Chapter Text
The atmosphere was so thick one could cut it with a knife, Penelope thought, as she looked down at her gloved hands clasped in her lap.
This was unusual for one reason alone – she was at Bridgerton House. Normally, tea time – or anytime – with the Bridgertons was a jolly time, filled with laughs and jokes and smiles.
Not this time.
Penelope supposed that this was due to the recent gossip surrounding Colin’s very public dismissal of Penelope’s marriage prospects. Well, at least this may explain the awkwardness of Lady Bridgerton and her sons. The rumour had spread fast, even without the help of Whistledown to speed it along. Penelope was dedicated to her role, even more fiercely so since her argument with Eloise, but even she drew the line at publicising her own mortification. Or rather, her own heartbreak. But unfortunately, those gentlemen Colin had been so easily confiding in were not as tight-lipped as they may have appeared, and news of Colin’s devastating jibe had spread throughout the ton as quick as wildfire.
Of course, then Penelope had no choice but to publish a column about it – an author specialising in gossip ignoring one of the most entertaining titbits of the season would be nothing short of suspicious.
Rumours have reached my ears, she wrote, of a break between the Bridgerton and Featherington families. A break which was so callously orchestrated by the third Bridgerton son himself. This author is not so proud to admit she had previously thought Colin Bridgerton a genteel sort of man, but his scathing review of Penelope Featherington cannot be described as anything short of brutish. Be careful, ladies of the ton – it seems the third Bridgerton brother has a manner as severe as that of his brother, the Viscount. One may want to avoid approaching for fear of getting so ruthlessly scorched as the Featheringtons.
As for the wallflower herself, Miss Featherington has yet to attend any social events since. Although she cannot be surprised to learn she was not first in the list of prospects for a family such as the Bridgertons, many guests report seeing her flee from the scene in a speed most unbecoming for a lady. The damage is quite solidified for the Featheringtons of course, dear reader. A snub this blunt will seal the fate of the family amongst the opinions of the ton, even for the most scheming of mamas.
And well, that was that. Penelope would not be married this season, or even for many to come, with a review so scathing. Her mother was distraught, her sister’s beyond comfort. Penelope began to see spinsterhood as a most favourable path for her future.
Except of course, that was not that.
Because of what had happened before.
Before it all. Before the fight with Eloise, before Colin cut her in the middle of one of the most important parties of the season. Before that day had even began. Penelope’s downfall began the day previous.
The events of that day would forever be etched in Penelope’s mind as the day her life changed.
Even as she sits on the luxurious cushions of the Brigerton’s seats, Penelope feels her eyes harden as she reflects on the events of that day. It had been over two months since, yet the sting – no, the burn – she had felt then could still be felt just as strongly now. But today, unlike then, Penelope felt the strong surge of anger follow, enough to make her cheeks glow a bright red and her fists clench.
Penelope had been so sure that Colin could never hurt her, that even as she fell into his arms, she had no fear. Colin knew what he was doing – if he was willing to bed her, to ruin her, her must have a plan. No man would seduce a woman so thoroughly, so tenderly, unless he had already made plans to keep her.
So, she fell into his bed with as little resistance as she had ever showed him. He had been kind, gentle, passionate – and for those minutes, Penelope was able to do a good job at convincing herself that he must be in love with her. He had held her afterwards, muttering sweet things into her hair and stroking his hands along her skin. In that moment, she felt more beautiful than she had ever done before. She had felt like a woman, a woman who was capable of loving and being loved. She felt like the innocent, misunderstood girl she had been would finally disappear, and she could emerge from the flames victorious.
She had been wrong.
When she had woken up alone, she felt the anxiety begin to creep in. But her foolhardy mind still defended him as she snuck from the Bridgerton house to her own – it would cause a scandal, he left so she could sneak out easily, he was attending to urgent business.
Easy lies to tell herself, in truth. But that night, when Colin had saved her family from ruination by awful Cousin Jack and danced with Penelope so joyfully that she felt that her heart might burst, he had only confirmed his role as her shining prince. The man who would come and save her from this mediocre existence and bring colour and passion to her life.
And then he snubbed her, cut her direct. In front of many influential gentlemen, no less.
Her heart shattered at that very moment.
Upon reflection, as she was now able to do with some time and distance placed between herself and the man in question, she was already tender from her argument with Eloise, so perhaps Colin had never occupied as much of her heart as she had thought. The disillusionment came quickly – the image of a perfect man crumbled to dust within her mind and Penelope soon realised that to allow anyone, let alone Colin Bridgerton, that sort of power over her was the most foolish, childish thing she had ever done.
God help her, she would never do so again.
So as Violet Bridgerton sat fiddling with her napkin, discomfort clear in her eyes, Penelope couldn’t help but pity her. She had no idea that destruction Penelope was about to bring, and it brought her no joy to think that those innocent members of the family may suffer from it.
“Penelope, dearest,” Lady Bridgerton began after the tea had been served and most staff dismissed. Only Henrietta, Penelope’s lady’s maid, remained. “We have missed you so during these last few weeks. How have you been?”
Penelope gave a tight grin and kept her gaze on Violet, steadily ignoring two Bridgerton children sat at the other end of the table. She had not spoken to either since that day – she refused to see Colin when he called and - rather childishly, she could admit - burned his letters. Eloise had not even tried.
“I have been fine thank you, Lady Bridgerton. And yourself?” She responded, bringing her teacup to her mouth to resist the urge to bite at her lips. It was a lie, and everyone knew it. But it was a kind one.
Violet winced, clearly at the formal use of her title. “I have been quite well, Penelope, thank you.”
There was a brief pause. Penelope sipped her tea and then lowered her cup, fingers twisting around the delicate handle.
“My dear,” Violet began again, after taking a few deep, long breaths. “I have no words to describe to you how sorry we are, as a family, for the crass and unkind words of my son. I assure you, I did not raise him as such. I – I have never been so mortified –“
Penelope placed her hand on Violet’s hand gently, stopping her rambling mid-sentence.
“I know, Lady Bridgerton, and it is quite alright.”
“I can absolutely assure you it is not.” Anthony interjected harshly from opposite Penelope, voice and eyes hard as they raked over the slumped form of the disgraced man in question. Benedict, from his position next to the Viscount nodded astutely.
“Miss Featherington, as head of the family I can do nothing but plead with you to excuse this most undeserved betrayal. I will – of course – do anything within my power to help rectify the situation –“
“I know you would. But there is no need. I have no intention of discussing that situation any further.” Penelope interrupted again and watched with amusement as shock fell over the features of Anthony and Benedict. Penelope was sure they had never heard her be so sure of herself before, and the knowledge that she had surprised them improved her dismal mood fractionally.
Penelope took a deep breath and attempted to clear her expression, smoothing her features until she was sure no emotion could be found in them. A woman in her position need not to be an open book, but instead keep her card close to her chest.
“I am sure you received a shock when I accepted your invitation to tea, as I am not so proud to admit that I had been ignoring them for these last few weeks.”
She received nods from Violet and her two eldest sons, but Penelope still did not dare bring her gaze down to the lower end of the table. She had no idea how Eloise or Colin was reacting to this strange situation, and she willed herself not to care. The pair had broken her heart and spirit so completely between them that she would never be so foolish as to give them the satisfaction of knowing she cared.
“It is not regarding the situation with Mr Bridgerton. Well, I suppose, not entirely. It is to share some news which, unfortunately, will affect the both of our families. And also, to beg for your assistance in handling the situation in which we currently find ourselves in.” She began, taking a pause to catch her breath.
Penelope had practised this speech no less than six times before she had arrived. She had even written it down, running over the words like lines to the plays she used to perform with her sisters when she was younger. She had hoped that, by making the words purely academic, she would feel a detachment to them. She could not so surely say that it was working. A single deep breath, and then she continued, raising her chin and keeping her eyes on the wall opposite. “The days leading up to the ball, I found myself and Mr Bridgerton in a type of confidence, I would even argue that we were close friends.”
She heard a clang from the end of the table and realised that somebody, probably Colin, had dropped their spoon against their plate. The sound reminded her of bells, like the ones which rang on a Sunday. The end of one thing, the beginning of another.
She looked to see Violet, Anthony and Benedict enthralled in her speech. Lady Bridgerton was even nodding along.
“Following this closeness with Mr Bridgerton, I now find myself in a position most precarious for an unmarried lady amongst the ton. I am sorry to report that I have not bled” She watched Benedict wince, and she would have laughed if not the atmosphere so tense. “for two months. Alongside my recurring nausea, I do not think it too foolish a notion to conclude that I am with child.”
Silence.
In the Bridgerton household, silence was eery. It was so unusual, so uncommon, that Penelope was surprised that no staff had rushed in to find out what the emergency was.
Despite the situation, Penelope found a strange sort of catharsis in finally saying the words aloud. She had yet to say them to anyone, only within her own mind. There was a brief flash of pure panic within her, like saying the words had somehow made this situation real. She was really carrying a child, Colin’s child. She was unmarried, friendless and on the brink of ruin. She could feel a nervous, hysterical laugh bubbling up her throat and coughed slightly to disperse it.
The silence continued, and her fear grew.
Penelope felt a knot tighten in her stomach. She was no fool – the Bridgerton’s valued family loyalty above anything else. To come to them now placed them in the most difficult of positions, and she was felt so dreadfully sad that she hid her eyes from the gaze of the family, looking at her lap.
Anthony was the first to break, face unfreezing to produce an expression most terrifying. His eyes were alight with anger, his brow furrowed and his mouth twisted like he had tasted something sour. He stood quickly, knocking his tea cup into the centre of the table as he did so.
As tea stained the table cloth, Penelope watched as Violet gasped and clutched at her heart, eyes already watering from tears. Benedict’s eyes closed defeatedly and his head simply fell into his hands, fingers knotting in the curls of his hair.
Finally, frighteningly, Penelope turned her head to find a pair of bright green eyes staring at her face, pain clear in their irises.
Penelope felt her breath catch in her chest and cursed herself for reacting to viscerally to his pain. It should not matter if he was in pain; she was in pain. She was the ruined woman, carrying the child of a man who would never, could never, love her.
She was the one who was suffering – she would always be the one to suffer. Betrayal rang throughout her body, disappointment made her angry and Penelope felt her heart turn to stone, hardening her eyes, staring at him until he was forced to look away. Good.
Her gaze moved to the horrified face of Eloise Bridgerton. She was silent, mouth open in pure shock and her hands were frozen where they had been reaching for her tea. The sight of Eloise soundless and motionless brought about a strange kind of discomfort in Penelope. It was just so wrong – Eloise was never silent; she always had an opinion about everything. Loud and proud and animated.
Not now.
“What?” Colin’s broken voice echoed around the room, suspended in the shock which gripped them all.
“I am with child.” Penelope repeated. “Your child.”
Silence again.
“I am not here to ask much of you,” She continued, almost desperate to fill the poignant silence. “I do not anything of great consequence. I simply require your discretion and hopefully, a simple lie.”
Anthony whirled around, eyes burning as he gazed at her. Penelope couldn’t tell if he was angry at her or simply the situation – she supposed it was both. This was the worst thing a Viscount could hear, she mused silently. She would forgive him his anger and hope only that it not be directed too strongly towards her.
“What do you mean you do not require much?” he spat, glaring visciously at his second youngest brother. “Surely, Miss Featherington, you will require a marriage? Is not that the only way out of this mess?”
The question seemed to be rhetorical, as he even threw his hands up as he proclaimed it.
“No.” Penelope stated firmly.
“Yes!” Violet gasped, eyes finally turning to meet Penelope’s. “My darling girl, of course you will be married. How else will you avoid being ruined?”
Tears streaked down Violet’s face as she spoke, voice ringing with sincerity and pity.
“No.” Penelope said again, stronger and with more heat. “I have no intention of marrying Colin Bridgerton.”
“Pen,” his broken voice came from the end of the table. “O-Of course you will. It’s not ideal, but we can’t – you can’t. You can’t”
She shook her head. She was chewing on her lip, she noticed with irritation. It was bleeding. Perfect.
“I have not come for a marriage proposal, nor do I want one.” She snapped, brushing away the blood from her mouth a napkin. It stained the delicate blue silk, and Penelope felt a sick kind of satisfaction knowing that she would leave her mark on the Bridgerton home. “Even with a marriage, I would still be ruined.”
“No-one would say anything,” Benedict reassured her kindly, finally, raising his head. “Everyone in this room would never breathe a word.”
Penelope felt her resolve soften slightly.
“I know that,” she replied gently. “but it would still not work. It has been only two months since Mr Bridgerton declared he would never marry me. To announce an engagement now would look to be exactly what is it is – the concealment of a scandal. That, combined with the early arrival of a child after marriage would only confirm to the ton that Colin was forced into a marriage he did not want. And that I –“ she took a deep breath and something caught and stuck in her chest. Tears prickled behind her eyes and she blinked them away resolutely. “I would be known to be the imdecent, ruined, vulgar thing that I am. I do not wish this hideous fate on either of our families. It would surely sully the name of Bridgerton amongst the ton.”
“Do not consider–,“Anthony began. Penelope could not help but interrupt.
