Out of the Pyre

by Booklover1217

Summary:

Almost burned at the stake for the dual crime of being Lady Whistledown and a witch, left irreparably scarred and crippled, having been betrayed by the family who she had once loved unconditionally, Penelope Featherington has disappeared from society, hiding in the shadows, grieving the loss of the life that had once been hers and an unexpected love that could've been hers if she had only been selfish enough to take it. Instead, she has been left with nothing and no-one.

Until two years after the pyre and one after she had truly lost everything, a familiar and unwanted figure from her past finds her, bringing news that drags her from the shadows and back into the world. And back to the love and unforgettable man she had lost. And who, just perhaps, has been waiting for her all this time.

Notes:

Hi guys!!! So I know I said I wasn't going to post this new fic until next weekend but it turns out I am way too impatient and excited to share this with you all. I know this is very different to what I usually write but I hope you will give it a chance because it is honestly, in my opinion, one of the best things I have ever written. I have already written up and outlined quite a bit of this fic so updates should be pretty consistent every week. I am both so nervous and excited to share this with you so without further Ado...

Chapter 1

Anthony Bridgerton, the ninth Viscount Bridgerton, had been chasing his quarry for almost six weeks. Autumn had no long ago faded away, the lands going bare and barren as he had travelled onwards on the back of his rented horse, swapping it out when the creature grew too exhausted to carry on, an option he did not have, his own fatigue and debility weighing him down like chains that he had no choice but to drag behind him through the bitter cold that seeped through his now worn coat, that turned the tips of his fingers permanently red even through his thick riding gloves, through the sleet and snow that had hit early for the season and which seemed to follow him down every road and into every village and town he searched. 

 

He had been chasing rumours and whispers for weeks, asking after his quarry in every town and village he came across only to have doors slammed shut in his face and barred to him, as he watched faces morph into ones full of fear or wariness or distrust, unwilling to speak with a stranger, not wanting to bring trouble to their doors. Not that he condemned them for it. Though the witch-hunts and persecution of those with magic had ended over two years before with the death of Queen Charlotte and the formation of the treaty between the witches and the new King George, the memories, unease and fear still lingered, the people of England still all too aware of what had happened to those who it was even rumoured to have any association with witches, or who tried to protect or harbour them during her reign. The screams of those who had been arrested and were being tortured for information and for the enjoyment of the Queen had been a cacophony of pain and despair, echoing all over the city, and soon every corner had been lined with the strung-up bodies of those the Queen called traitors and witches, examples of what would happen to those who dared to defy their Queen. The smell of their decaying and rotting flesh, thick and cloying, dragged into every home in the city by the wind had been sickening, horrifying and unavoidable and it didn't take long for half of the Ton to quit London, his own Mother included, taking her two youngest children to their country estate, unable to bear what her society had become. 

 

But what had been done to the traitors and witches had only paled in comparison to what the witches had done to those who had betrayed their kind once the treaty had been signed. When they were finally freed. Anthony shuddered at the thought of it, his hands clenching on the reins of the brown stallion beneath him as he rode down another country lane on his journey, remembering what he had read in the papers, the stories and reports that had been whispered across tables at White's, from pale faces with hushed voices, afraid of being overheard. Of men being found in alleyways, the very life sucked out of them until they were nothing but empty, dried out husks, their bodies sunken in, mere skeletons in their clothes, their skin nothing but a dry shroud covering them, their faces twisted up, frozen into the terror that had been their final moments. It had made what Queen Charlotte had done seem infantile, like a small child ripping the wings off a butterfly. It could have quite easily been his own fate. 

 

And he would have deserved it. 

 

He had known he was going to his death when he had been summoned to the witches's council six weeks after the treaty had been signed, almost to ignore the demand in the letter he had received, spelled to ensure his obedience, the witches screaming for his blood and retribution as he stood before them, his heart pounding and cold sweat running down his spine betraying the fear he would have sworn they could smell. Retribution for the witches that had been captured and handed to the crown…. that he bad handed to the crown.  And that would have been his end, if Lady Danbury hadn't stood and spoke on his behalf and had revealed a lie that he had long believed, that had changed the course of his entire life. The lie that the Queen had orchestrated to bend him to her will, to use him as her own personal witch-hunter, a puppet on a string for her to move and command on her whim. That his Father had never been killed by witches as the Queen had whispered in his ear- 'How could a bee ever take down a man like Edmind Bridgerton?' Her lie that his Father had been murdered, poisoned by the witches. And like the naive fool he'd been, grief-stricken and broken and desperate for any answers that made more sense that a insignificant bee taking down the man who meant everything to him and his family, for anything to explain the loss that had a tore a hole inside of him that he was still trying to find a way to a heal, to fill, he'd believed her. 

 

But it had been the bee all along. Just a horrible twist of fate that the Queen had used to her advantage, to mould and cut away the parts of him that had been his Father, the kindness and compassion and gentleness, using his grief to fuel the rage inside him and his need for vengeance. This need for vengeance that had fuelled his every waking and sleeping moment and led to him becoming the most prolific witch-hunter of his age. It was only Lady Danbury's revelation of this manipulation that had spared his life. And, now he knew the truth, the truth of what he had become, what he had done, he sometimes wished she hadn't said a word. 

 

He woke every night now, if he managed to sleep at all, choked by the guilt that strangled him daily, from nightmares of their screams, the roar and snap of fire crackling in his ears, the feeling of his own sweat feeling like their blood soaking him. He didn't even know how many innocent witches, how many innocent women, he had condemned to death. Whose blood was now on his hands. And he knew that guilt would plague him until the day he left this earth. He found himself regretting, resenting, that the witches hadn't taken his life so he might be free of it, but he knew that was the coward's way out, the choice many of his brethren had taken since. And he refused to be a coward on top of it all. He deserved to live with his guilt. And, though he knew nothing he could ever do would ever cleanse him of his sins, he hoped to try, to work everyday of his life to try and atone for it. And he would start with finding the witch he was currently seeking. The witch he had perhaps betrayed the worst of all. 

 

That is, if it was at all possible. He had been searching for her for over a month now, riding down endless roads, the frigid wind cutting through his clothes, his face wind-burned, with not a word or sighting of her. It was as if she had disappeared entirely, had erased herself from the world, not wishing to be found. But he had to find her. He had no choice. He had made a promise, and he would die before he broke it. 

 

Because he was the very reason she was gone, that she has disappeared from the world. If it hadn't been for him, she would never have left Mayfair, would be in her home across from their own in Grosvenor Square, with her Mama and sisters. She would be safe. She had been like a sister to him. He had watched her grow up from a tiny redheaded girl dressed in bright yellow, so shy she barely spoke a word, more often at their home than within her own, playing with Eloise. He had bandaged her cuts and bruises, had wiped at tears that she had bravely tried to hold back. And he had betrayed her, had turned her over to the Queen without hesitation. Because she had also been Lady Whistledown, the witch who had been thwarting him and the Queen at every turn, who had been using her column to help witches escape England, to warn them of traps and counsel them on which ships were safe were a safe harbour out of the city. 

 

He could still hear her voice, full of tears and shaking and thick with terror, ringing in his ears to this day. For him to let her go, begging for her very life. But he had ignored her pleas, too lost in his own fury and grief and need for revenge, and had thrown  into the specially built cells beneath Bridgerton House before handing her to the Queen's guard the next day, walking away as she had begged him to help her, crying and pleading, her blue eyes ringed with red and full of fear, in nothing but her chemise, her arms bruised and goosebumped in the cold winter air, bare and exposed. But Anthony had just turned his back on her, and had done nothing to help her. Not when they dragged her into the prison wagon, not when, as he watched, they tied her to the pyre in the middle of Kensington Square. Not even when they set the pyre alight. It was only, as he had watched as she screamed on that very pyre, as the flames had reached for her, as the skirt of her chemise had caught alight, horror filling him as he watched the girl that he had known since she was nine years old burn, his entire body frozen with it, bile coating his tongue….that he knew what he had done. And it had been too late. 

 

Or so he had thought. An explosion had sent the crowd that had come to watch the witch burn scattering, the screams of the common folk and nobility alike drowning out her own as they had run from the cart that had burst into flames, terror and chaos thick in the air, the guards scrambling to get the furious Queen away, shrieking about her moment being ruined, her madness, so different to the one that afflicted her husband, never clearer than in that moment. Whistledown…Penelope had been forgotten in that moment,in the chaos, by everyone but Anthony. And it was only he who had seen the cloaked figure who had run, not from the danger, but towards the pyre where she still screamed, her voice hoarse and nothing but agonising sound, lost to everything but pain before she slumped forward, resigned to her death.

 

The man, his identity hidden by a mask, had screamed her name as he had climbed the pyre, uncaring of the risk of joining her fate, of burning as well, and her head had snapped upwards, as if recognising the voice, and Anthony could almost see the hope in her eyes from where he still stood frozen and paralysed with the horror of what he had caused, watching as the man had cut her free, sweeping her up into his arms and jumping off the scaffold, running towards a hired hack that was seemingly waiting for the and the second the door was closed, the driver flicked the reigns and they disappeared into the night, indistinguishable from the other carriages fleeing the square. 

 

It was the last time he'd ever seen her. It had only been six weeks before that he had learned who the masked and cloaked figure had been who had saved her. And it had explained so much that had gone unspoken, that had gone unanswered, for the last two years. Resentments and silences. Loss and estrangement. All of which haunted Bridgerton house like a ghost they did not speak of. That they pretended didn't exist, like it didn't haunt them, and tried to ignore, buried under the many recriminations that no-one dared speak aloud but screamed at him every day, with every teary look his Mother sent to the empty chair at the table, in one sister's bitterness and rage that she couldn't quite mask and the others despondency, in a younger brother's fleeing and guilt disguised as another tour, and in his youngest siblings confusion and questions that none of them had an answer to. 

 

He was dragged from his heavy thoughts by the rumble of carriage wheels on dry, cold ground and his head snapped up, his eyes tearing up in relief as he caught sight of an inn in the distance, windows glowing in the waning winter light, the sun beginning to set in the east without him even noticing that the day was drawing to an end. The sight was more than welcome after a full day of riding, his thighs and hips crying for something other than the hard seat of the saddle. Even the lumpy straw mattress he was sure would be the only thing on offer sounded like heaven at that moment. 

 

Luck was on his side as the inn had one room left for the night and he quickly secured it and made his way up to the room on the second floor, passing other weary travellers in the halls and hearing the distant cry of a child and the shushing of its Mother, as well as the loud moans and shrieks of pleasure that was the cornerstone of such establishments and he had come to learn was unavoidable on the road, couples sneaking off for rendezvous or safe place to conduct their affairs, or newlyweds stopping on their honeymoons. He could only hope his room wasn't beside one of them like the night before. He had barely slept a wink, and the amorous sounds had only reminded him how long it had been since he had allowed himself to seek out such pleasures, too full of self-condemnation and disgust that he didn't feel he deserved the comfort, the pleasure, the release he knew doing so would bring. 

 

He found and stepped into his room, finding it small and cramped as was usual but surprisingly clean and dry unlike so many of the rooms he had stayed in over the last six weeks, consisting of a single bed against the wall- a press on the mattress confirmed his suspicions of a straw mattress that was blessedly free of bed bugs- an already lit fireplace that poured much needed warmth into the small space and a small table and chair that sat in front of it for meals. He sat his bag on the bed, avoiding the single mirror on the wall, knowing what he would see. Dark circles under eyes gone dull and blank with tiredness and guilt, pale and haggard, a patchy beard that was four days overdue for a shave. He had been avoiding mirrors for almost two years, unable to bear the sight of himself, to face the guilt and accusation in his own gaze that ate away at him everyday. The guilt for what he had done. The accusation for wallowing and pitying himself. For still breathing and living when he had taken that chance from so many. But at the very core of him, he knew he was a coward. So why start looking now?

 

He considered just crawling beneath the bedcovers and giving into the need for sleep that thumped through his skull like an old bruise, but his stomach grumbled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since he had broken his fast that morning on some lukewarm tea and dry toast, and he knew the hunger would become unignorable, making sleep impossible, and with an annoyed sigh, he decided to wander down to the dining hall he had passed when he had entered the inn. 

 

It was surprisingly crowded when he entered, but he managed to find a single seat to the side, ordering the stew that he could smell on the air drifting up from the kitchens and which made his mouth water. 

 

Any other time, the simple bowl of stew would have been bland and tasteless on his tongue, having grown up eating the very best cuts of meat and meals that came with the status of being a Viscount, born into wealth most of the people in the room  would never even know to dream of, but it was hot and thick with big chunks of meat and root vegetables with a side of buttered bread, and it was probably the cold and exhaustion speaking, but it was simply the best meal he had eaten since he left London months ago. He scoffed it down, the warm bowl defrosting his hands and the food warming his insides, chasing away the cold that seemed to have made a permanent home inside him. He considers going back to try and charm another bowl out of the maid serving them when the words of one of two men he'd barely noticed before sitting behind him registers and he froze, his fingers clenching on the bowl in his hands so hard he distantly thought he might have heard it crack. 

 

'I can't believe you went out to the witches' cottage. You couldn't catch me going into those woods…' Anthony heard the second man shudder, gulping at his ale. 

