Chapter Text
London, 1823
Penelope sipped from her glass of champagne.
As expected, the ball that closed the 1823 Season emanated the enthusiastic and expectant energy of a “last act” of a well-orchestrated play, full of twists and turns, a bit of scandal and gossip, —as London society was — filled with the eager freshness of the audience, already restless for the off-season; although some anxious mums were already planning the start of preparations for the next one. Time —a curious and mystical thing as it was— never stopped, after all.
For Penelope, however, there was no need to worry about the hassles of marriage preparation since at her age, after several failed seasons, she had now been relegated to the position of lady-in-waiting and confirmed spinster and there was no hope that the next season would be any different to all the previous ones. At least, she reminded herself, part of her curiosity had been quenched after helping out at three weddings, including that of her two sisters and her dearest friend, and she was now aware of the trials and tribulations that surrounded the preparations of the perfect day.
Besides, a twist in the story, she discovered, was the stuff of tales and manuscripts. And expecting anything different for herself, after these ten years as an official part of society, was pointless and a waste of time —time she could devote to her stories and her beloved nephews when her sisters were in London.
The label of Spinter, she had to admit, offered her certain opportunities that her previous status as an eligible lady hadn't given her. She had always been hiding in plain sight even when she was of marriageable age, even if she was wearing dresses that were too yellow, too citrus; now, outside of her mother's acidic guffaws and her more-than-questionable tastes, Penelope wore shades more flattering to her complexion and had been relegated to the corners of the balls available to spinsters (God forgive eligible men for inviting spinsters like herself to dance, it seemed to be their idea that it would take a dance, be it a quadrille or a waltz, to find themselves tied down with an old maid for life. For that, they would never do the courtesy of dancing with these ladies, since the ladies who were in fact eligible, still shivering after their presentation to the Queen, were right there at their disposal).
It was with a certain invigorating freshness that she discovered that nobody cared much about what single woman with the age of eight and twenty was doing; so she, with a certain bittersweet feeling, abandoned Lady Whistledown after her fourth season and took on a new pseudonym to publish her short stories with weekly chapters in The Times; she planned to write under her own name one day, although she felt a certain pleasure in hearing the unfiltered opinion of her readers.
Having learned from her past, Eloise Bridgerton, her dearest friend, was the first to know her identity and was certainly her most loyal and enthusiastic reader - consequently her husband, Phillip (although he was unaware that Penelope was the author, Eloise assured her of that) was also a regular reader, and even shared an opinion or two with Penelope herself when she spent time with them and the twins during Eloise's pregnancy last autumn.
Penelope also caused something of a scandal when, around her third season, she abandoned all yellow dresses. Her new partnership with the half-French modiste, Madame Delacroix, bore more fruit than she expected.
Genevieve was happy to dare in her creativity with Penelope (“Heaven forbid”, Delacroix once told her when presenting the croquettes of the dresses to Penelope, “these mums let me do my art and dare a little beyond the empire waistline; always that agonising more of the same!”), then taking the opportunity to create new styles, taking inspiration from French fashion updates or reviving older or out-of-fashion styles that were flattering to Penelope's shape.
The two caused quite a stir in the first season that cemented their new partnership, and it was fun. Her mum swooned when she saw her in an emerald green dress with a gold ribbon waistband, a low square neckline, short puffed sleeves, her hair loose, pulled over her shoulders and, above all, her shoulders sticking out.
“You have very beautiful hair, very vibrant curls, ma chère to leave them in tiny buns.” Madame whispered. “And that buste.. Tsc...” She clucked her tongue, as if she knew some secret that Penelope hadn't yet discovered; and from the nature of her malicious, knowing look, that was probably right. “It would drive the sanest of men mad.”
It was with a certain blush that she realised that her bust was greatly enhanced by the lower sweetheart neckline on her chest.
And that night, she wasn't the only one to notice.
After all, she realised there was some truth in what Delacroix had told her; she had never danced with so many gentlemen as during that first month. She danced with Colin more than usual, he seemed protective, she danced with Benedict, with gentlemen she had barely exchanged a word with during her previous two seasons. She even considered hard the idea of being courted, she received visits, she received flowers and a few letters; her own mother was hopeful —having married Phillipa and Prudence at the end of the previous season, Penelope was her only “responsibility” now.
