… days are filled with endless amusements. I shop and attend luncheons and pay calls (and have calls paid upon me). In the evenings I usually attend a ball or musicale, or perhaps a smaller party. Sometimes I remain at home with my own company and read a book. Truly, it is a full and lively existence; I have no cause for complaint. What more, I often ask, could a lady want?
—from Eloise Bridgerton to Sir Phillip Crane, six months into their unusual correspondence
For the rest of her days, Eloise would remember the following week as one of the most magical of her life. There were no stupendous events, no bursts of fine weather, no birthdays, no extravagant gifts or unexpected visitors.
But still, even though it all seemed, on the outside at least, very ordinary
. . .
Everything changed.
It wasn’t the sort of thing that hit one like a thunderbolt, or even, Eloise
thought with a wry smile, like a slammed door or high C at the opera. It was a slow, creeping kind of change, the sort of thing that begins without one realizing it, and ends before one even knows it has begun.
It started a few mornings after she’d come across Phillip in the portrait gallery. When she woke, he was sitting fully dressed at the foot of the bed, staring at her with an indulgent smile on his face.
“What are you doing there?” Eloise asked, tucking the sheets under her arms as she scooted into a sitting position.
“Watching you.”
Her lips parted with surprise, and then she couldn’t help but smile. “It can’t be very interesting.”
“To the contrary. I can’t think of anything that could keep my attention for so long.”
She blushed, mumbling something about his being silly, but in truth, his words made her want to yank him right back into bed. She had a feeling he wouldn’t resist—he never did—but she put a hold on her desire, since he had, after all, got himself completely dressed, and she rather thought he’d done so for a reason.
“I brought you a muffin,” he said, holding out a plate.
Eloise thanked him and took his proffered dish. While she was munching away (and wishing he’d thought to bring something to drink as well), he said, “I thought we might go on an outing today.”
“You and I?”
“Actually,” he said, “I thought the four of us might go.”
Eloise froze, her teeth lodged in the muffin, and looked at him. This was, she realized, the first time he’d suggested such a thing. The first time, to her knowledge, at least, that he’d reached out to his children rather than setting them aside, hoping that someone else would see to them.
“I think that’s a fine idea,” she said softly.
“Good,” he said, rising to his feet. “I’ll leave you to your morning routine and inform that poor housemaid you bullied into acting as their nurse that we will be taking them for the day.”
“I’m sure she’ll be relieved,” Eloise said. Mary hadn’t really wanted to take the position as nursemaid, even on a temporary basis. None of the servants had; they all knew the twins too well. And poor long-haired Mary vividly recalled having to burn the bedsheets after they’d been unable to remove the last governess’s glued-on hair.
But there was nothing else to be done, and Eloise had extracted a promise from both children that they would treat Mary with the respect due to, say, the queen, and so far they had been living up to their word. Eloise even had her fingers crossed that Mary might relent and agree to the position on a permanent basis. It did pay better than cleaning, after all.
Eloise looked over at the door and was surprised to see Phillip standing quite still, frowning. “What is wrong?” she asked.
He blinked, then looked in her direction, his brows still pulled down in thought. “I’m not sure what to do.”
“I believe the doorknob will turn in either direction,” she teased.
He shot her a look, then said, “There are no fairs or events occurring in the village. What should we do with them?”
“Anything,” Eloise said, smiling at him with all the love in her heart. “Or nothing at all. It doesn’t matter, really. All they want is you, Phillip. All they want is you.”
Two hours later Phillip and Oliver were standing outside the Larkin’s Fine Tailor and Dressmaker in the village of Tetbury, waiting somewhat impatiently while Eloise and Amanda completed their purchases inside.
“Did we have to go shopping?” Oliver groaned, as if he’d been asked to wear pigtails and a frock.
Phillip shrugged. “It is what your mother wished to do.”
“Next time, it’s the men’s turn to pick,” Oliver grumbled. “If I’d known having a mother would mean this . . .”
Phillip had to force himself not to laugh. “Men must make sacrifices for the women we love,” he said in serious tones, patting his son on the shoulder. “It’s the way of the world, I’m afraid.”
Oliver let out a long-suffering sigh, as if he’d been making such sacrifices on a daily basis.
Phillip looked through the window. Eloise and Amanda showed no signs of wrapping up their business. “But as pertains to the issue of shopping, and who gets to decide upon the next joint activity,” he said, “I agree wholeheartedly.”
Just then, Eloise poked her head outside. “Oliver?” she asked. “Would you care to come in?”
“No,” Oliver replied, shaking his head emphatically.
