CHAMPAGNE PROBLEMS [BRIDGERTON]

seven.

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𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧: 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚
𝐝𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐲.

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It was a quiet Monday morning for the governess of the Bridgerton household. The serenity was usually because Gregory and Hyacinth were all tired out from their adventures over the weekend. Eloise opted to take classes with Augusta but separate from her younger siblings while Francesca was away visiting a cousin.

Augusta was alone in the schoolroom, her feather pen in hand as she placed her thoughts in one of her brown notebooks. Gregory and Hyacinth had finished their lessons for the day and all she had was Eloise for the afternoon. Eloise's lessons were mostly comprised of her to ranting about her lack of opportunities while the governess would absentmindedly nod her head in agreement. They were having a class; Augusta would reply with a more suitable comment in one of their leisure moments.

The door to the schoolroom flung open and a panting Eloise appeared.

Augusta spared her glance before her focus shifted back to her writing. "Allow me a minute, Eloise." She stated. "You have arrived ahead of our agreed time. Are you that eager to ─ "

She wasn't aware of how quickly Eloise moved from the doorway to where she was standing by the window. In one moment, Augusta was writing an excerpt of her story and then she was being urgently tugged on her wrist. They hastily moved around the extravagant Bridgerton household.

Of course, Augusta ─ no matter how much she adored Eloise ─ was full of protests such as: This is such uncharacteristic lunacy from you, Eloise! You are hurting my arm! Kindly release your grip, Eloise!

"Gift!" Eloise exclaimed, her hands raised in an exaggerated manner when they stopped at the drawing room. "Painting! You! Caller!" The governess was extremely amused by her lack of words.

"Eloise is usually much more eloquent than this." The kind voice of Violet Bridgerton commented towards the gentleman standing beside her.

Augusta was bewildered at the sight she was seeing. Before her was a canvas perched firmly on a gold easel with intricate carvings, however, that is not what truly shocked her. It was the painting on the canvas that compelled her to take one step back, her eyes to go wide in surprise, and a soft gasp to escape her lips.

The painting was of her a few nights ago. A portrait of the governess sitting in that little corner in the room full of artists at Henry Granville's party three days ago. Augusta's head was turned to the side with tendrils of her blonde hair loose, her arms were folded firmly across her torso, and her jaw looked quite stiff. The background was plainly gray. As her eyes scanned the painting, she was exceedingly unimpressed.