Until Colin Bridgerton returned from travelling and loudly declared to a group of eligible bachelors that he would never dream of courting Miss Penelope Featherington.
The group was full, but in her anger-blurred vision she only noticed Lord Fife, Lord Cavendish, Mr Dorset and the two unmarried Bridgerton brothers —Benedict and Colin himself.
“I would never dream of courting Penelope Featherington. Not in your wildest fantasies, Fife.” — The noises of trivial conversation died away, time seemed to stop, the air was static; as if it had a certain awareness that Penelope's world had gone out of orbit, that she had been severely altered. It lasted about a second, the noises returned, the wind shook her dress and the curls of her bun; the phrase was followed by dramatic laughter and whistles.
Penelope saw red.
“I never asked you to court me, Mr Bridgerton.” She heard herself say. His eyes opened, surprised, his mouth opening and closing like a fish's as she stared at him for a full second; blue eyes so round she'd thought they were so kind, dark hair she'd imagined was silky, the lean, muscular form she'd felt under his hands when he'd spun her round the halls of every ball he'd been to.
She heard whistles, impressed; mocking him, her, the whole moment. She turned away.
“Penelope...” She thought she heard her name come from his lips.
She did not stay to listen and her name disappeared into the night breeze.
Men, she later realised, also gossip.
Penelope, after that, rarely danced.
Colin Bridgerton went away, then, and left her to gather up her own reputation in tatters, with a few letters and missives with guilty flattery and guilt-ridden flourishes. She burned all the letters that arrived, from London first, with the street address she could see from her window, and then from all the other parts and continents.
Let him enjoy himself, she thought, and may he be lucky enough to find another needy fool, willing to take him in and please him with ears more attentive than mine.
It was with some upset that she assumed he had shaken her newly acquired confidence. The cruel casualness of his words kept her awake and sobbing into her pillows for a while, the sight of him, laughing with his friends, so upset at the idea of her —at the idea of the two of them together— gave her no peace.
A week after the event, she found herself reading in her living room. The weather was mild, but the house was unusually cold, and she was wearing a light blue, almost grey day dress with a square neckline and long butterfly sleeves made of a lighter, transparent material.
Engrossed in the reading of “The Adventures Of Arabella”, she barely noticed when Mrs Varley entered the room, half blushing, half annoyed.
“The Bridgerton gentlemen, Miss Featherigton.” Penelope thought she had misheard, but closed her books.
“Please, bring us some tea and biscuits.” But she doubted she would extend this visit, for whatever reason, any longer than necessary.
She had three seconds to regroup before Lord Bridgerton himself and Mr Benedict Bridgerton entered the room.
She stood up and bowed to them; she didn't sway, although she felt herself trembling inside.
It was intriguing how the air seemed to change when there was a Bridgerton in the room. Heavier or lighter, depending on the relative in question, as if the atmosphere itself was aware of the effect they had on people.
The air around the older Bridgerton seemed, naturally, always more tense, tighter, as if rarefied. He allowed so few around him, close enough that they could claim to know him intimately, that the breath of air around him was almost insufficient for anyone other than him.
Mr Benedict, on the other hand, was pure mystery, full of filters. It was like entering a library; she knew the nature of the space, and she had the impression that she saw everything with a superficial first glance, it was deceptive; she could see the names of the books and their covers, but not their contents and their secrets or all the corners and passages behind the shelves, and all the enigmatic lines of their chapters. On the face of it, he was very simple and sold himself short: the spare; the carefree artist; the family's emotional catalyst. But she knew that any such simplistic adjective would never portray him.
“Lord Bridgerton, Mister Bridgerton.” She began. And then, “To what do I owe the pleasure?” Judging by Benedict's mischievous smile and the arched eyebrow he threw at his brother they hadn't expected such a direct stance from her.
But Penelope certainly wasn't willing to talk about amenities like the weather or make silky comments about the season that had disgraced her.
“Miss Featherington.” Lord Bridgerton began, “I come to apologise on behalf of the Bridgerton Family for the...” He stopped, looking her in the eye. Penelope waited, having now sat down on the yellow sofa, marking the page of the closed book with her forefinger. “Uncomfortable situation my brother caused you.”
