Early March 1815
Kent Estate, Mayfair
Alice stood ramrod straight as her maids rushed around her and fussed over her dress. She had, due to the incident with the mourning dress, finally caved and allowed herself to be dressed by her lady's maids. That upper class women needed help from servants to put on their clothing at all struck her as ridiculous, and the whole pretense made her feel like a child. She could not have been more than eight the last time someone helped her dress, yet here she was, a grown woman of thirty years of age, surrounded by helpers whose sole purpose was to put on her clothes for her.
They had dressed her in an opulent number; a long bombasine (1) gown in blush (2), laden with lace and beads and trimmings of many other sorts. The waistline was higher than Alice was used to, it started right under the chest, and she felt as if it had been fitted far too high. Her lady's maids insisted, though, that it was the height of fashion, something called an empire waistline that was all the rage in France. Alice resisted the urge to tug at it. Even if she was more comfortable with waistlines that started a bit below her bust, she had to admit she had seen a few ton ladies in the same style and felt that she needed to mimic them. She hoped that Will did not face the same discomforts of new styling that she had.
In truth, Alice knew that the fashion was not her problem. It was merely the discomfort of this new living situation that had been thrust upon her. Will was the one who had most of the interactions with the ton members, back when they served the ton and were not part of it, and he would be far better suited to his new role than Alice felt she was. The ladies of the ton were fickle, fashions changed with the shifting seasons and basic social interactions that Alice considered friendly could be easily misconstrued as insults in high society. While Will had practise with the men of the ton, and a good rapport to boot, Alice had nothing. She had no friends in high society, and she wasn't entirely sure that anyone else truly did either. The last thing she needed was to misstep and completely ruin her family's reputation. Will had worked so hard, sacrificed so much, to give their family a good life. Even though this newfound wealth had been nothing more than a stroke of good luck, Alice would not squander it.
Her entire family's reputation rested upon her shoulders, or so it felt. If what the Whistledown pamphlets said were true, a lady's actions were a reflection of her entire family, and the slightest offense could cast irreversible shame on her house for generations. Alice had to be perfect, the perfect wife, the perfect hostess, the perfect society lady; she had to do it all. As if the social pressure wasn't enough, she also had to organise all the domestic tasks of the house. What menu should the cooks use, who should be the cooks, what maids to hire and which ones should do what, and when, it was enough to make Alice's head spin. She hadn't had nearly this much pressure on her when she was a lowly Boxer's wife, and running a household in such a way wasn't in her vast repertoire of skill. In their old life, she had been the sole cook, maid, and nanny for the house, such were the basic wifely duties of the working class. It was no wonder that the ton ladies had to fill their lives with gossip and fleeting fashion trends; they had far too much free time.
One of the maids, having finished fussing with the collar, asked Alice yet another dreaded fashion question, "Would you care for any adornments, ma'am?"
Alice cringed, to her the dress was so excessively adorned that she feared anything else would pale in comparison, "Perhaps, simplicity might be better in this case? I do not wish to look garish."
The two maids shared a look, and the second stepped forward to open a drawer, "Would you not like to at least see the jewellery that is in your possession?" She spoke in a manner that told Alice accoutrements were not optional; They were required.
Inside the drawers, for there were indeed multiple drawers worth of jewels, lay rows and rows of the loveliest jewellery Alice had ever seen. Brooches, bracelets, and earrings glittered in every colour under the sun as the candlelight glinted off them. Necklaces, from low dangling strings of jewels and pearls to delicately thin chokers, lay in another drawer. What caught Alice's eye had been one of the circlets; a gorgeously refined piece made from pearls and gold. She picked it up and held it to her head, all the while marvelling at the craftsmanship.
"We may have had different taste in garments, but Lady Kent certainly had an eye for jewels." Alice placed the circlet upon her head and allowed her maids to fasten it properly to her hair. They picked out a matching necklace and earring set made from coral and more pearls.
Alice examined herself in the mirror. The dress was, in her opinion, an eyesore, and the colour clashed with her skin horribly, but at least she would fit in. The jewellery had been a saving grace, and she felt marginally more refined with them on. She would have to learn to seek the advice of her maids more often, even though it pained her to not be able to trust her own judgment.
In any case, she was ready for her first ball as standing Lady Kent, she had no other choice.