“And it would surely force my family into banishment from good society, overcome with the shame and dishonour that comes from having a shameless, wanton daughter.” She raised her voice louder, speaking over the Viscount in a way that would have once made her cower. “My family, who has never been more than a minute away from scandal, would be completely ruined. I have two unmarried sisters and a widowed mother who would be forced into exile. I refuse – refuse – to condemn them to such a fate because of my own mistakes. My own poor judgements.”
The table was silent once again, and the faces of the Bridgerton family stared back her. She could see, out of the corner of her eye, the slumped, pained posture of Colin and the stiff, tense silhouette of his sister, but she resisted the urge to look her fill. She did not need to break her resolve now.
“So then why have you come to us?” Benedict finally asked, hands shifting restlessly across the table, like he might just lean forward and take hers in his grasp.
“My mother is not aware of my predicament.” Anthony’s gaze met hers again, but this time softer. Almost like he felt the pain she had so carefully hidden underneath that statement.
“Do your staff not report you haven’t bled?” Violet asked carefully, lifting her teacup with shaking hands.
Penelope smiled a little.
“There are ways to bleed without bleeding, Lady Bridgerton, as I am sure you know.” She felt the gentle burn of the cut she had made on her inner thigh throb as she reflected on the issue. It was a small price to pay for the peace of mind it brought her.
Violet nodded.
“My mother does not know,” Penelope continued, uninvited. A terribly rude action amongst society but as a ruined woman she saw no need for propriety. “And I do not want that to change. Portia Featherington is many things, but secret-keeper she is not. I have a plan, a thorough and good one, which should prevent her ever having to know.”
There was a choking sound, and Penelope found herself looking at the gaping, horrified expression of her former best friend.
“You surely would not!” Eloise gasped, holding her throat. “Pen, those places are illegal. And dangerous! Everyone knows that this can be fatal for both mother and baby, even if the former was not intended.”
At this, Colin made a strangled noise and turned to face Penelope completely, eyes widening in distress. “No, Pen! Please, no. No, no, no.”
Penelope shook her so ferociously she was surprised she did not loosen her hair from its pins, hands waving in front of her like they were trying to clear the very topic of conversation from the room. God, no! She could not risk that. Those places which desperate women visit, women with no other choice. Eloise was right, everyone knew that more mothers died with their unborn children than those which survived having eliminated the pregnancy.
“Of course not!” She said, voice high. “No! I do have a death wish, no matter how dire the situation.”
She watched as Eloise and Colin both relaxed slightly, relief painted across their features.
“My lady’s maid, Henrietta,” Penelope gestured behind her to the young servant girl waiting quietly in the shadows. “Has family down in Dorset who have just left to her and her brother, upon their death, a small cottage. Henrietta’s brother has asked for her to take a few months down there, cleaning up the cottage and preparing it for sale. I am to join her. I will see out the progression of pregnancy there in solitude and concealment until after the birth, wherein I will entrust the child to Henrietta’s brother and wife for the first few months of her life. After this time has passed, I will introduce the child into the family as a bastard child of Cousin Jack. Mother will then be forced to adopt the child as a ward, lying about their apparent parentage. The child will grow up with me within my home. It is not ideal, but it do.”
“But people will recognise the signs of an unmarried lady with child, even outside of the ton!” Violet said, worried eyes and troubled lips painting the very picture of anxiousness.
“I will not be Miss Featherington there,” Penelope replied. “No-one knows me, nor will they ever. I will be another servant in the Featherington household, a close friend of Henrietta’s.” Penelope brought her hand up to her shoulder and felt the small, rough fingers of her most beloved lady’s maid clutch her hand tightly. This was a friend she was most proud of keeping, forever blessed by this woman’s loyalty and commitment to helping Penelope. A lady could not ask for a better companion than Henrietta.
“A girl who has just lost her husband.” She continued. “Recently widowed, wearing mourning colours and desperate to escape London. She will have the child and then return to her family, ready to leave her time of mourning. That is when I will return home.” Penelope finished simply, raising her eyes from her lap to meet their responses.
Blank stares met her gaze.
Again, Anthony broke first.
“Clever, Miss Featherington. But then again, I had always thought you far more intelligent than anyone deemed you to be.”
His expression was gentle, his eyes portraying a kind of fondness, and for the first time since the beginning of this terrible business, Penelope started to feel a strange sort of sadness about leaving the Bridgertons behind. Anthony and Benedict had, to the very best of their ability, been like older brothers to her, caring and protecting her like she was one of their own. Violet, too, had been immeasurably kind and welcoming, always treating Penelope the same way she treated Eloise, her own daughter. These friendships would be a true loss.
Other relationships too, of course. But Penelope’s heart ached too strongly too continue to assess the true extent of her loss.
“But forgive me, Miss Featherington,” Anthony continued, and then halted. “Penelope. An impressive plan. But you have yet to mention our involvement? Your scheme seems fairly complete.”
“Not quite complete.” Colin interjected, voice still wobbling but surer than before. “I suspect she will need funds for living, even if she intends to live as a servant.”
There was an uncomfortable bitterness to his voice, an edge which made Penelope’s cheeks burn and stomach clench. Good, she thought. Let him be bitter. She could very well afford her own living, what with the money she had saved from her writings, not that anyone was to know that. Except Eloise of course, who’s eyes she could feel burning into the side of head.
“No. I am in no need of your funds.” She bit back, glaring at him with such heat that even Colin could not hold her gaze for long. His angry eyes lowered quickly, expression flushed and irritated.
“You are in need of our lies then.” Violet added gravely, and enlightenment taking across her face.
Penelope nodded. “My mother will, of course, question where her nineteen-year-old daughter could possibly disappear to, unchaperoned, for months on end. I was hoping you would be kind enough to tell her I am staying at Aubrey Hall with you for a few months outside of the season. It is far away enough that she cannot visit. She will not be happy, but I will paint a picture of repairing any broken relationships in time to present a united front next season. She will be convinced.”
“Why don’t you just actually come and stay with us at Aubrey Hall?” Benedict asked, eyes brightening like he had figured a solution. “I know you may not want to be near him” He gestured towards Colin with annoyance. “but he will almost certainly be away travelling again.”
Penelope smiled kindly, but Anthony cut in before she could answer.
“Because there will be talk.” He murmured, looking like he was considering her proposal thoroughly. “Even with the most decreet of servants, they will chat and gossip about Penelope’s presence at Aubrey Hall. If one catches sight of the bump, then that will be that. And even if they don’t, there will be too many rumours about why Miss Featherington has been looked in her room for months on end. Poorly disguising a scandal is worse than announcing it to the entire ton.”
Penelope nodded, grateful for Anthony’s shrewd mind and quick thinking.
“But then, wont the servants gossip about how she is not as Aubrey Hall?” Benedict pondered out loud, glancing at Anthony for direction.
Anthony nodded. “Yes, they will. But not, if we were to mention that Miss Featherington’s mother was most resistant to her daughter’s education and so we had taken the opportunity to send her to be secretly educated with our aunt. With Eloise to keep her company of course.”
Violet gave her son a small smile. “Ah yes,” she added, “and however more effective if we were to make it clear that our discussion were the of the most private and delicate nature, not to be repeated to the other staff.”
“Where will I truly go?” Eloise asked.
“To our aunts,” Anthony answered easily. “just like we have said. We will, of course, inform our aunt that the girl who is in our care is being privately educated by our own mother. This way, she will have no reason to deny Penelope’s presence at her house if necessary. Not that it should be, no-one should care enough to check our story.”
There was a sort of strange pride within the room as he finished speaking, like that of a family used to solving problems together. This soon fell away when Colin made a sort of pained noise, bringing back the stern frown to Anthony’s brow.
Silence fell again, although this time Penelope could hear the tapping of Eloise’s boot against the table. The tempo was uneven and tuneless, betraying her carefully composed face to show her true discomfort. Eloise was born a Bridgerton, and while she was never still, she was taught early in life to make every moment purposeful. This fidgeting gave more away about her unhappiness than her face every would.
“Of course, we will help you,” Violet said when Anthony nodded, voice small and quiet. Penelope had never seen Violet Bridgerton so downcast, her posture slumped and her hands wringing in her lap. She felt a surge of sympathy – she had never wanted to cause them pain.
Violet’s hand reached out and grabbed her forearm, thumbs moving in small, soothing circles along Penelope’s wrist.
“I am so sorry,” she whispered, her voice thick with tears. “for all my family has done to you. For what you have endured at the expense of confidence with us. I have never felt such anguish. I would hope you know I think of you as fondly as my own children, and the understanding that you have been coping with this this alone entirely breaks my heart.”
Penelope felt more tears well up, and this time she allowed one solitary tear to fall before wiping her eyes. She simply nodded, not trusting her voice at that moment.
Penelope stood, like her emotions had all collected up inside of her and she now felt unable to do anything but flee. With her rapidly declining control, she felt glad to be able to escape now her business was concluded, before she was surely to say something she would forget.
She nodded her head at each of them, smiling defeatedly at the two eldest brothers. They looked at her with pity, and even with affection, and Penelope was grateful. They could have looked disgusted at the ruined woman in front of them, but instead they simply looked sad. The rest of the ton was not as kind as the Bridgertons.
She nodded again to the end of the table, but did not fixate her gaze on their response. It was better that she did not know.
Wordlessly, Henrietta held out her hand and began to escort Penelope to the door, her grip a grounding presence on Penelope’s disjointed, floating mind.
As she reached the door, back turned to the table, there was a sudden jolt, the sound of plates clattering and chair legs dragging along the floor.
“Are you going to walk away without saying a word to me? Without asking me for a second what it is I might want in this situation?” Colin’s shouted, anger seeping into his every syllable.
At his words, Penelope felt that same sting, that same zap of white-hot anger shoot through her body, stiffening her back and making her lips curl.
What right did he have? How dare he address her in such a manner? He, who ruined her then left her, publicly mocking her and ruining her chances of a decent match. Even if she were not with child, there would not be a single respectable gentleman amongst the ton who would look twice at her now that the Bridgerton’s aired their distain. Penelope was already as good as ruined before she discovered her pregnancy, let alone now.
Even though he had not known about the child, he had damned her future the moment he chose to be so cruel. And he dare curse at her like she had ruined his?
Penelope whirled around, releasing Henrietta’s hand.
“How dare you address me so?” She hissed, words leaking from her mouth like burning acid. “How dare you ask me to consider you? You, who never considered me once! You, who damned me and ruined me! You, who bid me good enough to bed but not to wed!”
Colin growled, long and low.
Penelope let out a humourless laugh. “I would not trouble myself to think about the opinions of a man so lowly and loathsome. My baby will have no need for you, just as I will not either.”
“Our baby,” Colin snapped, storming around the table to stand in front of her. His posture was tense and his expression furious, looming over her. His hands and arms shook with contained rage and his fists were clenched so tightly it must have surely hurt. Penelope felt sick. “This is our child, Penelope. And yet it seems I get no say in how this is handled! It seems you and my brother have already decided about the future of our child without even a cursory look in my direction!”
“My child.” She seethed, stepping closer to him. Her head was help high, her eyes like stone as she assessed him. “This is my body which will carry them, my life which could be ruined, my family which stands to be punished. Everything about this risk is mine. This baby is mine. You are nothing, not to me and not to them.”
Colin shook even more, sweat appearing on his bow. His eyes were glowing with rage, his mouth snarling. Suddenly he reached towards Penelope. Gasping, she twisted away to avoid him, only to find his hands gripping at a vase which was on a stand near where she had been stood.
Roaring, Colin threw the vase to the wall, shattered pieces of ceramic flying everywhere. Penelope covered her face with her hands, listening to the shocked sounds of the family behind her.
Penelope’s heart was racing, the thumping roaring in her ears filling the silence of the room. She had genuinely believed him willing to grab her, to hurt her.
She looked up at him in fear.
Those wild eyes met hers, and after a moment of resistance, the madness broke.
Penelope watched with a trembling lip as Colin made a choked sound, almost like a wounded animal. He bent slightly at the stomach, body folding as if a bullet had pierced his torso. He fell to the ground, knees hitting the thick carpet with a dull thud. Sobs wracked his body and one large hard searched the air for her, desperate grip finally finding her arm.
Penelope jerked at the touch. She was so tempted to sink into it, let that familiar grasp soothe her anxieties, maybe even fall into his chest and sob with him. Two bleeding hearts suffering together. To feel his pain alongside hers, to know she was not alone. The temptation was rife.
Her logic soon found her. How could she even consider finding comfort in this man? How could she want this man who had taken everything from her and left her with nothing but twisting, burning shame?
A singular, gasping sob escaped her mouth before she spun on her heel, ripping her forearm from his fingers. She took Henrietta’s hand once again and fled from the room with as much speed as she had that night at the ball, heart breaking and tears finally falling unrestrictedly.
As she rode home, her mind replayed the broken look in those green eyes which had one danced with mirth, spilt tea and the sound of porcelain crunching underneath her boots.
And, with no-one watching, she sobbed.
Chapter 2: Chapter 2
Summary:
A look at Colin's perspective regarding the situations leading up the to the tea at Bridgerton house.
Notes:
Most of this chapter is from Colin's perspective before he is told about Penelope's pregnancy but after he publicly embarrassed her.