 

'I had to! Little Will was so sick and nothing Mama did would bring down his fever. And I'm glad I did. Whatever tea she gave me worked. He drank it this morning and by teatime he was up and laughing and eating again…..we thought he was going to die…' 

 

The man paused, sounding choked up, and Anthony felt a brief pang of empathy, knowing exactly how it felt to have that sort of love and fear for one's siblings, the youngest of his own more like his children than his brother and sister, but he also couldn't hold back the impatience that had him shifting in his chair, for the man to continue his tale, to share more, his ears straining even as he tried not to appear as if he were eavesdropping. It was the first hint he'd heard in weeks of any witch. It couldn't possibly be her. It would be too much of a coincidence. Fate had not been so kind to him in a very long time. 

 

'You know….' the man continued, lowering his voice and Anthony had to lean back to continue listening in, 'they say she might be Lady Whistledown….you know, the witch that wouldn't burn….the one that took down the Queen…'

 

The other interrupted with a sceptical scoff, unaware of how his friend's words had just caused Anthony's breath to stop in his chest, his heart beginning to pound wildly, 'Lady Whistledown? Puh. You believe that nonsense? A pretty, young curvy thing like her? With that bright red hair. As if she would ever go unnoticed long enough to get away with all that….and she could clearly burn, Jem. All you have to do is look at her leg to know that! Not that that would put me off. She might scare the wits out of me enough to keep me out of Broxbourne Wood, but it doesn't mean I don't mind looking at her when she comes to town. All those curves and curls….I wouldn't mind showing her a good….ngh…' 

 

Anthony glanced over his shoulder as the man grunted and saw the man's friend had punched him, sending him flying to the sticky floor, his face red with fury. 

 

'Oi! That witch just saved my little brother's life. I won't let you speak of her like that.' 

 

Sensing the danger, having been a part of many fights in bar-rooms in his youth, Anthony quickly vacated his seat, stepping clear just as the man on the floor rose up with a roar and launched himself at the other. He walked quickly out of the dining hall to avoid the inevitable brawl, his ears buzzing and head spinning, barely seeing anything as he practically sprinted up the stairs to his room, slamming the door behind him and leaning against it, his chest heaving for breath. 

 

Red hair. Small and curvy. Burned leg. Rumoured to be Whistledown. It couldn't be…it couldn't be this easy after searching for her for so long, a chance overhearing of a conversation in an inn's dining hall. But there were too many details, too many similarities, for him to deny it. 

 

This could be it. This could be her. Finally, after all this time. 

 

He couldn't sleep at all that night, tossing and turning, his mind racing and his body stiff and restless, twitching with the need to get moving, to head to this Broxbourne Wood and to see for himself whether the two men were speaking true. 

 

The lightening of the sky with dawn coming through the shuttered windows came with no small amount of heady relief and he quickly dressed for the day and shoved everything back into his travel bag, scarfing down a breakfast consisting of weak tea, toast and a couple of sausages that burnt the tip of his fingers before retrieving his horse, that had been watered and fed and well-rested overnight, and asked for directions to the woods. 

 

The stable boy gave him a wide-eyed, distrusting look but was quick to provide directions, his eyes widening even further but this time with delight when Anthony handed him a handful of coins, not even bothering counting them, anxious to get onto the road, sure if he didn't get there as soon as possible, she would disappear and slip through his fingers once more. 

 

The sun was just beginning to fully rise as he found and entered into the Broxbourne Wood, cold sweat running down his back under his shirt and coat as even the horse hesitated to step inside, hovering at the edge of it before it reluctantly stepped through and into the line of trees that bordered it's entrance, all stripped bare by the fierce winter winds and their limbs heavy with the snow that had fallen the night before. 

 

He had no idea how long they had been travelling through the endless trees, everything looking the same no matter which direction he looked, and he had begun to suspect that they were lost and walking in circles, when the horse beneath him began to step through a thin gap of trees that felt eerily familiar when it came to a sudden halt, it's legs locking into place beneath it. It let out a whine that sounded horribly human and panicked, jerking and bucking beneath him, trying to escape whatever had it's trapped in its hold. 

 

'Whoa!' Anthony cried, his fingers clutching at the pummel of the saddle, holding on for dear life until settled before he swung down, shushing it gently as he ran his fingers soothingly along its tense neck. 

 

'What's wrong with you, huh? What has you so spooked?' he muttered under his breath, stepping towards the horse's head to try and calm it but….his foot wouldn't lift. He frowned, jerking at his leg but it stayed stuck still, and with no amount of rising panic of his own, he realised he was frozen in place, unable to move or budge a single muscle beneath his waist. A shiver ran down his spine, raising gooseflesh along his arms and legs, and his insides turned to ice as he realized what this was. The trap he had just walked straight into. 

 

Magic. 

 

He had stumbled straight into a barrier trigger. It was a type of magic he had only seen once before when one of the Queen's guards had been caught while they were chasing a witch through the backstreets of London. It was not unlike a hunting snare….but instead of being made of wire and bait, it was magic. Unseeable, unavoidable and unbreakable unless released by the witch who had cast it. They had had to kill the witch who had cast it before the guard was freed from its hold, the predator having become the prey. And Anthony suddenly knew exactly what it felt like to be prey. 

 

The air arrested in his lungs, the hair on the back of his neck raising, some instinct long ago forgotten and buried warning him of danger, and he slowly turned his head to find a cloaked figure standing where only moments before had been empty woods before them, not a single rustle of dried leaves underfoot or crunch of snow to announce their arrival. As if she had simply….appeared out of thin air.

 

He stared at the figure, his heart pounding in his chest as he took in the familiar mouth and chin beneath the cloak, an age-old fear taking hold of him as he looked at….her. The witch he had been looking for. 

 

He had never imagined a time he would be afraid of the little witch in front of him. He had known her since she was a girl and she had always seemed so innocent and harmless, dressed in citrus yellows and oranges that clashed horribly with her hair and complexion, all tights curls and bows, always giggling with his sister Eloise over books and tea and gossip. Even when he had learned that she was Lady Whistledown, the witch he had been hunting who had magic rarer and more powerful that any witch that had been born in centuries, who used that magic and the slash of her quill and her words to defeat and thwart and taunt him at every turn, he hadn't been afraid, too consumed by his fury to even consider that perhaps he should be. But now… standing before him, barefoot on the winter-hardened ground, her red curls, longer than he had ever seen them, falling wild and tangled to her hips, her eyes dark in the early morning light beneath her dark green cloak, pinning him in place, her breath coming out in pale mists beneath it, head cocked to the side like a predator eyeing up it's next meal, he felt his mouth go dry, his heart racing, fear tightening his ribs… he knew it instinctively. 

 

She looked like an eldritch creature, stepped out of some ancient folk tale, a cautionary tale told to children to warn them of what awaited them if they dared enter the woods. That waited to drag them away. And from the way she was looking at him, gaze fierce and full of cold fury that burned….he wouldn't be surprised if that was the fate that awaited him also. 

 

He swallowed hard, his voice coming out raspy and hoarse with fear, as he spoke the name of the witch he had been searching for for weeks. The witch he had betrayed and who might just yet bring his end. 

 

'Hello, Penelope.' 

 

Chapter 2

Notes:

Hi lovelies! First of all, I have to say thank you so much! I am awed by the response I've already received for this fic. I was really nervous about sharing this fic with it being a new pairing for me, but I am so grateful for you all for giving it a chance and for those who followed me from my previous fics. You are all the best xx

This chapter is a little shorter than the first, but it is the shortest chapter of the whole fic and I promise the next one will be much longer and have our very first flashback.

I hope you enjoy. xx

Penelope Featherington, outcast witch, the former formidable Lady Whistledown who had held the Ton, the crown and the whole of London in thrall, had only one thought as she stood in front of the man who had destroyed her entire life and had almost ended it too, her heart thumping in her chest and fear gripping her throat with bruising fingers. 

 

She hoped he couldn't see how badly she was trembling. 

 

The last time she had seen Anthony Bridgerton was the day he had handed her to the Queen to be burned alive at the stake, and she hated that the very sight of him filled her with terror, hated that she was still afraid of him after all this time. She could still feel his hands digging into the skin of her arms, so deeply she had been left with bruises that hadn't faded for weeks, marking and littering her pale skin in shades of purple and green, as he had dragged her to the prison carriage that had awaited her on the street that had been her home and threw her inside like trash. He hadn't even looked at her, his ears deaf and hardened, uncaring of her pleas as she begged for her life. Had walked away as if she was nothing. 

 

She lifted her chin, her fingers that had curled into fists hidden in the folds of her nightgown, as she faced him, taking in his wide brown eyes as he gaped at her, his chest rising unsteadily as he stood caught in her snare. He didn't look like the rigid, outwardly arrogant and uncompromising man she had once known, weighed down by his responsibilities and societal duties and the loss of his Father, the Queen's witch-hunter on a leash, so far from the laughing and gentle older brother she had once known him to be when she was a girl. He looked like a broken man, gone thin and gaunt, dark circles beneath his eyes, his shoulders slumped, looking as if the entire weight of the world was on his shoulders. 

 

When she had felt her barrier spell trigger, the cold prickle of it that had run down her spine startling her from her slumber, she had been sure that this early, only an hour after dawn, that it must have been animal, a deer, that had wandered onto her land, the one she had been renting since after…. She flinched inwardly at the memory of after, of what her life had become now, the ragged edges that was all that was left of her heart throbbing and bleeding anew, the sharp stab of it an ache she could never escape. She couldn't think of it now, not when she was standing in front of this man, a man that only two years ago had wanted her dead. Possibly still did. She wouldn't….she refused…to let him see her so undone. So vulnerable. He would not see her cry. Never again. She wasn't the naive, trusting girl she had once been anymore. The one who had been afraid of her powers, who had been belittled and beaten down by her own Mother, who had been told she was nothing, that she was powerless over and over until she had begun to believe it. No, she was a witch, a Spellbringer, the rarest and most boundless witches of her kind. She was the Lady Whistledown, the witch who had taken down the Queen and freed her sister-witches. She refused to be afraid of anyone. Let alone Anthony Bridgerton, who watched her with wide, cautious eyes, as on edge as she was.

 

Good, she thought, a petty satisfaction rolling through her. He should be afraid.

 

'Anthony Bridgerton', she began, cocking her head slowly to the side, eyebrows raised, inwardly cheering herself when her voice came out steady and cold, instead of shaky like her insides currently were. He cannot hurt you anymore, she told herself, and repeated it over and over again in her head until she felt the truth of the words settle inside her stomach, loosening the nerves that had tangled it into knots. 'When my barrier alerted me, I never expected it to be you who had triggered it. In truth, I had hoped to never see you again. Come to arrest me again?' 

 

Penelope wasn't ashamed that she enjoyed the way he flinched at her words. He should feel guilty for all that he had done to her, for the scars he had willingly, enthusiastically even, played a part in inflicting on her, both inside and out. He had destroyed her entire life. 

 

She shifted her feet that were beginning to grow alarmingly numb from the cold, hard ground beneath her, her left leg, the one she had almost lost the night that almost took her life, the night the Queen had tried to burn her for the dual crime of being a born a witch and for rebelling against her with her words and the flick of her quill. She knew she would never forget the agony of the flames as they had reached her, that had made her wish for death, the way her skin had bubbled and blistered before her eyes, her skin melting, the smell of it still in her nose two years later. The skin of it was still red and raised and would be forevermore, no spell or magic or poultice able to heal what had been done to her. She couldn't escape that night, not with the reminder of it a part of her,  a living reminder every time she took a limping step so unlike her once graceful gait. She couldn't forget. Why should he get to? 

 

Anthony felt her words like a blow to the stomach and could see the disdain in her eyes, the hatred she didn't even try to hide, and he knew he deserved every word she threw his way. If she wanted him dead, if she killed him on the spot as he was stuck in her trap, he knew he wouldn't try to fight it. Because she deserved her revenge. 

 

Penelope's eyes moved to the horse behind him, its chest heaving in panic, not understanding why it was trapped, why it couldn't move, and felt a flicker of guilt, knowing all too well how it felt to be trapped and unable to escape, how helpless and terrified it must be, and waved her hand, releasing the hold of her spell, and the horse immediately skittered back, Anthony's hold the only thing keeping it from racing away into the woods and leaving him stranded. 

 

Anthony took a bracing breath as he felt the spell that had held him release, his legs feeling strangely shaky, wobbling beneath him, and he stepped forward, only to go still when he saw her flinch, hastiling stepping back from him. His eyes dipped down to where her leg dragged away a second later than the rest of her, that night flashing through his mind, the white of her stained chemise catching alight around her ankles, her screams as she had burned, and blanched, his stomach dropping sickeningly with dread as he couldn't help imagining what might be left of it. 

 

He swallowed hard, his eyes meeting hers. 

 

'I…I need your help.' 

 

Penelope's eyes went wide with disbelief, before she let out a laugh, one filled with bitterness and stunned incredulity. He had come to her for help? After everything he and his family had done to her…. The gall of it made her magic stir to life inside her, tingling at her fingertips threateningly, teasingly, hoping she would let it out. 

 

Who the hell did he think he was?! 

 

She shook her head as her laugh faded away, stolen by the wind, a wave of exhaustion and unbearable emptiness filling her as she turned away from him, beginning the limping journey back to her little cottage tucked away in the woods. All she wanted that very  moment was a hot bath, one of the leftover muffins from one of the villagers she had helped to heal, and to climb back into her bed and pretend this morning had never happened. 

 

'The audacity of you Bridgertons', she said with as much scorn and venom as she could manage when she felt like her insides had been scooped out. 'Go home, Lord Bridgerton. I have nothing left to give you. You've taken it all from me.'

