Taking the Waters

Title: Taking the Waters
Author: excentrykemuse
Fandoms: Pride and Prejudice / Twilight Saga / Bridgerton (TV Series) / Persuasion (Netflix)
Pairings: Owestry/Bella, (future) Owestry/Francesca
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 3k
Warnings: Netflix version of Persuasion (sorry, William Eliot married Mrs. Clay), Bella never traveled in time, gambling, age difference (35/15), Owestry has a spine
Prompt: for Haru who wanted Owestry/Francesca with Owestry not letting anyone importune a lady in his presence

Taking the Waters

Owestry was head over heels in love with Isabella Swan.  His very heart beat for her.  His every thought was for her.  He desperately wanted to marry her.  He had been on the very cusp of proposing when Lord Septimus Wimsey had let it slip that he owed Bella fifteen hundred pounds—and then the world had gone eerily quiet.

Owestry had been devastated.

For days he had gone back and forth, debating whether he should verify the story.  He could not believe it.  He tried to convince himself that he had misheard.  That it had been fifteen shillings.  That Septi had owed fifteen hundred pounds to someone else.

He had even gone so far as to miss an appointment with Bella at the glacier, without so much as sending his card, he had been in so much of a dither.

Finally, he had gone to Denver House and called on Lord Septimus there.  Several of Lord Septimus’s sisters had been there, but Owestry had been able to avoid the Drawing Room.

“What is this,” he demanded when he entered the Billiards Room, “I hear about you owing Miss Swan fifteen hundred pounds?  Is she a banker?”

Lord Septimus looked up from where he was smoking a cigar.  He looked over to where Benedict Bridgerton was chalking his cue. 

Bridgerton looked uncomfortable.

“Well?” Owestry demanded.

“I say!” Septimus objected.

“What,” Owestry demanded again, “is this I hear—” He prowled forward.

Septimus held up his hands.  “I heard you the first time.”

“Well?”  He looked between Septimus and Bridgerton.  “Is she a bank?”

“Miss Swan is not a bank,” Bridgerton told him carefully, setting the chalk aside. 

“What do you know about it?”  Owestry’s watery eyes hardened.

Septimus was decidedly uncomfortable and he scratched the back of his neck.  “I say, how do you know Miss Swan?”

“How do I know her?” Owestry repeated.  “It is all over Lady Whistledown how I know her!”

Septimus’s green eyes widened.  “She is not the mysterious lady you are seen at the glacier with instead of going to church!” he demanded.  “The one whom Lady Whistledown admits even she does not even know the identity!”  He exchanged a glance with Bridgerton.  “The identity of the lady at the glacier is the season’s biggest mystery!”

“How,” Owestry demanded for a third time, “do you come to owe Miss Swan fifteen hundred pounds?”

Bridgerton now looked really worried.

“Sit down, old man,” Septimus told him, offering him a chair.

Bridgerton went to the sideboard and poured a large whiskey.  It was only ten o’clock in the morning.  He drank it himself instead of giving it to Owestry.

Septimus shifted in his chair.  “Miss Swan—we all call her ‘Bella’—”

“What?”  Owestry was now livid.

“Miss Swan is the best kept secret in London, and not because she is the lady at the glacier,” Septimus was now explaining.  “Bridgerton, give me one as well.”

“Right,” Bridgerton said, and he went back to the sideboard to fix another whiskey.

“Give Owestry one, too.”

“I do not want a drink.”

“You need one,” Bridgerton assured him as he was making up three drinks.

Septimus fell silent, further annoying Owestry.  When they had all been served, Septimus took a bracing sip of his drink and began again.  “The reason Bella,” (Owestry glared at him), “that is, Miss Swan, is the best kept secret in London is because,” he looked over at Bridgerton who gave him an encouraging sign, “well, because, dash it all, man, she is the best gambler in the entire city.  Half of White’s has lost money to her.”

“Half of White’s is in love with her,” Bridgerton put in under his breath.

“Too true,” Septimus put in.  “I’ve proposed myself three times only to have her turn me down.  I have written and dedicated a book of sonnets in her honor, and I still can’t move our fair Bella.  She is untouchable and irreproachable.  While the Duke of Hastings has been out squiring Miss Daphne Bridgerton—” (here Bridgerton scowled) “—he’s been out chasing Bella and inviting her to supper every night after our little games.  Everyone knows he’s just using Miss Bridgerton as a beard for the likes of Lady Danbury.  It’s Bella he wants for his Duchess.”