Just really wanted to think about he might be feeling and the reason behind how he acted towards Pen.
Hope you like it xxx
Chapter Text
2 Months Earlier
Colin was dying, he was sure of it.
Well, perhaps he was not so sure of it. But he truly felt that there could be no pain more intense, more visceral, than the feeling he was experiencing now. His whole body burned from the shame of it all, his muscle cramped with guilt. He fought the temptation to curl into a ball and just hide. For the sake of propriety, for the sake of his mother, he fought it.
His family were furious. Anthony hadn’t spared him a glance for a week now, since the awful news had broken. However Anthony Bridgerton’s character could not be changed so thoroughly, so he shouted violently and frequently, veins pulsing and voice booming as he berated Colin so intensely. Colin was surprised his mother hadn’t intervened.
His mother – God, his mother. She usually tried to balance Anthony’s intensity with a voice of reason, of fairness. Colin had believed she was always capable of providing a defence for her children, but even Violet Bridgerton could do nothing but shake her head and sob.
Daphne and Benedict had tried to speak to him, tried to investigate what could have happened to invoke Colin’s response, but neither had been successful in reaching him. Colin was lost in his pain. He spoke little and reacted even less. He was like a walking shell of a man; empty and lifeless. Daphne had begged him to speak, begged him to help her understand, but even his sister’s most moving performance could not rouse him from his guilt. Eventually, Benedict’s tolerance had lessened, frustration clear as he found little reason to defend Colin.
Good, he had thought. There is no possible forgiveness which can be granted to him which would erase the shame and disgust he felt. Not even hers.
Hers. The word ricocheted through his brain like a bullet, ripping at his nerves and causing his senses to burn. The pain was blinding, shocking, but was only worse when he thought of her name.
Penelope.
God, what an indefensible fool he had been. So caught up in regret surrounding his relationship with Marina. Regret. He knew now he didn’t even know the meaning of the word.
That visit had disjointed his view of the world, and even worse, his view of himself. He had been so sure that she must feel the same unease with their ending as he did, that she must be as desperate as he was to be loved my someone so completely. To see her so fierce in her contentment, so sure of her mediocre marriage, made Colin’s head spin. If this was life, truly life, then what happiness could Colin ever hope for?
If the truest love he had ever felt for anyone was not a taster of the love he would soon share with another woman, but was instead the most passion he would ever feel, how would he ever feel more than disappointment in his lot?
And God help him, Colin knew he was lucky. He was blessed with wealth, friends and a gorgeous, if not overbearing, family. His life was drowning in blessings. But was this, all of the things he had already known, the total sum of joy he would experience in life? Could he expect no more thrills and reformations?
The thought had been so haunting, it made Colin truly question if he was even sure of what he had wanted in life. He had always to be free, he had thought, to travel and meet people and thrive. But what if, unlike Marina, his one and only hope for his life was to feel the all-encompassing love he had read about? How likely was he ever to achieve this goal in a society which placed so many limitations on marriage?
His brain was disjointed and uncoordinated, a deep unsettlement that made Colin uncomfortable.
So, he drunk. He drunk a lot.
And Penelope had been there, another dull party and another awful frock. But unlike the joy-hunting gentleman of the ton, when he had become moody and philosophical, she had indulged him. She had conversed with him about any manner of existential question he had, offering opinions and listening to his viewpoints, face open and trusting.
And eventually, as the conversation continued late into the night, he confessed those deep fears and discomforts he had been pondering for hours. Penelope had listened carefully, her small hands reaching out to clasp his briefly when his voice had wobbled, her words kind and understanding. She did not judge him; she did not belittle his worries. She confided her own – her concerns about the Featherington’s position within society, about her own dismal marriage prospects and her disinterest in pursuing a match only for the funds her family may desperately need.
For the first time, Colin looked at her face as she spoke. She was far more carefree than he had ever seen her, spine slackened, jaw unclenched. He supposed that for the first time, he was truly seeing Penelope relaxed, not awaiting the next crudely disguised insult or diminutive comment.
She was beautiful, he realised stupidly. Perhaps not in the traditional way, not even in a way the ton would particularly appreciate. She did not have the defined cheekbones and sharp jawline which is popular amongst the ladies of society, nor did she have that willowy set to her neck and shoulders which many girls skipped meals to attain.
But God, her face. Her face was truly radiant.
Her skin was so smooth, it was like silk draped across her body. Look as he might, Colin could not find a single blemish amongst the peaches and cream tone of her complexion which only grew more lovely when the blood rushed to those high cheekbones. He noticed with abundant joy that this flush often came when she was speaking about a subject in which she held a particularly passionate opinion, her eyes grew animated and glowing and her lips stretched into a smile which could rival any painting in their beauty. Her lips, he discovered, were quickly becoming a devout fascination of his. They were plump, but almost rounded at the centre, forming a delicate, delectable pout. They were red, often as a result of those small white teeth nibbling away at them, and glistened in the candlelight, curving up at the corners whenever Colin offered an opinion which she seemed to find particularly interesting.
And of course, the main allure of her mouth would always be the illuminating conversation which fell from it. The wit of the woman did nothing short of astound him. It amused him frequently and enthralled him completely, and Colin found himself hanging on her every word, desperate to uncover any small clue about the enigma which was Penelope Featherington.
How had he never noticed how interesting she was?
How had he never seen how easy she would be to love?
Love?
The thought had shaken him thoroughly, stopping him mid-sentence as he contemplated this earth-shattering revelation.
He was aware of her calling his name, even of the feather light touches she brushed across his arm, but he was simply too caught up in his own considerations to reply.
This, this evening, this woman, this conversation. Was this not enough? He had loved this experience, he had loved looking at her, speaking to her, knowing her. Was this not enough love to keep him content for a lifetime?
Was the answer to his conundrum right in front of his face this whole time, shrouded in yellow tulle?
He could love Penelope Featherington, he could be happy with her, he was sure. A woman so enthralling would never allow their relationship to fade to banality.
He had taken her out to the garden, walked with her until they were safely situated behind a bush before he had allowed himself the pleasure of kissing her.
And he had kissed her so thoroughly, inhaling her gasps and moans, trying to merge himself into her body, trying to connect his very being with her soul. The urge to connect himself to her permanently, to make an irreversible attachment to her being, was irresistible.
He had taken her home and, trusting his driver’s discretion, snuck her into his bed.
He had loved her in the way he knew best, convinced that this was inevitable. He was simply preparing for the rest of his life, his life which would most definitely involve Miss Penelope Featherington.
He believed he would marry her.
But when he woke in the morning, head pounding and arms filled with a sweet, sleeping Penelope, his heart dropped.
How much of her did he really even know? Could one night of passion really determine happiness for the rest of his life? Would Penelope really be enough for him?
He left.
It was pure panic which drove him to flee. He spent the day in solitude, desperately trying to convince himself he had not done irreparable damage to their lives. It was only when he had been considering the situation for the hundredth time that he had realised that he must first save Penelope, her sisters and her mother from the immediate threat of Jack Featherington before he attempted to dissect his own peril. The man would pay dearly, perhaps in the place of Colin himself, for threatening the future of Penelope.
That evening, she was blissfully happy. He had saved her family, and she danced with him so joyfully that she glowed with radiance. Colin felt like he was bathed in warmth when she touched him and his heart leapt when she stared at him with trusting eyes.
Hypocrite, his conscious had hissed at him.
Shut up, he shouted back.
Maybe he would not marry her straight away, he had concluded. He trusted in Penelope’s discretion about their tumble, and he knew that she could rely on him to never reveal their secret. She had been a virgin, and pregnancies were so rarely the result of first times. They could continue as they had done before.
Then Colin could continue to speak to her, to confide in her. He would see if she was truly as enigmatic as she had seemed the night before, he would know her better, and perhaps in time they could agree to a slow courtship. If she remained as enchanting as she had been last night without the aid of whiskey, Colin would marry her in time, sure of his continued happiness.
Then his plan crumbled in front of his very eyes.
He didn’t know why he had even said it.
Lord Fife had been goading him, clearly using his family’s friendship with the Featheringtons to get a rise out of him. But as Fife spoke the words, the gravity of the situation hit Colin like a ton of bricks.
God, he had taken her virginity. He had ruined her. If this came out, God if anyone were to know, both their families would never recover.
Panic rose inside of him like a wave, clouding his rationality and making his mind jumbled.
No-one must suspect, he thought, that we were to have any interest in each other. No-one must think us any more than familial acquaintances.
The words came to him easier than he would ever want to admit.
With a jovial smile, he declared “I would never court Penelope Featherington. Not in your wildest fantasies, Fife.”
The men had laughed and Colin had truly thought all was well. The line had worked, they were above suspicion. Penelope would not be ruined after all.
He had been so, so wrong.
And now Colin was a haunted man, running over the evening in his brain like a continuous play which, not matter how often he replayed it, never ended any more favourably.
How could he have said such a thing and not considered the social impact on the Featheringtons?
Why had he not simply just declared her like a sister to him?
Why did he not tease Fife in return, mock his reluctance to marry instead?
God, what a fool.
And instead, a week later, he sits in front of a piece of paper, quill in hand, trying desperately to find the words which would fix this mess.
How could you explain such idiocy to the most intelligent person you had ever met?
But Colin had no choice but to fall back on his meagre writing skills, as every time he had called upon the Featherington residence – and there had been plenty of instances over the last week – he had been refused entry beyond the front porch. He had certainly been refused access to Penelope and imagining her anguish, his heart ached.
Would her full bottom lip wobble as she tried to hold in tears? Or would her eyes shine with anger, distain for Colin’s behaviour clear on her face? Would those delicate browns frown? Would her lips curl sternly?
How could he ever compensate for such a betrayal?
But as he wrote, he tried. Page after page, letter after letter. He purged himself of his innermost fears about that evening (though phrased carefully to avoid scandal), of his most hopeful dreams about their future.
He described to her the beauty he found in her face and in her soul, how he had wanted to keep that beauty for the rest of his life. How is mind was surely made up now, he knew what it was like to be without her and he simply could not be.
Would she forgive him?
Would she marry him?
His letters remained unanswered. Not a surprising fact, given the impropriety of a bachelor addressing letters directly to an unmarried woman. Why would Penelope risk even more embarrassment and shame only to respond in anger?
But with every heart-wrenching postal delivery, Colin slipped further into his grief. He had lost her; she was gone to him. But he was still haunted by the ghost of her gentle touch and the echo of her kind words, an ache which become sharp and stabbing with the eventual recollection of his dishonour towards her.
He had tried to speak to Eloise about her only once, but had been shocked at his sister’s cold demeanour and refusal to mention her name.
Eloise’s body hummed with rage and Colin found himself questioning if this rage was even directed at him.
It wasn’t until the day that Penelope had taken tea in Bridgerton House that Colin realised that he had been so utterly, completely wrong.
He had thought he was experiencing the worst pain imaginable before, but now his body burned, more ferociously than his nerves could ever sustain. His skin itched and his bloody scalded his veins like acid. His chest ached and his heart convulsed with pain.
He had never known torment like this.
He deserved this pain, of this, he was sure. His conscious rejoiced in the justice of it all, revelling in the torture of his body and anguish of his mind.
Penelope, Penelope, Penelope.
God have mercy on him.
Chapter 3: Chapter 3
Notes:
I just wanted to say a quick thank you to all the amazing people who have been supporting this.
If I'm completely honest, I was just going to write this as a one shot (first chapter only), leaving the ending open, because I honestly didn't think anyone would even care what happened.
I was happy to know the ending in my head!
But because of so much amazing encouragement I am trying to write down my madly disorganised thoughts as they come to me to give this story an ending, so thank you very much and sorry if it doesn't make sense! I'm literally writing all of these within a few hours and posting as soon as I'm done.You might have noticed it now says 4 chapters - I seem unable to edit myself down so this chapter turned out very long and very different than I expected!
Chapter Text
Penelope was nearly seven months pregnant when she received the letter at Beechwood Cottage.
Her stomach was so swollen that even bending down to receive the letter from where it had been placed on the stool in the kitchen made her spine scream, her ankles were double the size they were normally and she could not deny she kept having the strangest inclination to eat the charcoal at the bottom of the fire (to Henrietta’s undeniable relief, she did not).
The pressure on her back had changed over the course of her pregnancy – what began as a simple ache from carrying extra weight progressed to sharp, shooting spikes which prevented her from bending even the smallest amount, leaving her to bend her knees and lower herself downwards like some sort of waddling duck. It was mortifying, and not for the first time, Penelope was relieved that it was only Henrietta who would see her in this state.
The presence of a letter was not, in itself, an immensely shocking occurrence. Penelope had received many letters since she arrived in Dorset, most of which were from Lady Bridgerton, passing on news and messages which had arrived through her mother’s correspondence to Aubrey Hall. Before she left, Penelope had left a series of letters written in own hand to have sent to her mother when Portia’s correspondence required a reply. Her letters contained very general updates about her time at Aubrey Hall, nothing so specific that her mother would become suspicious or ask too many questions. Portia was not a great letter writer, so Penelope did not fear that she would be expecting beautifully written tales of Penelope’s adventures. Lady Bridgerton was being kind enough to send across any news of particular importance – not that there seemed to be much – so Penelope was not uninformed and Violet also frequently inquired after the progression of Penelope’s pregnancy and general health.
