Chapter Text
Consciousness came to her in layers.
First, the cold. Which was odd, because last she checked, dead people weren’t supposed to feel cold.
Second, the smell. Something pungent, she thought, medicinal, but... something else too ... something akin to rust, yet she could not pinpoint it.
Third, the sounds. People, a lot of them, rapidly moving, the clicking of china, sloshing of water and a man's voice, yelling.
“Another daughter,” he spat, making her flinch. “Useless. When will you give me an heir?”
Then, a woman's voice, clearly tired and pained, replied, "Forgive me my lord, I shall be ready to try again in a few months.”
A scoff, before a door slammed closed.
"Give me my daughter.” The same woman ordered, her tone different from earlier, harder, surer.
Suddenly, she felt herself being lifted and placed somewhere warm.
She could hear another heartbeat, one not her own.
Was she in someone's arms? How could she fit? Something was clearly terribly wrong.
Where am I, she thought , what is happening?
She started to whimper, even if she did not want to, almost as if it were out of her control.
"Shhh, my sweet, all is well. Do not despair." A careful kiss on her brow. "We shall show him, you and your sister are going to be the prettiest ladies the ton has ever gazed upon, this I promise you, my darling Philippa.” The woman reassured her, rocking.
"My lady,” a new voice called, "you should rest.”
“ Yes, Anne.” the woman agreed, utterly exhausted. "Here, take Philippa… would you care for her while I sleep?”
Another pair of arms carefully embraced her.
"Of course, Lady Featherington, Miss Philippa shall not need for anything.”
She supposed she should have understood what was happening but alas, she did not immediately grasp the gravity of the situation, that took time.
At first she only was aware of the fact that she was not supposed to be alive and yet she was. She was a baby named Philippa in the Featherington household. Neither her name
nor her surname was of any help in her situation, sure, they sounded almost familiar but for a non-english woman who had not watched or read anything from the Bridgerton series, those were not red flags.
She was a baby, a reincarnated baby, yes, and that was the only problem she decided to consider, for now.
Between the nursemaid who daily shoves a breast for her to nurse from, a 27 year old woman turned newborn, and her, also daily, soiling her own clothes, she had her metaphorical hands full. Her new hands, meanwhile, were clutching wooden blocks.
Some months had passed since her birth and now Philippa was finally able to sit straight. Her next step? Walking obviously, so she had a method of escape from this hell.
"Miss Philippa?” a maid called, distracting her from her musings. " It's time for your bath.”
She let go of the block, glaring slightly at Anne, her own personal maid, apparently. " No Philippa, Pip .” She corrected.
She had had months to think of a better name and Pip was the least horrible one, so she had started calling herself that from the moment she found out she could speak.
"Of course, Miss.”
When Pip was fifteen months old her mother gave birth to a third daughter. It had been a difficult pregnancy and a very risky delivery. Both Portia and the baby almost lost their life and the physician strongly advised her mother against having other children.
The Baron was furious.
Pip had not seen his reaction, but she had certainly heard it.
Her poor, poor mother…
In an unexpected turn of events, Pip discovered she quite liked this new family, well, Portia and Prudence. The Baron could go die in a ditch for all she cared.
Mama and Prue were the real deal.
Portia could be hysteric at times, furious at others but she loved her daughters. Her love could be seen in how she came at night to wish them sweet dreams or when she, always prim and proper, still sat on the ground to play with them.
Prue was two years older than Pip and she was a warhammer, sure and strong, nothing could stop her. While she could throw insults at everyone, even Pip, she was the one that, when someone needed help, was there to lend a hand. If Pip, not even two years old, could not reach a toy? Prue always got it for her. If Mama needed a cushion to sit on? Prue leaped to grab one.
Yeah, Pip loved her family. So, of course, when the baron beat her mother she was incensed.
Also, in a reminiscence of her former life, she was an angry cryer, so, when Portia eventually emerged from her rooms, she had found herself with an armful of weeping toddler who babbled revenge against 'abushiv asshols’.
Lady Featherington was crying too. She kissed her daughter's forehead and brought her to meet her new sister.
The first, true, glaring red flag she noticed was her younger sister. Specifically, her name: Penelope. It was a pretty common name, she guessed, now -god, why- in the nineteenth century. But... paired with their shared surname… Penelope Featherington.
Pip observed her six month old sister.
Flame red curls, different from her (and Portia's and Prudence's) wine colored hair, but somehow more familiar , as if she had already seen that shade somewhere .
Powder blue eyes, same as theirs.
And her face…
Mhhh… Pip’s brain Itched, as if to tell her something was wrong.
She shrugged. She had more pressing problems for now, like hiding the Baron's hat.
Pip really hated him.