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Early March 1815
Carriage, Mayfair Streets
The carriage ride to the Keswick ball was a horribly awkward affair for both Eloise and Colin. Benedict insisted he have the opportunity to ride with Violet and Francesca, claiming that he did not often enough have time to speak with his sister. This left Eloise and Colin alone, a situation which they did not often find themselves in. Neither had been especially pleased about the arrangements, and the ride was conducted in silence as the siblings looked out their respective windows and dutifully ignored the fact that it was night, and there was nothing to see.
Eloise kept her face set and neutral, as Cressida had taught her, and stared at the dark blurs outside her window. She did not move a muscle, partially because the fabric of her bejewelled dress was especially uncomfortable, even through the chemise, and partially out of hope that Colin would simply pretend she wasn't in the carriage with him. Her head flooded with questions about Penelope's presence in the Bridgerton house the previous afternoon. Why had she been there? Who was she visiting? Why did she look so terribly guilty, and why did she flee as if she had committed some great crime? Was it she who had caused the crash in Colin's study? And moreover, how dare she show her face in the Bridgerton house after what she had written and published about Colin?
Colin, ever one to hate silence, sought to strike up conversation. Eloise's stiff impassivity disconcerted him, his sister was not the type to make herself a statue for the sake of sensibility. The carriage was quite possibly the only place in which Eloise could not flee him, as she often did when he asked questions. "Is something troubling you, Eloise?"
Eloise sighed and looked down at her ostrich feather fan, "Penelope was at our house today. Coincidentally, she left not soon after I heard a strange noise from your study. What is your business with her?" She heard he voice betray her emotion, and for the life of her, Eloise wasn't sure who she was annoyed with; Penelope for sneaking around in her house, or Colin for letting her, and potentially spending time unchaperoned with her, thus tainting her once dear friend. Or whatever it was that was so terrible about a man and a woman keeping company unchaperoned that doing so would ruin a woman's reputation.
Colin sat in the silence that followed and thought over what it was he should say, "I am sorry for that. I understand now why it is you do not wish to see her, but I do not hold such hostility for her actions. I see that she has wronged you, but I do not think it is so great an offence as to entirely cut her out of our lives. What would you have me do, would you wish for me to cast her out?"
"No." Eloise scoffed, "I do not wish for her to be friendless, and you might be all she has now." She paused, had she heard Colin right? "What do you mean you understand the cause for our estrangement?"
"Penelope explained it to me because you would not." Colin's voice held a tone of admonishment, disappointed that he had to learn the truth from Penelope rather than his own sister.
"She explained to you the wrong she has done?" Eloise was shocked, she did not think Penelope would confess her identity as Whistledown willingly to anyone, let alone Colin who had such vocal contempt for the woman. In fact, Colin did not seem nearly angry enough for that to be the case. He did not seem angry at all, more so resigned and perhaps a bit sad, as Eloise felt.
"Yes," Colin placed his hand on Eloise's shoulder, "I know it is her fault you appeared in Whistledown. She told your secret to the wrong maid. It was a foolish decision; to be sure, she should have told Anthony or Benedict or myself. But she did not mean any harm by it, and she has nothing but regret for her actions. It was by her own concern for you that she broke your trust, and she seems truly sorry for the pain she has caused you and the rest of us."
Of course. Eloise should have figured that Penelope would not tell the full truth. She had admitted fault, though that she did so only to Colin and refused to recognise her flaws when Eloise was around stung something fierce. Penelope's story lifted much of the blame from her own petite shoulders. Maybe Penelope had done it out of concern, Eloise could accept that, but gossiping to a maid and deliberately publishing secrets in London's most read gossip rag were entirely different beasts. Penelope's slip of the tongue was entirely intentional, an active attempt to destroy Eloise's reputation, not some passive slip-up beyond her control. And it had worked. Though over the month, Eloise's feeling had started to soften towards Penelope, it was not yet enough that she would forgive her of such a dastardly betrayal.
"I see. If you can find it in yourself to forgive her, I will not begrudge you that, but perhaps do not meet her in the house. The knife of betrayal still cuts me, and I will not see her if I do not have to." Eloise hoped it was a reasonable request, given time she thought she might come to accept the inevitability that she and Penelope would have to see and make polite with each other, but that time was not at hand.
Colin nodded, "Alright. Perhaps it is for the best; Penelope did not seem as at ease in our home as she used to anyhow. She, too, said she'd prefer to meet outside."
