IT IS A LONELY LIFE,

Choices are a luxury not afforded often to those of the lower-class. This is knowledge Sophie has held her entire life. From the evening she arrived on the Penwood House doorstep, her grandmother hiding in the bushes watching, the lady maid's destiny had been written amongst the stars. Living under the Lord's roof, even as his illegitimate child, was the first taste of those choices being squandered before her very eyes. There wasn't ever even a choice presented for herself to be a real person. The cards for her position, both in life and Lord Penwood's, had been dealt and there was no use arguing it. Until Araminta came and changed it, leaving Sophie with no wiggle room to make any choices for herself once again. [Or the arrangement of her life.] Living under Araminta's roof and care meant accepting whatever request or command was given, even if it meant being forced into a lady maid's position due to Lord Penwood's untimely death. And then, the final piece of her inability to make choices: her exile from the Penwood House, leaving the young woman thrust onto the streets of Grosvenor Square. There is no other choice but survival at that point.

As she stands near the entrance of the new Lady Penwood's drawing room, Sophie's hands clasp neatly before her apron, the irony of it all dawning upon her. Ignorance doesn't flow through her veins; a maid hears far more than she meant to, and she's long understood the invisible shackles fastened to the ladies of the Ton. Reputations balanced upon a single misstep, futures bartered away from familial security, affection traded for advantage. As silent as the newly painted pink walls, the brunette had listened to Eloise's conversation unravel with the blonde. It's why, with her recent experience [and newfound inclusion at Bridgerton House], she feels compelled to speak. ❝ My lady, if I may — most of us do not. ❞

It has only been a number of months since Cressida has taken on the responsibility of running her own household and estates, but it has been a most thrilling experience, one full of opportunities and choices and decisions, all of which need not be filtered through the lens of her cantankerous and austere parents.  Indeed, her new husband is happy to leave almost everything up to her, his tastes being almost identical to her own—and while her education in household management was extensive, to say the least, she has adopted a peculiar sort of mantra these last few weeks.  When the (newly elevated) Countess of Penwood finds herself at a crossroads, a fork in the road where there is more than one possible route to find herself trotting down, she simply asks herself: What would my mother do or say, in my position?

And then she does the complete opposite.

@cowpers said: "you appear displeased."

" i'm sorry? "

he looks up with a start, meeting the eyes of the young woman before him. in truth, he'd been miles away - far from the fine, glittering ballroom where he knew he did not belong. he had spent the morning at st. bartholemew's, walking the hospital wards, tending to some of the city's direst cases - people with nowhere left to turn... to be here now, amongst those who likely never spared a thought for even their footmen... needless to say, his usual discomfort in high society came this evening with a touch of disgust. at this world, at the people, at himself for attending at all...

indeed, he planned to make his escape as soon as he could without offending the friend who had pressed this evening's invitation into his hand... still, he could not quite bring himself to forget his manners with his new companion.

hyacinth weighs out a pause, for once in her life, and takes a moment to really take in miss cowper. time had certainly been kind to her, there was no denying that upon a mere glance on her countenance, nevermind how comparatively simple her attire was to when she was last in society. the last that the youngest bridgerton remembered of miss cowper ... eloise had suddenly dropped her - a toy that she'd grown tired of. hyacinth’s heart ached for her at that moment. cressida had been one of the only older society ladies to lend an ear to the younger's conversations, entertaining she and gregory's trivial squabbles or other flights of fancy. nary a tinge of pity or nostalgia was at all evident on her face. family comes first, a mantra drilled into the very being of hyacinth bridgerton. but that didn't mean not being able to recognise when your family were being idiots.

“ society is … not what i expected it to be. ” but really, what is? the same droning conversations about who is courting who, the mundane ins and outs of daily promenades, calling hour, social calls … her only saving graces as of now had been her new dresses and gloves, because, well how could a girl deny herself such pleasures? it wasn’t as if she were unaware of the privileged life she led, just … tired. it had all been so grand at the beginning : dashing prospective suitors, the wild flurry of the dance floor, hushed gossip whilst huddled against a wall … well, nothing has changed really. it was still decently enjoyable, just much less novel. perhaps she was just subject to another bout of melancholy, where little seemed interesting. perhaps ... here was someone who might understand her plight.

“ how are you finding it? society, i mean. it has been eight years, ten months, and about two weeks, as you say. does it reach your expectations? ” a beat. hyacinth scrambles for another foothold in the conversation, always fighting to get a word in edgeways — she blames this on being the youngest of such a large brood, rather than accepting her fault as a notorious chatterbox. is there really any difference? “ has much changed? does it ever? ”

Though the cloth of her gown is expensive, it is not thick enough to provide warmth, the breeze coming in from the balcony sending a slight shiver down her spine.  Sleeves reach her knuckles, so material bunches as she grips her glass of punch, easily her third or fourth of the night already.  She indulges much more when given the chance now, for she has not known luxury in such a long time.  Meals tend to come in the form of beige simplicity, refreshments near-imaginary, libations forbidden.  An empty plate is a sign of gluttony, an empty glass a sign of inebriety; it's only natural, then, that for however long she is in London, Cressida ensures she does everything her aunt would disapprove of.