Penelope nodded.
Benedict, to her surprise, stepped forward.
“You have always been a loyal friend to our sister and our family,” He continued. “And my brother –and I, for company– that night, did not treat you with the courtesy you surely deserve and inspire. It was bad form to allow my dear but foolish brother to speak that way about you. And for not defending you immediately, I apologise.”
She could only nod once more. There was nothing else to do now.
“Surely you recognise the immutable nature of words.” She murmured. Something once said could not be remedied so easily; and of that, she had great understanding. “I thank you; but I don't need your repentance.”
Mr Benedict looked embarrassed enough.
Lord Bridgerton seemed as impassive as ever, as if everything was a mere convenience for him; and, as a man and a patriarch, it was. Penelope was just an unwanted side-effect, a stone in his path; an extra line on his list of dotes for the day in the administration of his viscounty.
“I don't hold Mr Bridgerton's words over your heads.” Penelope declared with a nonchalant, diligent flex.
With the air cleared, they sat down to tea and biscuit and had the stilted conversation of social visits for as long as society saw fit. Benedict made an effort, and, if asked, she would admit that she had had fun with him. He was open-minded and certainly interested enough to keep the conversation going; Lord Bridgerton contributed when Benedict included him, here and there, just enough for the company present not to consider him “uninterested”; which he was.
Penelope didn't hold that over his head either; with so many worries, there was more than enough on his plate for him to have to put Penelope's youthful disappointments right on top. He showed her deference and sincerity, and for her it was enough —it was more than she got from the Ton and his younger brother.
They left quickly and the Season continued.
At the end of that Season, just a few days after the visit to her house, the ever stoic Viscount Bridgerton surprised everyone by taking the opera singer, Siena Rosso, for his wife and Viscountess.
Society was in chaos, everyone in a frenzy. It was a scandal with a capital S, if Lady Whistledown had ever written one.
The Bridgertons were strong, she observed with sympathy; they were abandoned by almost everyone, marginalised, but they persevered, united.
That season, Lady Whistledown's leaflets said:
Lady Whistledown's Society Papers
A scandal with a capital S
“In an unexpected twist, this author finds herself surprised by the closure of this Season. The most unpredictable pairing of all has come to light to a shocked and scandalised Ton.
This author, however, has to admit that she admires the courage of those involved; a relationship like this, born of improbability and uncertainty, of anxious and desirous glances, in recesses that we can only dare to imagine, must possess the necessary strength to transcend obstacles and face the tribulations that are sure to come. Will it survive the mercurial and waning euphoria of High Society?
For something of such an unique nature to happen, I can only speculate, dear readers, that what we whitness is nothing, but True Love.
A scandal with a capital S if I've ever heard one, darlings.
But, to borrow the words of our beloved romantic Shakespeare: “Who could refrain, that had a heart to love, and in that heart, courage to make's love known?”
My sincere best wishes for the new pair.
Lady Whistledown.”
Penelope was as shocked as everyone else; she knew about their illicit affair, but had never imagined anything like this. The Bridgertons would never recover and she would never use her pseudonym to make matters worse; no matter how broken her relationship with them was. She believed that a long stay in the country for everyone would be enough to calm down and stop the rumours and whispers every time they entered a ballroom.
Penelope was happy to have settled her differences with Eloise before Francesca's wedding, which would take place at the end of the Season the year after the "Great Scandal" (as the Bridgertons called it). It was with great affection that she watched a dear friend with whom she had grown up marry someone for whom she had genuine affection.
It had been several weeks with no word from her dearest friend. Colin had already left the country, the scandal of the new Viscountess was becoming old news, although everyone was still disgusted and still excluded them, almost a year later —the support of a Duchy, loyal tenants and a gossip had proved of some use— and several failed attempts by Penelope, until Eloise turned up at her house one afternoon. There was a lot of crying and apologising and then they lay in the garden and counted the stars, and it wasn't the same, but it was a breakthrough.
“I'm sorry I was an idiot to you.” She said.
“I'm sorry I didn't tell you.”
They fell silent.
“My best friend held everyone's secrets in her hands; the most powerful woman in the Kingdom.”
“I don't think being persecuted by the Queen is anything to be proud of.” She countered, laughing.
