Unanswered Questions

If you hold me without hurting me

You'll be the first who ever did

-Cinnamon girl by Lana Del Rey

The embarrassment had clung to Eloise like a burr stuck to a woolly sweater until they received the rest of their results. She topped Women’s Writings and Romanticism. Theo topped Renaissance and Victorian Literature and Literary Theory. She and Theo had tied for the Creative Writing exam as well as the Literary Studies essay based assignment. 

She had turned around in triumph when she saw the Romanticism marks pinned on the softboard only to see him grinning at her.

“Good one, Bridgerton.”

He had strode off, leaving her shocked. She had been expecting a remark.

“Maybe he pities me.”, she had fretted to Penelope, “like he wants me to have this one.”

So, when she saw his usual swagger after he beat her in Literary Theory¸ she refused to analyse why her heart soared.

“You didn’t mention why Abrams critiqued Derrida in Deconstructive Angel.”

“Sod off, Sharpe.”

She couldn’t let him know how relieved she was. She wasn't even angry. This was new. She had been a little too used to the flare of rage that his presence triggered. 

All in all, she was glad when Friday arrived. Spring break started the next day. It had been an emotionally exhausting week and she needed to go home to unwind.

There was one thing left to do before leaving.

 “Do you sign as slow as you walk, Sharpe?”

Theo jumped, and turned around to see Eloise’s grinning face.

There hadn’t been much to smile about recently—The stressful midterms, her Modern Poetry results and a certain water-soaked memory that wouldn’t wash away in the current of time.

Attending Red Quill’s meeting on the other hand, was an opportunity she pounced at.

“Lost your way to the designer shops again, Bridgerton?”

“Looking for dry land, Sharpe?”

Theo scowled, “What are you doing here?”

“I told you”, Eloise said, “I find this fascinating. Now sign that and hand it over.”

Theo hurriedly wrote his initials, T.S, and passed it to Eloise. His fingers were cool against hers and she felt like he was again plunged into the cold water, its vicious waves seething and snarling against them. She tried to not think of the look on his face when she lied.

She could trace it if she thought about it long enough.

The way her heart raced, like it did everytime she was locked in a debate with him.

How time seemed to slow down, and all she could see was him.

When every thought in her brain had distorted like old static, warping until her mind focused its energy on only one thing:

Theo.

She could barely remember the cold bite of the water, or how her clothes were dragged down.

Her insides heated up at the sheer thought of her panic.

“Bridgerton?”

God, she couldn’t forget that either. She hated the way he bit out her last name like a curse he  was eager to spit out.

She looked up at his face. Adjuting to reality felt like blinking to get rid of sunspots that danced in her eyes as she stared into bright light.

She wrote E.B and handed it to the person next to her. She cracked a smile

“T.S Eliot and E.B White.”

Theo gave a confused blink in response and she rolled her eyes exasperatedly,

Red Quill’s voice, magnified on the mic, boomed throughout the room. Theo jumped, as if someone had whacked him in his ear.

This time, Eloise paid attention to every word and could feel the pulse in her ears roar like a tide, swelling throughout her.

“We do not exist to be trodden!”, Red Quill shouted, “Do you not toil more? Do you not deserve to sit in a class with them without being questioned for it? Must we prove ourselves over and over, for our place- be it in a school, a hospital or a court?”

“You!”, he pointed at the woman next to Theo, “How many children?”

“F-four.”

“What do you do?”

“I make shoes…at the factory.”

“Your wage, madam?”

“3 to 5 pounds per hour.”

“Do you think you can go to Oxford?”

The woman looked startled, “Wha—No!”

 Everyone around him applauded, shouting their approval each time Red Quill paused.

Red Quill had leapt down from stage and was walking along the first row. Theo was surprised nobody leaned over to touch him, shake his hand or clap his shoulder. They were simply transfixed. The room had plunged into silence as he rested his eyes on each of them.

“You!”, he suddenly pointed at Theo and all he could hear was Eloise’s sharp intake of breath, “I haven’t seen you before! What do you do?”

Theo struggled to find his voice.

“Uh, I study at Mayfair”, he said, “And I work at the Printer’s shops around here.”, he raised his voice slightly as he heard a few people around hiss at the mention of the Academy.

Red Quill raised his hands, and like he had cast a spell, the hissing suddenly stopped.

“What d’you study?”