 

Even, though he probably didn't know and would never know it, her very future. The future she could have had if she had just been more selfish, if she had just taken what was so freely offered, damning the consequences and who it hurt. The life she could've had haunted her dreams every night, as well as every waking minute. But she hadn't. She had let it….had let him ….go, had set him free, though it had broken her to walk away that night. To leave him. She had to live with her regrets. Anthony Bridgerton could too. 

 

Anthony stepped forward desperately after her, words tearing from his throat before he even knew they were coming, wrenched from him, leaving it burning. 

 

'Penelope, it's Benedict!' 

 

Penelope froze, her muscles locking into place as the sound of his name echoed in the empty, desolate clearing, echoing again and again in the bitter, frigid air between them, and the sound of it sent a ripple of pain down the faultline where her heart used to be, stealing her breath and making her want to curl up and cry, hot tears immediately filling her eyes, stinging and urgent. 

 

Benedict. 

 

She hadn't let herself speak his name aloud, had barely allowed herself to think it for over a year, though she dreamed of him every night. Unable to escape the memories no matter how hard she wished to, even as she clung to them like a lifeboat in the storm that had become her life, the only thing keeping her afloat. The only thing keeping her alive, from giving it to the despair that covered her like a cold cloak, offering no warmth and no comfort,  every waking hour. 

 

Grief hit her like a physical blow and she heaved, dry sobs escaping her, pressing a hand to her chest as if to try and ward off the sharp ache that stabbed deep but she couldn't, her heart an open gaping wound that she knew wouldn't ever heal. Not when she had broken it by giving up the one thing, the one person, who had been hers, who she had wanted more life itself. More than her own, more than the magic she loved with every part of her. Not when it belonged to him. And always would. 

 

It was then that the fear and begging in Anthony's voice registered and she turned to face him, her eyes wide and panicked, her face gone white as the snow that clung to the trees and refused to melt at their feet. 

 

'What about Benedict? What has happened? Tell me!' 

 

Anthony's eyes wide at the open panic and grief shattering her face and shaking her voice, as well as the way the trees trembled and shook around them under the force of her magic that had burst from her, golden and deadly. He swallowed hard, grief of his own that he had been burying, that he had been trying not to think of as he had spent weeks on the roading searching for her, unable to know if his mission would be successful or if it would all be for nothing in the end. Scared that he would find her, only to return and find…. 

 

Anthony closed his eyes for a second, unable to even think the unspeakable and opened them to meet Penelope's petrified face. 

 

'Penelope….he's dying.' 

 

Notes:

As always, please let me know what you think. I can't wait to hear your thoughts and receive your comments and kudos xx They mean the world.

Chapter 3

Notes:

Hi lovelies!! Thank you again for your amazing response to this story. You have no idea how much it means to me. Many of the questions you asked will be answered in this new chapter. I hope you like it. It's one of my absolute favourites of this fic.

No, no, no. It was all Penelope thought as she sat astride her mare on the cold, barren road before them, twisting her fingers in front of her until they throbbed and ached, panic tightening her chest to the point of pain, her pulse rabbiting within her throat. Hot tears hovered at the edge of her vision, blurring it until the scenery in front of became nothing more than a white blur, her stubborn pride the only thing keeping them from falling. 

 

How could this have happened? He was supposed to be safe. She had left him so he would be safe. 

 

It was the thought, the self-recrimination that had beat at her mind incessantly, over and over, as she had run as quickly as she could with one leg numb and useless beneath her, using her magic to cloak herself so the Lord Bridgerton could not follow her and find the cottage that had become both her solace and her prison, as she had packed a bag and saddled her own horse, until she wanted to clap her hands over her ears and scream to try and drown it out. To stop that insidious voice that whispered that this was her fault. It's all her fault. And the worst part was….it was right. 

 

It had slithered through her mind even as she had mounted her horse to get onto the road. Anthony had watched her and she could see him wanting to offer his assistance as she struggled, opening his mouth to do just that, but before he could speak she had given him a look that clearly told him that if he tried to he would lose the hand he offered. Knowing her power, he had very smartly pressed his lips together and watched her climb awkwardly onto the horse she had named Buttercup for its buttery coat, unable to hide the tightness of her mouth and the tremble in her legs as pain lanced up her wrecked one as she swung it over the saddle, settling into a throbbing ache that she knew from experience wouldn't ease anytime soon. 

 

Anthony had wanted to go to the village and hire a hack but Penelope knew, with the thick snow covering the roads, that horseback would be faster and she refused to delay them any longer than it took for her to saddle her own horse and pack a bag to leave, especially if it was just to save her a little bit of pain. She was in pain everyday of her life. And she would endure it, would gladly suffer it, if it meant reaching Benedict by nightfall. 

 

She never should have left. The voice was right. This was all her fault. She knew it. Anthony had told her that Benedict had caught a chill wandering the land that bordered his home, My Cottage, all hours of the night, a chill that quickly turned to pneumonia, his fevers so bad that he was barely conscious, sweating and delirious. And she knew, deep inside, that he had been out there because he had been searching for her. 

 

Tears stung her eyes once more, threatening to spill over, and she hoped Anthony, who she could feel watching her as they rode down the snow trodden road, believed it was caused by the icy wind that was lashing at their faces. 

 

She never should have left him. Oh, why did she leave him? All her reasons suddenly made no sense at all. Were meaningless. She had spent a year parted from him, a year where they could have been together and now…and now she might lose him forever. 

 

He might already be lost to her. Stolen away by fever in the night….

 

No! Penelope swallowed hard, feeling sick at the very thought, her stomach jerking and she had to take a deep breath, dragging in the icy air, fighting hard to stop herself from casting up her accounts over the side of her horse, the thought settling like ice in her chest. 

 

No, she would know it in her heart if he was gone. He couldn't die. She wouldn't allow it. She would not lose him. Death itself could try to take him, to steal him away, and he would lose. 

 

She urged her horse on faster with her trembling thighs, determination filling her. She had settled only thirty miles from My Cottage, unable to tolerate being further away but she had never allowed herself to be weak, had never given in to the urge to go back, to stand before My Cottage in the night, to watch and imagine him inside. She had hoped he was happy, with the family he would have given up just for her, something she knew he would have regretted and resented her for eventually. 

 

She had clearly been wrong. 

 

The skirt of her simple, serviceable grey dress flapped in the wind and pushed up her calf and Penelope saw the moment Anthony's eyes snapped to it, his face losing all colour as he took in the furled and twisted red skin of her leg, the thickness of her white stocking doing nothing to hide the damage to it. 

 

Penelope flushed and flicked her skirt down pointedly, her throat tight, even as she raised an eyebrow at him. 

 

'Admiring your handiwork? 

 

Anthony inhaled sharply and he was quick to shake his head, his tongue feeling too big and clumsy in his mouth as he hurried to speak, stumbling over his words. 

 

'No….I just…I thought….with your magic…you'd be able to….' 

 

Penelope glanced down at her twisted leg, sighing as she shook her head. 

 

'Magic can't fix everything. Did you know good old Queen Charlotte liked to use witch-fire in her executions? For someone who hated witches as much as she claimed to, she wasn't above using their magic for her own gain. The damage from witch-fire…. it cannot be undone by any magic we know of.' 

 

And they had tried. Genevieve, the Ton's most acclaimed modiste and a witch hiding in plain sight, as well as the most skilled and talented healer Penelope knew, had tried everything she could, but every poultice and potion, every charm and incantation, had failed one after another. She had managed to heal her enough that her skin had regrown, as scarred as it now was, and she could walk again, though it had taken her weeks before she could even bear her own weight on it. She had to be carried around by Benedict, even to the privy, which had been a mortifying experience, but he had been so kind about it, joking with her and making her laugh when she had thought she never would again. And she had known, when his grin had grown soft around the edges at the sound of it, the crinkles beside his eyes that she would come to adore appearing, surprise and an undeniable relief clear in his eyes, that he had feared the same thing. 

 

Anthony watched her, taking in the way her face had gone soft and pained with longing, lost in thought, in some memory that brought both comfort and agony, and hesitated for a few seconds before he dared to ask, 'What is it between you and Benedict?' 

 

Penelope's head snapped towards him, fury blazing in her light blue eyes, her fingers clenching on the reins of her horse so hard she tugged at her grip with an irritable whiny, and Penelope immediately loosened it, patting her neck in apology even as she glared at him. 

 

'That is none of your business!' 

 

Anthony narrowed his eyes at her, his face going hard as stone.

 

'It bloody well is. Benedict refuses to speak to us. He refuses to even let Mother into his sick room, but that doesn't stop us from hearing him cry out for you over and over in his fever.' 

 

Penelope flinched, feeling his words as if he had struck her with them, hot tears filling her eyes that she couldn't hold back any longer, and they spilled down her frozen cheeks. She turned her face away into her shoulder, hugging herself as she sobbed, her guilt almost ripping her apart. She bit down on her lip until she tasted blood to keep from wailing from it, from the unfairness of it all, from the unbearable pain. 

 

What had she done to the two of them? She had thought….she had hoped… that she was the only one suffering. That he had returned to London like he was supposed to when he had found her gone, to his friends and his life, to his family. That he might have even found a lovely debutante to fall in love with, that he had forgotten her, even though the very thought of it, of him giving that smile that had once belonged solely to her…of him kissing some faceless girls lips or giving his body to her….made her want to die. She should have known better. For once Benedict Bridgerton chose someone, once he gave his heart to them, it would always be irrevocable. There would be no going back, as there hadn't been for her. As there never would be. And he had given his heart to her long ago. It was hers, as hers would always belong to him. 

 

He was suffering. And it was all her fault. 

 

Anthony's stormy expression gentled as he heard her sob, his heart aching at the sound, and his voice was painfully kind when he spoke again. 

 

'Penelope….what happened?' 

 

He had suspected that there was more to the story that he had been told by Mrs. Crabtree when she begged him to try and find Penelope and had told him that Benedict had been the masked man who had saved Penelope from the pyre and that she had resided there for a year while she had been healing under his protection. For it was not only mere companionship or friendship that made a man cry out for a woman as Benedict did at all hours of the day and night, pleading for her to return to him. That made him weep with a grief that sounded as if it was tearing him apart, and which made him scream at them through the door as they tried to comfort him, telling them it was their fault, that he had lost her because of them. 

 

'Get out! Stay away from me. I don't want you here….she's gone because of you! Because of all of you. It's all your fault!'' 

 

No, only love wounded in such a way. And he was certain that his brother was in love with Penelope Featherington. And it was clear as anything….as clear as the sky was blue, and as certain as the spring that would eventually return, that Penelope loved him too. Deeply. Truly. Unconditionally. Enduringly. 

 

So what could have happened to tear them apart? 

 

Anthony had thought they had lost Benedict because of his own heinous actions, because his brother could no longer stand to look at him, or Eloise or Colin, for the part they had played in Peneleop's near death and disappearance. And he had, but it was so much more than that. Something had happened and it was clear that Benedict had lost more than they ever knew. He had lost everything. And it was because of them. It was clear from the way Penelope refused to look at him, from the way she had looked when she saw him. No wonder Benedict despised them, that he refused to see them, to even answer their letters. No wonder he had shut himself within My Cottage for the last year. He had been waiting for her. For her to return to him. 

 

Penelope somehow felt her heart shattering even further at his question as she closed her eyes, before speaking the words aloud, the words that her mind had cruelly reminded her of in her weakest moments. The truth. 

 

'I broke us.' 

 

She had broken them and she was left with nothing. The life she lived was a shell of what could have been. Everyday she just went through the motions, trying to survive the dull ache that had taken place in her chest, all too aware of the empty space beside where he should be. She still found herself looking for him, going to share something with him, only to find her cottage as empty as when she woke. Expecting to find him standing painting in the corner, his fingers stained with charcoal and bright paint, looking up and giving her that secret smile. She still reached for him in the coldness of her bed where his warmth should be beside her, could still feel the ghostly weight of his arms around her, holding her tight, his breath on her neck as she woke, only for her mind to clear and for her to remember she hadn't been held in his arms in months. He haunted her. All her dreams, her waking days, all her what ifs, the aching endless loneliness of her existence stretching out into eternity, a life without him nothing but emptiness. 

 

Penelope whispered the words so quietly that they were almost stolen by the frigid wind, and Anthony had to lean forward to catch them, his heart aching at the devastation and pain in her voice, her face still turned away from him. The same pain he had heard in Benedict's voice only weeks before. 

 

'Why?' 

 

Penelope reluctantly lifted her head from her shoulder, turning back towards him, wiping at her cheeks as she looked at him, her eyes red and swollen. 

 

'Because if he chose me… he would lose everything else. And I couldn't let him do that. Not for me.' 

 

The unspoken, he would have lost his family- because they both knew that Penelope would never be able to forgive them for what they had done to her, and he would never expect that of her- made him rear back in shock. After everything his family had done to her, all their crimes against her, she had still been selfless enough to leave, to let go of the man she loved, so he wouldn't lose them. It was… inconceivable. Not that it had mattered in the end. For Benedict had not returned to them. He had chosen her. Even with her gone, he had refused to forgive them., to forgive them for being the reason he had lost the woman he loved. 

 

Anthony hesitated once more, scared to reveal that it had all been for nought, that they had lost him anyway, afraid of what it would do to her. 

 

'Penelope…' 

 

Penelope shook her head, her fingers tightening on the reins again, as she turned her head forwards once more. Towards home. Towards Benedict. 

 

'It doesn't matter anymore.' 

