Chapter 9
. . . we all miss Father, especially this time of year. But think how lucky you were to have had eighteen years with him. I remember so little, and I do wish he could have known me, and all that I’ve grown up to be.
—from Eloise Bridgerton to her
brother Viscount Bridgerton,
upon the occasion of the tenth
anniversary of their father’s death
Eloise was purposefully late for supper that evening. Not by much—it was not in her nature to be tardy, especially since it was a trait she didn’t care to tolerate in others. But after the events of that afternoon, she had no idea if Sir Phillip was even going to show up for supper, and she couldn’t bear the thought of waiting in the drawing room, trying not to twiddle her thumbs as she wondered if she was to dine alone.
At precisely ten minutes past seven, she reckoned she could assume that if he wasn’t waiting for her, he wasn’t joining her, and she could then proceed to the dining room on her own and act as if she’d planned to eat by herself all the while.
But much to her surprise and, if she was honest, her great relief as well, Phillip was standing by the window when she entered the drawing room, elegantly dressed in evening kit that was, if not the very latest in style, obviously well made and tailored to perfection. Eloise noticed that his attire was strictly black and white, and she wondered if he was still in partial mourning for Marina, or if perhaps that was simply his preference. Her brothers rarely wore the peacock colors that were so popular among a certain set of the ton, and Sir Phillip didn’t seem the type, either.
Eloise stood in the doorway for a moment, staring at his profile, wondering if he’d even seen her. And then he turned, murmured her name, and crossed the room.
“I hope you will accept my apologies for this afternoon,” he said, and although his voice was reserved, she could see the entreaty in his eyes, sense that her forgiveness was very much desired.
“No apology is necessary,” she said quickly, and it was the truth, she supposed. How could she know if he should apologize when she didn’t even understand what had transpired?
“It is,” he said haltingly. “I overreacted. I—”
She said nothing, just watched his face as he cleared his throat.
He opened his mouth, but it was several seconds before he said, “Marina nearly drowned in that lake.”
Eloise gasped, not realizing that her hand had flown up to cover her mouth until she felt her fingers on her lips.
“She wasn’t a strong swimmer,” he explained.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “Were you—” How to ask it without appearing morbidly curious? There was no way to avoid it, and she couldn’t help herself; she had to know. “Were you there?”
He nodded grimly. “I pulled her out.”
“How lucky for her,” Eloise murmured. “She must have been terrified.”
Phillip said nothing. He didn’t even nod.
She thought about her father, thought about how helpless she had felt when he’d collapsed to the ground in front of her. Even as a child, she’d been the sort who needed to do things. She’d never been one of life’s observers; she’d always wanted to take action, to fix things, to fix people, even. And the one time it had all truly mattered, she’d been impotent.
“I’m glad you were able to save her,” she murmured. “It would have been horrible for you if you hadn’t.”
He looked at her oddly, and she realized how strange her words had been, so she added, “It’s . . . very difficult . . . when someone dies, and you can only watch, and you can’t do anything to stop it.” And then, because the moment seemed to call for it, and she felt oddly connected to this man standing so quiet and stiff in front of her, she said softly, and perhaps a bit mournfully as well, “I know.”
He looked up at her, the question clearly in his eyes.
“My father,” she said simply.
It wasn’t something she shared with many people; in fact, her good friend Penelope was probably the only person outside her immediate family who knew that Eloise had been the sole witness to her father’s strange and untimely death.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured.
“Yes,” she said wistfully. “So am I.”
And then he said the oddest thing. “I didn’t know my children could swim.”
It was so unexpected, such a complete non sequitur, that it was all she could do to blink and say, “I beg your pardon?”
He held out his arm to lead her to the dining room. “I didn’t know they could swim,” he repeated, his voice bleak. “I don’t even know who taught them.”
“Does it matter?” Eloise asked softly.
“It does,” he said bitterly, “because I should have done so.”
It was difficult to look at his face. She couldn’t recall ever seeing a man so pained, and yet in an odd way it warmed her heart. Anyone who cared so much for his children—even if he didn’t quite know how to act around them—well, he had to be a good man. Eloise knew that she tended to see the world in blacks and whites, that she sometimes leapt to judgment because she didn’t stop to analyze the gradations of gray, but of this she was certain.
Sir Phillip Crane was a good man. He might not be perfect, but he was good, and his heart was true.
“Well,” she said briskly, since that was her manner, and she preferred to deal with problems by charging ahead and fixing them rather than stopping to lament, “there’s nothing to be done about it now. They can’t very well unlearn what they already know.”
He stopped, looked at her. “You’re right, of course.” And then, more softly, “But no matter who did the teaching, I should have known they were able.”
