felt very small. Just as quickly as the bout of fright came upon her, it had passed. There was, she realized, no rush and no pressure. She did not have to be the season's diamond, truthfully she did not want to, and as such needn't worry unnecessarily about her impression on the Queen. Francesca was poised enough to not make a complete fool of herself, and anything beyond that was simply not important at the moment. When the Queen said nothing to her, she felt only a great sense of relief. Francesca was not to be the diamond and could have a quietly successful season without much fanfare, just as she desired.
Footnotes
1. The London social season is based on the open season of parliament, so the start and end dates vary just as parliament did. Real 1815 parliament, and social season, was especially long and had an early start: Nov 8, 1814 to 12 Jul 1815 (the 1814 season ended only in late Jul 1814). This extended parliament is due to the Congress of Vienna, which opened Nov 1, 1814, prompting an early parliament season. I changed the start of the season to February, which would be closer to a normal season's start. This is in part because I like the aesthetics of spring better than winter, and also because I choose to assume parliament took a nice long break for Christmas and the New Year. So, we start in February.
2. That silly American war is the War of 1812. Started in 1812, the Americans declared war on the UK because English ship blockades (put in place due to the Napoleonic war) were screwing up American trade routes. It's a monumentally stupid reason to declare war. Peace terms for the war were written up in Dec. of 1814, but didn't get signed until mid-February, 1815. So the gentry are right in saying the war is dying down; most fighting would be over at this point. The war wasn't great for either side, but the US ended it significantly worse. The US military was massively under-prepared for any fighting as they had been slacking off since gaining independence. The US suffered far worse losses than the Brits and took a massive economic hit. The UK also gained debt, but it was small change compared to the expenses of the Napoleonic wars. While no one "surrendered" the UK is generally considered to have won.
3. King Louis XVIII was instated as king after Napoleon's first exile to Elba. This King Louis (aka Louis the desired) had fled France and spent his years in exile bouncing around Europe, mostly Germany (then split up into the Holy Roman Empire, Prussia, Austria-Hungary, and several independent duchies) and the Netherlands. He returned as king after Napoleon's exile, but Europe was in a post-war limbo until the Congress of Vienna settles political treaties and drew new borders. England was mostly concerned with the alliances of it all as they had no claim to land on continental Europe.
4. Physically, the violin and the fiddle are the same instrument. The only difference is in the technique one plays with, mostly in the bowing and posture. Fiddle positioning and bowing is said to prioritize ease of use (fiddle players usually stay in first position), which lends itself to the faster and more improvisation heavy tunes that fiddlers play. Violin is more technically complicated and is also very rigid in terms how one can interpret melody. A music teacher of the time would dislike fiddle for more than just it's "sloppy" manner of playing, though. Fiddles have a strong tie to the working class, in the UK's case, Scots and Irishmen, and Bridgerton still very much has classism. I think Eloise would prefer the more free0form nature of fiddle-playing to the rigidity of classical violin music, and I find it fitting that she'd prefer the freedom of the lower-class style to the rules of the more refined violin style.
5. A Fortepiano is an early variant of the piano, pianoforte was a general term used to indicate all piano types. Pianos were still being innovated in the early 1800s, and Broadwood pianos were a cutting edege English brand. Most innovations improved the sound of the piano, which in 1815 sounded much different from a concert grand (invented by Steinway in 1867). 1815 pianos would not be as loud, could not maintain notes for as long, and had less consistent tones to the notes than modern pianos, they also did not have foot pedals to dampen notes, thus the hand-manned dampers. Broadwood pianos were neat because they had an increased range of 6 octaves. The 6-octave Broadwood was released in 1794, and Bethoven's favourite piano was said to be a Broadwood 1818 model. Francesca's Broadwood would be considered high end.
6. Buckingham House was not Buckingham Palace at this point. The estate was bought by King George in 1761 as a place of private residence in London. Buckingham would have been surrounded by gardens on all sides at the time, providing more privacy than the royal residence of St. James's Palace. It soon became the Queen's main place of residence, and Buckingham is where she and the King would receive guests, so it makes sense for the ladies to be presented here.
On Francesca's colorful descriptions of the world, I think it would be fun if she had synesthesia. It's not really a plot thing, just a bit of character building. As for Pen, I've tried to show her insecurities and loyalties while also showing how hypocritical she can be with her treatment of others. She's a little bit naive and ignorant of other people's struggles, just like Eloise. I think Pen has an issue with jealousy about the Bridgertons which the show doesent address. Like El, she'll learn to grow.