 

And it didn't. Because even if Anthony hadn't found her, if he hadn't told her that Benedict was dy…that he was sick, she knew it wouldn't have been much longer before her resolve had broken entirely. She ached for him daily, for the smell of him that had long ago faded from her, from the shirt she had stolen that night, just to keep him close. She knew she wouldn't last much longer before she returned to him. It was inevitable. For who could go on living a life without him after knowing the beauty, the joy, the privilege of being loved by Benedict Bridgerton. 

 

And in only a few, too-long hours, she would be with him again. 

 

'I must warn you…' Anthony said, his tone hesitant and uncharacteristically unsure, almost reluctant, interrupting her thoughts and dissipating the pleasant eagerness, so unfamiliar to Penelope after so many months of not having anything to look forward to, that had filled her lungs, 'Some of the family is at My Cottage waiting. Including Eloise. Colin is returning home from his visit to Scotland and should be there any day.' 

 

Penelope stiffened. 

 

Colin and Eloise. 

 

Just the sound of their names was enough to undo her, to make her magic roar to life inside her veins, feeding on her fury and grief and hurt like kindling on a fire, building it into a crescendo not unlike the fire that had almost consumed her. The fire they had helped light. 

 

She had refused to think of them since the day she had shed her final tears for them in the guest room of My Cottage, refusing to allow them the power to hurt her any longer. They're betrayal…it had been worse than Anthony's, as she had always known if Anthony had learned her secret, that she was one of the witches' that he so despised, that he hunted for sport, he would not hesitate to turn her in. But Eloise….Colin….they had been her dearest friends. She had loved them,  trusted them, had believed she would always be safe with them. Even worse, she had thought herself completely in love with Colin. And their betrayal…it had broken her entirely. 

 

What a naive fool she had been. 

 

She had wished for death those first weeks at My Cottage, burning up and delirious with fever and infection as her friends had tried desperately to save her leg, in agony every moment and she has silently prayed for the release that would come with death, the release from the torment of knowing just how alone she was in the world. How much she had lost. Her family, who had never really cared for her…her best friends who had always sworn to love her unconditionally and who had broken that promise as if it was nothing…. and the future she had dreamed of for so long. 

 

God, to think it had once been her dream to be a member of the Bridgerton family, except it had been as Colin's wife. Now the very idea of it made her skin crawl. She had thought herself in love with him, had put him on a pedestal, content to love him from afar even knowing that he would never care for her in the same way. How could she have been so blind? She had willingly pretended she didn't see Colin's hatred and distrust for witches', for the death of their Father- that had turned out to be orchestrated by the Queen herself- and for what Penelope's cousin had done to him, trying to trap him into marriage with a love potion while pregnant with another man's child. Penelope had used her influence as Lady Whistledown to expose Marina's trick, her manipulation of Colin, but it had been too late, Colin's hatred already cemented. 

 

But she had been unable to pretend any longer when she had been captured by Anthony, dragged by him into Bridgerton house by the hair, shackled and helpless, towards the cell that would be her prison until the Queen called for her execution, and she had seen Colin waiting at the top of the stairs to the dungeon hidden beneath the floorboards, his face ashen and hard. She had thought he had come to help her, to save her, and she had escaped Anthony's hold long enough to reach for him, her hands clutching at his arms, begging for his help. 

 

'Colin…please…please help me….' 

 

Colin's expression had changed, had filled with such disgust and abhorrence, twisting his beautiful face, and it had her heart stopping before he had pushed her away from him so hard she had slammed against the wall, her head bouncing against the trim of it, her teeth shredding through her tongue before she landed in a crumpled heap on the floor, agony shooting through her head and blood filling her mouth. 

 

'Don't touch me, witch', he had spat at her, wiping at his arms as if she was something diseased, something contagious and foul, and she had felt her heart shatter completely. 

 

It was then her eyes, gone blurry with pain and hot tears, had found Eloise, standing hidden in the shadows of the entrance to the room, her blue eyes alight with triumph and a horrifying glee, her expression gloating as she had smirked at her. She had shrunk from her, whimpering, shaking her pounding head, unable to believe what she was seeing. But it was then, icy realisation settling into the marrow of her bones, that she had known. Eloise had been the one who had betrayed her secret. She had told Anthony where to find her. She had told him she was Lady Whistledown. All in retaliation for writing the column that had exposed her involvement with the resistance and saved her life. 

 

She hadn't even had a chance to weep from the agony of the revelation before Anthony had curled his hard and cruel fingers into her arm and begun to drag her from the room and down the stairs, even as she kicked and screamed and fought. But she was no match for him as he threw her into a cell, but not before he placed a collar around her neck, one that had been created by the Queen's most sadistic doctors and the one thing that witches truly feared, that could make the most formidable of witches lose all will to fight. That had even made some lose their minds. Pure terror had tightened her throat, making her shake uncontrollably, unable to fight any longer, as she felt her powers snuff out inside of her as it clicked into a place with a snap that had her crying out, feeling like she had been impaled. Feeling like a hot iron was being dragged along the insides of her stomach, tearing off piece after piece, hollowing her out, her magic blocked by the iron of the collar against her skin. 

 

They might as well have ripped her organs from her. It would have been less painful than having her magic, which was as vital to her as air and light, as taste and touch, which was much a part of her as the colour of hair, the stubborn freckles across her skin, or the scars on her fingers from where her quill had cut her over the years, stolen from her. Unreachable. As if it had never existed. A torture inflicted on her to protect them from her. And it hurt so much more as she hadn't even thought of using her magic to escape. She hadn't wanted to risk hurting them. And that misguided loyalty, that love she had had for them, had left her with nothing, locked in a cold cell, left to rot, until she would be dragged out and tied to the pyre that had been awaiting her for two years. She knew she would burn and all she could do was slide to the floor, burying her face in her bruised and bleeding knees, and weep. 

 

But she had gotten her revenge. From her very sick bed, she had written a letter to the Queen as Benedict and Genevieve had slept in chairs beside her, weak and sweat-soaked with fever, dragging up what little magic she had been able to feel  since Benedict had cut the collar from her throat, the magic that had once roared through her nothing but ashes now- and she had been terrified that she would never get it back- to magic it into her bedroom. She had gloated about her escape, about how she had beat her once again, but what the Queen hadn't known, when she inevitably opened the letter, unable to resist, slicing her finger on the parchment that Penelope had spelled to be razor sharp, was that with the single drop of blood that would smear across the parchment the curse Penelope had created, with her gift as a Spellbringer, had been activated and the wasting sickness that immediately began to slither through her veins would take her within months. That she would die slowly and painfully, the deaths she had sentenced hundreds of innocents to handed back to her twofold. 

 

She had only returned to London once since her near public execution, driven by her despair at leaving Benedict and had used her connections to get into the palace and confront the new King George, the former having finally given into his madness with the loss of his Charlotte. She had sat before him, unafraid and formidable, and confessed to being the witch who had stopped his Mother, who had cursed her, and who could so easily do the same to his entire family, erase Charlotte's entire life…unless they came to an agreement. 

 

George had looked at her with a steady, dark gaze. 

 

 'I do not hold the same hatred or fear that my Mother did for the witches. My Father's madness was his own. I know this, but Mother refused to believe it. She could not be convinced that he had not been cursed by some witch, when they had never been anything but peaceful. I have released all the witches that had been imprisoned by her and I have written an order for reparations to be paid to all of those who have survived and as recompense for those who lost their family….' 

 

Penelope had shook her head. 'With all due respect, your Majesty, that is not enough. That will never be enough. We require… we demand more than this. We need to be assured that this will never happen again. A guarantee. We have been hunted like animals, lost hundreds of sister-witches, entire bloodlines gone, knowledge that can never be restored…. That can never be repaid with gold and coin.'

 

'Then what is it that you want? What are your terms?' 

 

They had written up a contract, kept in utter secrecy of who had arranged it, signed and bound in blood, that guaranteed that for as long as his line ruled, the witches would be safe from persecution and harm. If anyone of his bloodline, now or hundreds of years in the future, broke this covenant, then his entire line would die the same way his Mother had. King George had readily agreed and signed, and had also agreed to her terms that if any of the witch-hunters in London who had worked under the now dead Queen, or any of the other members of the Ton or common-folk, brought harm to any witches, they would be put to death. 

 

The treaty had been announced the next day and the witches who had been released had scattered to the winds, not wishing to stay in London after all the bloodshed and death, after all the torture and loss they had endured. Only a few had stayed, including Genvieve, who had returned to London after Penelope had healed enough to be cared for by Benedict and the Crabtree's, his caretakers, and Lady Danbury, who had shocked the Ton when she had revealed herself as a witch, who had hidden herself in plain sight by the Queen's side, working under her very nose to try and influence her, to learn her plans and save those she could, and was now working with the crown to ensure that those who remained in England received the treatment and care they needed. 

 

Penelope had left London as soon as the treaty was signed, pledging to herself that she would never set foot in the city again as long as she lived. It was not her home. Not anymore and it never would be again. 

 

She had got her revenge on the Queen. But the Bridgertons… as much as her magic roared inside her, demanding to be released, to take its revenge, she couldn't do it. She had already lost everything she held dear; Lady Whistledown… Benedict… and she loved him too much to harm them, not when she knew he still loved them, despite the fact he wished he could stop. You could love and hate someone at the same time. She knew that all too well. And she still held love in her heart for Violet Bridgerton, the Bridgerton matriarch and Dowager Viscountess, who had always treated her kindly, like she was one of her own children, and who she knew would never survive the loss of her children, despite the horror she knew her enough to know she felt at the actions of them. 

 

Violet had always certainly treated her better than her own Mother and sisters, her supposed family who had fled rather than try to save her, leaving her to her death. They had always made her feel worthless, like she was nothing, with their cutting and cruel jabs about her weight, how she would never find a husband, and reminding her daily what an embarrassment she was since her magic had not manifested as it usually did on her first bleeding. It had come much later, so late that even Penelope had been terrified that it never would. But it had, bursting out of her as she cried in her rooms after the disaster and disappointment of her first ball, when she had scribbling the tidbits of gossip she had overheard into her journal, scandalous and titillating, which would become her first column, before her hopelessness and despair had made her hands slap against the pages of the journal and it had shot across the room, slamming against the wall, smouldering at the edges, as she gaped at it in complete shock.

 

She had kept it a secret, letting her Mother believe she was still nothing but a mortal, a blemish on the powerful Featherington line, stunned and delighted to discover her magic was not contained to spells and incantations as her Mother's and sister's were, but that she was able to bend it to her very will, to create her own spells and incantations, her own potions. She had not wished to share it, had known her Mother would try to use it for her own gain. She had used her powers instead to help others, to enchant parchment that would only reveal its secrets to other witches in need, which she had used when she had turned to Whistledown and found her power and salvation there, no longer helpless to watch on as the Featherington's hid behind their little and perceived wealth, while their kind was hunted and killed when they had done nothing wrong, sending coded messages through her columns to those on the run, to let them know of ambushes, who could be trusted and who couldn't, and what ships were offering safe harbour out of London. 

 

The Queen had been furious, her hunt for Whistledown rivalling the one for the witches, and she had done all in her power to unveil her, offering ludicrous rewards for the capture of the Lady Whistledown. And Penelope had evaded her for two years, only fuelling her fury, enchanting the guards stationed outside her printshop, believing themselves well hidden by their disguises, betrayed by the fineness of their clothing and the way they held themselves, to forget they had ever been there, taunting her in her columns. 'Catch me if you can, your Majesty', while also trying to convince the Ton who had been brainwashed by her to not believe her lies, to do the right thing, to fight. And some had. Genevieve, the Graville's, and many others who had worked with the resistance, who had been hiding witches, getting them to safety in hidden compartments within hired hacks and unmarked carriages, to Scotland or onto boats to the continent, and healing them, body and mind. But Penelope hadn't known Benedict had been one of them. Not until he had cut her free from that pyre. 

 

It had all been going so well. Until Eloise had started to turn up at protests and resistance meetings, drawing the Queen's attention, putting herself and everyone else at risk of discovery and imprisonment. Or worse. The Queen had believed Eloise was Whistledown and she had threatened to have her, and her entire family, executed. So Penelope had written a column, exposing Eloise's attendance to the meetings, something that even the Queen knew Eloise would never dare reveal to the Ton, and the Queen had turned her attention away, and the person Penelope had loved more than anyone, who she had considered her real, true sister, had been safe, even if she was briefly ostracised by the society she despised. 

 

Penelope had known the column would hurt her friend, but hurting her feelings and pride had seemed a better price to pay than for her to end up at the end of the hangman's noose. But Eloise had discovered her secret, had torn her room apart to find evidence that she was Lady Whistledown, and had been furious, calling her nothing but an insipid wallflower, her words cruel enough that Penelope had lashed out, rubbing it in that she was actually doing something, that she was making a difference when all Eloise ever did was talk. And it was only two days later that Penelope was ambushed at her printer, captured by Anthony, betrayed by the one person Penelope had thought she could trust, even when they were at odds. 

 

'Penelope?' 

 

Penelope jumped, so lost in thought she had forgotten that Anthony rode beside her, his brow furrowed with concern as he stared at her. 

 

She made her face carefully blank and nodded stiffly in response, irritated to find herself grateful to him for the warning. At least there would be no unpleasant surprise. She could brace herself for it, build up her walls as strongly as she could on the ride, so she was prepared if she had to see them, though she hoped to avoid it like one would the plague. She had no intention of leaving Benedict's side until he was well again, and as he had barred them all from his room, perhaps it could be avoided at all. 

