Lady Whistledown
You're here with me for the moment
But I know you're going back
You have a brown leather suitcase
You didn't bother to unpack
I've been tying my shoes together
Then I've been trying to walk away
- Losers by Balthazar
The library had always been a magical place for Eloise. Being surrounded by towering bookshelves while sitting near the window evoked a tide that swept through her, like a crash of serenity and the hum of exhilaration all at once. Time always seemed to stand still.
It was a rare morning with bright and warm skies instead of greasy clouds hanging in a grey sky like rips in a mattress.
She wished she could bottle the sunlight that streamed through the large, arched windows, casting intricate patterns on the spines of the books that stretched in front of her. It reminded her of her father, who used to keep her on his lap as they pored over abridged versions of books together.
She chewed her lip as she gazed at the book list in her hand. She had noted down every novel available in the library that might touch on the themes she wanted, which she discovered was not much. She also borrowed two novels from Professor Kathani Sharma. Apart from being a legend in the Economics department, she also seemed to know an awful lot about secret societies.
She also got her hands on some research papers on injustices in the education and law system. Sharpe’s sharp comment the previous day was all it took. Eloise didn’t want him thinking she didn’t know what she was representing in her story.
She looked up as he walked towards her table in an easy gait, one hand in the pocket of his coat and the other gripping a tattered bag. Something in her clenched when she remembered him leaning towards her, his fingers on her coat and—
“Bridgerton”, he gave his usual greeting nod, and sat next to her, “What’s this now?
She pushed the paper towards him, surprised by her sudden nervousness. She watched him carefully, taking in the way his eyebrows knitted and then rose, the tug of his mouth, the narrowing of his eyes. She fiddled with the cuff of her shirt until he finally looked up.
“Well”, he let out a low whistle, “My, my, Bridgerton I got to say I’m surprised. I didn’t think you’d know where the public library is.”
Ouch
She and Sharpe were no strangers to the wars of wit. They frequented the battleground, throwing jabs and clashing opinions against each other, pointing out errors in arguments. But he’d never insinuated that he thought she wouldn’t be able to do something.
“So,”, Eloise said, “did I impress you or did you just underestimate me?”
Theo then did a very strange thing: he smiled. A beam split his face, crinkling his eyes. Eloise wondered if it would be compared to quiet trains, noisy libraries, and other terrible things people only came across once in a lifetime.
It was strangely uncomfortable, not because he looked bad, but because she didn’t think she could stop looking.
“Our university does not have enough materials on the matter”, she said. A hot flush crept up her face. Did she seem too eager to change the topic? God, unseasonably warm days do all sorts of things to her mind
“Why would it?”, Theo leaned closer, “It would practically be admitting to the discrimination it promotes.”
“Yes, well…”
Eloise pursed her lips. The thought had occurred to her. She wasn’t as blind to her privilege as everyone thought she was. Cressida Cowper was sharp as a whip but couldn’t write if her elaborate hairstyles depended on it. It was an unspoken but commonly agreed fact that her admission wasn’t based on her essays or interview answers, but rather the “DEAN” plaque on her father’s office on the highest floor.
A patchwork of memories knitted itself in her mind. Cressida and her were once friends, until Eloise met Penelope and Cressida revealed herself to be a mean bully. Cressida was the girl everyone wanted to be: mysterious, sharp as a whip, incredibly beautiful. Eloise’s loyalty to Penelope was all it took to unleash a side of Cressida that was a far cry from the loud laughs and shared sandwiches their friendship was once made of.
“Anyway”, Theo said, sitting down, “Since, we are both writing murder mysteries, what premise are you thinking of?”
“Right”, Eloise said briskly, “no ghosts.”
“Why not?”, Theo demanded.
“I know at least ten other people doing it.”
Theo scoffed, “You’d find twenty more people writing a human murder mystery.”
“I think a human committing crimes is more chilling than a ghost”, Eloise said.
Theo chewed his lip, “Okay…that is fair.”
Eloise stared at him, startled, “you agree?”
Theo shrugged, “Yeah, but who said a ghost should be bad? What if the ghost is a detective…”
He straightened up, his eyes bright, “Wait, scratch that idea. What if the only witness of the murder was a ghost.”
Eloise didn’t know what to think of a ghost story. She had never read any, but she had to admit it was a good idea.
“Fine, but we are keeping the ideas of secret societies.”
Theo started feverishly scribbling in his notebook, “Maybe the ghost was a victim of the secret society, centuries ago.”
“Grand. Who is the victim the ghost witnesses being killed then?”
Theo stopped writing, “In my story, it was the lead actress of a theatre troupe who dies. Looks like it is Paper boy versus lead actress”
Eloise frowned, “The first victim is always a glamorous, screaming woman whose helplessness the audience gets off to.”