Unfortunately, something had shifted in Portia after Pen’s birth. Perhaps because of the diagnosis or because she considered the baby responsible for her fate (or maybe, just maybe it was because the Baron kept going out at night, employing prostitutes, Pip’s brain scoffed). Whatever the case, Mama became distant. And unnecessarily rigid with her daughters. No more she would play with them. There were no goodnights anymore.
And at least she remained civil with Pip and Prue, but with Pen… She completely ignored her and would immediately snap if she did something she deemed wrong. No physical violence occurred but… words always hurt more, a bruise heals easier than does a crack in your soul.
Pip would not stand for it. Pen was three and a half, which meant Pip was almost five (read: thirty-two) and Prue more than six.
She went to Prue and explained her plan to the best of her ability. She would go to the cook and ask her to make something delicious but simple to eat as a snack for the four of them, when it was ready Pip would go get Mama with an excuse and bring her to the dining room table. Prue would be there with Pen and the food, and freshly picked flowers, held by Pen, of course.
Then they, Prue, Pip and Pen, would wish their mother a happy birthday.
Pip knew she was born on the 20th of february 1794. Prue's birthday was the 4th of august 1792, and Pen’s was on the 16th of may 1795.
Philippa had never seen Portia celebrate her birthday. Not a meal dedicated to her, not a cake, not even a toast, so Pip did not know when her Mama’s birthday was, she had no clue.
Alas, this would not deter her, Mama would have her not-birthday.
And so, she did.
“Mama, come, please? Prue got hurt and she’s crying Mama!” Pip ran towards her mother, eyes wide, worried.
Lady Featherington was sitting at her vanity, doing… something with her hair? “Philippa, don't run. What has happened?” she stood up, worried.
Pip grabbed the woman’s dress. “I don’t know Mama, Prue’s hurt, please!”
The Baroness took Philippa’s hand and let herself be pulled towards the dining room. “Were you two running with toys again, Philippa? I told you it’s dangerous!”
She did not reply, she had a mission to complete and nothing would stop her.
They reached the dining room door and Pip ducked behind her mother, faking to be scared. “You open Mama, please!”
Portia looked at her daughter, this was not her usual behavior… but she supposed that seeing her sister hurt had frightened her.
She opened the door.
“Happy Birthday Mama!” Three voices cheered.
Mama startled, utterly shocked. The table was full of tea, fruit and pastries and was that… a custard tart?
Pip’s head poked from behind her mother and she motioned to her sisters. “Come Prue, Pen!”
The girls approached their mother and sister, Pen’s hand clutching at Prue’s. In her other she held a wonky bouquet of fresh flowers.
“For-for you Ma-mama…” The littlest of them whispered, almost scared by her mother’s possible reaction.
Pip went to Pen’s side and put one little hand on her sister's shaking shoulder.
The girls looked at their mother, patient.
Lady Portia was nine and twenty years old.
She had been a studious child. Always curious, ready to learn. She was confident no one would ever make her stop.
Except someone did.
Her father did.
When at one and twenty she still refused to marry, he decided to take matters in his own hands. He went to the old Baron Featherington with a contract. Portia still did not know what it promised but the old man was swayed and so she and his son were married.
She became Baroness Portia Featherington.
And her life unraveled.
The Baron was not a kind husband. He took everything with force. He wanted attention, affection and an heir.
First they had a daughter, the Baron was uninterested and disappointed. Portia named her Prudence.
Then Portia bore him another child. Another daughter. The Baron was disgusted. Portia named her Philippa.
Their third and last child was difficult. The pregnancy was unbelievably hard on her body, the Baron was unbelievably hard on her mind. Portia was worried.
They nearly died, her and her babe. A daughter. The Baron was livid.
Portia named her Penelope.
Days after the birth the doctor came. He bore devastating news. The Baron took his grievances out on her body.
When Lady Featherington tried to exit her rooms she found her darling Philippa, weeping, at her door.
God, Portia loved that child .
She brought her to meet her new sister.
The day after she heard a timid knock. Prudence came to see her. Eyes on the floor, hands behind her back.
Portia would kill for her.
She brought her to meet Penelope.
Portia would gladly be flayed if it meant her children were well and safe. They would marry good men and they would live happy lives. Not one like hers.
She dressed in yellow. In bright orange. Nothing could chase the sadness away.
For years she could barely walk without crying. She hated her life. In her most wretched hours she hated little Penelope for having ravaged her body.
Portia hated herself.
Then that one day Philippa came and brought her to the dining room.
Baroness Portia Featherington made a promise: no more of this.
Crying, a mother kneeled on the floor, in front of her three beloved daughters and embraced them.
How I love you, my girls .
Mama was sobbing. She had fallen onto her knees and started weeping and whimpering, almost as a wounded creature. And maybe she was.