Penelope had never respected a woman as much as did Violet Bridgerton.
But the front of this envelope did not hold the beautiful, leaning script of Lady Bridgerton. The penmanship was harsher, like the quill had been pressed down forcefully against the paper, and the writing was straighter.
Penelope considered as to why it seemed familiar to her, and when realisation hit her, a startled gasp left her lips.
Reaching out behind her, she used a shaking hand to grasp the back of a wooden chair, before lowering her aching body into its hard seat.
This was a correspondence she had not had in months, fast becoming nearly a year. It was a letter she had never expected to receive, so convinced by the stubbornness that ruled both of them that she would not hear from this once cherished friend.
Eloise.
Penelope felt tears gather in her eyes and found herself unable to stop them from falling down her face. Growling, she wiped at them furiously, using the corner of her plain gown to soak up the evidence on her face.
God help her, she had never been so weepy as she was during in pregnancy. Every small inconvenience seemed to result in the most sorrowful of sobs and it frustrated Penelope greatly. Not for the first time since she fled London, Penelope was immensely glad that Henrietta’s work on the cottage allowed her some time to herself to wallow in self-pity. She could not stand the idea of her unstable emotions being spectated upon by anybody, let alone the leering eyes of her curious neighbours.
With a trembling hand, Penelope traced the writing with her finger, gently running over the dried ink. It was not her name she traced over, of course, rather the alias she was using, but she imagined that the writing was speaking to her, sending Eloise’s voice washing over her.
Penelope had many regrets about her last London season, more than she could ever hope to count. Eloise Bridgerton was amongst the most painful of those regrets.
Penelope knew now, with time and logical reasoning to aid her reflection, that she should never have written the things that she did. They had been the desperate ramblings of a friend most anxious to rectify her mistakes, the words of a young girl trying to claw back some semblance of control over a life in which she had none. Revealing Eloise’s trysts was a grievous mistake and Penelope can now think of a thousand different stories she could have told to dissuade the queen of Eloise’s guilt.
So while she regretted her actions deeply, even now she could not fully discredit her response to Eloise’s criticisms.
Yes, she wished she had been calmer and less cruel. But that was, quite possibly, the first time in her life that Penelope had ever stood up to someone challenging her. And while it brings Penelope great sadness that this happened between her and Eloise, she was never quite able to bring herself to regret taking a stand against yet another person belittling her achievements.
The chiming of the clock made Penelope jump, forcing her out of her reflections.
She looked down to the paper clutched tightly in her hand. Sighing, Penelope reached for the nearest sharp tool – which was, rather frustratingly, a butter knife – to open the envelope, the blunt edge tearing the paper in a jagged line.
The paper was thick and expensive and Penelope found herself missing her most beloved writing set which sits upon the desk in her bedroom in the country. It would be too dangerous to bring things to this place which could have given away the true nature of her identity, and so many of her favourite possessions had been abandoned. Penelope, whilst not a particularly possession-orientated individual, often found herself missing small things which reminded her of home, reminded her of who she was.
She thought that the nature of the person she was had probably changed quite considerably since arriving in Dorset. Retreating to this cottage had stripped her down to the very bones of who she was, forced her to consider her own personality outside of the influence of the ton. Penelope had found herself lacking in many areas, and had taken this opportunity of mostly solitude to work towards improving the imperfections she had located. She wondered if these few months had been a similar experience for Eloise. Would she read this letter and find little left of the dearest friend she had left? Or would she perhaps feel so overcoming with familiarity that it would bring about yet another round of hysterical emotion?
Penelope knew she was stalling. These considerations would remain purely philosophical until she unfolded the paper sitting in front of her and she had never been contented with unanswered questions.
Taking a deep breath, Penelope opened the letter and read.
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Eloise was running late and it was Anthony Bridgerton’s fault.
There was nothing in the world she hated worse than tardiness, especially when the event for which they were running late for was of the upmost importance.
She glared at the back of her eldest brother’s head, imagining twisting her fingers into those dark curls and simply pulling – forcing him to follow her out of the door.
“Anthony.” She snapped, raising her eyebrows as her brother turned to face her. “We must make haste, immediately. The carriage has already been waiting for at least fifteen minutes.”
Anthony rolled his eyes and Eloise resisted the urge to huff out a laugh. This is something the ton would never be able to see – the childish, almost boyish way the Viscount bickered with his family. Oh, what damage this would do to his reputation. If only Whistledown could write a column about it.
Then again, Eloise supposed, she could do so, as she had been a witness to many Bridgerton fights over the years.
“Eloise, the carriage journey is days long,” Anthony sighed, speaking purposefully vaguely. “Waiting a few more minutes to ensure the affairs are in order will not delay our arrival time by any substantial amount.”
Eloise crossed her arms and resisted the urge to pout.
She had the strangest feeling in her stomach, so unknown and unsettling. She did not know how she felt about her upcoming journey and its destination and it frustrated her. Eloise prided herself on always feeling her emotions fully and allowing herself the privilege of expressing them, so this unfamiliar heaviness sitting at the bottom of her stomach was making her even less tolerant than usual.
Upon observing her, Anthony’s eyes softened. He stepped forward and placed a steady hand on her shoulder.
“El, I know that you are anxious to arrive. I shall make haste and ensure the arrangements are made quickly.” He assured her, tightening his grip of her shoulder briefly in comfort, before turning back to the staff to continue his instructions.
Eloise took a deep breath and smoothed down her dress, perching on the bench placed in the hall.
A fair few minutes later, the pair were sat in the carriage. Few words were exchanged until they were well beyond the grounds of Aubrey Hall, but once the grand house had disappeared from sight, Anthony’s shoulders dropped and his posture relaxed slightly, long legs reaching out across the carriage and crossing at the ankles.
Eloise kicked his shins and smiled when he winced.
“You are apprehensive.” He observed, watching his sister carefully.
“Yes,” she admitted. “I’m not quite sure what I am walking into. She is already nearly eight months gone and I have no experience with pregnant women.”
Anthony smiled, and for a second Eloise remembered how deeply grateful she was for her brother. He was intense and overly controlling at times, but one could never doubt the extents of his affections when they were beloved by Anthony Bridgerton. Eloise knew he would challenge the world for her if she asked and, in this moment, she was so thankful for his presence.
“But you do have experience with Penelope, El. Now you two have overcome whatever challenges you were experiencing before,” his eyebrows raised, clearly still sore about Eloise’s refusal to share. “You will able to converse as you once did – as the closest of friends.”
Eloise nodded, though there was still a strange sort of lump sitting in her throat, and prepared herself for the long carriage journey ahead.
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Anthony Bridgerton had never imagined he would be forced to wear such ridiculous clothing when desperately trying to save his family from ruin.
Make no mistakes, with three brothers and four sisters, each as strong-willed and stubborn as each other, he had imagined there would be a time in his life wherein he would be responsible for the concealment of a scandal. But he had always imagined himself being able to conduct his duties wearing his own bloody clothes, for God’s sake.
The plain clothes he and his sister had changed into at the Inn in the town were a necessity, Eloise had reminded him many times. It would be no good to arrive at the modest cottage Penelope was hiding within shrouded in expensive fabric and riding a decadent carriage – if the point was indeed to avoid detection, they would be doing Penelope a disservice.
Anthony knew this and respected his sister’s forward thinking, but he could not bring himself to dismiss the aggravation he felt at the fabric scratching at his neck. God, must these clothes be made of some sort of sack?
They had been walking for near enough an hour from the town where they had dismissed the carriage and with each step, Anthony’s skin became more inflamed and his patience lessened even further.
He turned to express his discomfort to his sister once again when he caught sight of his expression and stopped himself.
She was attempting to hide it, because she was Eloise, but the tears swimming in her eyes and her trembling mouth couldn’t be disguised easily. She was staring resolutely ahead, at the silhouette of the cottage which was finally coming into view, but her eyes seem to lack her usual sharp focus.
Anthony stopped walking. He could not think of any words to say, as he could not even begin to guess at the grief which was filling her mind. His body was thrumming with a sort of fatherly need to fix something, to make it better, and he bit his lip in frustration when he could not think of a way of doing so.
Eloise turned to him, a question on her lips, but before she could vocalise anything he lent forward and wrapped his arms around her small frame. She did not react at first, spine remaining stubbornly straight and arms pinned to her sides.
“El,” he warned. “Just let go, for God’s sake.”
She broke.
Her posture collapsed until he was holding her up with his arms, and her small hands came up to clutch at the fabric of his hideous shirt. She was crying silently, thin shoulders heaving and her warm tears soaked into Anthony’s clothes.
He had never quite realised how thin his sister was until he left her bones pushing into his body, and with a jolt of guilt, he realised how long it had been since he had hugged her. Though his sister may seem loud, brash and indestructible, Anthony of all people should remember how vulnerable an individual she was.
Eloise had always, ever since Anthony could remember, felt everything with such ferocity. She was always immersed in the situations she found herself in, fully committed to experiencing everything. That passion for life fuelled her beautifully, made her such an interesting person so observe, but also made her more susceptible to feeling the pain of hardship more intensely than she would ever truly admit.
They stood for a few minutes before Eloise straightened herself, using the back of her hands to wipe at her eyes. She smiled at him, small and nervous, before adjusting her skirts and looking at the ground.
“There is no shame,” he reminded her softly, “in feeling unsure about what we are about to walk into.”
She nodded. He paused for a second, but she made no motion to speak.
“You have such little experience of life outside of the ton, such little knowledge of scandal. As every well-bred girl of your age shares this ignorance, I cannot find myself regretting it. It kept you safe. But, upon reflection, I should have prepared you better before we came here. To see your friend so changed will not be easy, and to know it was your brothers doing will be even harder.” He spoke softly, willing his voice not to carry over the hills.
Eloise nodded again, though then she titled her head to the side, simply considering.
“You are right,” she admitted finally. “I do feel unsure about seeing Penelope this way – it is like I suddenly do not know her, when I am so accustomed to knowing every part of her. But brother, I would be deceitful to allow you think that is all. The last time she and I spoke, we argued dreadfully, as you have already guessed. The things I said, Anthony, the names I called her. It is unforgivable. A detestable act to someone as good as Penelope.”
Anthony watched as torment flitted across his sister’s face and he again cursed himself for underestimating the depth of affecting his sister had for Penelope Featherington for so long. He had foolishly considered it a good, childish friendship which would either grow with them or die as they developed with society. It was only in these last few months he had realised the extent of Eloise’s reliance on Penelope to keep her sane and grounded – her moods had been abysmal, her letters sparse and empty. His aunt commented that she had never seen high-spirited Eloise so bereft of character.
But, as loud and opinionated as his sister was, he could never view her as being truly cruel. She must have been hurt to say such things as she claimed. Eloise was not one for unprompted insults.
“El,” he placed his hand on her should once again, trying to find things to do with his hands. “I suspect that Penelope had her fair share of words for you as well, dear sister. She may be known as a wallflower to the rest of society, but it never to me. She could never had kept you attention for so long if she was anything less than an intensely intelligent, witty girl, and girls like that do not simply allow insults to be hurled at them without reply. And besides – have you two not written to each other and aired your frustrations? Have you differences not been resolved through this communication? Did she not ask you to come here and support her through this time?”
Eloise nodded and Anthony smiled.
“Yes.” She whispered.
Her expression seemed lighter, though not completely bereft of fear, though Anthony suspected this would not be the case until she set eyes of Penelope Featheringon.
So, with a deep breath, he continued with his walk ahead, Eloise following after him quickly. The cottage was well within their sights and soon enough, they were crossing the small garden to reach the simple wooden door.
The building was small, quaint, like the typical seaside houses which were built for fishermen or miners. The walls were made of hardy stone and were decorated with a shocking beautiful selection of climbing plants. Anthony realised that he thought the place rather suited someone like Penelope Featherington, who had always looked so uncomfortable in the decadence of London’s palatial homes, seeking out dark corners and hiding from gaggles of presenting girls.
It was simple and elegant. Yes, he thought, it suited Penelope rather well indeed.
Eloise had knocked the door, tapping her knuckles against the wood in the absence of a knocker. There seemed to be noises coming from inside, a kind of shuffling, and a good deal of time passed before the sound of the lock being unlatched could be heard.
Slowly, the old door creaked open to reveal Penelope’s lady’s maid – Harriet? Hattie? – who dipped her head when she caught sight of the pair.
Eloise greeted her warmly and Anthony realised that Penelope’s trust in this girl had clearly come from years of familiarity between the two, certainly if Eloise’s friendly demeanour was anything to go by. He found himself immensely grateful for this young girl’s presence in their lives, her relentless devotion to Penelope had saved his family in ways he hadn’t known was even possible, and he vowed that he would repay her generously upon their pair’s return to London.
The maid ushered them in, leading them down a short, dark hallway before opening yet another old, wooden door.
Eloise’s breath caught as a comfortable parlour was revealed and his eyes immediately found the woman sitting in it.
It was Penelope Featherington, but not as he had known her.
She was hugely pregnant, but that much he had expected. He had watched his own mother grow with child enough times to know to expect the swollen stomach sticking out from underneath her skirts, along with the general posture of discomfort she wore and she fidgeted in her seat.