Red Quill somehow looked more human in front of Theo. His lined face was less brutish and there was a deep, slow quality in his voice that made him sound sincere.

 But it was in the eyes- a soft warmth. Red Quill looked at him like an old friend, eager to catch up, to hang on to every word. He gave Theo a small reassuring nod, as if he truly could believe in a nineteen year old boy he just met.

“English Literature and Language.”, he said, Eloise slightly shuffled her feet behind him. Theo slightly turned his head, sparing her a glance. She couldn’t imagine how he could manage to take his eyes off Red Quill.  Suppressing his smile, Theo added, “I am at the top of the class.”

Eloise gave him a sharp kick.

Red Quill grinned and Eloise suddenly noticed some features thrown into sharp relief, like a scar running from the corner of his lip to his chin.

Theo had aced his exams, survived nearly drowning, impressed Red Quill and pissed off Eloise. Not a bad week for him, all things considered. Eloise wished it was the same for her.

Red Quill laid a hand on Theo’s shoulder, “Meet me later, boy. You…you’ll like what I’ve got for you.”

Red Quill moved through the crowd, asking questions. His voice became slightly muffled, but she could feel the impact rolling over them like a tide. People were grinning, excitedly nudging each other.

Theo turned towards her, and she caught the glint in his eye.

Eloise glanced at her watch and felt her heart plummet. She had promised Penelope she’d meet her for tea.

She had never felt more torn. She desperately wanted to stay and listen. If she was late, Penelope would ask too many questions. She stared at the back of Theo’s head. What had Red Quill got to say to him?

With a final look, she turned around and slipped out.

“When”, Penelope said sternly at the dining hall, “are you going to tell Sharpe that you helped save his life too?”

“Shh”, Eloise looked around frantically. Dev and Preston were a few seats away. Dev was deeply engrossed in a conversation with Reena while Preston was sullenly staring at his teacup. Eloise had cornered both of them the previous day and made them swear to not tell Theo. Preston was enthusiastic in his agreement, seeing it was repayment for Eloise not telling Theo about his relationship, or whatever the hell it was, with Monique. Dev looked suspicious about her request but didn’t argue.

“Pen’s got a point.”, Colin said thickly through a mouthful of tea cake, “you don’t want him thinking you’re some cold, heartless—”

“He already thinks that.”, Eloise snapped, “I don’t see the point, okay? I just don’t want him to know.”

Colin held his hands up in surrender, “Okay, whatever you say. Just don’t be surprised if he hates you even more, now.”

“Hush, you.”, Penelope thwacking Colin on the arm with the back of her hand, “that was unnecessary.”

“He’s right”, Eloise sighed, pushing away her second helping of cake.

 “Don’t be thick! He can’t possibly despise you.”

“Oh, yeah? What makes you say that?”

“Turn around.”

Theo was striding towards them, one hand in his pocket as usual. He deposited his bag on to Preston’s lap and instead of sitting next to him, he came right up to Eloise.”

“Bridgerton”, he said crisply and then nodded at Colin and Penelope, “Bridgerton, Featherington.”

“Sharpe”, Colin and Penelope chorused, before becoming a little too interested in Eloise’s plate.

He turned to Eloise, who was suddenly aware of the crumbles of cake around her mouth. He bent down to talk to her.

Theo gave her a tiny smile, and gave her a handkerchief. She accepted it, trying not to appear embarrassed and wiped her mouth.

She looked up at him, and his eyes pierced into hers, pinning her in her place. Her breath was caught in her chest.

He handed her a slip of paper,

“Must have slipped under your radar, but we haven’t worked on this story for a while. Here is my address. I thought we could keep in touch over the Spring Break and plan it out, maybe even send each other excerpts of our writing.”

She pocketed it, “Don’t you have a telephone?”

“Not at home”, Theo straightened up, “Is writing letters too old fashioned for you?”

“Not at all. It is a lost art.”

“Indeed.”, he slightly shuffled his feet, “I am afraid I need your address too.”

“Uh, right.”, Eloise reached into her pockets, “God, I left my bag in my dorm. So did Pen and Colin.”

“I have got a pen”, Theo said, fishing one out of his pocket and giving it to her,  “Just need a piece of paper. Oi, Dev, Preston. Got an old notebook or sum? No? Damn it.”