Eloise pursed her lips. “Allow me to rephrase,” she said. “Oliver, I would like you to come in.”
Oliver looked up to his father, his eyes pleading. “I’m afraid you must do as she says,” Phillip said.
“So many sacrifices,” Oliver grumbled, shaking his head as he hauled himself up the steps.
Phillip coughed to cover a laugh.
“Are you coming, too?” Oliver asked.
Hell, no, Phillip almost said, but managed to catch himself in time to change it to, “I need to remain outside to watch the carriage.”
Oliver’s eyes narrowed. “Why does the carriage need watching?”
“Er, strain on the wheels,” Phillip mumbled. “All our packages, you know.”
He was unable to hear what Eloise said under her breath, but the tone was not complimentary.
“Run along, Oliver,” he said, patting his son on the back. “Your mother needs you.”
“And you, too,” Eloise said sweetly, just to torture him, he was sure. “You need new shirts.”
Phillip groaned. “Can’t we have the tailor come out to the house?” “Don’t you want to choose the fabric?”
He shook his head and said, quite grandly, “I trust you implicitly.”
“I think he needs to watch the carriage,” Oliver said, still hovering in the threshold.
“He’s going to need to watch his back,” Eloise muttered, “if he doesn’t
—”
“Oh, very well,” Phillip said. “I’ll come in. But only for a moment.” He
found himself standing in the women’s half of the shop, a frilly, feminine place if ever there was one, and shuddered. “Anything more, and I’m likely to perish of claustrophobia.”
“A big, strong man like you?” Eloise said in a mild voice. “Nonsense.” And then she looked up at him and motioned to him with her chin to come close.
“Yes?” he asked, wondering what this was all about.
“Amanda,” she whispered, nodding toward a door at the back of the room. “When she comes out, make a fuss.”
He looked about the store doubtfully. He might as well have been in China, so out of place did he feel. “I’m not very good at fussing.”
“Learn,” she ordered, then turned her attention to Oliver with a: “Now it’s your turn, Master Crane. Mrs. Larkin—”
Oliver’s groan would have done a dying man justice. “I want Mr.
Larkin,” he protested. “Like Father.”
“You would like to see the tailor?” Eloise asked. Oliver nodded vigorously.
“Really?”
He nodded again, although without quite as much conviction.
“Even though,” Eloise continued, with enough inflection to put her on the Drury Lane stage, “not an hour ago you vowed that wild horses could not drag you inside a storefront unless there were guns or toy soldiers in the window?”
Oliver’s mouth went slack, but he nodded. Barely.
“You’re good,” Phillip murmured in her ear as he watched Oliver drag himself through the doorway that separated Mr. Larkin’s half of the store from Mrs. Larkin’s.
“It’s all a matter of showing them how much worse the alternative is,” Eloise said. “Getting fitted by Mr. Larkin is tedious, but Mrs. Larkin—now, that would be wretched.”
An indignant howl rent the air, and Oliver came running back in— straight to Eloise, which left Phillip feeling a little bereft. He wanted his children to run to him, he realized.
“He stuck me with a pin!” Oliver declared.
“Were you squirming?” Eloise asked, without even batting an eyelash. “No!”
“Not even a little bit?” “Only the tiniest bit.”
“Right, then,” Eloise said. “Don’t move next time. I assure you that Mr. Larkin is very good at his job. If you don’t move, you won’t get jabbed. It’s as simple as that.”
Oliver digested that, then turned to Phillip with a pleading look in his eyes. It was rather nice to be perceived as an ally, but Phillip wasn’t going to contradict Eloise and undermine her authority. Especially not when he agreed with her wholeheartedly.
But then Oliver surprised him. He didn’t beg to be set free from Mr. Larkin’s clutches, and he didn’t say something horrid about Eloise, which, Phillip was sure, he would have done just a few weeks earlier, about any adult who thwarted his wishes.
Oliver just looked up at him and asked, “Will you come with me, Father? Please.”
Phillip opened his mouth to reply, but then, inexplicably, had to stop. His eyes began to sting with unshed tears, and he realized that he was, quite
simply, overcome.
It wasn’t just the moment, the fact that his son wanted his company for a male rite of passage. Oliver had begged his company before.
But this was the first time that Phillip felt truly able to say yes, confident that if he went, he would do the right thing and say the right words.
And even if he didn’t, it wouldn’t matter. He wasn’t his father, would never be—could never be like him. He couldn’t afford to be a coward, to keep pushing his children toward other people, all because he was worried he’d make a mistake.
He would make mistakes. It was inevitable. But they wouldn’t be huge ones, and with Eloise at his side, he was quite confident he could do anything.