She wore clothes as simple as the ones they did, although Anthony couldn’t help but think they suited her complexion far more than the hideous, colourful things her mother had forced her into previously. Her hands were crossed over her stomach, cradling the child, but they shook delicately. His eyes found her face, shocked at the serenity he found there. He supposed this was the biggest difference – her complexion seemed radiant here, free of the embarrassed blushes she normally sported, her shoulders were relaxed, revealing a delicate collarbone which would usually have been covered in all forms of tulle – Penelope looked to be completely comfortable in her environment. Her eyes were warm, her mouth relaxed – but when she saw Eloise her lips stretched into an impossibly wide grin.
She made efforts to begin to stand, but before she could bring herself an inch above her chair, Eloise had crossed the room and was wrapping Penelope up in her arms, forcing the pregnant woman’s body back into the seat.
The embrace was tight, both girls pressing their faces into the other’s neck, and it continued for so long that Eloise found herself to be resting on the arm of the chair for support.
Anthony cleared his throat. Though the sight was indeed heart-warming, a gentleman could only stand as a spare part for so long before he began to feel awkward and out of place.
They two separated, and Penelope met his gaze. Her smile, which had never lessened throughout her embrace with his sister, warmed her eyes and she looked at him with affection.
The lady’s maid darted forward when Penelope began to rise, and supported her lady with applaudable strength as she made the inelegant journey to standing.
Anthony started forward, propriety be damned, and hugged her, pressing her swollen stomach to his own.
Suddenly, he was overwhelmed with a strange sense of connection to the girl. She was carrying his nephew or niece, as much his own family as the children Daphne shared with the duke, and he felt intensely allied to the child which he had yet to meet. He could feel a strange sort of fluttering against his own abdomen and realised with a start that the baby was kicking. Like the child knew he was here, knew he would protect them.
He would always protect this child, he vowed, and the mother who carried it so dutifully. He would guard these two with his life, the same as the rest of his family. He would ensure that they wanted for nothing – any deficit on Colin’s part would be compensated so extensively by Anthony, the pair would not even know something was missing to begin with.
He released Penelope, shocked by the intensity of his own emotion, but left his hands resting on the top of her arms. There was no societal pressure here, no manners to maintain, so he would freely offer her the comfort of a brother to a sister.
Penelope smiled at him warmly again. “Hello Anthony.” she whispered, tipping her chin towards him. “Hello, Eloise.”
Eloise made a delighted sound.
Penelope turned to her maid.
“Henrietta,” she spoke in a friendly manner, “would you mind settling our guests in here whilst I arrange some tea? I imagine they are tired from their walk.”
Henrietta spoke quickly, eyes flashing to Anthony’s face. “My lady,” she said “I will make the tea.”
Penelope rolled her eyes.
“Hen, we have been living as equals for months, and quite rightly so. I have trusted you with my deepest secret, burdened you with my whole family’s reputation and asked more of you than I could possibly ever repay. I will fetch the tea.” She laughed and Henrietta flushed, a small, proud smile growing on her lips.
Anthony looked towards his sister and they both lowered themselves down into the nearest seats, while Penelope hobbled out of the room and Henrietta sank down on the seat opposite them. She was clearly uncomfortable, and Anthony watched as his sister asked her a question, a friendly smile gracing her features, and little by little, the girls rigid spine and frowning brow seemed to relax into something vaguely resembling contentment.
And, not for the first time this this whole scandal begun, Anthony thought about the lessons they could all learn from Penelope Featherington.
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It was too early.
That thought circled around Penelope’s mind relentlessly as her body convulsed and her mouth screamed.
It was too early.
She had been tracking her calendar carefully since the day she and Colin had laid together, the date forever embedded in her memory, and she knew the day she would reach full term in her pregnancy. She knew when she was supposed to expect the arrival of the child, had even convinced herself to quell her impatience as first children were often rumoured to arrive later than anticipated.
She had planned her timings extensively - the presentation of the baby to Henrietta’s brother, her own return to London and multiple other factors were all careful calculations based on her own fastidious preparation and now they were wrong.
But her tormented mind seemed unable to rationalise this, panic overwhelming her with the pain, and she could think of nothing else apart from her baby’s health.
What if they are not ready? What if they are not yet able to live outside of the womb?
Penelope wailed aloud at the thought, and she felt Eloise’s hand grip her own tighter.
Thank God for Eloise, she prayed internally.
The presence of her friend brought her such comfort, even if it did nothing to slow the racing of her mind and the burning of her body.
Because despite her immense anxiety, Penelope could not deny the pain.
She felt as if every limb was being torn form her body all at once, like every nerve ending she had was being held above a roaring flame, like very muscle was being injected with acid. The pain was too intense, too terrifying and Penelope felt like a child again, desperately out of control and clinging to the assurances whispered in her ears from Eloise and Hen.
Another wave of fire washed over her body and the scream that Penelope let out was almost blood-curdling.
This would kill her, she thought with sudden clarity. This torture would take her body and soul. But Penelope would be damned if she let it take her baby. And so with a grit she did not know she even had, she readied her body for yet another attack.
***********************************************************************************
Eloise was stressed.
The labour had begun too early, she knew that from Penelope’s detailed scheduling. But unlike Penelope, Eloise had witnessed her mother’s and sister’s pregnancy and had known healthy children arrive before their expected date, so the internal torment which seemed to wrack Pen was not as terrifying to her.
What was terrifying, however, was the screams coming from Penelope’s mouth.
She was laying on the bed on her back, Eloise by her side whilst Henrietta collected water, towels and anything else she thought they may need. This had been hours in the making – Penelope had already been pacing, sitting, even crawling on her hands and knees before assuming this position – though her pain seemed to have suddenly become quite dramatically worse.
“It burns,” she wailed when the pain seemed to decrease for a few seconds. “God El, it is burning me from the inside.”
Eloise had watched in morbid fascination as the skin of her stomach moved with the baby and in pure horror when she observed the bump change shape with every muscle spasm. She did not know how Pen was bearing it, though she whispered encouraging promises into her ear and wiped her brow with a cool, damp cloth.
Penelope’s expression was one of pure excruciation, her head thrown back and legs bent. Eloise wondered if she was an innately bad person for thinking how amazing her friend looked.
Because she did – God, in that moment Penelope looked like a Goddess. She looked like those being from Norse Mythology that they had read about as children. Like a fierce, warrior queen. Her expression was one of savagery and grit, brows furrowed and lips pulled back from her teeth. Her hair fanned around her head like a halo of golden, red light and her pale skin glistened with sweat like it had been illuminated.
Eloise vowed she would describe Penelope this way to Benedict and beg him to paint this for her. She had never doubted the strength of her best friend – she endured endless jibes and cruel critiques from everyone with society, including her own mother, with a grace and decorum which would have snapped the shoulders of a lesser being – but to see this strength reflected so clearly on her face was something quite extraordinary.
She would show the painting to Colin, she thought viciously, so he could see what kind of Goddess he had abandoned.
Then Penelope screamed again and Eloise was dragged back to the present, kicking and screaming.
*********************************************************************
Anthony sat in the small parlour, resisting the temptation to storm up the stairs, with his head in him hands.
Another guttural scream flooded through the house and his fingers pulled on the strands of his hair as he winced, like he was trying to transfer some pain onto himself.
He knew the pain of childbirth, he had seen it on his mother’s face that haunting night of Hyacinth’s birth, but he could have never imagined the panic he would feel locked in such a small cottage and forced to feel every shout vibrate through the walls.
The pains had been coming for days, though they had not resulted in the official beginning of labour until early this morning.
Eloise and Anthony had been staying with Henrietta and Penelope for two weeks since, and Anthony had been diligently making plans and organising provisions for the baby’s future during this time. While Eloise and Penelope had been chatting and laughing, and hopefully letting bygones be bygones, Anthony had been frantically meeting with Henrietta’s brother to prepare for the first two months of the child’s life until their return to London as the bastard child of Jack Featherington. Henrietta’s brother John and his wife Mary were good, honest people who accepted the deposit of payment he gave with grace, but declined to be further compensated beyond payment for the child’s living costs. They did not ask questions about who Anthony was or why Penelope needed the baby to be cared for, but happily expressed their fondness for her and their eagerness to help in any way they could.
After that, Anthony turned his attention to finding a girl who would be willing to make grand accusations against Jack Featherington, and he delighted in finding one such girl within a few days. He had switched back into his expensive garb to enter the brothel, knowing that the presence of a man with little finds would not have made his mission here any easier, and sought out a girl who might have looked the closest to Penelope he could find.
One girl had been sat in the corner, away from the rest. She had red hair and an easy smile, truly not the most astounding likeness, but enough to quell any rumours which may come about. Anthony had paid her handsomely for her time, all the while praying word would never get back to his wife that he had entered such a place while he was away, and by the end of a few hours he had a letter, written in her hand, claiming the child to be Jack Featherington’s and telling a story of his abandonment. She would be willing, she assured him, to lie to whoever was needed to be lied to, as long as each falsity was accompanied by a generous payment. She did not ask for details and he did not give them. He took her name and address with a smile, never offering his own, and then took his leave, pleased to leave such a dark, depressing place.
But all of that preparation had not prepared Anthony for the bleakness of this baby’s arrival into the world. He had begged Penelope to let him call for a doctor, but she had insisted that a single visit from the local midwife was usual for people of their apparent status, and she had no intention of exposing her true nature.
The neighbours were nosy, she told him, though they lived at least a mile away. They come to check on the women living in the cottage frequently, as Anthony had seen with his own eyes, and often conveniently found themselves working on the fields closest to the cottage and straining their necks to peer through the windows.
Penelope was right, but Anthony didn’t have to like it.
So, while Penelope screamed, Anthony had to comfort himself with the fact that Henrietta had apparently aided many girls from her hometown, as well as many serving girls in the Featherington household, with their births. She seemed to have a vague notion of knowledge about what she was doing.
God help her, she better.
Hours of screaming continued before eventually, the noise abruptly stopped.
Anthony jumped to his feet, hair wild and eyes searching, as he waited with baited breath. The silence stretched on for eternity in his mind, before eventually he heard it.
A cry. A baby’s cry.
Anthony dropped to his knees in relief. Tears fell from his eyes and he wept unashamedly on the cold, hard ground.
Though not usually a particularly pious man, Anthony Bridgerton rejoiced to God for the safe delivery of this new life and prayed for the continued good fortune.
***************************************************************
Penelope was sat on the bed cradling her daughter when Anthony entered the room.
According to Henrietta, he had been most anxious to come in as soon as he had heard the child cry for the first time.
Luckily, Eloise was in more of a sane state than Penelope, and instructed that he wait until she had been cleaned up, the bed changed and her nightgown replaced.
Penelope had heard his grumblings from the other side of the door, but was now intensely grateful of Eloise’s interference, as she could only imagine how she had looked immediately after delivery.
She could never describe accurately how one felt when they delivered their child into the world and realised how everything that had ever mattered no longer did. It was like, she had whispered quickly to Eloise, the whole centre of her world, of her heart, had switched the second she caught sight of this most beautiful baby.
Her daughter’s eyes, opening and closing, were her sun and moon and her sweet sounds were Penelope’s birdsong. The delicate, cotton-soft feeling of her skin was suddenly the only texture Penelope need ever feel again and the air which whistled in and out of her nose the entire focus of Penelope’s attention.
How did mothers ever let their children go? How did they even put them down when the urge to cradle them forever was so compelling?
She was still pondering this when Anthony approached her bed slowly, like he did not want to scare her. She supposed that in this moment she may appear more like a kind of wounded animal, wild hair and skin covered in sweat, but she did not feel like one. Her anxieties from earlier had faded away quickly at the first press of her daughter’s skin to her own and only a feeling of immense contentment and joy filled her now.
He was a mess, she noticed with delight. His shirt was untucked and his hair thrown about, the top three buttons of his shirt pulled open. But the smile on his face was so huge and so genuine she could not help but smile back with enthusiasm.
“This,” she spoke quietly, aware of her sleeping child. “is your niece, Mr Bridgerton.”
She held out her arms, still cradling the baby, and the Viscount took her from Penelope’s arms.
He pressed her close to his chest, eyes widening as they followed her small gentle, yawn. His gaze was the softest Penelope had ever seen it, like molten metal, and it seemed completely enchanted with the girl he held in his hands.
“A girl,” he whispered.
From Penelope’s other side, Eloise chuckled softly. She had already held the child, looking quite as taken as her brother did, and she watched with affection as he cooed gently at the baby. She clasped Penelope’s hand and Penelope squeezed back.
“What a wonderful sister I have, to have given this family such a gift.” Anthony sighed, dragging his eyes away from his niece to meet Penelope’s delighted face.
She gasped and looked at Eloise, who simply nodded like she was not surprised.
“Sister?” she asked the Viscount.
He smiled, large and true and genuine.
“Yes.”
Chapter Text
Penelope shook, her whole-body trembling, as she watched their trunks being carried to the carriage outside.
She was in the parlour with Eloise, though she was stood across the room from Penelope, tactfully adverting her gaze away from the quavering mess of a girl, clutching a swaddled baby to her chest.