“Oh forget it.”, Eloise said impatiently. She grabbed his wrist and pulled him towards her. Aware of Penelope staring at them, she scribbled out her address on the inside of his forearm. Theo was looking at her, his eyes wide. His skin was cool, as if he had just gotten out of the water. Eloise realized her nails were almost digging into his arm. She could see indents of her finger nails carved into his skin.

She got to her feet shakily, and whispered,

"Sharpe, what did he want?"

Theo tightened his jaw, "If I tell you, I might have to kill you, Bridgerton."

Eloise rolled her eyes, "How dramatic. You act like you wouldn't be relieved. At least it means we don't have to work together anymore."


"Ah, yes", Theo said coolly, "You'd love to see me dead. Is that why you're attempting to cut off my blood supply?"

She clumsily let go of his arm, “Uh, there you go.”

He dropped his arm to his side, “My pen.”

“Right.”

He gave her a nod and walked away to join his friends who were goggling at them.

Face heating up, she turned back to Colin and Penelope.

“Oh, shut up.”

“We didn’t say anything.”

“Yeah, but your faces did.”

The journey back home was peaceful. Colin, Penelope and Eloise got a compartment to themselves. She had seen Theo board the train, but avoided his eye.

She slept throughout the journey while Colin and Penelope played on whatever board game Colin insisted on stuffing into his bag. When she woke up in the middle of the journey, she saw his arm was draped around Penelope and she was leaning into his side, sleeping.

He was staring out of the window, and as the train jostled, Penelope leaned on him even more, her head on his chest.

“Should I lay her down?”, Eloise asked softly. Colin held the hand that wasn’t wrapped around Penelope up.

“She’s a light sleeper.”

Eloise had stayed awake the rest of the journey, uneasy for a reason she couldn’t put her finger on.

Instead, she took out the notes on her and Theo’s story: the only notes she had packed. She revised the storyline they had been planning. A mysterious killer murdered a paper boy and an actor. The backstage worker, who was the main character was a suspect because she and the actor usually butt heads. She was good friends with the paper boy. The story followed mainly her and a detective, who believed her innocence tracing the murder to a secret society who had been killing people for centuries. The only remnant of its past victims was a ghost whose perspective was the most interesting, but also the most confusing.

As she revised the chapters she had written so far, she couldn’t help but see Theo’s point about her writing.  She took out her pen, and started to practice dialogue.

Giving Theo her address turned out to not be a bad decision. A couple days into the break, she received her first letter from him. She had eagerly written back, happy for a distraction from the mundanities of Bridgerton House.

 She wanted nothing more than to shut herself up in her room while Hyacinth and Gregory tore through the house. Her mother, Daphne, and Francesca were travelling. Colin spent most of the day outside, catching up with his old friends. Benedict had been behaving oddly, not at all his jovial self. She assumed his strained manner had something to do with missing Anthony, but she didn’t pry.

Quickly, reading and responding to the letters became something she looked forward to, as they punctuated the long days that dragged their feet through the warm sunshine and balmy evenings.

Bridgerton,

They say the key to a good story is a striking beginning. The opening line is a hook to bait the reader and draw them into the net.

You must know, I am quite good with beginnings. I start with a sharp (pun intended ) dialogue, a witty description that is out of context.

I don’t need to see my audience to know I have made them curious.

That being said, I don’t have the slightest clue how to begin this letter.

I wonder if it’s because I don’t require your curiosity for your readership. I am sure is not interest that drove you to open this envelope, but necessity, which brings me to the heart of this letter. I would ask you to forgive me for my ramblings, but it is bold of you to assume that time spent on my words is time wasted, is it not?

You had said you wanted to swap skill sets: that I try my hand at poetic, flowery descriptions to paint a scene and you breathe the characters to life with realistic dialogue.

I mulled over it. I draped my arms at the windowsill of the train home. I heard muffled laughter from the next compartment, stared at the crumpled cups beneath my seat and felt the breeze lift my fringe in the air like the corner of a page. Everything I watched was blurs of green zipping past me. Even as we slowed down, I couldn’t even enjoy the sight of the sun soaked rivers fully, all because I was seized by the frustration of not knowing how to describe it.

The only source of comfort was that you probably feel the same way when you try to write dialogue. Perhaps you heard a conversation, could feel the tension in your chest, noticed all the details that would give it heart, but not find the words to describe it. What ‘it’ is, is a tricky question. I think it is what makes your characters human, which is why writing a letter is all the more frustrating,

It is quite strange, not hearing the rasp in your voice over the phone, or see that infuriating scrunch in your brows, or that ridiculous haughty smirk of yours. It is unnerving, to not know if you’re playing with the cuff of your shirt like you do when you’re a little bit nervous.