 

She could only hope. 

 

'I have no interest in seeing or speaking to either of them ever again. You can pass along that it would be better if we avoided one another.' 

 

Anthony was silent for a moment, his jaw clenching, before he inclined his head. His gaze looked unseeingly at the snow dusted road in front of them, the landscape gone hard and desolate with the winter that had come quicker than any before, leaving them nothing to look at but each other. He had just one more question, one that he was sure she would refuse to answer, but he had to ask, the curiosity having almost killed him over the last six weeks, endlessly in his thoughts as he had searched for her. 

 

'May I ask one more question?' 

 

Penelope sighed, the sound of full of annoyance and exasperation, before she turned her head to him once more, raising an eyebrow at him. 

 

'If you must.' 

 

Anthony licked his lips nervously and tilted his head to look at her curiously. 

 

'How…how did it start? You and Benedict. I know he was the one who pulled you from the pyre…I was there that day, I saw him….though I didn't know it was him at the time…' The image of her tied to that pyre flashed through his mind once more and he squeezed his eyes shut on a wave of guilt that made his eyes fill with tears and he wrenched them open to look beseechingly at her, finding her gaping at him, her eyes wide with surprise at seeing the torment that had suddenly overcome him. 'Penelope…I must tell you how much it haunts me what I did to you… you were a friend to our family…I had known you since you were a girl and you had never been anything but kind and good and still I….I have no excuse. I was blinded by my rage at what I believed had been done to my Father and I let that rage blind me to the truth, to reason…I know no apology could ever make up for what I did, but I need to tell you I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I wish I could take it all back…' 

 

Penelope stared at him, her heart clenching in unwanted sympathy, and she wished she could feel more than pity for him. That she could offer comfort or forgiveness or absolution. Perhaps she might one day find it in herself to do so, but it was impossible now. The wounds and scars were still too fresh and she just…she couldn't. 

 

'But you can't,' she said softly, not wishing to inflict pain, not enjoying the way he flinched and then seemed to collapse in on himself, looking terribly small, resigned to the truth, to the reality of it. 

 

She twisted her fingers in front of her, hating the guilt she felt, wanting, no, needing, a distraction. 

 

'You didn't finish asking your question', she said, and Anthony looked up in surprise, as if he had forgotten or he hadn't expected her to be willing to speak further to him. It surprised her too, but she was curious. 

 

'I was wondering… how did it start between you and Benedict? I know he is in love with you and it is clear as day that you love him too. But…how did it happen?' 

 

The question threw her and she blinked at him. She had never thought about it, had never questioned or considered when she had fallen in love with Benedict. It hadn't hit her like a strike of lightning, but had come on so slowly, in the quiet moments, in the shared laughter and fears, the gentle touches and heated glances, in the whispers as they lay together at night, sharing secrets, in the vulnerability, in the tears and ;pain that they only showed one another, that she hadn't even noticed the turn of the tide of her feelings until she was in it. Until she had one day realised that suddenly he had become her everything. 

 

But when had it started? 

 

Her thoughts turned backwards, reluctantly, to that day. The day that everything had altered forever, falling into the memory… 

 

Hot urine ran down her legs as the terror that choked her made her lose control of her bladder, flushing with shame, her heart beating so loud and fast in her ears that it almost drowned out the roar of the crowd before her, their eyes gleaming with zeal and bloodlust, too-thin faces hungry as they screamed for entertainment. For her death. As they watched her as she struggled and screamed, as she begged for help that she knew, even then, would never come. 

 

She jerked at the rough ropes that bound her arms behind her, rubbing her skin raw, tied to the pole that made her up the pyre that would bring her end, sticks and hay piled up at her feet, just waiting for that first flicker of her flame to bring it to life. She gagged as the masked executioner splashed her with oil, the smell of it becoming a greasy perfume that made her tremble, soaking her through. Ensuring she would burn quickly. Painfully. 

 

She gasped for breath, hyperventilating, her lungs burning already, desperate for air, the last she would ever breathe, her hair plastered to her forehead and neck with sweat that held the stench of fear, the collar around her neck a heavy weight that would never be lifted. The crackle of flames erupted to life beneath her as the executioner lowered the torch to the kindling at her feet and Penelope screamed to the delight of the crowds who roared in approval, all there to watch the witch burn, not caring if she was only nineteen years old, that it was wrong, that she had done nothing but try to save her people. To them it didn't matter. She was nothing but a spectacle, something they feared justifiably punished for her crime of existing. 

 

The flames licked and sipped at her skin from below, eating away at the straw and kindling, taunting and almost cruel in its teasing. It's hesitation. Drawing out her pain. Her end. The collar around her neck grew hotter and hotter, biting and brutal, unavoidable, blistering her skin as smoke rose, surrounding her, blinding her and settling like jagged glass in her throat and she prayed it would take her before the flames did. That she wouldn't feel it. 

 

But she had never been that lucky and her stained chemise caught alight, melting to her skin, boiling it, and she screamed in agony, so loud her voice cracked, the unending agony sending every nerve screaming. Her pain-blind eyes lifted, finding the Queen's triumphant and amused eyes on the stage where she sat, and she sagged in the ropes, unable to fight any longer, and closed her eyes, waiting for and welcoming death. 

 

I'm ready, she thought, no longer able to feel the way the flames ate at her flesh, its appetite never sated, gone numb and empty. I'm ready… 

 

She jerked as an explosion suddenly ripped through the air, sending the crowds screaming and stampeding, trampling over one another in a bid to escape the flames that now reached for them. Penelope's eyes reluctantly slitted open, dark spots floating across her vision, and all she wanted to do was close them again, for the darkness that was slowly creeping into her mind, promising release from the pain, from the agony, to take her. She just wanted to go… 

 

'Penelope!' a voice screamed, familiar and yet a stranger's, full of desperation and fear when she had only ever known it to be filled with teasing and laughter, and she somehow found the strength to raise her head and meet hazel eyes filled with the same, eyes she had never expected to see again, the rest of his face hidden by a black bandana.

 

Benedict Bridgerton. 

 

He jumped up onto the platform, pulling a knife from his belt and Penelope sobbed, her chest heaving as he climbed into the very flames that threatened to consume her, his knife cutting frantically at the ropes that bound her, cursing under his breath as the heat bit at his skin, burning his hands, but he never stopped, never hesitated, never abandoned her as one by one the ropes around her hands and waist slackened and then fell away to be eaten away by the flames beneath them. He had come for her. He had come to save her. 

 

She fell forward, landing hard on her knees on the platform and screamed at the agony of the rough wood scraping against her melted and blistering skin, and all she wanted to do was lay there. To just let go. 

 

Please….why wouldn't they just let her go? 

 

'Penelope….we have to go…' Benedict said, his voice full of begging, kneeling beside her, his calloused hands cupping her cheeks, hot and wet with tears and stained with snot and soot, forcing her to meet his eyes, his face crumpling as he took her in, his gaze drifting to her leg and he went white as a ghost, his breathing laboured at whatever he saw. 

 

She tried to look but he held her chin tightly, not letting her, and she knew… It was bad. 

 

'Look at me, Penelope'. 

 

She lifted shattered eyes to his, shaking with pain and fear, and his hands tangled in her sweat-soaked hair by her temples, grounding her, bringing her back. 

 

'I have you. You're safe', he told her, his voice vehement even as it shook and she believed him. She trusted him. 

 

She was so numb she couldn't find it in herself to feel the hope that tried to stir as he swept her up into his arms and jumped from the platform, running and dodging through the still panicking crowds, and Penelope saw the hack that had exploded to the side of platform, being engulfed in flames, and realised he must have set it, using it as a distraction, to give him a chance to reach her. She distantly thought she could hear the Queen screaming, the sound of it full of rage, but she couldn't bring herself to fear it as her head flopped backwards, losing consciousness for a second before the jostling of his arms mercilessly brought her back. She could feel his heart hammering against her arm as he pressed her tightly to his chest, his head against hers. 

 

'Hold on…just hold on, Penelope… we're almost there…' he said as she whimpered in agony and he ran faster. She bounced in his arms and buried her face in his shirt, the smell of his sweat and the paint that always seemed to cling to him in her nose, chasing away the smoke that Penelope was certain she would never be able to get rid of, would never be able to stop smelling. 

 

He came to a stop in front of a hired hack, so like the ones Penelope had taken when going to the printers at night, slamming his fist against it four times before the door sprung open and he scrambled inside, the door shutting behind them and with a yell from the driver and the crack of a whip they were moving, swinging back forth wildly as they raced away, heading Penelope didn't know where. For where would she ever be safe now? 

 

'Jesus…those bâtards!' a familiar female voice cursed before they gagged, retching, 'Put her down here, Benedict. Quickly.' 

 

Benedict placed her down on the floor of the hack so gently Penelope's eyes filled with tears again, her leg somehow still on fire… had she brought the flames with her? Her eyes were sore and streaming, and she sobbed quietly, as she felt what was left of her chemise being ripped upwards, exposing her bare legs to their gazes. Any other time she would have been mortified but she couldn't bring herself to care, wanting nothing more than for the pain to stop. 

 

'Hold her down. This is going to hurt.' 

 

Penelope stirred, frowning in confusion. What did they mean? How could it possibly hurt more? 

 

Benedict's hands took hold of her shoulders, pressing her down to the floor and it was a good thing that he did as it was at that moment something was poured on her leg, onto the raw and peeled open skin, and she bucked into his grip, screaming in renewed agony, her eyes snapping open as she tried to escape his grip, escape the hands that continued to pour the liquid that burned like acid. Her eyes went wide and agonised, and she sunk somewhere beyond reason as she scratched at Benedict's hands and arms like a wild animal, wherever she could reach, kicking and bucking wildly, gazing down at and finding Genevieve kneeling beside her, her hands holding a vial of pale, yellow liquid. A potion, her dark eyes filled with apology and guilt at causing her friend even more pain. 

 

'Stop….please stop….I'm sorry….' Penelope begged over and over and she could feel Benedict shaking above her, his breath coming in horrified sobs, his tears dropping onto the heated skin of her cheeks and forehead from above. 

 

'I'm sorry…I'm so sorry…' he sobbed over and over, but he didn't release her. 

 

A part of her knew that they were trying to help her, recognising the potion as one she had used herself on the burns inflicted by the Queen's guards on witches who had managed to escape, but she couldn't think rationally, reduced to an animal's instincts to escape. 

 

'Make her drink this. It'll put her to sleep.' 

 

Penelope stared emptily as Benedict let go of her arms to press a vial of green liquid to her mouth, his face tight and entreating. 

 

'Please Penelope, you must drink. It will help with the pain', he said, and it was the pain and devastation, the hopelessness in his own face that made her open her dry and cracked lips and let the green liquid slide down her throat, cool and tasting of grass in springtime. 

 

She swallowed and saw the relief that made Benedict sag, pulling her head and shoulders onto his lap, her leg sprawled limply in front of her for Gen to keep working on, and he brushed her hair back from her face before leaning down to press his forehead to hers.

 

As the potions effects began to draw her away, the relief of sleep dragging her under, her eyes fluttered shut just as he spoke once more. 

 

'I am here, Penelope. And I promise you, I'm not going to leave you. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. I will never let them harm you again.'  

 

And Penelope, for the first time since she had been captured, felt safe as she finally succumbed to sleep… 

 

She supposed it had all started then. 

Notes:

As always, I can't wait to read all your incredible comments xx It honestly makes me day being able to share with you all and hear your thoughts xx

Chapter 4

Notes:

Hi lovelies! Thank you once more for your amazing comments and support. You are truly the best xx I read all of them and they bring me so much joy. I have been blessed with a cold and rainy day- the perfect day for writing- and plan to get as much writing done as I physically can today. I hope you enjoy this new chapter- the much anticipated reunion with the Bridgertons (or some of them). I hope you enjoy it.

They arrived at My Cottage after almost a full day of travel, snow having begun to fall heavily from the sky as they passed the village nearest to their destination, and Penelope found herself grateful she had remembered to pack her thickest gloves, shivering uncontrollably even wearing her winter dress and an oversized coat that used to be Benedict's. Anthony and her hadn't spoken in hours, gritting their teeth against the freezing wind that battered at them from every direction, both lost in their own thoughts and the revelations of the past day, and the only thing keeping Penelope from shattering completely was counting every step her horse took, every mile, every second that brought her closer to home. To Benedict. 

 

They finally rode through the gates as the sun dipped behind the hills that surrounded My Cottage, exhausted, cheeks frozen, her lips dry and cracked, her hips aching and sore, not used to sitting astride a horse for so long anymore and she awkwardly, gratefully, dismounted, groaning as her muscles protested the sudden drop, her leg spasming warningly, and she had to clutch at the saddle to keep from sliding straight to the ground, waiting for it to pass before she let out a strained breath and straightened, avoiding Anthony's eyes that she could feel watching her, knowing if she saw pity in his gaze she was likely to punch him. 

 

A groom she didn't know, who must have traveled with the Bridgertons, came to collect the horses, to take them to the stables for the night, and Penelope turned to look up at the cottage, to fully take it in for the first time in too long….and she felt her stomach drop at what she found. Dismay and devastation rushed through her as she took in its dilapidated state. It looked abandoned, the gardens overgrown, wilted and dead from the cold, the windows dark and caked with dirt, the warm grey stone of its visage cracking in places. The entire third floor was dark except for one single, flickering candle in the window of what she knew had once been her and Benedict's chambers and her breath caught as she stared up at it, tears filling her eyes even as her magic began to sing in her veins, rising and curling warm and comforting at her fingertips, as if it was reaching for him, her entire body tingling at knowing he was so close. The only thing separating them being stone walls and the fear that kept her planted where she stood, terrified of what she would find inside. 