“Fine, Bridgerton. Paper boy versus lead actor, then.”
Theo chewed the end of his pen. A cringe arrested Eloise. It was such a filthy habit.
“A paper boy and a lead actor could both die.”, Eloise suggested, “the difference between how much attention is paid to their deaths could speak volumes”
Theo noted it down, “yeah, and the detectives regret not paying attention to the paper boys’ murder because when the main character investigates it, it leads to an important clue about the secret society…”
“Who is the main character?”, Eloise asked,
Theo spun his pen in his fingers, “in my story, the main character is a backstage worker suspected for the murder, because he had a personal feud with the actor who died.”
She hated that he had good ideas.
“
Theo spun his pen in his fingers, “In my story, the main character is a backstage worker suspected of murder due to a past personal feud with the actor who died.”
She hated that he had good ideas.
“Should we do a dual perspective?”, she asked, “Maybe one from the backstage worker and another…maybe from the detective?”
“What about three perspectives?”, Theo suggested, “Those two, along with the ghost, and maybe we could have interludes or tiny chapters in between from the murderer’s perspective.”
She opened a page in her own notebook, and jotted down the ideas, tapping her pen against the page, until she got an idea to build on Theo’s,
“And…the backstage worker was a friend of the paper boy. Friend of one victim, enemy of the other, the only link between the two. That’s what makes her investigate both so well. She tries to clear her name in the murder of the actor, and wants to find out what happened to her friend, the paper boy.”
Theo held her gaze for a moment. Eloise’s heart was thumping, her idea floating in the air like a hook. He gave a slow, impressed nod,
“My, my, Bridgerton, maybe this story could have more substance than we thought.”
Eloise rubbed her hands, “Okay how do we start writing it then?”
“Wait”, Theo said, “shouldn’t we plan out the story? We haven’t even figured out what the society was doing, and who committed the murder, and why.”
“I was planning on figuring it out as we went along”, Eloise said sourly.
Theo shook his head, “That won’t work for me.”
“Then what will?”
He shrugged, “use your brains, Bridgerton.”
All he does is criticize, without offering a solution. It was as if she had to please him by proving herself.
“Fine”, Eloise said through gritted teeth, “let’s plan out the first few chapters, write them and then do the same for the rest.”
“No.”
“Why can’t you cooperate?”, Eloise snapped. She couldn’t take it.
Theo leaned forward, “I am the difficult one here? You are the one trying to wing the story without a structure. Some of us need good grades so we can maintain a scholarship. Maybe if you plan scene by scene, our readers wouldn’t have to put up with pages of rambling”
Eloise scoffed, “Oh, give it a rest. I am not winging anything. We both want a good grade. Can’t we meet in the middle? If I keep planning without writing, I will go crazy.”
Theo folded his arms and sighed, “We can take the next few days to plan the overall storyline, then do a detailed breakdown of every scene of only the first few chapters. Then we can write those chapters, review and do the same for the next few chapters, and so on.”
Eloise’s jaw dropped.
“That’s what I said”, Eloise spluttered.
Theo smirked, “Well, I just said it better.”
Eloise needed to get out of there before the nerve in her forehead popped. She checked her watch. She wanted to meet Penelope for tea.
“Same time tomorrow then?”, she said briskly. Her mind was buzzing with ideas as she packed away her bag.
Penelope was waiting for her outside the library, and Eloise was grateful for how easily she could get swept away in a new conversation as they approached the dining hall.
“I finally finished 70 percent of the essay”, Penelope was saying, “it took me nearly all night and I still have some left. Then, Heather had the audacity to ask me if I’d let her read mine!”
“Heather Brown or Wilson?”, Eloise asked, determined to listen to every word this time.
“Wilson!”, Penelope exclaimed, her voice high pitched, “As if I am going to let that freeloader copy me after she took all the credit for a group project last semester that she barely contributed to.”
“Jesus.”
“They all need him, alright”, Penelope spluttered, “El, did I tell you about David?”
“That senior of Colin’s who got wasted and pissed over the bushes last month?”
“Aye, he and his stupid group of thick-headed nuggets has been going around paying people to do their entire dissertation. Colin told me!”
“I heard he was with Heather”, Eloise said.
“Who? Me?”, a voice came from behind. Penelope yelped and turned around, alarmed.
It was Colin, grinning broadly.
“Why must you always insist on a dramatic entrance?”, Penelope asked exasperatedly.
Colin slung an arm around her, “For that look on your face.”
Penelope went slightly pink. Eloise rolled her eyes. Colin had been making dramatic entrances his life purpose for as long as she could remember and Penelope always responded the same way.
“Who are you two talking about?”, Colin asked. He took Penelope’s bag, ignoring her protests and slung it over his shoulder.