All I am saying is, Bridgerton, is that we give this swap a go. Please find enclosed a few descriptive pieces I wrote, about settings as well as specific emotions. Kindly include your feedback on the introspective quality and attention to detail. More importantly, send me a sample of yours, for I refuse to be the only one enjoying this dance of mutual criticsm.

I hope you made it home safe and your princess carriage was comfortable,

Class Topper

Sharpe,

For a man who told me I ramble too much, your writing clearly isn’t concise enough.

Or rather, sharp enough. (Pun intended)

Your writing produced two great shocks that would have required me to return to the seaside for my health if this were a Victorian novel.

The first thing I did after reading your letter was to throw open the windows and peer outside so I could check if it had snowed. If you considered my idea, all I could wonder was what other miracles had taken place!

For the record, the whole point of incorporating details is to allow yourself to fully soak in the moment you’re trying to describe, like the sun soaks in the rivers you saw.

To sparkle, you must submerge.

Writing about it comes naturally, but you need to give your mind the space to experience and think.

Regardless, your attached work requires coherence. To make the shifts between paragraphs smoother, link your emotions to what you observe. As for attention to detail, quality precedes quantity, as you once told me. Rather than listing out details, focusing on a couple and fleshing them out in a way that establishes the mood might make your writing more impactful. I will enclose a sample. Calling a river “sun soaked” is good, but it requires elaboration. Believe it or not, there are more ways to describe the water than just “blue”. Describe the brightness of the colour, and compare the sparkles to liquified diamonds sunbathing in the water, glinting in the warm glow of the sunlight.  Apart from focusing on the water, remember the river is still surrounded by other elements. Mention birds flying and their chirps, describe the movement of the ripples lapping at the shore and the way the breeze ruffles the grass. Try combining visual imagery with personification. Strange pairings can do wonders.

Now that I have asserted my superiority in descriptions (not that it was necessary), I must reveal the second shock. It is with great regret that I say I do agree with you. You are not alone in your frustration with your linguistic inadequacy. While I am quite sure my cuffs remain safe while I am nervous, I find myself struggling to make characters seem human when they talk. It is rather unnerving, for communication is quite literally the most human thing you can do.

I have enclosed some dialogue samples for our story, in which the characters are discussing the murder.

My princess carriage was perfectly comfortable. The only thorn in my side was that I was a few compartments down from you in the same train, and could sense your obnoxious disposition wafting through the doors like the fumes of a strongly brewed coffee.

Hope the weather at your place doesn’t fry your brain. It would be a pity.

-The actual topper.

Dear Ms. Menace,

I have enclosed a revised version with this letter. What’s actually a shock is that you’d find my consideration of your idea a surprise. I reckon that either means you underestimated your idea or overestimated my stubbornness. Either way, what a shame, Bridgerton.

As for your sample, I must say, if I took a shot every time you used the word “said”, “smirked”, and “raised his eyebrow”, I’d be drunk enough to tell you to publish it. Alas, I stay away from alcohol. Luckily as a result, I am sober enough to give you some suggestions:

Alternatives for the word ‘said’ : Retorted, remarked, cried, exclaimed, snapped, hissed, replied, snarled (not a personal favourite. Our characters aren’t animals. Please don’t use the word ‘growled’.)

Body language: crossing their arms, checking their watch, tilting their head, burying their hands in their pockets, pacing around restlessly, nervously rocking on the balls of their feet, exasperatedly pinching the bridge of their nose, running their hands through their hair, leaning against something, wiping something away from a surface, crossing a leg behind another, fiddling with an object, shaking their leg. Bonus points if you reflect something about the characters.

 Although I must say, you sure know how to describe an eye. I have never seen an eye being compared to a clock. I also quite like the lines, “Solving a mystery was like trying to figure out why you were so uncomfortable, and realizing you were sitting on the final puzzle piece which perfectly slots into place with the rest of the puzzle. What he didn’t admit to himself was that the only thing was more curious about than the loose killer was whatever the hell Cleo was smirking about. This mystery felt less like a missing piece and more like one that was gnawing at his side, sharply enough to hurt but not enough to bleed.”