Every time she thought her body had experienced the most pain a human could possibly endure, a more torturous sensation was waiting for Penelope around the next corner.
She had known her daughter for two weeks now. She had loved her, adored her, worshipped her.
She had fed her and rocked her and soothed her.
She had stayed up late watching those gorgeous eyes explore the room around them, she had traced a finger over those full pouty lips and she had sung lullaby’s gently into those tiny ears.
Penelope had sobbed with her, slept next to her and smiled with her.
Her daughter. Genevieve Featherington.
The most momentous achievement she would ever have the joy of claiming.
But now, she is expected to leave. To hand her baby over to people she barely knows and trust them with this gorgeous girl’s delicate heart.
And good God, she knows it was her plan! She knows this was her idea, and she knows that this is the best chance of keeping her baby she will ever have.
She knows that there is no other way – to turn up in London, ready for the next season, babe in arms after a period of absence would ensure the ton’s damnation.
Nobody would believe the child was not Penelope’s then.
But when they had seen her for a while – unchanged, untarnished and the same wallflower she was before – the ton would likely believe the story. Her mother would likely believe it.
And then she could have her glorious baby for the rest of her life, if only she shows some patience.
But she had never expected it to be so unbearable.
The thought of leaving Genevieve here was so tormenting that it made her arms tighten around the child and stomach clench, and Penelope could not say for sure she would not be sick.
She had been crying for hours now – a steady stream of tears dripping down her face and landing on the baby’s head. Penelope was almost grateful for it – like the tears could almost sink into her daughter and become part of her, a part of her very being that would never leave even when Penelope had to.
John and Mary were good people, she told herself, though it did not influence her torment. They were good people who would care for this child like she was their own.
But she isn’t, her inner voice cried. She cannot ever be theirs; she belongs to her mother. To her aunt and Uncle. She is a Featherington and a Bridgerton and she should be in London.
Anthony entered the parlour slowly, his tall form taking up most of the doorway in which he lingered.
He assessed Penelope with his gaze and flash of pain flitted across his features at what he found. He made brief eye-contact with his sister before advancing across the room, stretching his arms out to surround both Penelope and Genevieve.
Penelope’s chest heaved and the rock which had been sitting in her throat was suddenly freed as she sobbed.
She sobbed loudly, unashamedly, and with such fierceness that she suspected even the townsfolk could hear her wails.
After a few moments, Anthony’s arms shifted slightly and Penelope felt another comforting presence join their embrace. She could feel Eloise’s delicate touch on her back, Anthony’s solid support to her front and her baby’s fluttering heartbeat in the middle.
She tried desperately to recall her baby’s face with her eyes closed, trying to reinforce the features she had committed to memory over the last fortnight. Those wide eyes were quickly turning from blue to a deeper hue, and Penelope suspected that they would eventually end up a similar colour to her brown ones. Her lips were small and full, with a shape which reminded her distinctly of Colin’s. She had his striking brows too, though more feminine, and Penelope wondered if Eloise and Anthony also looked at Genevieve and saw their brother.
I will see you again, she promised her daughter, and you will not be so changed from how you are now.
I will see you again, she swore through her sobs.
*********************************************
Eloise thought she had felt agony before.
Watching her best friend’s body tear itself apart and then need to be healed again had been painful, as had watching her brother break down when he realised he would not see his baby. She had seen her mother crumble under the guilt of deserting her grandchild and she truly believe such anguish could never be matched.
She had been wrong.
Watching Penelope cradle this child desperately, feeling her desperate wails vibrate through her back, was a pain that could never be described.
There was an ache in her chest and a pounding in her head and Eloise wondered if she might actually vomit.
There would be no harm in it – she had heard Penelope vomiting between sobs last night, so she did not believe any judgement would come to her.
Over the top of Penelope’s head, she caught Anthony’s eyes. Their usual bright green was clouded with unshed tears, though his jaw clenched in determination, and he nodded once. It was more like a twitch, like the reluctant convulsing of muscles, but Eloise knew what it meant.
It was time.
Slowly, she removed herself from the embrace and she watched as Anthony did the same. Henrietta, who had been waiting in the doorway unnoticed by the trio, stepped forward.
God, it was like some sick dance! Eloise thought cynically. Like they had practiced for this very moment.
Gently, with the most tender hands she had ever seen her brother use, he took hold of Genevieve. The child was, thankfully, sleeping blissfully, gorgeous eyes clothes and rose-petal lips hanging open.
He pulled her away from Penelope’s chest and the resistance he met was easily conquered. Penelope’s physical strength was no match for Anthony’s, and so the baby came easily away from her mother.
Torn away.
Wincing, Anthony handed the baby quickly to Henrietta, like he was scared to hold on for too long.
Eloise did not blame him; she knew herself that if she were to cradle her niece one more time there was a good chance that she would never have the strength to give her up.
Henrietta shot the Bridgerton pair a sorrowful look, tears running down her cheeks, before she slipped from the room quietly.
John and Mary were waiting upstairs in the cottage. They could not meet them outside, for risk of giving the locals a show, but it would have been impossible for Pen to hand the child over herself.
Eloise feared attempting to do so might actually kill her.
For a few brief seconds there was the sound of the stairs creaking. Then silence.
Complete utter, silence.
Eyes wild, Penelope stared at the door, as if willing it to reopen and her baby to reappear.
Another minute passed.
And then, finally, something inside Penelope Featherington snapped.
She fell and her whole body smacked against the floor, Eloise following her quickly to prevent her head cracking against the stone.
Penelope screamed from underneath her mane of red hair, guttural, primitive sounds which came from the very back of her throat.
Eloise felt tears spring up behind her eyes, and they marked the grey stone when they fell. She kept one hand placed under Penelope’s head and stroked her heaving back with the other, almost on instinct, her mind occupied with the child who was being help upstairs.
Penelope’s howls did not decrease and her whole body shook once more before she began gasping for air, back spasming with every inhale.
Anthony, who had been watching the scene like a statue, leapt into action. He knelt down next to Eloise, instructing her quietly on how to help him move an unresponsive Penelope into his arms. When he had her cradled like he had done with her daughter only minutes previously, he stood, knees wobbling as he raised himself to his full height.
Penelope’s body was still uncontrollably jerking, though she seemed to have quietened. Eloise suspected this was due to the endless gasps and a struggle to bring in air, so she leant forward and tipped Penelope’s head up, using her fingers to force open her jaw to make the passage of air through her mouth easier.
Anthony jerked his head towards the door and Eloise went to it quickly, opening it and travelling along the dark hallway to the front door. She peered outside and found the surrounding fields free of observing neighbours, at least for now.
She turned around to find her brother following her path whilst cradling her best friend, a fierce expression on his face.
She met his fiery gaze and nodded once, moving to the side to let Anthony and Penelope board the carriage. The driver, an external hire from the local town, aided Anthony whilst Eloise grabbed their day bags.
She followed them inside of the carriage, silently praying that Henrietta would follow soon enough having completed her duties as quickly as possible.
The driver busied himself with the horses for a moment and Eloise ran over their plans in her mind. Anything to distract from the second floor of that God-forsaken cottage. The twitching curtains seemed to be haunting her.
They will drive until the inn in three towns over. There, they will cover their plain clothes with expensive riding jackets and hire rooms in which to change, keeping a low profile. That is where the drivers will swap, the next a hired driver from London, but still not the Bridgerton’s usual. They did not need anyone asking as to why they were this far into the country, nor speculations to be made about Penelope’s state.
Anthony had arranged everything, covered every eventuality, and in this situation, Eloise thought he was the best Viscount in the Bridgerton’s history.
Eloise’s musings were interrupted by Henrietta’s soft steps into the carriage of the coach. The girl sat quietly, crying silently and seeming to grow more sorrowful when she caught sight of her mistress being held on the Viscount’s lap.
Damn propriety, Anthony had said.
Eloise couldn’t help but agree.
*************************************************
2 months later
Colin had returned to London with the weight of the world hanging over him.
For once in his life, he had never wanted to leave. It was his mother who had begged him to leave Aubrey Hall and urged him strongly to defer his return until after the start of the social season, when the family would be back in London.
As would the Featheringtons.
As would Penelope.
Colin was no fool. Though he knew none of his family would share it with him directly, probably at Penelope’s insistence, he knew it was nearing the time for the baby to be returned to London.
His baby.
His and Penelope’s baby.
Eloise was not overtly communicative with him through her letters, but she had alluded to the presence of a new person in her life who answered to the name of Genevieve.
Genevieve. He had a daughter.
A daughter he had never even met and he did not know if he would ever be allowed to.
His heart ached, but Colin had grown so used to the sensation that he barely noticed it anymore. The last few months had been just as torturous as he had expected, if not worse, and so for the sake of self-preservation, he avoided thinking about the child. The girl, who would look like him and Penelope. A perfect mixture of the pair.
Damn.
As his carriage pulled up outside Bridgerton House, Colin felt a sickness settle in his throat. How his life had changed in the last year. This place once held a feeling of security for him, a feeling so comforting just catching sight of the house soothed his woes. Now, he felt it was more like his place of reckoning, where he would surely meet his fate.
He must speak to Anthony.
Wickham opened the door before him as he stepped out of the carriage, a smile on his face as he greeted Colin. Colin painted a grin onto his lips and attempted to seem jovial as he stepped through the door, though he indulged Wickham in no pleasantries before heading to Anthony’s study.
He knocked once, then pushed the door open anyway, impatience gnawing away at him.
Anthony was seated behind the huge desk, quill in hand and jacket discarded. His sleeves were pushed up his forearms and his cravat was unbuttoned – the look of a man not expecting company.
He nodded at Colin once, holding up his hand while he continued to write with the other.
With each word he wrote, Colin’s annoyance grew. He paced the study quickly, paying little attention to the small changes Anthony had made since his marriage, although absentmindedly noticing the addition of another chair tucked to the side of Anthony’s on the desk. Kate must sit with him while he works, Colin thought. He couldn’t prevent the small burst of joy that blossomed in his chest at that.
Eventually, Anthony finished, placing the quill back into its holder and moving his stare to Colin’s face for the first time since he arrived.
“You’re back.” he observed mildly, expression unreadable.
Colin nodded.
The silence continued.
“Anthony,” Colin began, heartbeat loud in his own ears. “Brother, I need to know when the baby is due back in London.”
Anthony snorted and rose from his chair slowly, like he was readying himself for something. Colin hated when he did that.
“Why in God’s name do you need to know that, Colin?” He asked, voice hard.
Colin threw his hands up in exasperation, impatience boiling over. His cheeks were flushed and his face agitated, though he did not care.
“Because that is my daughter!” He snarled, enough rationality breaking through his anger to remind him to keep his voice lowered.
“Ah yes, your daughter.” Anthony mocked, an unpleasant kind of viciousness on his face. “The daughter which you have made no effort to familiarise yourself with, you have asked no questions about. The daughter whose mother you used and then abandoned. That daughter.”
“That is not fair.” Colin snapped, moving closer to the desk. “And you know it.”
“Do I?” came his brother’s reply. One thick brow was raised at him and that penetrating gaze seemed to see through his very skin and bone, into his soul.
“Yes.” Colin growled. “I care. Of course, I care. You cannot understand the grief-“
Anthony’s hand slammed down onto the table in front of him, sending papers flying.
“I do not understand? How dare you, you coward!” He shouted, voice booming, before he seemed to remember himself and lowered it again. “I was there, you cad. In that cottage, with her when she was pregnant and holding her hand when she gave birth and carrying her out when she had to hand over her baby. I understand the grief of a mother who was punished for the mistakes of the father. I understand the grief of an uncle who cannot even hold his niece. I understand the grief of an infant torn away from her mother’s breast!”
“Shh.” A sharp hiss came from the door of the study, and Eloise slipped in, pushing the door closed behind her.
“You are both fools,” she continued in a whisper. “The staff will hear shouting and listen in even closer. Or worse, Hyacinth and Gregory will seek the latest gossip.”
Anthony nodded simply, before falling back into his chair, dejected.
Colin watched the exchange with bewildered eyes, flicking from his sister to his brother and then back again.
“Forgive me,” he said. “but did that just happen? You just told the Viscount what to do, and he simply nodded?”
Eloise smiled, small and sad, but a smile nonetheless, whereas Anthony just rolled his eyes.
“I have clearly been gone longer than I thought.” Colin responded, sinking into the chair opposite Anthony. It reminded him of his childhood, when he would be sent to his father’ study when he had done something particularly naughty. His father would let him tell his story before responding, that deep, soothing voice always fair with its sanctions.
Colin was not sure he had the same hopes for his current situation.
“You have been gone for a long time, Colin.” Eloise said simply. “Too long, in fact. Why did you not come back sooner? We could have done something to try and aid this situation between yourself and Penelope.”
Colin looked between his siblings and found the same question in Anthony’s eyes.
He scoffed.
“I followed mother’s instructions, sister.” He said with a shake of his head. “She asked me not to return until after the season had begun.”
Anthony sat forward.
“What?” he asked sharply, gaze meeting Colin’s unnervingly.
Colin started again, but Anthony waved him off. His expression remained confused, a crease forming between his brows. Colin resisted the urge to tell him that he will surely develop wrinkles if he maintains an expression so severe.