 

Please….please still be alive, she silently begged, the heavy silence and darkness within the house, when it had once been filled with light and music and laughter, made her fingers curl into fists, digging her nails into the soft flesh of her palm through her gloves to distract herself, her breath coming fast and choppy, panic choking her. Dreading what it meant.

 

He couldn't be gone. He just…couldn't. 

 

The thought of it was so wrong and cruel it made her want to sink to the ground and shriek out of the agony of it. The only thing that kept her from doing so, that kept her upright, was that still flickering light in the window which gave her hope. For it would not be lit if he was gone. 

 

The thought calmed her and the tightness that had squeezed around her chest like a vice eased a touch until she could take a deep breath. But as the panic faded, she couldn't quite suppress her other fear and it rose inside her, unbidden, unwanted and ruthless. 

 

What if he didn't want to see her? What if he sent her away, refusing to see her, casting her out, unable to forgive her for leaving him, for breaking his heart?

 

Please… please don't send me away. If he did… 

 

She shook her head, biting her tongue to the point of bleeding as she turned back to Anthony who still stood waiting, watching her struggle. And it was this that finally allowed her to gain control, forcing her face into a cool mask. 

 

Anthony noticed, his shoulders straightening, before he gestured at the house with his hand. 'Ready?' 

 

Was she? Was she ready to see what her actions had wrought? To see Benedict, sick and weak when he had never been anything but strong and vibrant, the most alive person she had ever known, his cheeks bright with colour and his body full of endless energy? To face the Bridgertons en'masse. No. But to get to Benedict, she would face Napoleon's army alone just to see him again, even if only for a moment. 

 

She nodded and followed after him, not willing to give him her back, towards the front door, its ornate door knocker in the shape of a bee tarnished, and it was obvious it hadn't been polished in months, the paint of the door peeling in stripes, shocking her anew at the neglect and disrepair it had fallen into it. But then the door was being pushed open and the shock faded, replaced with trepidation as they stepped inside, her muscles tensing, even as she was unable to hold back a sigh of relief at the warmth that immediately rushed towards her from the many fires that must be lit to fight the cold. 

 

She didn't get to enjoy it for long before an all-too familiar voice called out, coming from the dining room to the left. 

 

'Anthony? Is that you? Did you find..' Penelope barely had a second to brace herself, stumbling back until her back hit the now closed door, before Violet Bridgerton rushed out from the room, lifting her skirts as she ran to her son, followed by a man Penelope did not know but who looked vaguely familiar, with reddish-blond hair and a face that tugged at some distant memory, and then… 

 

Penelope inhaled sharply as Eloise stepped out into the entrance hall, walking much slower and awkwardly then Penelope remembered her being, towards the blond-haired man and Violet and Anthony, who were now embracing. Her eyes dipped down in disbelief, taking in the hand that was resting on Eloise's unmistakably pregnant stomach, the cause of her slowed gait, a gold ring shining in the dim light on a very important finger. Eloise was married? And with child? She, who had always angrily railed against society's expectations of women and had proudly proclaimed she would be a spinster and never marry. 

 

What alternate world had she stumbled into? 

 

They had always managed to surprise her, she thought ruefully, absently, even as she held herself stiffly, bracing for the moment that their eyes would inevitably find her, and she would be unable to avoid this dreaded, unwanted reunion any longer. Unable to hide away in her little corner. And that moment found her much sooner than she wished, as Eloise, who had reached who Penelope assumed was her husband's side, turned her head slightly and froze as her eyes landed on Penelope, going wide and startled, her face draining of colour until it was a sickly white, reaching blindly for her husband who looked down at her with concern, his head moving between Eloise and her with an air of bewilderment. 

 

Penelope refused to be the one to break their gaze, lifting her chin in challenge, unable to forget the memory of the last time they had seen each other, how Eloise had smirked at her from the doorway as she was dragged away and thrown into a cell, how she had been the orchestrator of all her misfortune and pain, betraying her to to her brother and the reason she had been tied to that pyre, sentenced to burn. She was the very reason she was now crippled, damaged beyond repair. 

 

Penelope stepped forward, her scarred leg dragging heavily behind her, her face scrunching with discomfort as it spasmed again and watched as Eloise's eyes dipped down to it, blanching, horrified. 

 

Look, she thought, raging and broken. Look at what you did. 

 

'Anthony, you are practically frozen. I'll go and speak to Mrs. Crabtree and see if I can organise some tea and soup to warm you…', Violet trailed off as Anthony shook his head at her before glancing pointedly past her shoulder. 

 

Violet frowned in confusion before she turned around, her eyes going wide for a second, her mouth falling open in shock as she saw Penelope standing before her for the first time in two years. She took her in, her gaze running from the top of her wind-tossed curls, to the tip of her toes, as if unable to believe she was real, before they filled with tears. 

 

'Oh. Oh…Penelope!' She stepped forward eagerly, her arms opening as if to embrace her and Penelope stumbled back, her heart pounding, desperate to avoid her touch, her throat clenching as a fear she could not control threatened to swallow her whole, followed quickly by guilt as Violet's kind face immediately fell as she saw her back away from her. 

 

But she couldn't do it, her very skin crawling at the thought of being in her embrace, unable to bear the thought of being touched by any Bridgerton that was not Benedict. Even Violet, who had never been anything but kind to her. But Penelope could not forget that Violet, though she had never once believed that her beloved Edmund had been cursed by witches, even in her deepest mourning and grief, had known what her son was doing, the atrocities he was eagerly participating in and seeking out, what he was inflicting on others, the willing slaughter of so many innocent women and witches….and she had done nothing to stop it or him. The trust she had once had in her, in them, was long gone. And what made it all the more worse, was that she, and the family, had suffered no consequences for their actions, for their indifference and ignorance and blind eyes. No loss of position in society, no stripping of titles or income. The Bridgertons had not been shunned or exiled or even looked at funny. The Ton had seen nothing wrong with their actions. Their lives had remained the same while Penelope's and so many others had burned to ashes. Never to be the same again. 

 

Some things could not be forgotten. Some things were unforgivable. 

 

'Penelope…I…I had no idea of what they had done to you….that they were planning to…, Violet's face crumpled, her voice trailing off, coated in despair at what her children had done, before she seemed to gather herself, meeting Penelope's eyes once more. 'That you had been imprisoned and given to the Queen. Not until it was too late. I swear it.' 

 

Penelope swallowed. 

 

'I know.' 

 

Violet's eyes grew unbearably sad before she spoke, her shoulders slumping. 'And yet?' 

 

Penelope nodded jerkily, clenching her jaw until it hurt to keep her chin from wobbling as it wanted to, betraying her sorrow at the rift between her and the woman who had been like a second Mother to her growing up. But she could not breach it, couldn't give Violet what she wanted. 'And yet.'  

 

Pain flashed across Violet's face before she gained her composure, giving Penelope a kind smile even as she stepped away from her back towards Anthony, Eloise and her unnamed husband, giving her much needed space, the divide between her and the Bridgertons never clearer than in that four feet of space of empty air between them. 

 

'Thank you, Penelope. For your kindness, in coming back to Benedict. You owe us nothing and I will be eternally grateful for it.' 

 

Penelope frowned, her temper flaring irritably. She didn't want her gratitude or her words. She didn't do this out of kindness. She almost spit at the words. What exactly did Violet believe was her relationship with Benedict? Anthony had suspected their feelings for one another even before he had found her and had had no qualms about confronting her about them, but Violet… she seemed to think she had come back out of pity, that she felt she owed it to Benedict because he had saved her life. She didn't know why….but the thought of it infuriated her. Did she truly not see her own son for the incredible man he was? Did she truly not see his kindness , his gentleness, his contagious joy and bravery, his stubbornness and talent and his inspiring passion for life and all it offered? As if she could have ever spent time with Benedict and not fallen in love with him. 

 

'I will always come for Benedict. Always', she said vehemently, firmly, watching as Violet's eyes went wide once more, before her smiled changed, growing warmer and victorious, like a cat who had caught a canary in its claw, satisfaction practically radiating from her, and Penelope cursed inwardly as she realised that Violet had also suspected, but had been fishing for confirmation, Penelope falling pathetically easily into her trap.  

 

She had watched Violet expertly maneuver and manipulate her children for years but had never been on the receiving end of it. She couldn't help the small part of her which was impressed at her skill, respected it even. It was what had made her such an influence on the Ton for so many years. The perfect Viscountess. 

 

The blond-haired man stepped forward, giving her a polite bow and a shy, slightly awkward smile. 'Miss. Featherington…I'm not sure if you remember me. I'm Sir. Phillip Crane…' 

 

Penelope's mouth fell open in surprise as she realised what he had looked so familiar. Sir Phillip Crane, her cousin Marina's husband. They had only met once, briefly, when he had brought news of her cousin Marina's love's death and who had married her to give her children, his brother's children, legitimacy, to save her from the scandal surrounding her being with child when she was unwed and trying to trick Colin into marrying him and believing he was the Father with a love potion, a deception Penelope herself had revealed in Whistledown. 

 

She had heard about Marina's unexpected and tragic death at only twenty-two years old, how she had caught pneumonia after falling into the lake near the Crane estate, Romney Hall, and was taken by it within days. She hadn't believed it though, the story that she had overheard in a tiny inn near the Crane Estate after she had left My Cottage, whispered between two young and careless witches. She had been able to feel her cousin's hand in her own end. She had always been so melancholy, so lost even in the few letters they had exchanged after Marina had left London, since the death of her love George. She had never fully recovered from his loss. She understood the choice Marina had inevitably made to end her pain, and could admit to herself that in her own weak moments she had wondered if just fading away would be a kinder fate than spending her days wasting away, grieving for someone who was so close but so unreachable. Gone, not from this earth, but from her. But she knew Benedict would never forgive her, would never recover if she did so, so she had stayed. What she couldn't understand, however, was how Marina could have left her children, Amanda and Oliver, still so tiny and young, behind to live on without their Mother. 

 

When she had left Benedict, a part of her had hoped that she was with child, that she had left with more than just a broken heart but, instead, with a piece of him inside her, their child, half-him and half-her, something infinitely precious, a way to carry him with her always. She had cried for days when her courses had come, and she had known she truly had nothing left. The love she had felt for that imaginary child…that dream of a child…had been stronger than any love she had felt for anyone before, even more powerful than her love for Benedict, and the idea of abandoning that child, like she had been… she couldn't even conceive of it. If she was ever lucky enough to have a child, she would spend her entire life making sure it knew it was loved, that it knew it could always turn to her, that she was never going anywhere, that she would always be there for him or her. 

 

So, she knew that Sir Phillip Crane had been widowed, his niece and nephew left in his care, but what she didn't know, couldn't even comprehend, was how on earth he and Eloise had ended up married? As far as Penelope knew, they had had no idea the other even existed two years ago, except for a brief explanation Penelope had given to Eloise about how the Marina affair had been resolved, with marriage to Georgia's brother, but she was unsure if she had  even provided his name. It perplexed her and she hated that she was curious. So she shook her head, trying to shake it away, even as she gave him a small smile. 

 

'I remember you, Sir Phillip. We met the day you came to give news of your brother to my cousin, Marina.' 

 

Phillip's eyes clouded with sadness as he nodded, his hands tucked behind his back. 'Yes. Are you… I don't if you would have heard but Marina…'

 

Penelope nodded, taking pity on him and his stumbling shyness. 'I heard of her death. I am sorry for your loss and for your children's loss.' 

 

He swallowed, nodding somberly in acknowledgement. 'Thank you, Miss. Featherington. It was…a difficult time, especially for Oliver and Amanda and they still miss her horribly. But since my marriage to Eloise they have begun to flourish once more', he said, smiling proudly as he turned to his wife, wrapping his arm around his waist. 

 

Eloise gave him a wan smile, her eyes darting between him and Penelope, and Penelope, once able to read Eloise's face as easily as her own, saw the fear that flickered in her eyes as she looked upon her. As if she was afraid of what she might reveal. And Penelope knew, in that moment, that Phillip had no idea of what Eloise had done. That she had not told her husband about her complicity in Penelope's capture. 

 

Penelope's breath choked out as she gaped at her, completely stunned. How could she keep such a huge secret from the person she claimed to love? Her own husband? How was it not eating her alive? But, Penelope guessed, since she'd been gone, Eloise must have thought she would have no reason to ever reveal what she had done. 

 

She watched as Eloise rose up onto her toes to press a kiss to Phillip's lips that had him blushing before she said, far too sweetly to be genuine, 'Phillip, do you mind checking on Oliver and Amanda? They have been suspiciously quiet and I fear they might have found mischief.' 

 

Phillip's face grew alarmed and he immediately turned and walked hastily towards the stairs to the second floor where the bedrooms resided, calling out for his children as he climbed them. 'Amanda! Oliver!' 

 

Eloise stared after him for a long moment before she sighed and turned towards Penelope, her jaw flexing in that way Penelope recognised, her skin prickling with alertness, as one of her tells. And she knew she was gearing up for a confrontation. 

 

'Penelope,' she began, her voice shaky, but her eyes determined, but it was all she got out before, to Penelope's eternal relief, she was immediately cut off as Anthony cursed and stomped over to Eloise, catching her arm and dragging her back from where she had stepped towards Penelope, ignoring the way she tried to tug out of his grip and his Mother's startled expression. 