Eloise agreed with him, but he was so obviously distressed, a scolding seemed inappropriate, not to mention unfeeling. “You still have time, you know,” she said softly.
“What,” he said, his mocking tone turned upon himself, “to teach them the backstroke so that they might expand their repertoire?”
“Well, yes,” she said, her tone slightly sharp, since she’d never had much patience for self-pity, “but also to learn other things about them. They’re charming children.”
He looked at her dubiously.
She cleared her throat. “They do misbehave on occasion—”
One of his brows shot up.
“Very well, they misbehave quite often, but truly, all they want is a little attention from you.”
“They told you this?”
“Of course not,” she said, smiling at his naïveté. “They’re only eight. They’re not going to say it in so many words. But it’s quite clear to me.”
They reached the dining room, so Eloise took the seat held out for her by a footman. Phillip sat across from her, put his hand on his wineglass, then drew it back. His lips moved, but very slightly, as if he had something to say but wasn’t quite certain how to phrase it. Finally, after Eloise had taken a sip of her own wine, he asked, “Did they enjoy it? Swimming, I mean.”
She smiled. “Very much. You should take them.”
He closed his eyes and held them that way, not for very long, but still, more than a blink. “I don’t think I’d be able,” he said.
She nodded. She knew the power of memories. “Perhaps somewhere else,” she suggested. “Surely there must be another lake nearby. Or even a mere pond.”
He waited for her to pick up her spoon, then dipped his own in his soup. “That’s a fine idea. I think . . .” He stopped, cleared his throat. “I think I could do that. I shall ponder where we might go.”
There was something so heartbreaking about his expression—the uncertainty, the vulnerability. The awareness that even though he wasn’t sure he was doing the right thing, he was going to try to do it anyway. Eloise felt her heart lurch, skip a beat, even, and she wanted to reach across the table and touch his hand. But of course she couldn’t. Even if the table weren’t a foot longer than the length of her arm, she couldn’t. So in the end, she just smiled and hoped that her manner was reassuring.
Phillip ate a bit of his soup, then dabbed at his mouth with his napkin and said, “I hope that you will join us.”
“Of course,” Eloise said, delighted. “I would be desolate if I weren’t invited.”
“I’m quite certain you overstate,” he said with a wry twist to his lips, “but nonetheless, we would be honored, and to be quite honest, I would be relieved to have you there.” At her curious expression, he added, “The outing is certain to be a successful one with your presence.”
“I’m sure you—”
He stopped her midsentence. “We will all enjoy ourselves much better with your accompaniment,” he said quite emphatically, and Eloise decided to stop arguing and graciously accept the compliment. He was, in all likelihood, correct. He and his children were so unused to spending time together that they would probably benefit from having Eloise along to smooth the way.
Eloise found she didn’t mind the idea one bit. “Perhaps tomorrow,” she suggested, “if the fine weather holds out.”
“I think it will,” Phillip said conversationally. “The air didn’t feel changeable.”
Eloise glanced at him as she sipped her soup, a chicken broth with bits of vegetables that needed a touch more salt. “Do you predict the weather, then?” she asked, quite certain her skepticism showed on her face. She had a cousin who was convinced he could predict the weather, and every time she listened to him, she ended up soaked to the skin or freezing her toes off.
“Not at all,” he replied, “but one can—” He stopped, craned his neck a bit. “What was that?”
“What was what?” Eloise answered, but as the words left her lips, she heard what Phillip must have heard. Argumentative voices, growing louder by the second. Heavy footfall.
A forceful stream of invective was followed by a yelp of terror that could only have come from the butler . . .
And then Eloise knew.
“Oh, dear God,” she said, her grip on her spoon growing slack until the soup dribbled off, splashing back into her bowl.
“What the devil?” Phillip asked, standing up, obviously preparing to defend his home against invasion.
Except that he had no idea what sort of invaders he was about to face. What sort of annoying, meddlesome, and diabolical invaders he was going to have to meet in, oh, approximately ten seconds.
But Eloise did. And she knew that annoying, meddlesome, and diabolical meant nothing compared to furious, unreasonable, and downright large when it came to Phillip’s imminent safety.
“Eloise?” Phillip asked, his brows shooting up when they both heard someone bellow her name.
She felt the blood drain from her body. Positively felt it, knew it had happened, even though she couldn’t see it pooling about her feet. There was no way she could survive a moment such as this, no way she could make it through without killing someone, preferably someone to whom she was quite closely related.
She stood, her fingers gripping the table. The footsteps (which, to be honest, sounded rather like a rabid horde) grew closer.