Chapter Text
“Absolutely not,” came Lord Debling's resounding refusal.
All things being real, OG!Cressida had not made first impressions with the man very well before my arrival. And, my conditions were pretty mad for the times - I'd gone in ready to be constantly rejected when pitching marriage without bearing an heir to any of these dudes.
“Understandable. Counter proposal,” I began, as I reached into the satchel bag I'd brought along for this meeting and pulled out a document to hand to him, “I'd like to apply for a position in your employ, whether it be in your household or any other undertakings you may have need of a skilled laborer. I have provided you a list of skills with which you can determine what assignment will be best suited to your needs. If you have any questions about this list, I am at the ready with further elucidation when requested.”
The man sat blankly staring back at me for a moment, the parchment still clasped in his hand, before his gaze dropped to scan its contents.
“Intermediate fencing?” he questioned flatly.
“It's a dangerous world, and there are not always gallant knights standing at attention at every deserted party hall or street corner to be a lady’s champion,” I explained wryly, noticing the way his expression darkened and he gave the slightest of nods, “If you'd like a demonstration, I could put that fire poker over there to good use?”
“Goodness Ms. Cowper, there's no need for that, though it would surely be quite the sight to witness,” he declined quickly, “I must say, this has been one of the most peculiar conversations of my lifetime, and I have met many eccentrics on my travels. What possessed you to bring all of these proposals to me in this manner?”
“Desperation,” I offered plainly, “I refuse to marry the man my father has arranged to be my husband. And I would rather exhaust every other option before resigning myself to being sent to Wales under the guardianship of a woman who will confine me like the newest nun at a convent.”
“Even if it means the possibility of condemning yourself to a lifestyle beneath your station?” he asked, challenge in his tone, “Forgive me for my bluntness, but I am fully aware of the reasons why young ladies like yourself sought me out for marriage and that it was not for my personality or looks.”
“Dignity can be found in any station and lifestyle.” I met his gaze head on. “With perhaps the chance to be able to seek out and commit to the path leading to said dignity, I will achieve it.”
Judging by the grudgingly impressed look in his eyes, I may have pulled it off.
-
Within the week, I'd found myself settled into my new role that went by different names depending on who I had to introduce myself to. Alfred (only Lord Debling when in the company of others) had chuckled in spite of himself and signed on it that I was to be his administrative assistant. To his household staff, I was introduced as his new aide and scribe, tracking his day to day commitments, the comings and goings. To his colleagues, I was introduced as his secretary, who would record his findings along his travels and compile them into what would be future publications.
It was dry work that truly tested my amateur research skills from college, but what I lacked there I fully made up for in having the basics of note taking and organization down pat. I could have cried at the fact my obsessive need to note things down - even random comments in the middle of a conversation - and make visual sketches had come in handy. My new employer was greatly appreciative of me knowing my way around creating simple tables and graphs.
(Alfred also found my fencing quite useful when I had beat the hell out of a ruffian who had accosted our carriage in the countryside using only a parasol. At that, he’d laughed and japed that he had not expected someone injured by the rope of a hot air balloon to have handled that so deftly. After that, he’d gifted me with a parasol for every day of the week, and I'd never gone anywhere without one since.)
Then we were months into the years long trip he’d been preparing for, surveying the plot of land he’d selected to see what flora and fauna populated it. I’d made sure to send a farewell letter to Eloise (with one tucked into it to be discreetly passed to Araminta) so that the only people who may care that I was gone at least knew I was okay. Also, I’d grabbed a copy of Whistledown before we’d set off. Upon reading it, I was tickled to find that the disappearance of Cressida Cowper had been worthy of the now unveiled Penelope Bridgerton’s speculation. Funnier still that further down touched on a scandal about the mysterious brunette woman who brandished parasols like weapons, wore breeches, and trailed faithfully after Lord Debling.
Dyeing my hair, donning lensless glasses, and having Genevieve Delacroix convert Cressida’s obnoxiously voluminous gowns into smart waistcoats and pants was the best idea I’d ever had. No one (else) had made connections between the missing young miss and the new preposterously progressive female secretary.
So I liked to pull that silly copy of Whistledown out every now and then when I needed a pick me up and wished that delightfully spiteful little redhead all the best for the entertainment.
