Chapter Text
Penelope Featherington sits upon the window seat in her family’s drawing room, unread book held loosely in her hands. Like hundreds of times before, her
eyes locked through the window across the square. Unmoving. Watching without seeing. The air in the room is warm, almost stifling, and the yellow walls, intended to provide a sense of cheer, seem to press and suffocate. But then maybe it's just her disposition.
It has been five days. Five wretched days since her mother’s ball. What should have been a triumph for the Featherington name had crumbled into yet another ruinous scandal. The fraudulent schemes of Cousin Jack were laid bare, and the eyes of the Ton turned upon them once more. Not with pity or disdain alone, but with seething hatred. So many had lost fortunes to the Featherington name, and Cousin Jack had vanished, taking everything with him.
Her mother’s worry and desperation were palpable, but Penelope did not care. For her, that night had been the end of everything.
Two halves of her soul had been torn away. Lost. She could still see the hatred burning in Eloise’s eyes as she swore never to speak to her again. She could still hear the cruel mockery in Colin’s voice as he declared, for all to hear, that he would never court Penelope Featherington, not in their wildest dreams .
Tears streak down her cheeks, though she no longer counts them. She no longer tracks how many times she has wept since that night. No one pays attention to her or her tears. Why would they?
In the middle of her mother’s hysterics over their ruination, Prudence’s childish oblivion, is there anyone left who cares?
She watches him leave one morning, setting off on yet another grand adventure. He, who holds the world in the palm of his hand. She does not stir. Instead, she remains where she is, watching as the carriages are loaded, as Eloise steps inside alongside the rest of her family, and as they all depart.
The house across the square is left empty, its once-bustling windows now silent and still. Yet Penelope does not turn away. She remains, anchored to the window seat, anchored by her grief and loss.
It all blurs together, the empty house, the sound of wheels fading into the distance, the oppressive heat of the August sun. The vast sea of anguish pulls her under, and she lets it drown her.
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Each morning, a maid helps her into a dress. Perhaps if Penelope were more present, she might question why the gown is finer than her usual attire or why her hair is intricately braided, her cheeks dusted with rouge. But she doesn’t care. Not about the dress, not about the braids, not about the forced brightness painted onto her face.
She cares even less when she is led into her father’s old office, walking ahead of Prudence. Her steps feel heavy, as if she is wading through molasses.
Only when she sees the old, thin man standing by the window does she feel the slightest prick of discomfort. His expression, pinched and sour, suggests he has caught a whiff of something foul. She does not like the way his eyes sweep over her, dissecting her from head to toe, before flicking to Prudence and performing the same inspection.
“This one’s too thin,” he snorts, barely glancing at Prudence. “Hips narrow as a jockey’s saddle.” His words seem to release some tension in Prudence, who visibly relaxes. Penelope cannot fathom why, he has insulted her outright. Yet her mother, too, appears relieved.
The man’s gaze shifts back to Penelope, lingering now, and she feels it crawl over her skin, invasive and vile.
“This one,” he says with a smirk, “looks like she could push a child into the world without breaking a man’s back in the process.”
And that is when the fear comes. A cold, sharp stab that cuts through her haze of indifference. He is discussing her childbearing ability, her , with her mother. She knows exactly what that means. Her stomach churns, and her eyes move to her mother, pleading silently. But Portia Featherington refuses to meet her gaze, her attention fixed instead on the floor.
“Have your courses been regular, girl?” the man asks abruptly, and Penelope’s stomach twists with revulsion. Her voice catches in her throat, and she cannot bring herself to answer.
“Answer, Penelope,” her mother commands, her tone cold and clipped.
“Yes, sir,” she croaks, her voice hoarse from disuse. She cannot recall the last time she spoke aloud.
“Are you aware of your duties in the marital bed and prepared to fulfil them?” the man continues, his tone matter-of-fact, as if he were inquiring about the weather. Penelope feels the air leave her lungs. She cannot breathe.
“She is a gentl y -bred lady, my lord,” her mother interjects smoothly. “She will be informed when it is appropriate. Suffice it to say, she understands her greatest responsibility is to provide her husband with an heir.”
Penelope does not hear the rest. The words dissolve into a distant, muffled hum as she stares at the floor, her hands clenched tightly in her skirts, trembling.
