Chapter Text
Colin Bridgerton was not a fool, despite what his siblings might think. Nor was he merely a charming and handsome darling, as Lady Whistledown had labeled him in the past. No, Colin Bridgerton was well-read and well-educated, and he was observant, even though his current predicament required no real outlay of any of these qualities.
Colin Bridgerton knew he had fallen out of favor with Penelope Featherington.
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His first indication that he was no longer in favor had come during the off-season. While his family and the rest of the ton had escaped to the countryside for the winter months, Colin had gone a bit further afield. He started on the southern coast of France.
During his last tour, he had written letters from one station and always let his correspondents—his family, a couple of Cambridge friends, and Penelope—know where he was headed so that they could direct their letters there. He moved too quickly to give people the location of where he was; he would be gone by the time their letters arrived.
When Colin was in Nice, he wrote his first round of letters—one to Benedict, one to his mama, and one to Penelope. When he arrived in Marseilles, he landed on the doorstep of the charming upscale boarding house he had taken a room in, to find a letter from his mother and one from Ben. He frowned slightly.
“Monsieur?” Colin called out to the clerk of the house. The older gentleman turned back.
“Oui, Monsieur Bridgerton?” he asked patiently.
Colin grinned sheepishly, realizing he didn’t exactly know the French to ask his question. “Avait que… un autre lettre pour moi?” he asked. The Clerk’s lips twitched, clearly trying not to look amused at Colin’s broken French.
“Non, Monsieur. Those two were all.”
Colin was only a little crestfallen at the gentleman’s switch to English. “And they came in when?” he asked.
“Day before yesterday, monsieur. Is something the matter?”
Colin looked down at the letters in his hands, frowning, before looking back at the clerk. “Uh, no,” he said, not sounding as convincing as he maybe ought to have. He held up the two letters he did have. “Merci,” Colin said with a nod and a smile. He must have done a better job the second time because the older man just nodded, still looking slightly amused, and reminded Colin that dinner was available starting at 19 hours.
Colin climbed the narrow staircase to find his room, the letters clutched in his hand. He sighed with relief at being in his new place of rest, but still the fact that he hadn’t received a response from Pen niggled at his mind. It was no matter, he reckoned—her letter was just late and would arrive sometime during his week in Marseilles.
As the days wore on, and there was still no letter from Penelope, Colin found his thoughts drifting to the oddity more and more. Cross-country post could be slow, but there were two ships a day from England arriving in port with bags of missives, and yet Colin still had no word from Penelope.
Colin was sat on the balcony of his boarding house, looking out at the sea as he enjoyed a midday repast and penned a second letter to Pen, despite not having received a response to his first. He was imagining what Pen was doing to occupy herself in late November shut up in her family’s estate in the countryside, since her mother deeply disapproved of outdoor exercise, especially in the colder months.
Perhaps the Featherington ladies did not retreat to the country, Colin suddenly thought to himself. He smiled and leaned back in his chair, grinning like a fool at the aquamarine sea in front of him. He was highly pleased with himself for having solved the mystery. Yes, of course. With the scoundrel Jack out of the picture, the ladies must have felt unsafe going to the country on their own and my letter arrived at a house where there was no one but the groundskeeper to receive it.
Colin readdressed his current letter to Penelope so that it would go to her Mayfair residence. He told her all about the wonderfully fresh seafood and fruit he had tasted, quite out of season in England though southern France had no such limitations on the growing season. He also took care in describing the water and the sailing excursion he had planned in a couple of days. He smiled, imagining Penelope imagining him as a sailor.
If you are to be Penelope, perhaps I shall learn to be a proper Odysseus. I will be arriving in Barcelona within the fortnight, and I look forward to having your response there.
Yours in Friendship,
Colin Bridgerton
Colin beamed at the cleverness of his last lines, knowing Penelope would understand his reference. She was more well-read than the other young ladies of the ton and she loved poetry, so he was sure she had come across The Odyssey.
Colin went sailing, he ate more fruit—and fish and chicken and biscuits and pastry and so much else—and he spent time walking along the coastline and dipping his feet in the water before boarding a ship bound for Barcelona.
When he arrived to letters from Franny and Daphne, and another from Benedict, but none from Penelope, he frowned again. He couldn’t think of where she would be if not at her country estate or her townhome. But he knew someone who would.