 

'You will leave Penelope alone. Do you hear me, Eloise? Penelope has come here when she could've just told me… could've told us all to go to hell and all she has asked in return is to be left alone. And we will honour that request. Understood?' 

 

Eloise jerked her arm out of his grip, her blue eyes flashing furiously as she glared at him, hissing, 'I am a grown woman. A married woman! I will speak to whoever I damn well please.' 

 

Anthony just glared back, refusing to back down. 'No, you won't. I shouldn't have to explain to you why. Or should I share with Phillip just why Penelope wants nothing to do with you?' 

 

Eloise's face paled again. 'You wouldn't,' she declared, but her voice was unsure, her eyes darting to where her husband had vanished up the stairs. 

 

Anthony leant forward, his nose almost brushing hers, his expression severe. 'I would. Don't push me on this, Eloise. Stay away from her.' 

 

'That is enough, the two of you', Violet snapped, stepping between them, her eyebrows drawn together, giving them both a look full of exasperation, before turning a sterner one onto Eloise. 'Anthony is right, though, Eloise. Penelope didn't have to come but she did. For Benedict. Not for you, not for any of the rest of us… and we will respect her wishes.'  

 

Eloise opened her mouth to protest, shooting Penelope a look, part betrayal and part pleading. Betrayal. Penelope's hands clenched into fists, fury rushing through her. What right did she have to feel betrayed when Eloise was the one who had betrayed her? When she had been the one who had torn their friendship apart? Penelope had kept secrets from her, she knew she was not blameless, and she definitely was not guiltless, but she hadn't responded by trying to have her killed! All she had done was try to protect her. And now she thought she owed her something? Fuck that.

 

'I can speak for myself', she told Anthony, not unkindly, before turning stormy eyes onto Eloise, pinning her in place with them, letting her see the power that made them glow in the dimly lit room. 'But he is right. I want nothing to do with you, Mrs. Crane. Never again.' 

 

'I'm sorry to interrupt', a voice that sounded like it was actually quite enjoying doing so, suddenly called out from the opening of a hidden doorway, one of the old service staircases built in under the main stairs, standing half hidden in its shadow. 

 

Penelope took in the woman who stood within its frame, her soft grey hair pulled back into a neat bun, her kind face, reflecting the life she had lived, all the sorrows and joys in the lines marking it, dressed in a simple black dress that should have made her look severe but only made her warm brown eyes, which were shining at her, brighter. Her thin lips stretched into a wide smile. 

 

'It is good to see you again, Miss. Penelope.' 

 

Penelope's face crumpled and she couldn't help the little, quiet sob of joy that escaped her as she ran as quickly as she could with the numb weight of her leg to the woman who had cared for her through one of the worst times of her life, throwing herself into her arms. The woman's thin arms came around her tightly, stumbling back slightly at her exuberance, and let out a deep huff of a laugh. 

 

'Hi, Mrs. Crabtree', Penelope whispered into her shoulder and Mrs. Crabtree laughed again, shaking her head, even as she rubbed her back, feeling her hiccuping against her as she fought back tears. 

 

'How many times have I told you to call me Susan?' she scolded teasingly, pulling back to frame her face with her hands, searching it, her own softening. 'Oh, my dear. It's okay now. You are home.' 

 

Penelope sniffled, wiping her nose on her sleeve, her chest warming at the word. Home. 

 

But was she? She wasn't so sure. Not when Benedict could still tell her to go. Could still send her away and tell her to never return. And she wouldn't…couldn't…blame him if he did. 

 

'I was just bringing this to Mr. Bridgerton', Mrs. Crabtree said, picking up a jug of streaming water Penelope hadn't even noticed her set down when she had run to her, 'For his daily bath. Unless you would like to do the honours instead?' 

 

Penelope looked over her shoulder when she heard someone choking and caught Anthony looking up at the roof, as if suddenly finding the cornices fascinating, Eloise gaping at the clear declaration of what Penelope and Benedict's relationship was, or had been. And Violet staring at them, two high spots of colour on her cheeks as she fluttered her hands, looking highly scandalised. 

 

'I'm not entirely sure that would be proper…' 

 

Mrs. Crabtree raised her eyebrows at Penelope, as if asking 'Should I tell them or would you like the honours?' and Penelope had to bite the inside of her cheeks to keep from laughing, straightening her face before she turned back to them, giving Violet a deceptively innocent look. 

 

'Don't worry, Lady Bridgerton. Propriety hasn't been necessary in our relationship for a very long time.' 

 

She gave them a wink before turning and following a quietly chuckling Mrs. Crabtree towards the stairs, not waiting to see their reaction, though she was sure it would be hilarious. 

 

They began the climb to the third floor, where Benedict's private rooms were, separate from the guest quarters,  Mrs. Crabtree slowing her steps to match Penelope's, used to her slower gait, one of the only people in her life  who had not known her before….

 

Well, before, she thought, ruefully, glancing down at her leg, a heavy burden that made it near impossible to walk up the stairs without it taking much longer than she had patience for in that moment. She flicked her hand at it, her eyes following the tendril of gold wrapped blue magic that only she could see flick to life and wrap around her calf and ankle, acting as a brace. She let out a sigh of relief as the weight of it eased and she grasped the banister as she began to walk quicker, appreciating when Mrs. Crabtree didn't comment, though she saw the proud little smile she didn't try to hide. 

 

'Very impressive.' 

 

Penelope looked over at her, smirking. 'Which part? The magic or scandalising the Bridgertons with the non-existent status of my virtue?'

 

Mrs. Crabtree threw her head back in a throaty laugh. 'Now that was impressive. I don't think I've ever seen a single one of them speechless.' 

 

Penelope's eyes flicking to the heavy jug in Mrs. Crabtree hands, making the older woman's breathing grow heavier, and crinkled her nose. Mrs. Crabtree startled when the jug began to rise from her hands, reaching for it instinctively, blinking as it began to hover in the air before them, before letting out a delighted laugh. 

 

'I had forgotten how much I missed that!' 

 

And she had forgotten how much she enjoyed Mrs. Crabtree, her very presence comforting and motherly, making Penelope feel immediately at ease. 

 

'How long have they been here? The Bridgerton's' she clarified when Mrs. Crabtree looked at her curiously and she watched as her  smile fell off into a disgruntled frown, sniffing loudly. 

 

'Almost two months. Mr. Benedict has told them to leave, that he does not want them here, but they refuse to go. It has been evident that he came by his stubbornness honestly.' 

 

Penelope looked around as they stepped onto the second floor, her stomach dropping when she saw that the inside of the cottage had not been excluded from the neglect and disrepair that marked its outside. Cobwebs had made a home in the corners of the ceiling, a thick layer of dust on the hallway runners and the candelabras, flowers dead, laying untouched and abandoned in vases, books, once so precious to the two of them, rotting away with mildew. She felt a hand cover the back of hers, dry and comforting, and looked up, her eyes filled with tears meeting Mrs. Crabtree's sad and knowing brown ones.

 

'I know, child. I know.' 

 

Penelope swallowed, unsure she wanted the answer to the question on the tip of her tongue. But she had to ask. 

 

'Susan….what happened here?'  

 

Mrs. Crabtree's face grew sad. 

 

'He refused to let us in. Refused to see anyone. I still snuck in when I could, to make sure he was eating and bathing, leaving meals for him to find. But he wouldn't let us stay long enough to ensure the upkeep of the house. All he has done for the last year is paint and pace this house at all hours of the day and night or out in the grounds looking for…' 

 

Her guilt, her self-hatred, flared at the way Mrs. Crabtree trailed off, pressing her lips together to hold in the words but Penelope knew the words she did not speak, and Penelope couldn't hold back the way she flinched. 

 

Mrs. Crabtree's eyes widened, and she gave her a horrified look. 'Oh, I'm sorry, Miss. Penelope. I shouldn't have…' 

 

Penelope shook her head. 'No, it's okay. I asked. It's my fault.' 

 

Not only for asking the question, but for being the reason Benedict had locked himself away, had barred them from the cottage. The reason everything was in such disrepair. Even why he was sick. It was all her fault. 

 

'You were doing what you thought was right', Mrs. Crabtree said firmly, giving her a stern look as they began the climb to the third floor and Penelope shrugged helplessly at her. 

 

'Yes, but…' she bit her lip, before speaking, the words falling from her lips like a confession, '...I'm scared that what I thought was right…. I'm not so sure it was anymore.' 

 

'Anything can be fixed, my dear, if you are willing to try. Now, shall I prepare your old room or…?' 

 

She raised an eyebrow at her in silent challenge, and Penelope knew this was a test. One she refused to fail. 

 

'No, that won't be necessary.' 

 

She would be staying with Benedict. Even if he was furious with her. Even if he banished her from his rooms, if he no longer lo… wanted her, she would sleep across his threshold if she needed to. She would not leave him to fight this alone. She would do everything in her power to save him. She would take every second he allowed her. And after, once the fight was won, if he still wanted to see her gone… if he never wished to see her again… 

 

She flinched one more at the mere thought of it, of a life lived entirely without Benedict, knowing she had truly lost him forever, slicing her open to the bone. She had already spent a year without him, forcing herself to stay away and yet wishing every second that she was by his side, in his arms, feeling those ever-changing beautiful hazel eyes on her, aching to trace the lines beside them from that soft grin that she knew solely belonged to her, able to find him only in dreams and waking aching for him, for the ghost that faded as soon as her eyes opened, the weight of his arm around her waist a phantom ache that lingered for hours and even days after the dream had occurred. She knew it would destroy something inside her, that last final hope that she'd held onto for all this time. That she couldn't bring herself to let go of. It would kill her to lose him, to lose the love that had been given so freely, that she had been unable to accept for his own good but wanted more than anything in the world. 

 

She knew her own love for him would never go out, that her heart would always sing for his. Would be his always. She would love him until her last, dying breath. 

 

Mrs. Crabtree smiled, nodding approvingly. 'Good.' 

 

Penelope wiped her suddenly sweaty hands on her skirts, chewing on her bottom lip, her breath starting to grow choppy as nerves had her growing twitchy and an anxious mess with every step they took up the stairs, getting closer to an unknowing Benedict and the confrontation she knew was coming, and she spoke, needing a distraction. 

 

'Does he know? That I was coming.' 

 

Mrs. Crabtree shook her head as they stepped onto the landing of the third floor, the door of Benedict's bedroom that had once, long before, been theirs, at the very end of it. Just waiting for her to open it. Penelope swallowed hard, her throat suddenly tight and dryer than the sahara desert, her heart pounding in her chest. He was there. Only a few feet away. So close she swore she could feel him, his heart, his soul, reaching for her own. As if sensing her as well. 

 

'No. We didn't want to get his hopes up. Just in case the Viscount could not find you. He searched you for, you know. Every day and night for the last twelve months.' 

 

'What if he doesn't wish to see me?' Penelope blurted out, her deepest fear exposed, knowing Mrs. Crabtree was the only person who wouldn't lie to her. Who wouldn't spare her feelings. 

 

So it made something tight and tangled and raw inside her unravel slightly when Mrs. Crabtree stared at her, her mouth slightly open, seeming utterly perplexed by her question, by the very thought, looking at her as if she was mad. 

 

'Nonsense! That boy has been waiting for you for over a year! Your only problem will be him allowing you to ever leave his sight again. Now, no more of this silliness. Go to that poor man now.'

 

Penelope took the still steaming jug that Mrs. Crabtree snatched from the air and shoved into her shaking arms, muttering under her breath about young fools as she turned and walked down the stairs, disappearing down them, leaving Penelope standing there, her chest rising and falling as her eyes immediately turned back to that door, unable to resist the draw of it, and realised it was the only thing separating the two of them. That and her fear. 

 

But she had promised herself when she had left that morning, had left the empty life and home she had forced herself to create, to try and fill the hole that leaving Benedict had eroded inside her, that she wouldn't let fear keep her from him a second longer. So she summoned every ounce of courage she had and she walked towards that door, her breath hitching as she curled her fingers around the cold, tarnished door handle, engraved with a flame, that he'd had commissioned to represent what had brought them together. She caressed it for a second, breathing deeply, before she slowly turned the handle

 

And stepped into the unknown.

Notes:

I know, I know, I'm terrible! But I just love a cliffhanger. What did you all think of the reunion? I know we are all excited for the reunion with Benedict, and it is coming, but the next chapter will actually be our first real flashback which I'm so expected to share with you. The beginning of our love story xx

Chapter 5

Notes:

Hi my lovelies! God, what a week it has been. But we have made it to Saturday and that means a new update and the first of our flashbacks and the beginning of their love story. I really hope you like this new chapter. I know everyone is really looking forward to the reunion and it is coming next week (kind of....) but I hope you will enjoy this chapter anyways as it heralds our beginning. Thank you once more for your incredible support and comments. I read and adore every one I receive and can't thank you all enough.

A scream tore out of her throat as Penelope came awake. Her eyes, as they snapped open, blurred with a bone-deep terror, the echo of it, of pain and agony and terror, filling her mouth, tasting of ash and the salt of the tears that had begun to spill down her cheeks before she had even opened her eyes, snatched out of some nightmare she was still living. 