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It becomes a whirlwind after that. She has been sold and bought, like livestock at a market. The first banns are read, though few remain in London to hear them, and none who would care. The knowledge pr e ys on her mind, there is no one left who would care. Not Eloise, not Colin, not anyone.
Desperation grows within her, and she tries, in one last futile effort, to plead with her mother. Portia listens with cold indifference at first, brushing off her daughter’s trembling words. And then, as if Penelope’s voice has become an irritant, Portia stops acknowledging her entirely. She avoids her, barely looking her way, as though Penelope’s very existence is a stain she wishes to scrub from her memory.
The silence is maddening. It feels as though Penelope is screaming inside her own head, her cries echoing endlessly. Yet no one hears. No one listens. No one comes.
She considers running away. She has money hidden, a small fortune that could save her. But where would she go? And her mother knows her too well, senses the growing restlessness. The windows in her room are bolted shut, the door locked from the outside whenever Portia deems it necessary. She is not allowed in the garden , not even the drawing room, unless her mother is there to supervise.
So she sits. Trapped within the four walls of her room, the floorboards beneath her concealing the fortune she cannot use. A prisoner in her own home, in her own mind.
Her thoughts circle endlessly, a storm of despair. What is the point? she wonders. Is there even a reason to fight? Her mother, Lord Greer, the weight of expectation s , will crush her regardless. She has no one to fight for, no one who would grieve her loss. .. No one who cares.
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Genevieve is brought to the house one stifling afternoon. Her trousseau, after all, must be prepared. The sight of Genevieve’s familiar face, so warm and knowing, nearly breaks Penelope. She almost throws herself into Genevieve’s arms the moment she enters, but somehow, she manages to restrain herself. Portia, of course, is present, issuing orders with the efficiency of a general marshalling troops. Genevieve nods, taking down notes, only occasionally glancing Penelope’s way.
Finally, when Portia is satisfied with her demands, she sweeps from the room, leaving the two women alone. The moment the door closes, Penelope crumples to the floor, tears streaming down her cheeks as Genevieve gathers her into a comforting embrace.
“ Ma chérie …” Genevieve whispers, her voice soft, edged with sorrow. “I have heard… Lord Greer He is not a good man, my friend.”
“The fact he bought me like prized cattle speaks to that,” Penelope murmurs bitterly. “But what am I to do?”
Genevieve hesitates before asking, “Does your mother … ?”
Penelope almost laughs, a hollow, painful sound. “He paid her enough to keep her in London for the next two seasons. Dowry for Prudence. More if I… provide him with an heir.”
“She sold you,” Genevieve breathes, her voice thick with disgust.
Penelope nods, her throat too tight to speak.
“The Bridgertons…” Genevieve begins, only for Penelope to let out a harsh, broken laugh, tears spilling anew.
“Eloise found out about Lady Whistledown. She wants nothing to do with me anymore.”
“And the boy you protected?” Genevieve asks softly.
“Off to who knows what corner of the world,” Penelope replies, her voice trembling. “But not before declaring, for all to hear, that he would never court me, not even in his wildest fantasies .” Her voice cracks, and she stops, unable to speak his name.
Genevieve tightens her hold. “I’m scared for you,” she whispers. “I’ve heard stories about that man.”
“What kind of stories?” Penelope asks, her voice barely audible.
Genevieve hesitates, her fingers tightening on Penelope’s shoulders. “That he was involved in the death of his last countess. Perhaps the one before her, too.”
The room feels suddenly colder. Penelope shudders. “You think he would harm me? But he wants an heir…” Her stomach churns at the thought of the intimacy that would be required of her.
“And what happens if he cannot beget one upon you?” Genevieve’s voice is grim. “Some men… they cannot, but they always blame the wife. And their anger…” She trails off, shaking her head.
Penelope swallows hard. “I’ve thought of running away,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. “I have the means, but Mother suspects. She keeps me locked away, and even if I escaped, where would I go?”
“I might… look into some friends of mine,” Genevieve offers, her voice tentative yet resolute. The words are a lifeline, and Penelope feels a fresh wave of tears threatening to spill. At least one person cares enough to help.
“Please,” Penelope whispers. “I don’t know how long we’ll remain in London. They tell me nothing, but the third banns will be read this Sunday. There isn’t much time.”