“And now it seems she’s been undercutting all of us for Owestry,” Bridgerton now put in, knocking off his drink and going back to the sideboard to refill it again.  “Sly little thing.  She never said a word.”

Owestry took this all in.  “You mean to tell me that Miss Swan is at the gambling tables?”

“Quite,” Lord Septimus told him carefully.  “She’s amassed quite the fortune.  She must be worth—what?”  He looked over at Bridgerton.  “What is her estimated worth?  One hundred twenty thousand?”

“At least that,” Bridgerton agreed.  “And she has connexions to the Wrexham Swans.  Old Lord Swan sends her invitations to Swan Castle each April.  She even went last year, which broke many a heart.”  He grimaced.  “Mama is her godmother.”

“I have not seen her in a single drawing room,” Owestry observed carefully.

“She cannot dance,” Septimus told him.  “She troubles her gown.  It’s why she walks everywhere with her hem raised.”  He sighed.  “I would marry that woman tomorrow over Pater’s objections if only she would have me.”

Owestry had a sinking feeling in his stomach.  He couldn’t marry Bella.  She gambled for a living.  Granted she rubbed elbows with Lord Septimus and Benedict Bridgerton, the cream of the crop of society, but this was the worst of stains on her good name.  She would undoubtedly be a bad influence on Annabelle, who was impressionable at the age of seven.

He threw back his drink.  “I cannot marry her,” he realized.

“What, have you asked her?” Bridgerton inquired, clearly curious.

“I was on the cusp of proposing,” he replied, heartbroken.  “But with this—”  He sighed.

“Perhaps she will become a Duchess if she ever forgives Hastings for dancing with Daphne every night,” Bridgerton mused.  “She did not seem to much care, but women are fickle creatures.”

“She says I am nothing more than a child,” Septimus whined, inadvertently proving Bella’s point.  He was barely out of Harrow.  As a seventh son, he really should have a profession.  Owestry was surprised his father had not purchased him a commission as of yet.

Now that he had the information he needed, Owestry did not bother to stay. 

He stood on the steps of Denver House for several minutes before going on his way.  Owestry did not have a destination in mind, but by the time he arrived at the glacier, he had decided that he would go and visit Annabelle in Bath.  It would be good to get away from London, to escape the memories of Bella, to put distance between them. 

He was not quite so callous as to leave without a word.  He left her a note telling her he was leaving Town for the rest of the Little Season, but said nothing of their connexion.  Perhaps Lord Septimus would inform her.

As he was the only resident of Matlock House, he shut up the place and sent an express to Mrs. Hampshire to expect him.  It took him more than a week to rent a properly suitable apartment in Bath, but in the end it was no hardship.

Once he arrived, he was quite pleased with Annabelle’s progress.  He said nothing of his disappointment.  Annabelle had met Bella, but he hoped that the memory of her would fade as a pleasant pastime and nothing more.

One morning when he was going and taking the waters, he saw a pretty young lady with blue eyes and a pink parasol.  When she and her friend went to take the waters, she delicately put it to her lips, took a sip, and then made a face.

“Oh no,” she assured her friend, “I will drink it.”

She then put it to her lips again and quickly drank it, the sour look on her face all the while in place.

The waters did taste quite disgusting.  Most young ladies, however, masked their displeasure, given the health benefits.

Owestry found the young lady quite amusing.

When he went to go check the guest book, he believed the young woman had signed herself in as “Miss Francesca Bridgerton.”  She was one of the Bridgerton girls, then.  If he wasn’t mistaken, they were all named in alphabetical order.  This one would be quite a few years younger than Daphne Bridgerton, who was being duped by the Duke of Hastings, if Benedict Bridgerton could be believed.  Then again, he had no reason to lie.

This brought Bella to his mind, and he felt saddened.

Owestry pushed the feeling away and turned to look back at Francesca.  She was smiling now at her friend and walking around the room, parasol in hand.  She couldn’t be more than fifteen or sixteen years old.  Her companion should really be with her.

When Owestry left, he tipped his hat at the ladies.