I was thinking our story shouldn’t be driven solely by the plot. The storyline is of course, important in a mystery. However, let’s not forget, this story is indeed about people. We have established their backstories, their motives, their flawed judgements and fears.

What is missing is feeling.

Specifically, the perspectives of the detective and main character (the backstage worker, I mean) almost feel disconnected from the story, as if they were floating. I think we need to flesh out the relationships. We haven’t figured out details about the backstage worker’s friendship with the paper boy or her feud with the actor before they were killed.

 Similar to how a river should also be described with relation to what surrounds it, a character’s relationships should also be explored.

That aside, it is important that we add tension between her and the detective. While I know the detective is the only one who doesn’t suspect her (the story wouldn’t make sense otherwise), I think we can add depth if there is conflict between the two. Personal conflict or difference in views would be great: Cleo, who is always used to being underappreciated and unrecognized as a backstage worker and the detective who is desperate to cling to his reputation as a golden boy who never misses a mark in the office. That frames their clashing perspectives of the world, and is perfect fodder for disagreement.

Otherwise, it would fall flat and their dynamic wouldn’t feel compelling.

I just believe we need them to slowly develop a relationship that starts with animosity: they constantly butt heads and neither of them can stop thinking about how much their disagreements impact them, until something triggers them to understand each other other, and perhaps become more of a team.

After all, strange pairings can do wonders.

Regards,

The one who is superior at dialogues

Dear Sharpe,

I wish you were taking shots so you’d be drunk enough to not write to me at all.

I am sorry this letter is rather short. My oldest brother, Anthony is finally coming home and I have always indulged in a glass of merlot to prepare myself for the celebration. This house wouldn’t survive without him. Benedict needs the man who is somehow both the devil and angel on his shoulder. I don’t know if they would  be best friends or worst enemies in another life, so I am glad they are brothers in this one. You probably don’t remember me mentioning them.

Nevertheless, thank you. I thought him comparing her eye to a clock speaks to his obsession with time. I noticed in the passages you had written, he keeps checking his watch and worrying about punctuality. While she may not be the same, the backstage worker would know a thing or two about precision and being quick on her feet as time is of the essence on stage. She is just slightly chaotic and carefree in a way that he perhaps is not used to- not in a childlike way, of course. They are the same age and we shouldn’t infantilize the female lead.

Thank you for your list. I refuse to believe that you have them from your own experience of reading and writing or if you just gave me a list of what you do. You are perhaps pinching the bridge of your nose right now, while your spectacles slide off and become lopsided. Maybe you’re leaning against your doorframe as usual, like you are unable to stand on your feet, resting your elbow somewhere above your head. Maybe you’re folding your arms behind your head and tilting your chair backward, knowing I’d hope you would topple off and give everyone a good laugh.

I don’t understand why we need conflict between the detective and the backstage worker. Wouldn’t the establishment of a friendship make them more convincing as a team?

However, I do think a core ‘bonding’ moment could be good. Apart from them facing a common obstacle and putting their heads together to solve the mystery, we need something high stakes and action packed. Maybe one of them falls in danger because of the other.

Let’s keep it simple, shall we? Perhaps draw from your own experiences so the writing becomes easier and we can get this over with. I am not alone in this dance of hoping we can get rid of each other as soon as possible.

Slightly drunkenly,

The one who is clearly good at crafting characters

.

To whichever personality of yours that is reading this,

I don’t know if you’re sober enough to take offense to my letter. Knowing you want me to stop writing makes me want to only write more- feverishly generate thousands of letters to choke your mailbox. I assure you, I won’t be exasperatedly pinching the bridge of my nose. I have never toppled off my chair, so you should probably topple off that high horse of yours. You were indeed right in your assumption that you aren’t alone in the hope that we never work together again. Finally something didn’t slip under your radar, Bridgerton. First time for everything, I suppose.

As for the conflict in our story- you said it yourself Bridgerton,

To sparkle, you must submerge.

I think them enduring the conflict and emerging with a stronger bond and mutual understanding will add more depth and nuance as they challenge each other and learn. Strange pairings can do wonders.

I do remember the mention of your oldest brothers. You and Colin brought them up on the day I almost drowned. The water didn’t dilute my memory.

Speaking of which, I do like the idea of one of them being in danger. Perhaps the other could actually save the person in danger. This doesn’t satisfy your requirement to keep it easy because unfortunately, this isn’t an experience that you can draw from.