He wrote a letter to Eloise, trying to make it long enough that she wouldn’t suspect he had written to her with a sole question in his mind. He wrote of his anticipation of the paella and oranges in Valencia, the hiking tour he had done during his time in Barcelona, and some other nonsense he could not recall. Pack donkeys, maybe.
Towards the end of the missive, he included a simple inquiry: My letters to Pen seem to not be going through—I have sent three now, including this most recent one from Barcelona. Have you had chance to see her in the country or did the Featherington ladies remain in London?
When Colin landed in Valencia with a letter from Eloise that told him she was glad he was enjoying himself, while not passing up an opportunity to point-out that if he were a girl, he would have not been allowed to venture even past Covent Garden, he was disgruntled to find she made no mention of Penelope at all, despite his having made a direct inquiry.
A frisson of something like annoyance—and decidedly not fear—ran through him. He decided an all-out campaign would be his only option. He responded to the letters from Benedict, Gregory, and his sister-in-law’s younger sister, Edwina, as well as writing to Franny, Anthony, and Hyacinth for good measure, always including one question.
Have you heard from Penelope Featherington?
When he arrived in Seville, it was Edwina who gave him the answer he was looking for. She responded to all of his tales from Valencia, told him how parts of what he said reminded her of a fond vacation spot from India, or something from a book she read, Colin couldn’t remember. But then:
Mama and I are in Lady Danbury’s care once again, seeing as Kate and Lord Bridgerton are off on a tour of their own, and we are spending the winter at her home in the country, near to the Hastings estate and your family’s own Aubrey Hall. Lady Danbury informed me the Featheringtons wintered in a town not far from here and I sent to invite the youngest Miss Featherington to tea. I was pleased when she accepted as she has become one of my dearest acquaintances in the ton. She seems in high spirits, if a bit introspective. Perhaps it is the cold weather that brings it out in her?
So, Penelope was fine, then, and in the country. He had confirmation of that from Edwina, and the others said much of the same—they hadn’t seen her, which was unusual given her friendship with Eloise, but they had heard nothing to imply she was not safe and healthy in the countryside.
Colin was unsure what to do with this information. As he mulled it over, a clearer picture of Penelope’s circumstances appeared to him. Clearly, she was not writing because she was not in a position to pay to send a letter all the way to Spain from England. Everyone knew she and her family had been in a precarious position before the new Lord Featherington had arrived from the Americas, and Colin knew better than anyone that after Penelope’s Cousin Jack had absconded back to America, the Featherington ladies had no doubt once again been dragged down into the throes of potential poverty.
He felt a fool, and unempathetic to have not noticed it before now. It was no small fee to send a letter so far. He immediately sat down to write to Penelope from the breakfast room of his lodgings.
Dearest Pen,
I am in Seville for the time being and I hear you are back in the countryside for the winter. I am glad to hear it as I know you love a country Christmas. I hope you and your family are well, and I do not expect you to write me back. I am not so narcissistic as to expect you to use your pin money to post letters to me, especially when there are gifts for friends and family to be purchased.
It is enough to know that you are on the other side of this span between us and that you are reading what I write. With your permission, I will continue to send you these letters. Of course, I will have to take your silence for permission—as I said, do not expend precious funds on me and my ramblings. I hope they bring you some levity, and I will try to make them a worthwhile read.
All I ask is that you save your always insightful commentary for my return to London in the Spring and allow me to hear it when we see each other next.
Colin wrote Penelope pages more about Seville and the journey there from Valencia. He spoke of his intention to end up in North Africa—Think of it, Pen, an entirely different continent—before returning home.
Once the letter was signed and in the collection for tomorrow’s post, Colin could finally breathe easier, knowing Penelope was alright and had a friend in Edwina, even if she and Eloise seemed to be in a tiff at the moment.
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Colin’s second, and far more damning, indication that Penelope was upset with him came with a letter from Eloise. Three lines were enough to set his pulse thrumming and his stomach ill at ease.
I have reconciled with Penelope after a bitter and lonely few months apart and I only say this to you out of my love for her—in fact, she insisted I not interfere. But I must tell you this, Colin.
Stop writing to Penelope.