Even manage the twins.
He placed his hand on Oliver’s shoulder. “I would be delighted to accompany you, son.” He cleared his throat, which had gone hoarse on the final word. Then he bent down and whispered, “The last thing we want is women over on the men’s side.”
Oliver nodded his vigorous agreement.
Phillip straightened, preparing to follow his son back to Mr. Larkin’s side of the establishment. Then he heard Eloise, clearing her throat behind him. He turned, and she was gesturing with her head toward the back of the room.
Amanda.
Looking very grown up in her new lavender frock, showing just a hint of the woman she would one day become.
For the second time in as many minutes, Phillip’s eyes began to burn.
This was what he’d been missing. In his fear, in his self-doubt, he’d been missing this.
They’d been growing up without him.
Phillip patted his son on the shoulder to signal that he’d be right back, and then crossed the room to his daughter’s side. Without a word, he picked up her hand and kissed it. “You, Miss Amanda Crane,” he said, his heart in his eyes, his voice, his smile, “are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.”
Her eyes grew wide and her lips formed a tiny little O of sheer delight. “What about Miss—Mother?” she whispered frantically.
Phillip looked over at his wife, who appeared close to tears herself, and then turned back to Amanda, leaning over to whisper in her ear, “Let’s make a deal, you and I. You can think your mother is the most beautiful woman alive. But I get to think it’s you.”
And later that night, after he’d tucked them into bed, kissed each on the forehead, and headed for the door, he heard his daughter whisper, “Father?”
He turned. “Amanda?”
“This was the best day ever, Father,” she whispered. “Ever,” Oliver agreed.
Phillip nodded. “For me as well,” he said softly. “For me as well.”
It started with a note.
Later that night, as Eloise finished her supper and her plate was cleared away, she realized that there had been a piece of paper tucked underneath, folded twice until it formed a small rectangle.
Her husband had excused himself, claiming that he needed to find a book that contained a poem they had been discussing over pudding, and so, with no one watching her, not even the footman, who was busy transporting the dishes to the kitchen, Eloise unfolded the paper.
I have never been good with words,
it said, in Phillip’s unmistakable handwriting. And then, smaller, in the corner:
Proceed to your office.
Intrigued, she stood and exited the dining room. A minute later she entered her office.
And there, in the middle of her desk, was another piece of paper.
But it all started with a letter, did it not?
Followed by instructions to take herself to the sitting room. She did, this time having to concentrate quite hard on keeping her half walk, half skip from turning into a full-fledged run.
A small piece of paper, again folded twice, sat on a red cushion positioned at the very center of the sofa.
And so if it started with words, it ought to continue with them, too.
This time she was directed to the front hall.
But there are no words to thank you for all you have given me, so I will use the only ones at my disposal, and I will tell you the only way I know how.
And at the bottom corner of the note, she was directed to her bedroom. Eloise headed up the stairs slowly, her heart beating with anticipation.
This was her final destination, she was sure of it. Phillip would be waiting for her, waiting to take her hand, to lead her into their future together.
It had, she realized, all started with a note. Something so innocent, so innocuous, and it had grown into this, a love so full and rich she could barely contain it.
She reached the upstairs hall and on quiet feet made her way to the bedroom door. It was slightly ajar, just an inch or so, and with shaking hand she pushed it open, all the way—
And she gasped.
For there, on the bed, were flowers. Hundreds and hundred of blooms, some clearly out of season, picked from Phillip’s special collection in his greenhouse. And written in blossoms of red, against the backdrop of white and pink petals:
I LOVE YOU.
“Words aren’t enough,” Phillip said softly, stepping out of the shadows behind her.
She turned to him, barely cognizant of the tears trickling down her cheeks. “When did you do this?”
He smiled. “Surely you’ll allow me a few secrets.” “I—I—”
He took her hand, pulled her close. “Speechless?” he murmured. “You?
I must be better at this than I thought.”
“I love you,” she said, choking on the words. “I love you so much.”
His arms came around her, and as she laid her cheek against his chest, his chin came down to rest gently on her head. “Today,” he said softly, “the twins told me it was the best day ever. And I realized they were right.”
Eloise nodded, beyond words.
“But then,” he continued, “I realized they were wrong.” She looked up at him, question in her eyes.
“I couldn’t choose a day,” he confessed. “Any day with you, Eloise.
Any day with you.”
He touched her chin, brought his lips to hers. “Any week,” he murmured, “any month, any hour.”
He kissed her then, softly, but with all the love in his soul. “Any moment,” he whispered, “as long as I’m with you.”