Eloise thought back to the last ball, where Cressida ripped Penelope's dress, as well as Colin's statement that she seemed nervous. She had not been wrong to say Colin was likely Penelope's only friend at the moment, and though she was no great fan of Pen and her Lady Whistledown, she did not wish for the woman to suffer solitude. "How is she?"
"You wish to know how Penelope is doing?" Colin asked.
"I mean… I do not need to know the details. But I would like to be sure she's not suffering or despondent." As Eloise had noticed two years ago with the discovery of Marina Thompson's pregnancy, Penelope was in the habit of receding into her own mind when she found herself too distressed.
"Penelope is fine. She's neither suffering nor despondent." Colin smiled slightly as he spoke, for if Eloise still had the heart to ask after her friend's wellbeing, the relationship might yet be salvageable, "In fact, she seeks to take a husband this season."
Eloise laughed, more out of shock than amusement, "A husband? Penelope? Are you sure?"
Colin hummed in affirmation.
"That is so unlike her." She and Penelope had promised, many years ago, to grow old in spinsterhood together. The spinster sisters, they'd called themselves. Eloise had always hoped her friend had been serious about such a promise; spinsters did not have many friends and even then, Eloise loathed the idea of wasting into old age all alone. As time drew on, however, Penelope displayed greater and greater interest in the worlds of romance and lovelorn novels. Eloise should have seen it coming, even if they had remained friends Penelope would not have waited around with her forever. As always, Eloise was alone in her search for life beyond marriage.
As if he had read her mind, Colin turned to Eloise and gave her a sad sort of smile, "Penelope is not a little girl anymore, Eloise, she has grown up. Her interests have changed. She has found new goals in life for herself. It happens to the best of us. We cannot all be so resolute with who we are as you have been, dear sister."
"I suppose that much is true. She is not the only one who's done her fair share of growing up. I am not a little girl anymore either." Elouise's mind threw her back to the spring nights she spent with Theo at the printer shop, or rallies for social rights. She had learned much in her time with him. About herself, about the world. About him. A thought struck Eloise. Penelope had always been happy to see any member of the Bridgerton family, but she'd always seemed different around Colin. Somehow shyer, yet more playful. There was the way Penelope had been so distressed over Marina's engagement to Colin, and that her pregnant condition had been exposed extremely publicly by Penelope as Lady Whistledown. Not to mention her increasing annoyance anytime Eloise came up to the two when they spoke last season. Could it be? "She is not seeking a husband in you, I hope."
"No, I am only helping her find one. She needs a tutor in charm and the art of socialisation, something you could not provide even if the two of you were still on good terms." Colin gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile. He wasn't sure how Eloise felt about the concept of him and Penelope as an item. Would his sister have been furious at him for stealing her (former) best friend, or would she have been happy to gain a new beloved sister? It didn't matter anyway, and Colin wasn't sure why he even entertained the thought; he and Penelope were nothing other than friends, there was no danger there.
Eloise thought of the implications of Penelope's apparently frequent visits with Colin. Surely, she had had a chaperone with her, Penelope was not one to do things the scandalous way. But still. She had no brothers, no male relatives at all, no father, no cousins, no head of the household. The assurances of one low class woman – Eloise suspected it was Rae, Penelope's maid, who had been serving a chaperone – meant little in the eyes of the ton. Colin was an eligible bachelor, Penelope a young lady. People would talk if they knew. Though she objected to the notion that the perfectly valid claims of a woman must be first vetted by a man, Eloise knew just how harmful talk could be, and so did Penelope. "Is that wise? What if anyone were to find out that you are helping her?"
"Well, who else should help her? She does not have any male relatives upon which to rely like you do. You know just as well as I that neither her sisters nor her mother will be any good in teaching her how to find a decent husband." It was a mother's duty to teach her daughter how to attract a man and, failing that, it was up to a lady's older sisters to impart such wisdom. Brothers and fathers were meant to secure good matches and make favourable introductions, or at least to chase away the unworthy. Penelope's family had entirely failed her on those fronts, and Colin would not see her flounder all on her lonesome. Not when he could do something to help her gain a life of security and comfort.
"Yes, but you are an eligible suitor. Perhaps the most eligible suitor, strangely. It would not look right." For someone who had so frequently worried over the propriety of Eloise's actions, she found it highly ironic for her former friend to turn around and do all but the same things she had done with Theo.
"No, it would not. And that is why we are not telling anyone. You should not even know about the arrangement, but you are far too observant for your own good and I would rather have you aware and sworn to secrecy, then unaware and gossiping." Colin made his voice stern and commanding, like he had heard Edmund and then Anthony do when they did not wish to be questioned. The imitation did not hold nearly as much power as he would have liked.