(Throughout her pregnancy, Penelope’s ears would burn and Colin would joke that someone must be talking about her. She would write it off as such each time it happened, though she couldn’t explain the sheer irritation that overcame her when it did.)
About a year into their travels, one of Alfred’s lesser favored cousins had come to join the research party.
“As much as I hate to speak ill of family,” my employer had started as we tucked into the roasted vegetables and grains and watched the younger man chat up a local girl, “His parents are covetous creatures and have been pleased I continue to have no heir to entrust my estate to, should I perish on my travels. They likely hope I take such a liking to their son that I’ll either name him heir ahead of my other cousins in my continued bachelorhood or at least leave him a sizable inheritance in my will.”
“I could draft such an addendum to your will if you so wish it,” I teased, smirking at the deadpan look he shot at that comment.
“I’d sooner will you all I own before letting you put a pen to any parchment for that purpose,” he scowled.
“Promises promises,” I chuckled, enjoying his huff that was absolutely both out of annoyance and amusement.
We made similar expressions of disdain when his cousin started leaning in as the girl tried to lean away, uncomfortable.
“I’m going to go save that poor lamb,” I told him frankly.
“I’ll distract him with a chance to get in my good graces,” he offered, sounding put upon, and I sent a cheery smile his way as we cut into the conversation his cur of a cousin was having.
-
His cousin continued to be a prat perving about the rest of the trip. We did our best to deter or distract him whether is was forcing him to actually being useful on this voyage or dangling facetime with Alfred as an incentive. All the while also giving all other female staff ample warnings and opportunities to divert and dodge him. But there was only so much you could do for certain girls who found the red of waving flags to be their favorite color.
Only after Alfred was well and truly fed up with the man and had sent him back packing did I have a crying girl approaching me with a secret Lady Whistledown would have eaten up.
“It’s his?” my employer asked at the ground, his face pressed down into his hands.
“So she claims,” I answered, reviewing the notes I’d made after comforting and then escorting the maid to her place to rest that I fully intended to destroy later, “I’ve probed the other girls with a made up investigation of the entire staff about a suspected thief, and they swear she’s not dishonest or devious in character.”
“I appreciate your effort in investigating,” he thanked me, before tacking on, “And for the discretion, Cressida. Even as remote as we are here, the other gentlemen on this trip could be as bad as the ladies with gossip.”
“This is my job, I take pride in doing it well,” I stated frankly, holding back from any further quips, not up to our typical banter.
An unexpected and unwanted pregnancy was not my idea of good humor.
“I’ll need your help in recalling my cad of a cousin,” Alfred groaned, “We will find a way to make him do right by her.”
“Even if he refuses to claim the child?” I questioned, which had him raise his head in askance, “It seems she tried to tell him and he dismissed her attempts and threatened her when she persisted.”
His head found its way back into his hands.
This whole situation was a mess. Definitely going to have tongues wagging amongst the ton, but more than anyone else it was most shitty for the girl and the unborn child.
Fucking fictional regency society and its shit treatment of sex, gender, and children out of wedlock. If only there was a way that we could quietly get the poor child and mother set up somewhat comfortably without anyone knowing. Nothing we could do to change her being a single mother having to raise the kiddo unless she opted to give it up for…
My mind stalled as a new plot percolated in my brain.
“Alfred,” I called, trying to rouse him from his angry spiral.
“Yes, Cressida?” he sighed, sounding as tired as if he hadn’t slept in a week.
“I have an idea.”
-
It had taken a conversation with the maid, who was beyond grateful and relieved to take the out offered.
It had taken some theatrics and props to convince the rest of the expedition of a secret, whirlwind romance.
It had taken a letter home to get the banns read and a clergyman sent out for the ceremony.
But what it had needed most was for Alfred to say yes to my most preposterous proposal yet.
“Who would have thought,” he’d started, the night after Willa, the maid who was now a dear friend, had finally given birth, “That after refusing you so thoroughly you would still get your way?”
“Ah yes,” I deadpanned, rocking baby Ambrose in my arms, “My evil plot has finally come to fruition.”