“I think you're brilliant.” They smiled. “I'm sorry my idiot brother said that.” She added, after a few seconds in silence. “Idiot. Idiot. He ruined all your chances. But if a man needs the validation and approval of another to take any action, unable to get their faces out of their fragile male arses on their own,” Penelope laughed behind her hand. “It just proves my point that they're pathetic idiots; all of them. My brothers included.” continued, irritated. “We can be spinsters together forever.”
Penelope didn't argue; there didn't seem to be any hope for her.
But Eloise married Philip Crane two seasons later (Eloise even regretted that Penelope had already retired Lady Whistledown and couldn't announce her marriage). She moved to the country with him and the twins.
Penelope smiled and cried, her heart full of happiness for her friend.
But she was alone now.
The Seasons went on monotonously for her. But she enjoyed herself without worry.
The Duke and Duchess of Hastings frequently offered balls at their Castle. Lady Cressida Cowper had married in the midst of an embarrassing scandal and had stopped finding reasons to antagonise Penelope; Felicity was not a child with braids in the hair, anymore. Colin Bridgerton came and went as he pleased. Benedict Bridgerton had disappeared for a few weeks and was then married to a Sophie Beckett —a young woman no-one had known anything real about before. Eloise was a mum. Penelope was aunt to four children and godmother to Eloise's children. The Viscount and his Viscountess, parents of two children, at the very few events they attended, were always greeted with a few glances, but nobody dared to say anything.
Penelope's new style soon became part of the routine, and if anyone gave a second thought, once in a while, to the sight of her long hair almost always loose, she certainly didn't hear them.
And she was always there, a jewel, a stone in the midst of so many others, whether chatting to the older ladies; she had a close friendship with Lady Danbury, who became more and more present in her life once Penelope was officially considered an old maid, with other old maids or being a lady-in-waiting to some young women of marriageable age when in need. She helped Lady Danbury with her balls, her own mother and her friends. Even the Dowager Lady Bridgerton consulted her opinion a few times over the years.
She was comfortable, once she'd got over the bittersweet part. It was nice to be able to be true to her own nature, and not that stilted version of herself made to please her mother and single suitors; she was comfortable in her own skin, having restaure a confidence in herself and her achievements.
She was no longer so invisible, not to herself.
But she would always be Penelope Featherington, the woman no one would fantasise about courting, —for those with good memory.
Always a stone; never a diamond.
The year 1822 began with a shock for Penelope, for the Ton, but above all for the Bridgertons.
The Viscountess, Siena Bridgerton, died; taken by Scarlet fever.
She left behind a devoted viscount and two little girls, aged three and one.
Penelope hadn't seen much of them that year or the current one. She had exchanged letters with Eloise, as usual, who updated her just enough for her to know that Eloise had been with the family at their ancestral home, Aubrey Hall, to support her brother and nephews in their bereavement; Colin had returned when he heard the news from the other side of the continent. She sent a letter to Lady Bridgerton with her condolences, which the Dowager gratefully replied to a few days later. She dared to write a short missive to Lord Bridgerton, which went unanswered.
The year 1823 came and went without anything noteworthy, apart from the usual petty gossip.
Mr Fife had been caught deflowering Miss Stewart at the Campbell's soiree earlier in the season. Mr Dorset, as it turned out, was caught in a compromising position with his mistress; he, his wife and children went to their country estate, surely to escape prying eyes. The Dowager Duchess of Cumberland was to marry again, to someone below her status.
Would Miss Grosvenor, a young and beautiful woman, but relegated to the position of spinster like her —who fell out of favour after the actions of Edward, Baron Howard's youngest son, who deceived her with the prospects of marriage, only to run off with a courtesan, —find a suitable match?
Penelope didn't dare imagine anything like that for herself. The season of 1823 had been no different from 1822, and there was no indication that 1824 would be any different from the previous ones for her.
And, with some scorn for the lack of any consideration and respect, Penelope had also heard a few bold, whispers from behind the whiskey glasses and fans: would Viscount Bridgerton, after two years of mourning, return to the Ton? Would he make another young woman a Viscountess, someone to bring up his young children, take on the role of hostess and help him manage his family estates?
Penelope thought that the enthusiastic mothers of eligible young single women could only dream.