"I do not gossip. Nor do I spread rumours. I am simply curious. Concerned, even. But if you can handle it on your own, then you are free to do so. Just do not drag me into it." It was as amiable of an agreement as the two could come to, just in time for their carriage to slow to a halt.
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Early March 1815
Carriage, Mayfair Streets
Francesca watched Benedict in their carriage as he so effectively ignored their mother's ramblings. He and Violet sat opposite of Francesca, and Benedict had stretched out his legs so that his feet rested next to Fran's spot on the carriage bench. He had his arms spread over the back of the bench, and his eyes were closed. There was a small, self-satisfied smile on his face even as Violet spoke to him about the merits of settling down and finding a wife.
Francesca sat quietly and wondered how her older brother could be so relaxed. The stress and pressures of the ton seemed to roll off him like water from a duck's back. Of all her brothers, often it was Benedict who seemed to be the best adjusted to ton life. He laughed and socialised like any good son should, scandal never bothered him, and he positively revelled in life. Anthony had nearly worked himself to the point of insanity, and Colin put up farces to please the masses, but Benedict truly seemed at home most of the time. Francesca wished she could be like that, that she could have the unbothered air of ease that Benedict exuded. She knew, of course, that Ben had his own fringe hobbies, like his stint in art school, but even those were not cause for ostracization like Eloise's proclivities. Francesca could not help but to envy her brother greatly.
Violet's voice sounded a suitable shade of, well, violet as Francesca refocused and realised her mother had begun to speak to her, "Oh, and to become the diamond! Is it not the most wonderful opportunity you can think of, dear?"
Francesca forced herself to smile instead of frowning as she wished she could, "I am sure I do not need such an unlikely title to find a good match, mama."
"Well, of course you can, Francesca, it is just that your other siblings have had such luck with the season diamonds." Violet's tone was goading, as if she could somehow convince Francesca that the title of 'diamond' held more than just the Queen's favour.
Benedict snorted from his drawn-out position, "And the one sister who failed to achieve that title burned up rather spectacularly in her season. Say, mother, do you suppose that we Bridgertons are cursed to a loveless life should we fail to acquire such a prestigious moniker?"
Francesca watched Benedict, who had opened his eyes and sat up a bit straighter. His tone held a great deal of sarcasm, and while he tried his best to make himself sound jovial, Francesca could detect the tinge of annoyance his words held. He spoke, of course, of Eloise. Eloise had always been a soft spot of Benedict's, and Francesca was not at all surprised to hear him make such a remark in her defence. He wasn't entirely wrong; it was foolish to believe that the Queen's favour was what had brought such a loving marriage to Daphne. It was difficult indeed to find a pattern when only one girl in the family had been named diamond, especially when there had been only two recently titled diamonds at all. Anthony had made it his goal the previous year to simply marry the season's diamond, and it had not turned out well for him. If the Queen hadn't approved of the match, well… Between Eloise's scandal, and the rushed marriage with the sister of Anthony's former fiancée, the Bridgertons' reputation would be further than six feet underground. Francesca knew that not being the diamond had nothing at all to do with Eloise's actions, though she couldn't think of why Eloise had suddenly decided to visit Bloomsbury when she had otherwise never shown interest in political machinations outside the ton.
Violet, it seemed, had failed to notice the intricacies of Benedict's intonation, and thought he had taken a genuine jab at his favourite sister, "Benedict! We agreed to not speak of Eloise's first season! She simply had a spot of trouble, that is all. You have seen her now, that rebellious phase is finally over." She crossed her arms, "And we'd better hope that us Bridgertons can find happiness outside of the diamond title, because I expect to see all my sons wed sometime soon, and the Queen doesn't give her favour to bachelors."
Benedict huffed out a small laugh and winked amusedly at Francesca. Perhaps, she thought, he hadn't just spoken out to defend Eloise, but to also take the attention off her. Benedict occupied their mother's attention as he waxed poetic about muses and gave a long and impossible laundry list of qualities he sought for in a wife, most of which were threaded with innuendos and references to the Greek pantheon that so amused him.