The next day, Francesca Bridgerton appeared when Owestry was walking around the pumproom.  She was once again with her friend, though this time she wasn’t carrying a parasol.  When it was her turn to take the waters, she exchanged a glance with her friend, then tipped her head back and drank it down in one gulp, a look of dissatisfaction on her face.  She shook herself as if she were a dog shaking off the rain before handing the glass back to the attendant.

Owestry laughed into the back of his hand.  Francesca was just too adorable.

Something must have caught her eye, because she looked up and her gaze searched the crowd but, finding nothing, she returned her attention to her friend.

Owestry checked the guest book before he left again.  Yes, she was decidedly Francesca Bridgerton.  Her friend must be Anne Turner.  Owestry didn’t know the name.

Owestry returned a third day even though it was raining.  Taking the waters, he noticed that it smelled more like rotten eggs than it usually did.  No wonder Francesca disliked it as much as she did. 

A gentleman in a tall hat was standing by a pillar and looking at the thin crowd.  He had a peculiar expression on his face.  Owestry was sure he had seen him there before.

He checked the book before he went.  Francesca never appeared.

That evening Owestry went to a public concert.  The program was not at all original, but Owestry found that he really must occupy his time.  Taking the waters, daydreaming about Bella, and visiting Annabelle in the afternoons barely took up his time.

Lady Whistledown was delivered, but it was several days behind.  It had not caught up to when Owestry had left London.  He was wondering if his absence from the glacier would be noticed.

Just as the concert was about to start, Francesca Bridgerton arrived with an older lady.  She was dressed in elegant silks and looked quite the young lady.  It seemed like her finishing was going quite well.  She would be an excellent addition to society when she made her debut in London in a year or so.

Owestry supposed he would still be there.  He usually attended the Season, though the matchmaking mamas knew better than to throw their daughters at him.  He was a wealthy widower in need of an heir, but even his father, the Earl of Matlock, was beginning to give up hope that he would remarry unless it was on his own terms.

The soprano was passable and when it was time for intermission Owestry allowed himself to look about the room.

Francesca Bridgerton had been abandoned by her companion.

The gentleman that Owestry had observed at the pumproom was approaching her and taking the seat beside her.  Interesting.  It seemed she had a suitor.  Owestry turned his attention elsewhere.

When it was time for the concert to resume, the gentleman had left Francesca Bridgerton with her companion and had resumed his seat.

Owestry settled back in to listen to the middling performance.

The next day he returned to the pumproom.  Owestry took the waters for the benefit of his heath and looked out at the scenery.  He was absolutely miserable.  He could recognize that.  He was just coasting.  That morning the footman had delivered Lady Whistledown, but it was nearly a week old.  Nothing of interest had been reported.

“Owestry.”

He stilled.  He knew that voice.  It haunted him in his dreams.  He closed his eyes and just allowed himself to bask in the sound of her voice.  Then, turning, he took in the sight of Isabella Swan.

“You followed me.”  It wasn’t so much of an accusation as an observation.

“Lord Septimus told me what happened,” she confessed, coming closer.  Bella was as resplendent as she always was in her mourning silks.  Her hair was neatly twisted on her head and a comb placed to the side as the only ornamentation.  She had foregone a bonnet for some reason, making her alabaster face that more prominent against the starkness of her midnight colored hair.  “I wanted to tell you myself, I just didn’t know how to bridge the subject.”  She looked up at him anxiously with her dark brown eyes.

Owestry couldn’t bear to look at her and was once again taking in the scenery.  “You imposed yourself on me, Miss Swan.”

“No,” she whispered.  “I would never impose myself—”

“I believed you to be a woman of rank and consequence—”

“I am,” she assured him.  “My father, though quite the eccentric, was cousin to the Baron Swan.  My mother’s father was a gentleman.”

He turned to her, his eyes haunted.  “Then why do you do it?”

She bit her lip in worry and did not answer.

The furl of a pink parasol caught his eye, and Owestry looked up to see Francesca Bridgerton with her friend Anne Turner taking the waters.  Francesca was once again throwing her head back and drinking the glassful all at once, a look of disgust on her face, and he laughed a little to himself at the picture she made.

“Why do you laugh?” Bella asked.

He turned back to her.  “Some young women are amusing when they take the waters,” he explained away, not admitting to the small penchant he had for Francesca.  “It has quite a distinctive taste.”