“Heather Wilson and David—”
“Yeah”, he said, “They’re an item.”
“Birds of a feather flock together”, Penelope said viciously as they entered the dining hall, “Excellent, they have scones.”
Eloise took a cup of black coffee for herself and prepared cups of tea for Penelope and Colin, stirring a bit of honey.
“Girls!”
They turned around to see Reena, a Political Science and Law major they were friends with bound towards them.
“Hullo, Deshpande”, Penelope said cheerfully, biting into a scone.
“Did you see this?”, Reena said, flushed, waving what looked like a pamphlet, “Everyone is talking about it!”
Eloise could make out Lady Whistledown written on the top of the front page.
“Dearest Gentle Reader”, Reena read out the loopy font, “you would be surprised to hear just how loose the foundation of our university’s ethos is. Those born with silver spoons in their mouths clearly feed on delusions of superiority.”
Eloise sucked air between her teeth, “God, what a good line.”
She read the next lines, “Entitlement is truly a poison to pick. These students think they will get away with it all. Maybe the authorities would sweep it under the rug, but we won’t let it be dismissed as rumours and exaggerations, will we?
How would students like Peter Smith and Jeniffer Green ever deny trying to blackmail five working-class students to sneak an answer scheme for a test from a professor’s cabin? They can’t. Next time you try to threaten someone, don’t write a letter and throw it at their head.”
Penelope snorted into her teacup at that. Eloise read the next paragraph.
“If everyone forgives them, rest assured, Lady Whistledown wouldn’t let anyone forget.
All it takes is one overheard conversation to rip the veil of prestige and integrity that is barely hanging on to its hinges…very much like the students in the Astronomy club. Word around the galaxy is, the president is shuffling away funds, probably to buy things that will help him see stars in a completely different way. As anyone who parties with him can confirm, he stays true to his club’s manifesto by literally being out of this world.”
“No wonder that Gregory always looks at least half stoned!”, Colin said, “Ah, wait, the boys are calling me over. I’ll see you lot later.”
He walked away as Reena took over, “Hold on to your hankerchiefs, quite literally. David Donnelly, from Journalism and Media Studies asked a girl five times despite rejection. How did it start? She dropped her hankerchief in front of him, a sign he mistook for “instant love”. Yet, another sign of delusion. Someone must give him a lesson on consent. When he lewdly told her he wanted to know what a girl from Derry tasted like, she gave him a taste of her knuckles as she punched him in the mouth.”
“ I’ve heard of this”, Eloise said, wiping the crumbs of scone around her mouth, “He tried to ask out Erin Quinn, Reena’s classmate! She told me he wasn’t taking no for an answer and that she had to complain. Apparently, he used to go stand outside her dormitory until she came out.”
“He is disgusting”, Penelope said, wrinkling her nose, “I hope Quinn’s boyfriend roughs him up a bit too.”
“Nah”, Eloise said, “James Maguire wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“Aye, you never know what he’d do for Erin”, Reena said, “I heard he stood up to a professor who shamed her for the length of her skirt last week, and someone else who made fun of her for being from Derry.”
The whispering around them had rose to a crescendo. Eloise looked around and saw multiple people clutching copies of the pamphlet, exchanging soft giggles.
“This is good.”, Eloise said, “if this is what holds people accountable…”
“It’s public shaming”, Reena said with a shrug, “but with a purpose, you know? It seems to only targets people who should but won’t face consequences for their actions.”
Reena sipped her tea and shuddered, “Brits really can’t make chai. Anyway, I don’t know about responsibility or journalistic integrity or whatever, but this pamphlet thing is better than that old gossip rag that run for a couple months last year. Remember the rumour about the French professor?”
“Madame Delacroix?”, Eloise asked, startled, “She’s friends with one of my brothers. Met him at the career fair. What happened?”
“Didn’t you hear the rumour about her shacking it up with the man at the printer’s office?”, Reena asked, “It was vile.”
“I remember.”, Penelope said, “Delacroix was wiping out French slurs from the windows off her office for a week straight until the next edition of the gossip rag announced it wasn’t true, and that she didn’t deserve to be shamed even if it was.”
“The first and last of its good deeds.”, Reena muttered.
Eloise suddenly remembered. She had been too occupied with her final exams at the time to pay attention to what rumour was being spread but she recalled hearing about the gossip rag.
Everyone was on edge for weeks, hungrily waiting for the next edition. Even professors would be talking in whispers, always looking around them, afraid of being overheard. The air was thick with excitement and fear until the publications mysteriously stopped.
It was staggering and humbling, to remember the power of information and how a few words that could change the current of how people’s perceptions flowed, towards others or, even themselves.
One thing was for sure: Eloise would be looking forward to the next few publications of this new pamphlet.