Francesca let out a little laugh of her own as she settled into her seat and closed her eyes. Her posture slackened, and she allowed her mid still into something calmer as her family's discussion served as peaceful background noise. Benedict had dragged Violet into some conversation about the fallacy of the hierarchy of genres (3), which while not terribly interesting, did soothe Francesca's frayed nerves. She slowed her breathing and thought over the plan she and Eloise had made for the ball. She would, if all things went well, successfully avoid the Queen entirely and remain uncrowned as Her Majesty's favourite.
Francesca felt a sense of peace and confidence wash over her. Now that she had a plan, she felt better, safer, in her prospects for the season. Everything was within her control, and should anything take a southward turn, well, Benedict was well equipped to fill Anthony's shoes as her guard dog should he need to.
Everything would be fine, and Francesca would have a good husband before she knew it.
Footnotes
1. Bombasine/bombazine is a fabric blend of silk and wool. The silk makes up the warp (vertical threads of the woven fabric) while the wool is the weft (horizontal threads in the woven fabric). It's a heavy fabric good for cold weather, and can be a bit stiff in texture, though it is very durable. This fabric was favoured for mourning garments during this time, but was on it's way out of style. It would become pretty much obsolete by the 1900's, but wouldn't be weird to wear in the regency era. In fact, in the 1800's, bombasine was primarily produced in Norwich, England.
2. Blush was a beloved fabric colour in the regency era for both outer and undergarments, and was often used as an alternative to white, as white became over-represented in fashionable clothing. Unlike the more vibrant pink we now associate it with, the regency era blush is closer to what most brands now refer to as 'nude'; that is, it roughly matches the average skin-tone of a white person. Its colour hex could would roughly be #f9d8c8. I do not think this color would look good on Alice, but that's kind of the point. She's trying so hard to be passive and fit in, she's failing to accentuate her features and is instead trying to mold herself into her dead aunt instead of making the title fit her. We don't know what race the dead lady Kent was, but I think Alice in a blush dress would make a nice visual representation of Alice trying to sanitize and whitewash her personality to fit into high society, as well as serve to represent her literally trying to fit in someone else's skin.
3. I have so much to say on the hierarchy of genres, actually. The hierarchy is an old way of ranking what art is worthwhile and valuable, and what is just practice that isn't worth anything. Note that this only applied to paintings, and is pretty much dead now. It ranked genres of paintings by prestige and cultural value, and which genre of painting had value varied depending on the time period. It was largely set by French high art scenes and galleries, so the taste-makers were mostly the catholic church and the rich art collectors. Though placements tend to shift with time, the most agreed upon order in terms of most to least respected goes as such; History painting, portrait, genre paintings, landscapes, animal/wildlife paintings, still life. History paintings depict stories, usually from mythology or the bible, but sometimes they were actual historical events too, the genre is defined by subject matter rather than a specific style. History paintings usually had dynamic subjects, and sometimes had a timeline or sequence that could be visually followed. This genre can most easily do propaganda, and was most valuable to the people in power (the church, mostly, but also the aristocracy) because you could literally depict history as you wanted it to be. portraits are portraits, we know these, I'll give you ten bucks if you can guess why these were considered high value (no I wont). Genre paintings portray real life scenes, but not real or mythological people. They showed mundane life, like stores or social gatherings. In genre paintings, the people aren't important, but rather what they are doing, and that what they are doing is just a normal people thing to do. The Dutch absolutely thrashed in the genre of genre paintings; they were cranking them put like nobody's business, and because of the Netherlands rapidly growing middle class due to their many beneficial trade deals, lots of people were buying genre paintings. We are familiar with landscapes, they're pretty straightforward, but would see a rapid rise in prestige during the 1800s as romanticism took hold. The whole vastness of nature shtick really skyrocketed the popularity of the landscape painting, and it is in the mid/late 1800s that the genre hierarchy starts to loose it's power. Benedict, shall we say, is an early adopter of romanticism, in both general vibe and artstyle, and so would probably find the genre hierarchy stupid. Animal/wildlife paintings and still lifes were pretty much just considered practice paintings, you did them to get good at painting and learn the basics, but they weren't really 'art'. Often they were just considered studies, and people who put significant effort into finishing and perfecting still lifes and animal paintings were kind of odd, as these subject matters were considered pretty nothing-burger by both the public and the art buyers. The placement of a painting on the hierarchy scale determined how large the painting should be and how much it was worth in sales. For a long time, only History paintings were high art, as all the other genres were meant to appeal to the eye only instead of also the mind, but as said, romanticism and the following years of avant-garde art really destroy the hierarchy of genres.