Philloise Re-Written

Chapter Eight

. . . how fortunate you are to be at school. We girls have been presented with a new governess, and she is misery personified. She drones on about sums from dawn until dusk. Poor Hyacinth now breaks into tears every time she hears the word "seven." (Although I must confess that I don't understand why one through six do not elicit similar reactions.) I don't know what we shall do. Dip her hair in ink, I suppose. (Miss Haversham's, that is, not Hyacinth's, although I would never rule out the latter.)

—from Eloise Bridgerton to her brother Gregory, during his first term as a student at Eton

When Phillip returned from the rose garden, he was surprised to find his home quiet and empty. It was a rare day when the air wasn't exploding with the sound of some overturned table or shriek of outrage.

The children, he thought, pausing to savour the silence. Clearly, they had been vacated from the premises. Miss Bridgerton must have taken them out for a walk. He frowned, thinking it a little early for an excursion, especially considering her condition. He had learned his lesson after yesterday's confrontation though and decided not to dwell on it.

Phillip stared down at the roses in his hand. He'd spent an hour choosing exactly the right ones; Romney Hall boasted three rose gardens, and he'd had to go to the far one to find the early-blooming varieties. He'd then painstakingly picked them, careful to snip at the exact right spot so as to encourage further blooming, and then meticulously sliced away each thorn.

Flowers he could do. Green plants he could do even better, but somehow he didn't think a fistful of ivy would be the best way to say 'I'm sorry, please stay'.

He wandered over to the breakfast room, surprised to find the sideboard was tidy and spotless, signalling that the morning meal had come to an end sooner than he had anticipated. Phillip's frown deepened as he stood in the middle of the room for a moment, trying to figure out what he ought to do next. Eloise had obviously wanted an early start to her day of lessons with the children. Outside lessons, apparently.

Just then a maid came through, holding a feather duster and a rag. She bobbed a quick curtsy when she saw him.

"I'll need a vase for these," he said, holding up the flowers. He'd hoped to hand them to Eloise directly and so he tried to school his obvious disappointment.

The maid nodded and started to leave, but he stopped her with, "Oh, and do you happen to know where Miss Bridgerton might have gone off to?"

"Out, Sir Phillip," the maid said. "With the children."

Phillip blinked in surprise. "She went out with Oliver and Amanda? Willingly?"

The maid nodded.

"That's interesting." He sighed, trying not to envision the scene. "I hope they don't kill her."

The maid looked alarmed. "Sir Phillip?"

"It was a joke . . . ah . . . Mary?" He didn't mean to finish his sentence on a questioning note, but the truth was, he wasn't quite certain of her name.

She nodded in such a way that he couldn't be sure whether he'd gotten it right or she was just being polite.

"Do you happen to know where they went?" he asked.

"Down to the lake, I believe. To go swimming."

Phillip's skin went cold. "Swimming?" he asked, his voice sounding disembodied and hollow to his ears.

"Yes. The children were wearing their bathing costumes."

Swimming. Dear God.

For a year now, he'd avoided the lake, always taken the long route around, just to spare himself the sight of it. And he had forbidden the children from ever visiting the site.