Genevieve nods. “I’ll look. I’ll do what I can.”
Penelope grips her hands tightly, her gratitude spilling out in a whisper. “Thank you, Gen.”
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The little seed of hope planted by Genevieve is crushed just two days later. It happens when Portia wakes her abruptly, instructing the maid to pack her things. Before Penelope can make sense of it, she is being hauled into a waiting carriage.
“The arrangements are settled. Lord Greer awaits at Heathridge ” Portia declares. “You shall be married there.”
Panic surges through Penelope. She screams, kicks, and claws at anyone within reach. Fighting to stay in her room, her house, her world. But it is no use. Two footmen are summoned, and together with the carriage driver, they force her out. Her shoes scrape against the steps, her hands clutching door frames, but their grip is not giving. She is half-dragged, half-carried into the carriage, her cries echoing throughout the empty square.
Through it all, even Prudence appears shaken, wringing her hands and hovering at the threshold. Portia, for her part, sighs dramatically, snapping her fan open with a flourish. “Hold her,” she commands the footmen. One of them grips Penelope’s arms tightly as Portia produces a small bottle and a spoon.
Penelope’s struggles become more violent. “No, no, please …” But her protests are drowned by Portia’s impatient voice.
“Enough!” She forces the laudanum down Penelope’s throat, ignoring her gagging and the tears streaming down her face.
The bitter taste coats Penelope’s tongue, and her stomach turns violently. She tries to retch, to expel the vile liquid, but her body betrays her. She feels the nausea spreading.
“Sit with her and restrain her,” Portia orders one of the footmen, her voice trembling with irritation. “I should have given her the drug from the start. I told Lord Greer it would be necessary. It will not affect her ability to conceive.” She snaps her fan shut and glances at Prudence, whose pale face is fixed on Penelope trembling in footman's hold.
“Mama, must we…?” Prudence’s voice is uncertain, her question fading.
“You know we must,” Portia replies sharply, fanning herself with renewed vigour. “At least London is empty now. No one will see this ridiculous spectacle.”
Penelope sobs quietly, her head lolling against the cold glass of the carriage door. The footman, one of Lord Greer’s men judging by the uniform, keeps her pinned inside the carriage. She tries again to wrench herself free, but the fight seems to drain from her with every passing moment. Whether it is the drug’s effect or sheer exhaustion, she cannot tell.
Soon, rain begins to patter against the carriage, turning the dust of London’s streets into thick, murky mud. The city blurs before her eyes, her tears mingling with the dampness on the glass. Everything she owns is still hidden beneath the floorboards of her room. Her money, her meagre chance of escape, gone, like the life she once had.
She presses her forehead harder against the glass, the chill offering her the smallest reprieve from the suffocating despair. There is nothing left. No hope. No escape. Nothing.
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The chapel is cold, its stone walls darkened by decades of soot from burning candles. The narrow stained glass windows filter weak, grey light, casting fractured colours over the flagstone floor.
A sparse crowd, just a handful of Lord Greer’s acquaintances, along with Portia and Prudence, sit stiffly in the pews, their murmurs barely audible.
Penelope stands at the altar, her hands trembling in the folds of her wedding dress. Her gloves feel damp against her skin, her breath shallow beneath the confines of her corset. Her hair is tightly pinned beneath a white bonnet, its stark whiteness the only brightness in a ceremony steeped in shadow.
She does not look at Lord Greer but feels his gaze pressing down on her, heavy and invasive. Her own gaze escapes briefly to the chapel doors, a tiny, foolish hope sparking deep within her. Last night, she had dreamt of Colin coming for her, saving her. She had woken almost relieved before the weight of reality crushed the illusion.
The priest’s voice drones on, his Latin incantations blending with the distant rumble of thunder outside. The air grows heavier, thick with the scent of damp stone and the approaching storm. Penelope’s legs feel weak beneath her, her heart pounding with panic as the ceremony drags on. She clings to a fading hope, the remnants of stories she used to believe in, where heroes would burst through doors to rescue damsels from villains.
But no one comes. The hero is somewhere far far away, a world apart. And not her hero at all.
The thunder outside rumbles louder as the priest continues, his voice steady and unyielding. His words are a verdict.
She is Lady Greer now.