The girls were glomped in the tightest hug their mother had ever given them.
Pen was scared, she had never been embraced by her mother, her indifference and ice had cut deep and so she froze, eyes wide.
Pip’s eyes found hers. She smiled, encouragingly and mouthed, it’s alright, Pen, it’s good.
They had had lots of practice in speaking without making noise -Pip’s idea, she was sooo smart -, since the Baron wanted them to be seen and not heard.
So Pen understood and she trusted her sister.
She lifted her other arm, the one not linked to Prue, and, trembling, embraced her mother back.
Mama noticed and she looked at Pen.
Pen did not know what her mother was thinking but she did not see any of her usual expressions and Pip said it was alright… alas, she trembled harder during the scrutiny.
Portia let out a gut wrenching sob and started raining kisses on Pen’s brow.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, my-my child, how-how could I do all those things-”
And now Pen was crying too. Wailing, protected by her Mama’s warmth and her strong and so, so kind sisters.
Everyone was crying their eyes out but Pip was satisfied. Yes, she was bawling too but their hearts were finally, finally on the same page.
Philippa smacked a wet kiss on Mama’s cheek. Prudence did the same on her other side. Penelope hesitated but she too kissed Portia, on her brow, mimicking her mother’s action.
“We love you, Mama. We are together, you are not alone!” Pip laughed, still crying, dammit, that was not in the plan.
“Yes, Mama,” Prue remarked. “We know Father’s bad but we can help, we know how to stay hidden, we can teach you.”
Pen stayed glued to their Mama, arms hugged to her neck.
Portia looked at them and a beautiful smile graced her features. Mama was really beautiful, even while still crying.
Her mother started to say something when-
“What is the meaning of this?” The Baron thundered. “Portia, you are as always, a disgrace, stand up.”
Mama flinched. This would not do.
Pip started yelling. “Get out! We do not want you here, you do not deserve it, this is not yours to ruin, out!”
Her family was stunned, the Baron was incensed. He stomped towards Pip, a hand raised, and she braced herself, hands curving into claws. If he did hit her, she would rip his eyes out.
Prue yanked her back and covered her with her body, trying to protect her.
Pen screamed.
Portia, as if waking up from a long nightmare, lurched into action and grabbed the still full, still fuming teapot, launching it toward the monster who plagued her.
“Don’t you dare touch my children!” Her scream echoed.
The pot smashed exactly in his face and boiling water came out, drenching him. He, too, screamed, put in pain, as he deserved.
Servants came running but stopped seeing the wounded Baron and the utter rage written across his wife’s face.
Then, a little voice piped up. “Could you please bring us another pot of tea water, please, cook?” Pip grinned, wild, from under Prue’s body.
No one moved to give aid to the still screaming Baron.
Take that, bitch.
Things changed in the months after that day.
Maybe because the servants became the family’s allies against the Baron.
Since the household assisted at that scene, the help became even more protective of the girls and, also, of Portia.
They would give little reports of the Baron’s moods to them, and of course, now, the cook kept preparing two pots of tea water each time the family took their tea.
Maybe because the girls and their mother were as united as ever and would protect each other.
Prue, her warrior, started to keep guard when one of them was sick, Pip, her little imp, taught her mother how to read lips and how to hide in plain sight, Pen, her observer, looked attentively at every move the Baron made.
Portia was… happy.
The girls were safe, clever and loved each other with power akin to the sun.
He did not touch her anymore, too afraid.
The Baron hardly ever even showed himself anymore, humiliated by that day, and he knew no one was on his side.
I wonder why he did not hire new servants … Portia thought. She shook her head, trying to keep reading the missive.
“Who has written, Mama?” Pip asked.
Portia gave a smile to her daughter and said, “The Bridgertons, dear, they are our neighbours in London, it’s Lady Violet to be precise, she writes from Aubrey Hall.”
Pip's mind was screaming .
The Bridgertons, her Mama had said so. Bridgertons .
How could she have been so blind? Of course the name Penelope Featherington made her brain itch, she was the female protagonist of one of the seasons of that show!
Philippa’s hand clutched at her scalp.
How could she survive in Bridgerton? She had not even watched it, just seen random edits of the show ( cough, the carriage scene, cough )-
Wait a moment. Wait a goddamn moment.
If this was Bridgerton, and apparently it was , and if they were the Featheringtons, which they were , didn’t the motherfucking Baron drown them in debt?
“Pip, is everything alright? Are you ill, dearest?” Her Mama inquired, worried.
Prue came to her side to lay a hand on Pip’s forehead. “I don’t think so Mama.”
Philippa Featherington gave a smile to her family. But she was already plotting for their next move.
I will not let us be ruined because of that absolute piece of shit.