“And I cannot say I dislike the outcome,” he admitted, his voice soft and touch softer as his hand skimmed over the infant's head, “Where a year ago I was unwed and heirless, I now find myself with a friend for a wife and a cousin of my choosing as a son and heir. Not what I set out for on this journey, but welcome nonetheless.”
“And you’re still sure?” I questioned him, “That you can be satisfied with just being friends in this partnership?”
“Cressida,” he sighed with the exasperation of having had this exchange so many times, though smiling regardless, “I am.”
A relieved sigh punched out of me like it always did.
Lingering old life insecurities never failed to rear their ugly head when I worried I couldn’t have a meaningful relationship if I refused to have sex and still felt unsure about romantic love. He’d sworn the first time and everytime after that none of that mattered. That what did matter was that he cared for me - in that platonic but no less important way - and we were going to co-parent the hell out of this kid together.
After all, he was an eccentric after a fashion himself, and had never had quite the same passions his fellow (un-)gentlemanly peers had. If I hadn’t been sure he was my twin soul of this world, the fact that he’d sat through my lecture on asexuality and aromanticism and just asked hyper specific clarifying questions had cinched it.
“Thanks,” I murmured to him, slowly leaning so that where our sides pressed into one another formed a reassuring line of warmth.
As Ambrose started to fuss, a song from the far corners of my memories bubbled up and so I began to sing it to sooth him.
“ Come stop your crying, it will be alright ,” I crooned, lifting a finger to his small hand, “ Just take my hand, hold it tight .”
- Three Years Later -
Penelope Bridgerton cast her gaze about the room, taking in the guests who’d arrived so far for the first ball of the year. She was a usual presence at these events, always expected to keep the ton informed and entertained on the most recent events of the season. Though, she had a better reason for being present as another companion for Hyacinth during her debut year.
It surprised her that even after all these years people were still so unguarded around her at parties like this. Just pretending to be eating, drinking, or talking to someone else disarmed them, thinking she was so distracted she could not catch wind of their conversations.
Most talk paused and quieted as a set of late arrivals were announced. The man looked familiar, though hard to place since he was faced away from her. Strangely, the woman looked even more familiar but she couldn’t say why.
“- Lord and Lady Debling!” the caller proclaimed.
She almost choked on a sip of the drink she had just taken.
“So he's married now,” she murmured to herself as Hyacinth and Eloise speculated amongst themselves.
To her surprise, the moment the tall woman on his arm - his wife! - caught sight of her, she started pulling her husband their way. She sighed, resigning herself to the combined awkwardness of a Lady Whistledown fan and a man she had almost been betrothed to. Just as she had steeled herself with a tight smile and the possibility of having to autograph something, the woman turned to address her best friend instead.
“It is good to see you, Eloise,” the bespectacled lady said, “Did you get my letter?”
Penelope turned to look at the brunette, who’s expression was pinched with confusion.
“Letter…?” her friend started before her face smoothed with sudden surprise, her mouth falling open as she gasped, “CRESSIDA?”
"I have so much to catch you up on," Cressida Cowper - no, Cressida Debling - said to Eloise as she took the other woman's hands in her own, smiling in a way that would look sweet to the outside observer if not for the lips they rested on belonging to someone she knew to be a vain and vile viper. Said viper's gaze slid to her, "And Mrs. Bridgerton, I'm sure you can use some new material."
Colin would tell her later as he came back with lemonade that her face had looked like she had bit into the tartest of lemons as she watched her closest friend sweep her nemesis up into a tight hug.
OMAKE
About halfway through the song, I startled both baby and adoptive father alike with a jolt, interrupting the peacefully, sleepy atmosphere.
“Alfred!” I entreated my - and I still mentally stumbled over this - husband desperately, “Swear to me that we will never bring Ambrose with us to build a treehouse in the middle of the African jungles.”
“Why in the heavens would I ever, dear?” he asked, flabbergasted, taking over soothing the infant to head off the possible crying, “You know we always find the safest accommodations at every research site. What could have possibly brought this on?”
“Nothing, nothing,” I muttered, cursing Edgar Rice Burroughs mentally before wondering if he was even alive yet to have published anything to curse, “Just swear to me.”
“For goodness sake,” he grumbled, “I swear.”
Thank God. I was not going to let our sweet Ambrose be orphaned and then raised by gorillas and swing through the trees in a loincloth.