No hard feelings,

Sharpe

Eloise never thought Theo could strike her speechless like this.  She had written and rewritten the response, discarding each one. Whatever Theo and her shared wasn’t normal. That could only mean there was no normal response.  She was so tensed, she started re reading his excerpts. He had described the grief of their main character after her friend, the paper boy was found dead. There was a quality in his writing that tugged at her, forced her to turn around as much as she wanted to look away. She had deliberately avoided reading his work, but now she had no choice. When she closed her eyes, some of the phrases floated through her. 

Love is the tender meat that feeds grief.

Love nurtures grief, swinging it in its crib.

Love is the mother of grief, growing it like a parasite in its womb, stretching to accommodate every tear and pang of longing.

Grief kicks, the outline of its foot jutting through the layers, like a reminder.

I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.

Love screams during labour, scrambling for purchase as she grips the sheets of the bed. Grief comes out screaming, demanding,

More, more, more.

The words had tangled up in her. She could feel her eyes prickle and her throat close up. She thought of her father, the way her nails dug into the palm of her hand at his funeral. She thought of Anthony, rigid and upright, collapsing when he got home, and how Benedict had bent over him, holding him as he cried while their mother was in her room, tending to Hyacinth. The excerpt had driven her to go hug Hyacinth, her sister who somehow seemed untouched by the grief that hung like a shadow in the fringes of the house. As aware as she was of the lack, Anthony was the father she knew.

"What was that for?", Hyacinth said with a laugh.

Eloise couldn't answer. Shaken, she had turned to the letter again, trying to work up a response.

She had read the letter so many times that she could recite it byheart. She could sense the repressed hurt, the bite of his snark, the sharpness of his resentment compressed in the gaps between each word.

The truth danced on the tip of her tongue, on the nib of her pen, but she couldn’t bear to tell him. She could only imagine the look on his face when he finds out she was the first to jump in to the water.

Not when. If

Eloise was never going to let it happen.

Finally, she had dozed off, surrounded by crumpled paper as Theo’s letter dangled loosely from her hand. His words seemed to type themselves out in her mind.

She would have slept all night if she didn’t hear the doorbell ring.

Eloise had a lot of plans that night : write the response, help cook dinner without burning down the kitchen, read The Secret History and go to bed.

 Opening the door to find Theo Sharpe with a bruise under his eye was not one of them.

“What the hell—”

“I fell”, Theo said with a crooked grin, “Fell off my bike.”

She assessed him. His hair was tousled. There was a small cut on his jaw and a purplish splotch under his eye. His shirt and pants were so muddy she was glad her mother was not home.

Theo was leaning against the doorframe with an odd grimace, as if smiling hurt. She wouldn’t be surprised if it did, considering the cut on his lip.

She was no medical expert but that was definitely not a fall. Eloise moved aside to let him in.

“How can I help?”, she asked.

His eyes tracked the living room and she was suddenly aware of how large it was, and how the gilt of the decorations shined a little too brightly under the golden light.

He finally looked at her, “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Eloise blinked. Her gaze, almost involuntarily went to his tongue flicking over his bloody lip.

“Do you want a ride to the hospital? There is one close by. We can take you home too.”

“No I can’t go back there.”, he said quickly, “I- er, don’t have my keys.

Eloise’s eyes slid to his pocket. She noticed he just conveniently put his hand in there.

“Sharpe,”, she said softly, “Who did this to you?”

Before he could answer, Benedict’s voice carried across the hall. She heard his footsteps approaching as he came into view.

“Eloise, is everything okay?”, he stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes wide. He wasn’t looking at her though. Benedict’s gaze was fixed on Theo, whose face darkened, even more under his bruises.

She noticed Theo’s eyes narrow. Benedict’s appearance right from the top of his elaborately styled hair to the bottom of his expensive boots probably represented everything Theo hated about the upper class. What else could be the reason? The only sibling Theo would know apart from her would be Colin.

“What’s going on?”, another voice boomed through the room. Anthony

Eloise closed her eyes in frustration. Great, just what she needed.

“Who’s there—ah”, Anthony gave Theo a look of surprise. He tilted his head with a frown, his mouth slightly hung open. He placed his hands on his hips but quickly rearranged his features to a pleasant smile.

“Hello, I am Anthony Bridgerton. How can we help you?”

Well, this was going to be difficult to explain.