Bella allowed the comment to glance off of her.  “I have not tasted the waters as of yet.”

“The health benefits are unmatched,” Owestry commented.  “Perhaps it will cure the ills of your character.”

Shocked, her head whipped up at him.

He glared back at her.  Grinding the tip of his cane into the stone floor, Owestry turned his attention away from her.  “I cannot pretend to be a man who speaks up for himself—”

She made to object, but he held up his hand to silence her.

“—however, I cannot allow a woman such as yourself anywhere near Annabelle.”  She had already been exposed on multiple occasions but he could forbid their contact now.  “You are a degenerate gamble.  A flutter can be excused in a ballroom—”

“I am prepared to give it up,” she begged.  “I would give it all up for you.”

Owestry still wasn’t looking at her.  He was now focusing on Francesca’s pink parasol. 

The man from the concert was approaching her.  His hat was still unusually tall.  Francesca had paused and was speaking in hushed whispers with her friend, looking decidedly uncomfortable.

Turning to Bella, he looked into her wide doe eyes.  His heart threatened to crack, but he held firm.  “You are still a degenerate, Madam,” he reminded her.

“Father lost everything—” she whispered, clearly trying to explain.  “I did it to pay the rent.”

“Then why did you keep on gambling to acquire your fortune?”

She opened her mouth to answer, but no words came out.

Francesca was now looking decidedly uncomfortable.  The man seemed pleased with himself.

Tipping his hat to Bella, Owestry picked up his walking stick and cut through the pedestrians and walked directly into the man, checking him.

“Oh!” he proclaimed.  “I do beg your pardon.”  He looked at the man and then turned to the ladies.  “Are you unharmed, madam?” He addressed Francesca specifically.

She was clearly startled, but pulled herself together and looked at her companion.  “Yes, thank you, sir.”

“The Viscount of Owestry,” he introduced himself, taking out his card and giving it to her.  He passed a second card to the gentleman who seemed disgruntled at being interrupted.

“Sir William Eliot,” he supplied, grimly.

“Sir William,” Owestry greeted, remembering his marriage announcement not a year earlier.  “How is your wife?”

He nodded his head to the ladies.  “Miss Bridgerton.  Miss Turner.”  If they noticed he knew their names, they didn’t say anything.  Owestry checked Sir William again quite purposefully and left.  He may not have the height nor strength of his brother Richard, but he had played rugby at Harrow and certainly knew how to check another man.

Bella was left at the columns of the room, watching the entire exchange.

When he visited Annabelle that afternoon, Owestry was aware he was unusually quiet, but he had a great deal to think on.

Owestry was hesitant to go to the pumproom again in case Bella would follow him there, but he wanted to assure himself that Francesca would not be importuned again.  He took the waters, noting the irregular taste, and began to circle the room with the other patrons. 

He noticed when Francesca came in with her pink parasol, but she was alone.  She looked around anxiously and upon seeing him, she approached him but hovered a few feet away.  Tipping his hat to her, he finished the approach.

“You do not take the waters, Miss Bridgerton?” he inquired.

“You knew my name—”  She wasn’t exactly asking, but she was clearly confused.

He indicated that they should walk, and she fell into step beside him.  “I know two of your elder brothers.  I also checked the book when I noticed your singular reaction to the waters.”

She looked up at him with her wide blue eyes.  “I see.—I wanted to thank you for yesterday.”

“Sir William has a disreputable reputation,” he explained away.

“Still, I wanted to thank you.”

A flash of black silks caught his eye, and he saw Bella enter the room.  Owestry held in a sigh.  It seemed like she had followed him again.  She wasn’t going to give up on him so soon.

Turning back to Francesca, he gave her a small smile.  He was aware that he was not a handsome man, with his small frame, weak shoulders, and thinning blond hair, but he always hoped he appeared genuinely kind to the ladies.  “Any gentleman would do the same.”

She nodded.  Her gaze fixed on a point somewhere behind him.  “Is she the lady from the glacier?”

Owestry did not even bother to look.  “I see you read Lady Whistledown.”

Francesca smiled at him.  “All of Bath reads Lady Whistledown.”

They shared another smile.  She curtseyed to him and went to the attendant who was giving out the waters.  Owestry watched her go.  He prepared for another argument with Bella.  He would not give an inch.  They were at an impasse—and it broke his heart.

The End.