"But it does not seem that much has changed since I left, beyond my own circumstances."  Strangely enjoyable when she's not in amongst the throng of the ton, but rather, lurking on the sidelines.  She used to pity tyrannise the wallflowers, revile the spinsters, strive to do whatever she could to avoid their fates: yet now that she is the one lurking in the corner, free from the marriage-minded mamas and their pathetic sons, it's ... quite liberating.  A shame, of course, that there is still a more-than-decent chance that nothing will change for her when her father passes, and she will be returned to the Welsh countryside to act as companion and vassal for Joanna.

In all the chaos, all the unsung notes in between, the Duchess turned her deliberation to one miss Cressida Cowper. Over the summer in Aubrey Hall in which Eloise had welcomed Cressida with open arms, much to the confusion of the entire chesnut-haired clan, Cressida had not only shown an entirely new side to herself that, Daphne would argue, no one in the ton had ever seen. But as well, was entirely apologetic over the events of eighteen thirteen social season. In simpler words, the one where Daphne's honour was almost questioned, had it not been for a rapid wedding to avoid Cressida's gossip. Daphne received the apology with all the graciousness she has drilled into her bones, the very picture of a lady, though in integrity, in her own conscience, it was a relief. She, herself, had wronged the Cowper girl in more ways than one. Completely nicked a future that Cressida could have had with a prince, only to throw it away at the last possible minute. It was Simon that she had wanted, yet at the uncertainty of her own future, she took another woman's prize. And so the Duchess extends her welcome, a genuine invitation for companionship, perhaps even an eventual friendship. The world has raised them to be enemies, for so long. They are both tired. They are both ready to be more than what they are told to be.

For that very reason, the Duchess found herself in the particularly somber drawing room of the Cowper household, standing face to face with none other than Lord Cowper himself, Cressida only inches away from them. The Lord had made his stance clear, his voice booming in an otherwise dismal hall. ❛❛ Your Grace, my daughter is to be sent to Wales for a moment of respite from the ton. She is to live with her aunt. Away from all this- this foolishness. Why would a woman- Your Grace expend interest in Cressida, ... I will not allow it. ❜❜ The last five words spoken by Lord Cowper brought the Duchess' usual doe-eyed hues to sharpen. It is a look that she has not donned since inhibiting her title. She has had no use for it. But now, now is the most opportune time. She stands before him not as an ingenue, but a woman with power. A woman with rank far above his own. Which she will use to her advantage. Once more in this charade of society, Daphne dons a mask that she has perfected. She quirks her head to the side, allowing perfectly curled chesnut ringlets to fall just atop her bosom. Soft brows furrow, the rouge on her cheeks accentuated by the ivory flower on her hair. She has her own power. And with the bravado of a woman aware of her own stature. She feigns innocence in a smile. He will never know what hit him. ❛❛ Why Lord Cowper. What a bold assumption. My husband, the Duke, and I, are more than delighted to welcome Miss Cowper in Clyvedon Castle over the summer. She has certainly earned our favour. And as such I would assume you would be exuberant? She is your daughter, after all. And any fortune she is sure to encounter, reflects on your own? ❜❜ She sighs, soft, impatient. The final trick in her masquerade. ❛❛ I do believe it is highly frowned upon to refuse the hospitality of the Duchess of Hastings. ... Is it not? Surely it would be quite the gossip. ❜❜

As it stands, her nerves are fraught.  Sheis all reddened eyes and unsteady breaths, every distal joint of every finger having been cracked ten times over –– a dreadfully unbecoming habit, her mother once informed her, glare cold and judgemental, but one that she has not been able to kick entirely.  It is the first time she has been allowed out of her bedroom in a number of days, the door having been locked from the outside after her blackmail attempt escapades were discovered.  (She cannot blame the footman for confessing when questioned on the young lady's movements, but she does so wish there was someone in this house who was on her side.)

Her unofficial inauguration into the Bridgerton clan that summer was no greater a surprise to anyone but Cressida herself.  She had always thought them a sickening family,  cloying in nature and obnoxious in their displays of adoration for each other.  'Twas unnatural, she thought, the ways in which they interacted with each other, clearly put on for the benefit of others.  Her own mother and father were not affectionate; far from it.  They were proper in the extreme, and it was a source of pride for Cressida at first.  Theirs was a practical family, not driven by passions and flights of fancy like some members of the ton.  But irritation soon found a bedfellow in the form of jealousy.  Some part of her, an only child of cold and unfeeling parents, yearned to be a Bridgerton, to know what it was like to have playmates, or to have a mother's hand caress her cheek rather than slap it.

Certainly, she made no attempts to hide her distaste for the family, and her envy ducked behind it like a shield, only adding to her vehemence.  Others were made casualities of her one-sided rivalry, like the woman they all know now as Lady Whistledown.  It's one apology she has not yet been able to make yet, fearful of a refusal to accept it, and what that might mean for her.  The Duchess was gracious, at least, which ought to bolster Cressida some, but then Penelope has not wronged her –– there may not be enough motive to forgive her.  (She can not grasp the concept of forgiveness if it does not come with some sense of absolution.)