“Why didn’t you send Penelope any letters?” He asked eventually, mind still clearly reeling. “She said she did not receive any correspondence from you once you had learnt of the pregnancy. You could have asked for the address.”
“I asked Benedict,” Colin answered “and I sent letters. Dozens, if not hundreds.”
Eloise gasped quietly.
“What was the address you were given?” Anthony asked in a toneless voice, flat and dangerous.
Colin recited it to him.
Anthony swore.
Eloise whirled around in frustration, hands coming up to grab at the air.
“Why did you not ask us?” she demanded, still moving through the office like a whirlwind.
“Neither of you would speak to me!” He exclaimed, exasperated, but beginning to understand the situation a little better.
Eloise and Anthony exchanged a look and the pair seemed to match in their annoyance.
There was a moment of silence.
“Did you truly believe I would not ask after the welfare of my own child? The welfare of Penelope?” He asked incredulously, looking to his sister for support. “I sent hundreds of answered letters to an address that Penelope was clearly not residing in, and not even my brother and sister thought my silence a little out of character?”
Silence again.
Colin hit his fist on the table.
Eloise turned to him apologetically.
“I was angry with you.” She admitted. “I was not ready to think of you kindly enough to question your apparent bad behaviour.”
Colin growled, long and low.
Eloise’s mouth twisted slightly, and her eyes flashed.
“You were happy to abandon her once!” she defended herself. “You were happy to ruin her!”
“Bed her and then leave.” Anthony agreed, though he still seemed slightly detached.
“I was going to marry her.” Colin roared, but quietened at Anthony’s warning look. “I was going to marry her.” He repeated, softer.
Eloise looked shocked. “Excuse me?”
On a normal day, Colin might have been quite proud at his ability to surprise his sister, but today was no normal day. Tensions in the room were high as the siblings looked at each other.
“Oh, for God’s sake Eloise, of course I was! I thought she was beautiful and intelligent and perfect – I just had a moment of doubt. I said a stupid, callous, cruel thing and then the whole ton knew about it and I couldn’t take it back and I couldn’t fix it! I couldn’t get near her to fix it. She wouldn’t reply to my letters - I don’t even know if she read them. I thought she wanted nothing to do with me.” He rambled, that flush only growing with his desperation. He gasped a breath.
Anthony was watching him carefully. It did little to calm his panic, and instead made the words fall even more easily from his lips.
“I know that I hurt her, that I did something unforgivable. I was doubting myself; I had only considered Penelope an option that night, and then I’d committed myself to marrying her! Of course, I should have waited. I know that I took advantage. But I wanted to court her slowly, really fall in love with her before I married her. Then Fife said something so close to the mark, so shockingly relevant, I was scared that people would find us out. I lashed out. It was the worst thing I ever did. I was stupid – I am stupid. But good God, I am in love with her!” He finished, eyes searching his siblings faces frantically.
“You do know that, right?” He asked again at their silence.
A pause.
“She knows that I am in love with her, yes?” He asked again.
Silence.
His head dropped into his hands and Colin could not believe how poorly he had behaved. God, what a fool. What an unforgivable tyrant.
He pressed the heel of his hands into his eyes and was pleased to feel the ache.
Anthony sighed, and when Colin looked up, he was met with a far softer gaze than before.
*******************************************
It had been easier than she had supposed it would be, Penelope reflected.
To trick one’s family was supposed to be difficult, was it not?
To lie to the people who understood you the best in whole world. To look into their eyes and deceive them should have been the biggest challenge she would ever face.
It was not.
Anthony, God bless his soul, did most of the lying, and all Penelope need do was to school her expression into one of shock and disgust.
Her mother and Prudence had been so overcome by the news that they had swiftly loss themselves in their own panic, scarcely sparing Penelope a second glance. Her mother flew about the house in such a rage, ranting and raving about Prudence’s marriage prospects being ruined once again, whereas her sister simply sat and wept. Though, whether she was weeping about the scandal of it all, or just about the presence of a demanding, loud baby in the home was not known to Penelope, nor did she feel inclined to find out.
Her family’s distasteful nature, which Penelope usually scorned upon, was suddenly proving to be their best trait.
Penelope had been distracted all morning.
She received a letter from Eloise which she was desperate to open, her fingers clenching in her dress, but had yet to find an appropriate time to beg leave from the drawing room and find a location entirely private to open it.
Because no matter how hard Penelope tried to maintain her poise and no matter how unobservant her mother and sister were, Penelope had a good idea that the information which was contained inside the letter was the life-changing, posture altering sort, and she could not trust in her own discretion upon reading it.
Finally, after hours of sitting still and waiting for suitors to arrive, which of course they never did, Penelope excused herself to her room, followed only by an exaggerated sigh from her mother, but no obvious protest.
Throwing herself upon her bed with the eagerness of a child waking on their birthday morning, Penelope tore at the envelope with her hands, impatience preventing her from seeking a tool to aid.
She felt some paper slice into the skin of her finger and she winced, though soon forget about the sting when she was finally able to reach the paper within.
Yes, her brain sung as she read, yes.
Her baby, her glorious daughter, was being brought up from Dorset to London, as this very letter was being written.
Penelope could not contain her squeal of excitement, nor could she quite stop the tears which fell from her eyes.
These last two months had been pure torture on her delicate heart, but even more anguish had resided in her brain. Penelope Featherington was many things, but she did not believe herself to be ignorant. She knew that it went against the natural way of things for a mother to leave her own child, goodness knows she felt the unnatural tear that it caused in her own heart. But the guilt, which tore her apart from inside her very mind, was all encompassing.
Though Anthony had assured her of Genevieve’s wellbeing, Penelope could not help but curse herself at given opportunity. What kind of mother leaves their child in another’s care willingly? What kind of mother prioritises her own social security over keeping her child cradled at her breast?
A desperate one, Eloise had said one day, clutching a sobbing Penelope to her chest.
Yes, Penelope agreed, a desperate one.
But this desperate mother was ready to finally hold her child in her arms again, even if under strange circumstances. This desperate mother swore that she would never, ever leave her child, or even let that beautiful baby out of her sight for a second, ever again.
Penelope Featherington might have been desperate, but she would never quite forgive herself for her actions. Never fully.
*****
It was many hours later, in fact, very late into the night, when Penelope remembered that there had been two slips of paper enclosed within that envelope.
Collecting her candle from next to her bed, she stood and made her way over to her desk, quietly opening drawers until she found the compartment in which she had hidden the letter.
Returning to the warmth of her bed, she brought the candle closer to her chest, struggling to unravel the pages with only one hand.
Groaning softly in frustration, she pulled and eventually found the paper which she had discarded earlier in her joy at receiving the news she had waited months to read.
This paper was different, smaller than the other piece, had been tucked between the pages of Eloise’s letter. There was no doubt it was not written by the same hand, the writing more elegant and practised than that of her best friend.
Dear Pen, it read.
Penelope gasped and dropped the paper, throwing a hand over her mouth in a panic that she might have alerted the staff. She paused for a moment, and when she heard no movement throughout the house, she brought her hand down slowly.
She knew that writing, she always had recognised from the moment it arrived in the post, and the nickname that the author addressed her with left her with no doubt at who was sending it.
Colin.
Why, Penelope wailed internally, would Eloise have sent such correspondence without even warning her?
Why would her best friend suddenly allow him access to her when she knew the betrayal that Penelope had felt at his months of silence?
Why would he write to her now? What could he possibly want that required her attention now?
Taking a deep breath, Penelope rationalised internally. Eloise would not have sent such a letter to her if she had not found good reason, and Anthony would have certainly intervened if he thought his sister cruel. There must be a reason that the pair whom she trusted most in this entire world were sending this correspondence.
And God damn it all, she would never know if she didn’t just read the forsaken thing!
Readying herself, Penelope began to read.
Dear Pen,
I am sure that to ask how this letter finds you would be an impertinent question, though it does not lessen how much I wish to know the answer.
How are you, Pen?
I do not pretend to understand how difficult these past months must have been for you, and after many discussions with Anthony and Eloise, I can only conclude that you have experienced such hell on earth that nothing I could possibly say may alleviate any of your pain.
I am under no misapprehension that my words will bring you any form of peace or soothe you in any way.
Having said this, I feel intensely compelled to share with you some truths which I hope, while they may not dimmish you pain, may quench curiosity and answer any questions you may have.
Firstly, I can assure you, I do not take lightly what occurred between us that night. I do not want to feel as if I engaged in such actions with any misguided frivolity – I did so because in that moment, I found you to be the most beautiful, amazing person that I had ever had the joys of seeing.
To be truthful, it is in this way in which I still see you.
I cannot describe to you the effects that the sight of your lips and skin had on my very being, and on the control which I felt slipping from my very grasp with every word you spoke. You are beautiful to behold, as much I have said, but that night I felt most strongly that you connected to my very soul. All of the conversations we had remained burned, branded, into my mind – every singly story you told and piece of advice you gave has remained within my heart ever since.
That night made clear to me that you are the most intelligent and compassionate woman I will ever meet and my regard for you since has only multiplied.
My behaviour the night following cannot be excused. I was a man in utter panic. I had convinced myself that I would marry you, an arrogant notion considering I had not even asked for your hand, and yet the monumental nature of what we had done had not sunk in, at least, not until I had spoken to Lord Fife.
He was teasing me, as many do, about the close friendship our families share. He made a comment, upon reflection it was obviously in jest, but the fear which stabbed through my heart was instantaneous. He suspected us, of that, I was sure. I had behaved so abhorrently and I was so terrified that you would be the one to pay the price, that I said whatever I could think of to remove all suspicion from the two of us.
I know it was the worst thing for man to say of a woman, let alone a lady out in society who was searching for a husband. I cannot justify my actions any further than that of a man in pure panic.
The day you came to tea shook me to my very core. I have been able to think of simply nothing else since that very day, and I now understand that I have much more to repentant of than I had known before.
It has come to my attention that the letters I had been sending you, the letters I sent every week while you were away from London, were not sent to the address in which you were staying. I do not blame my family for wishing to protect you, and I can assure that neither Anthony nor Eloise were aware of this scheme.
I now know that it must have seemed that I had abandoned you. It must have seemed like I held you in such low regard that I would neglect to enquire after your well-being, or the well-being of the new addition we both share.
While I cannot undo the months of torture I have been informed you endured, I can only but offer my sincerest apologies. I should not have allowed there to be any doubt in your mind the sheer volume of my affection for you, and the unrelenting interest I have in your health and happiness, as well of that of the new addition.
I can only offer my never-ending apologies to you, Pen. I can only tell you that I will do anything you ask of me for the rest of my life, to make your future more comfortable, even only in the slightest of ways.
I adore you, Penelope, and though I had not intended this to be a love letter it now seems unavoidable to prevent it becoming so.
You will have my heart until the moment it stops.
Colin.
************************************
Penelope was waiting patiently in the Bridgerton’s decadent drawing room, her hands clenched, when Colin entered her life again.
He was beautiful, still, and the acknowledgement made her heart ache.
His eyes stayed upon her as he moved to sit on the couch nearest to where she was sat, still gloriously, shockingly green but lacking the mirth they once permanently contained.
He sat down gently, long legs reaching out in front of him and crossing at the ankles. At one point, she would have teased him about taking up the whole drawing room with his long limbs. At one point, he would have responded in jest, eyes twinkling and mouth grinning.
But that was in the past. The two people who sat there instead were so greatly changed she wondered if those children they had been were just fragments of her imagination.
She greeted him formally, though noticed quickly that they were unaccompanied and the door was closed.
Well, she thought, it wasn’t as if they hadn’t been left alone before. Look how that had turned out.
Penelope felt her body react to his presence and she lifted her face to meet his gaze steadily. Her heart raced and her hands shook as he took her in, clear eyes analysing every part of her face like she was a painting to be critiqued.
“Penelope,” He started, his lips wrapping around the word like her name was a prayer. She found her breath catching and her heart fluttering, and she brought her hand up to her throat to disguise the blush which was surely climbing there.
“Penelope.” He continued, watching her shrewdly, eyes mapping her every movement. Penelope’s breath caught and her eyes flashed and she watched as his stare followed the advancement of her blush across her cheeks. Damn him for affecting her so.
“Penelope.” He said again, voice rough and full of emotion. She couldn’t help herself from making a sound, small and wounded, as his voice penetrated her carefully constructed walls like they were made of paper.
At her gasp, whatever control he had been maintaining broke and he threw himself across the carpet, falling to his knees at her feet. His sudden closeness shook her, made her eyes flash and her stomach clench.
God, she hadn’t forgotten how his presence affected her, how his very aura made her cheeks glow and her mouth dry. How frustrating to be so greatly affected by this man, but what a pleasure it had been to know how his hands had felt on her skin.
Colin looked up at her, lashes wet.
“Penelope,” he started again. “I am so very sorry, my darling. I am so dreadfully, grievously sorry for how I have treated you.”
She pulled her hands away from where his fingers had been stroking at the skin of her wrist, just below her glove, leaving trails of addictive flames in their wake.
No, she thought. No.
One apology, one gloriously written letter, cannot underdo the months of pain she had suffered at his foolish hands.
“I know that, Colin.” She responded wearily. “I have read your letter. But it does not fix everything which is wrong between us.”
He nodded frantically, hands reaching out to clutch her own passionately in his grasp once again.
“Pen, my darling, I know it does not.” He agreed, dipping his head to try and meet her avoidant eyes. “My letter failed to portray my grief as deeply as it is felt, nor did it communicate the true, genuine hatred I have for myself. It was meant as simply a glimpse into the mind of the man who had wronged so atrociously; it was not meant as a justification.”
His gaze was haunted, empty, as he spoke to her, and for a moment Penelope wondered if this anguish had existed within him since the day she had left. Eloise had suggested he felt sorrow, but the image in from of Penelope was of a man overcome with guilt and burning with shame, and she felt her resolve slipping even more soundly away.
Colin was in pain, and Penelope was the cause.
Colin took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a second, his torment lessened slightly when he reopened them.
“I am not here to inform you of my own pain, nor to seek forgiveness for my hideous behaviour. I am here to see your pain, to know the pain you hide behind those eyes and beg for you to know that you have done nothing – nothing – to warrant it. You were perfect, my darling. You are perfect. You did nothing but offer me the love I so selfishly demanded of you.”
“Colin-“she began, unable to bear the torture of him recounting that night they had spent wrapped up in one another. Penelope had banished it to the furthest, most hidden part of her mind, unable to stop the way her breath quickened and skin burned when she considered it.
He reached up and pressed a finger to her lips, delicately and gently.
Dangerous, her mind hissed, as she opened her lips slightly and exhaled warm air onto his finger.
Delicious, tantalising danger.
“I have not come to discuss such private matters.” He smiled, eyes flicking to the closed doors. “But it is my most fervent wish for you to know that I am in your service for the rest of my life. I wish to serve you, to serve our daughter, even if it is from afar. I wish to compensate for the deep sorrow I have caused in any way possible. I understand that you do not wish for us to be married as I do, and I will respect any decision you make surrounding your future. But please, Pen, let me help.”
Penelope raised one shaking hand to wrap around his wrist, pulling at the arm as to remove the finger which had remained resting on her lips.
He had wanted to marry her.
Her heart exploded.
“Colin,” she whispered, continuing to avoid his gaze. “I cannot describe to you the pain of the last year. I have never felt such anguish as you have caused me. To use me as I thought you had was agony, but to then betray me to the ton was complete torture. When I discovered my situation, I allowed myself to believe that it was a punishment for permitting myself to be so controlled by my heart and not my logic. Only once she, Genevieve, had entered my life did I realise that she was my prize, my reward for bearing such things, and that I could never, ever, lose sight of that again.”
“Is she beautiful?” he asked in a broken voice, staring at her lap.
“Yes.” Penelope replied. “The most exquisite being that has ever walked the earth. She looks like you, of course.”
Colin laughed, tears dropping onto the fabric of her dress and leaving patterns like tiny stars.
“Giving her up was the worst thing I have ever had to endure. Your brother and sister were the best pair I could have hoped for, so kind and forgiving. But all through this anguish, as I sobbed and gasped and grieved, I could not help myself but wish for you.” Penelope admitted, reaching down to cradle his face within her own hands.
Those green eyes met hers, shock and hope painted within them.
“Me?” he whispered.
“You were one of my best friends long before anything else.” she soothed, finally beginning to cry. “You always knew what to say to heal my burns and becalm my soul. I hated myself for it. I thought you a wild rake who did not care for your own daughter, let alone me. But I have since spoken to your family, and while I do not claim to condone your actions, I do at least acknowledge your misguided attempt to fix the problem you caused.”
“You have spoken to them about me.” He repeated. She nodded. “Who have you spoken to?”
Penelope considered her conversations of the morning carefully, reflecting upon the information given to her by each Bridgerton she had spoken to. They all shared a similar story of Colin’s agony, of his deep and intense regret. The thought of him in pain hurt her, but she felt a strange sort of relief to know he had never been unaffected by their scandal.
“All of them,” she admitted, fingers stroking across his cheeks. “Eloise said that you are in love with me.”
“I am.” Colin nodded, moving his own hands to grasp at Penelope’s face. “I have been for months.”
She leant into his grasp, grateful for the warmth of his palm.
“I have been for years.” She said, feeling a knot within her finally release after saying the words.
Colin pulled at her face gently, tipping their heads together so that their foreheads rested onto one another.
“I know.” He whispered. “And if you will allow me, I will spend the entirety of my life demonstrating the sheer depth of my devotion.”
Penelope laughed, a soft and gentle thing.
“Let us begin with understanding one another.” She sighed. “And of course, meeting our daughter.”
With timing too perfect to be circumstantial, there was a knock at the door. Penelope rolled her eyes and Colin’s expression matched her own. The Bridgertons were known for collecting around closed doors to listen into conversations and she had no doubt that hers and Colins was of the upmost interest to the nosy siblings.
With great reluctance, the pair pulled away from each other. Colin pressed a careful kiss to her temple before moving back to his seat, eyes never leaving the woman in front of him.
They readied themselves, resuming a more appropriate position seated across the couches.
Penelope looked at Colin, her gaze gentle, and finally allowed herself to consider the possibility that she may one day be allowed to call him her own.
Her heart leapt.
He loved her. Everything else - all the misunderstandings and miscommunications – could be discussed later. Could be resolved later. But for now, Penelope knew that he loved her, that he wanted her. That he had never stopped wanting her.
Colin smiled at her and Penelope nodded.
“Come in.” Penelope called.
****************************************************************
Violet Bridgerton was not the sort of mother who wished to know every detail about her children’s love pursuits, but even she could admit that the predicament of her third’s son heart was one she had taken a particular interest in.
The pair had been sat separately when the family entered, though the flushed nature of their cheeks and the joy radiating from Colin’s eyes made Violet smile most enthusiastically.
She had told Anthony that there was always hope when Penelope and Colin were concerned.
Her oldest son had been in great distress since the beginning of this scandal – at first angry with Colin and then mourning the loss of his niece, and Violet knew that the family had been expecting too much of him. Every man had limits, even when her eldest seemed indestructible at times, and she worried that continued strain between the Featherington girl and her third son would cause even more trauma to her first-born. Let alone, of course, the deep and heart-wrenching regret she witnessed on Colin’s face everyday since.
She watched as the young girl turned to her oldest son, trust clear on her face as her eyes asked the question she had yet to vocalise.
Anthony reached down gently and brushed his hand along her shoulder, affection and tenderness clear in his every movement.
Violet had thought she knew Penelope Featherington well, but by the clear brotherly adoration Anthony held for her, Violet realised that she had yet to understand the girl completely. To melt the heart of a man such as the current Viscount Bridgerton, and in a mere matter of weeks, alluded to the most impressive kind of woman.
Violet could not wait to uncover her.
“She is outside.” He answered her unspoken question easily. “Eloise has her. I was unsure if you would want some time alone with her first.”
Penelope shook her head with determination.
“This is her family.” Her high, clear voice rang out, sure until the end. “I wish to see her amongst the people who love her.”
Anthony nodded at her with a respect filled gaze and then called out to his sister gently. Violet had dismissed most of the servants today, and the few who remained where positioned in other parts of the house. This moment, so special and unique, should not be spied upon by intrusive eyes.
Violet looked at the faces of her other children – Benjamin was most joyful and smiling, whereas Daphne’s reserved expression caught her eye.
She shook her head at Daphne, quickly, and her eldest daughter seemed to relax slightly.
Colin was leant forward in his chair, legs bouncing on the balls of his feet like he was about to take flight, and Violet felt her heart twang for him. His daughter was two months old and he had never met her, her mind reminded her in horror. What grief, what torture.
Eloise stepped into the room carrying a bundle in her arms, her smiled tucked into the pale-yellow blanket which surrounded the baby.
She moved quickly, and with grace, as she always did. Her path was clear, and she danced over to her friend with determination, standing above her when she had reached the couch. Her expression was open, thrilled.
Penelope stood on shaking legs.
Violet watched as both Benedict and Anthony moved slightly, almost readying themselves to catch her if she fell. Colin had already risen but kept his distance, allowing the new mother her space.
But, as Violet suspected that she would, Penelope stayed upright, her shoulders set and intention clear on her face. She shot Eloise a quick smile, tears already brewing in her eyes, before reaching her hands out to take the child in her hands.
Upon entering her mother’s embrace, the baby seemed to make a kind of mewling noise, gentle and high. A moment, suspended in time, passed before Penelope Featherington jolted.
Her body stiffened and her mouth let out a huge sob, tears spilling down her cheeks. Her gaze remained with her baby, cradling her and rocking, almost absentmindedly, while she smiled.
“Baby.” She whispered. “I have come back to you.”
Violet heard a sound and looked over to find her eldest son pressing a shaking hand to his mouth, eyes as open and vulnerable as she had ever seen them.
Violet did not know what had happened in that cottage, but it was clear that it changed the three of them forever. The Viscount was enthralled, his eyes never leaving the pair in front of him. Violet’s heart soared.
Gently, Penelope lifted her child upwards, bringing the tiny forehead to rest of on her own.
“Darling,” she cooed almost frantically. “Genevieve.”
Colin, who had been frozen before this point, began to move slowly, taking the few steps which were needed to land right in front of the reunited mother and daughter.
Penelope turned her head to him, nodding tearfully at whatever question she had found in his face, and Violet watched with a beaming heart as her third son wrapped his arms around them, resting his chin on the girl’s shoulder as he stared at the child in her arms.
“Good God,” he whispered, enchanted. “This is extraordinary.”
Penelope issued a watery reply.
It took a moment for the pair to break together, and she watched as her son sank to the ground with the girl he loved in his arms and the baby he had craved, body wracked with sobs. The couple were gasping, crying, wailing - their arms wrapped around each other and their gazes kept firmly on the baby.
Violet touched a hand to her face and realised she had been crying for a while, her gloves coming away soaked.
Violet Bridgerton was not the sort of mother who wished to know every detail about her children’s love pursuits, but even she could admit that it was impossible not to recognise the love which existed in this room and the pain which mingled so closely alongside it.
******************************************************
Three months later
One easy Sunday afternoon, Penelope was cradling Genevieve to her chest and stroking her soft, delicate hair, admiring the way it changed colour when the sun streamed through the window.
It was a pure moment of peace between mother and child and her heart felt truly full.
A gentle knock interrupted her serenity, and glanced upwards to find Colin watching her from the doorway.
She smiled at him, unable to prevent the way her body rejoiced at his presence.
“How long have you been there?” she whispered, aware of the sleeping child in her arms.
He grinned charmingly at her before stepping into the room, footsteps light as he crossed the space to stand next to her.
“Oh, heaven knows.” He responded, bringing his hands up to wrap around Penelope’s waist and gently manoeuvring her backwards to rest against his chest. “I rather loose track of time when I watch you.”
Penelope sighed, but could not help the pleased blush which crept over her cheeks, and complained softly “Oh, don’t tease.”
Colin stared down at Genevieve wrapped in her mother’s arms.
“I do not tease you, my love.” He murmured into her ear, lips brushing tantalisingly against her neck. “The pair of you, stood in the sunlight, is quite possibly the most mesmerising sight to have ever existed. I struggle to remove my gaze from it for even a moment.”
Penelope rolled her eyes, but allowed her head to slowly tip itself backwards until her temple pressed against his, feeling his smile against her cheek.
Oh goodness, what bliss this moment was.
In this moment of untainted tranquillity, Penelope could not help but reflect on the path her life had taken over the past year.
This year had brought her pain like she had never experienced before, but alongside that pain, she had known a depth of love which was previously undisclosed to her.
While they had made mistakes, plenty of them, Penelope could not deny how perfect it felt to rest in Colin’s arms, how astounding it was to hold Genevieve and know she was a part of both of them. A product of their love.
The sun warmed her front, and Colin warmed her back and Penelope felt like that warmth was sinking into her body, intertwining with her blood to make her the most content of people. Unbelievably happy from the inside out.
Colin sighed.
“My darling,” he whispered, reluctance clear in his voice. “We must return to discuss the wedding arrangements soon. Both our mothers are becoming quite frustrated with our habit of disappearing when the plans are being made.”
Penelope groaned quietly.
“Must we?” she whined. “They are making it infinitely more complicated than it needs to be. All I require is you, I and a Priest. The rest is inconsequential.”
Colin chuckled softly, reaching around to cup his hands around the baby’s head.
“Oh, let them have their fun.” He smiled. “They need to be busy.”
Yes, Penelope thought, maybe they do.
But all she needed, all she would ever need, was the two people currently wrapped in her embrace. She was to marry the love of her life in a matter of weeks, and to form the most joyous of households with him and their baby. The adoption would be simple, Anthony assured her, and soon enough they would hold the name of Bridgerton. Genevieve would be known to be the adopted daughter of the couple, but treated as she should be - as the first born child. A year ago, this perfection would have seemed impossible. But now, it was as true as the sunlight on her skin.
And on this easy Sunday afternoon, she would not change a single thing about her life. Not her past, not her future.
She would freeze time if she were able, and remain here forever.
Yes, forever would seem just about long enough.
Notes:
It's the end! Thank you anyone who supported this, it was definitely a labour of love in the end.
Much love to you all
xxxxx
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