 

She kicked and tore at whatever bound her, pressing her down onto the surface below, an animal like noise of desperation dragging up from her chest as she wildly clawed at her wrists and ankles, nightmare and memory and reality all blurring into one, and all she could see was the ropes that had held her captive, that had torn at her flesh and held in her place, trapped, for the flames to find her. When she found none, her fingers, curled into sharp claws, turned onto her throat, for the collar she could still feel heavy and cold against her skin, that had locked her magic away, scratching and ripping at the skin there, confusion filling her, clouding her mind, when she found nothing but her own skin and a stinging line of blisters she had torn open, able to feel her blood dripping down and pooling in the hollow there. 

 

Large hands suddenly wrapped around her wrists, yanking them down and pinning them away from her, and Penelope's body surged with a wild panic that had her scrambling out of the grip, smashing back against the wooden headboard of what she realised now, through the haze of her blind fear, must be a bed. She shook uncontrollably, sobbing as her leg burst into fresh flames as she tried to curl it up underneath her, squeezing her eyes shut and curling up as small as she could, begging. 

 

'No! Please…don't… not again…leave me alone….please…' 

 

'It's okay. It's okay, Penelope. You're safe. They can't hurt you anymore. You're safe here…it's me…' the voice…the man…repeated it over and over, their voice soothing and coaxing, and his voice…. She knew that voice. 

 

The terror receded enough that Penelope lifted her head from her knees, her eyes hot and blurry with tears as she took the man in, the worry and hurt for her that tightened his face, his hands hanging in the air between them before he let them drop, the hazel eyes that had met hers through the flames… 

 

Benedict. 

 

Memories flashed through her mind, each one making her tremble harder. Burning, agonising, blistering pain. Wishing for death and then…Benedict. Him climbing the gallows, him cutting her free. Saving her. 

 

She saw his eyes dip down to her wrists, her gaze reluctantly following and felt her stomach drop at the sight of her wrists, covered in long, bleeding scratches, and she realised… he hadn't been trying to hurt her. He'd been trying to stop her from hurting herself. 

 

She swallowed, her throat feeling like she had swallowed razors, as she slowly, carefully, slid down the bed, still feeling unsure, her heart racing with confusion, and her mouth thick and dry with fear that had not yet begun to fade  as she forced herself to meet his gaze, to look at that face so like… so like the ones who had tried to kill her. 

 

'Where…where am I?' 

 

'You're safe. You're at my home My Cottage. It's miles from London and I thought it the best place to bring you. My family…' Benedict trailed off when she saw him notice her flinch, recoiling at the mention of them, eyeing him warily when he reached for her hand but stopped before his hand touched hers, drawing back,  not wanting that pained, devastated, fearful look directed at himself. He swallowed and continued, 'They never come here. I only have my caretakers and I would trust them with my life. They will not betray that you are here.' 

 

'How long have I been here?' she asked again, her voice an aching croak and she was grateful when Benedict hurriedly reached out and grabbed a glass from the bedside table, pressing it to her lips, drinking it down, every drop like cool heaven. 

 

'A few days. We kept giving you the sleeping and pain potions to allow you to heal as much as you could.' 

 

'My mother….and my sisters? Are they here?' 

 

Benedict's face hardened with an uncharacteristic fury, so unexpected that Penelope shifted back nervously, and, seeing her reaction, Benedict closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as if to try and calm himself, his expression apologetic when he reopened them. 

 

'Your Mother and sisters ran the very day you were captured…' he said, disgust thick in his voice, practically spitting the words out. 'We have no idea where they ran to.' 

 

The pain the truth brought slashed like a sabre, running her through, knocking the air from her lungs, even as a distant part of her was not at all surprised. Portia Featherington would always save her own skin above anything or anyone else, even the life of her youngest child. Penelope had always known this. So why did it hurt so badly? 

 

Looking for a distraction and a reprieve from the pity on Benedict's face as he watched her, cataloging every shift of emotion on her face, Penelope glanced down at her leg which she now saw was wrapped in damp bandages, the smell of a healing tonic filling the room, rich and pungent. 

 

'How…how bad is it?' 

 

Benedict's face immediately folded in at her question, crumpling with a grim pain and sympathy and Penelope closed her eyes against it, not wishing to see it. She had known it would be bad even as she had asked but…to see the look on his face, the confirmation, made her want to bury her face in her hands and weep. 

 

She jolted when Benedict's hand brushed her cheek, startled by the touch, her eyes snapping open, staring at him. She was so rarely touched. Her Mama was never one for tenderness or warm embraces, her sister's unaffectionate and cold with each other and even more so with her. The only time she was ever touched was when Colin rarely asked her to dance or Eloise took her hand to drag her somewhere. And the only touches she had received recently had been cruel, designed to hurt and mark and punish. 

 

This gentleness… this offer of comfort…this grounding, letting her know she wasn't alone, made her instinctively lean into it, just for a second, allowing herself a moment of weakness before she exhaled and pulled back, feeling steadier somehow and she nodded at him to continue, knowing she needed to hear the truth. She could not avoid it. It was her reality now. 

 

'You will walk again…though not how you did before. You may have a limp. Genevieve tried everything she could but she said it was witch-fire, that it's impossible to reverse its effects. But your leg… it will never look the same.' 

 

Witch-fire, Penelope thought, horror filling her. She was lucky she had not been set ablaze at the first spark. It was the most dangerous and uncontrollable magic that existed in their world. Most witches wouldn't dare attempt it for fear of burning up themselves. She was lucky to have a leg left at all. She was unsurprised that the Queen would utilise it for her own gain and knew she must have a witch under her command, a traitor to their kind. Her powers must be weak, however, as if she wasn't, Penelope would be ash on the wind right now. 

 

'She did all she could', Penelope whispered. God, what was she to do now? She had lost everything. She could never return to London, to the only home she had ever known. Even though it had never really been much of a home in the first place, it was all she had ever known. She knew the Queen would never stop hunting her and she had left behind all of her Whistledown earnings under the floorboards in her room and had no way of retrieving them. She was alone. Where could she go? How would she survive? 

 

As if reading her racing, panicked thoughts, Benedict took her chin hesitantly but gently in his hand, turning her face towards him, his hazel eyes kind, his breath against her face warm and oddly soothing. 'You are not alone, Penelope. You are safe here. This might be my home but it can be yours also. For as long as you wish it to be. I will protect you, I swear it.' 

 

Penelope blinked back tears, her chin wobbling, pressing her forehead to her knees, not wishing him to see her cry. She felt him hovering, clearly unsure what to do before he seemed to come to a decision and she felt his arms come around her, his head leaning against hers, holding her tight. 

 

'It's okay, Penelope. Let it out. I've got you. You can let go'. 

 

So Penelope did. She cried and wailed and wept, for the life that was gone forever, for the girl who had had such hope, who had still been able to dream, who had died on that pyre. For the betrayal that had seemed so easy for the two people in the world she had trusted the most, who she had loved the most, that had torn her heart to shreds. For the family who had ridiculed her and tore her down, who had abandoned her to her death to save their own skins. And for Benedict, whose guilt she could almost feel pulsing through him, guilt that he hadn't got to her sooner when he was the only reason she was here. That she was alive. He had come when no-one else had, when he didn't have to. He had come for her. 

 

She lifted her tear-streaked face to his, her eyes swollen and swore, still shaking with sobs, meeting his worried and aching gaze. 

 

'Thank you. You saved my life'. 

 

Tears of his own filled his eyes and he let them fall, no shame or embarrassment and he fell forward, his arms wrapping around her waist as he pressed his face to her stomach, making her jump, her hands jerking away in surprise at the impropriety of it all, before she slowly, nervously, lay her hands on his head, running her fingers through his hair, before she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, holding him as tightly as he had done her. It was her turn to hold him, to hold him together as he wept, offering an affection, solace and comfort that would have caused scandal and repercussions in their world but she didn't care. They were not in that world any longer. Its rules didn't matter anymore. 

 

'I should have done more…' he whispered into her stomach, and Pneelope shook her head in denial, even knowing he couldn't see it. 

 

'No…' 

 

'If I had worked quicker….if I hadn't waited until you were tied to the pyre…you wouldn't be hurt…' 

 

'If you hadn't done anything, I would be dead.' 

 

Benedict jerked against her at her brutal, but true, words, lifting his head to meet her eyes, his own eyes gone dark with pain and horror at what they had both endured. At what they had seen and suffered. 

 

Penelope hesitantly, gingerly, touched his cheek, his beard prickling against the soft skin of her palm. 'You mustn't feel guilt, Benedict. Please. Not when your actions are the only reason I am here.' 

 

Benedict looked as if he was barely breathing as he stared at her, his chest falling and rising jerkily, before he nodded, wiping at his cheek but not trying to move her other from his face. 

 

Penelope let out a breath she hadn't even known she was holding, dropping her hand. 'Good. Where's Genevieve?' 

 

Benedict looked almost bereft at the loss of her touch but quickly composed himself, sitting up and waving at the doorway. 'She's sleeping. I sent her to bed a few hours ago. She hadn't slept in almost four days and I thought she was going to fall flat on her face.' 

 

Penelope's chest filled with warmth at the thought of the woman who had become her confidante, her business partner and her friend. She owed her, and Benedict, so much. They had saved her life and her leg. She would never be able to pay them back. 

 

'Are you hungry?' Benedict asked and Penelope thought about it before shaking her head. Her stomach felt jerky and unsettled but not hungry. 

 

Benedict's brow furrowed. 

 

'You haven't eaten in days, Penelope. You need to try at least.' 

 

Penelope reluctantly nodded in agreement, willing to try even if only to please him, and Benedict almost ran from the room at her ascent to procure something for her to eat, calling out for a Mrs. Crabtree. He returned not long after with a steamy bowl of simple chicken soup and helped her to eat it, not satisfied until she had drained every last drop. 

 

Her stomach full and warm and satisfied, Penelope felt the exhaustion from the heightened emotions and from her body's need to heal begin to drag her under and her eyelids grew heavy, refusing to stay open. She felt Benedict help her to lay down, pulling up the covers, hovering like an overbearing Mama, his hand cool and so gentle on her brow as he pushed a sweaty strand of hair off her forehead that she felt tears well behind her closed lids. 

 

'Sleep, Penelope. I'll be here when you wake.' 

Notes:

As always, let me know what you think, lovelies xx I can't wait to read your amazing comments xx

Chapter 6

Notes:

Hi lovelies! So I truly wasn't planning on adding another chapter until next weekend but I wrote almost two chapters this weekend (one needs to be heavily edited but it's so angsty and heartbreaking- three guesses what chapter that is-, I don't know if I can handle it right now), and since I'm so ahead, I couldn't wait to share this chapter with you which is the much anticipated reunion (well...sort of, you'll understand once you read it haha). I am so excited to share this chapter with you. I have a feeling it's going to be one of your favourites.

The room looked exactly the same. 

 

She didn't know why it was the first thought that came to her as she stepped into the room, her heart pounding in her ears and throat, her breath caught in her chest, as her eyes darted around the room, feeling like she was stepping into the past. Into a capsule of time…as if the last year of separation had never happened. 

 

She could almost imagine it was true as she looked around the room that had once been hers also. At the bedside table with a tower of books that she could have sworn were the ones she had left there, as well as the decanter of whisky that had been quickly become their shared nightly vice, one glass before bed, before they would tumble into each other's arms, the taste of it on each other's tongues and teeth. At the wardrobe with the door that never quite closed, hanging open, able to spy his white linen shirts and… .a single pale pink dress- his favourite colour on her- that she must have accidentally forgotten. Left behind to haunt him. 

 

The room was almost unbearably hot, the fire in the hearth piled high with wood, and it made Penelope's hands shake and go slick with sweat so slippery she hurriedly set the jug she was holding onto the floor, the heels of her boots clicking against the wooden floor louder than a gutshot, before she lifted wide, hopeful eyes and found…him. 

 

Benedict. 

 

He lay in the large wooden sleigh bed that had once been theirs, looking impossibly small when she had always known him to be larger than life, the emerald green sheets tangled and twisted around him, as if he had been tossing and turning. Her stomach twisted as she looked at him, fear filling her even as she desperately, impatiently, drank him in, taking in every devastating change that she had missed in the twelve months since she had left him. 

 

His brown hair, longer than she had last seen it, falling past his neck, was soaked to his forehead with sweat, and she could see the glint of silver at his temples, threaded through it, that hadn't been there before. His hazel eyes were unfocused as he stared up dazedly at the ceiling, muttering something under his breath she couldn't hear. And his face…his face, his achingly beautiful face that she had feared she would never see again…….it terrified to see how altered it was, how gaunt it had become, his cheeks flushed but hollowed, his once tanned and vibrant skin gone dull and pale. How weak and thin his body was beneath the sheets and blankets that had been piled on top of him, no doubt in an effort to burn the fever from him. 

 

She could smell the fever and sickness in the air, heavy and threatening. Looming, attempting to take that which was hers. But she wouldn't let it. She refused to. He was hers. And she refused to give him up, even to Death. 

 

He lay curled on his side and it was clear, from the untouched and unwrinkled sheets on the other side of him, that he refused to sleep on what was once her side. Refused to encroach on it, as if it pained him… as if he was still waiting for her to slide beneath the covers and to snuggle into his side. As she had dozens, if not hundreds of times, before. 

 

She clenched her fingers in front of her as she spoke, through a throat that felt tight and choking, her voice thick and croaky, and she was unable to hide the way it shook. And didn't even try to. 

 

'You know….there are easier ways to get my attention'. 

 

Benedict jerked in the bed, rising jerkily up onto his elbow and lifted fever-bright eyes to where she stood by the doorway. He stared at her, his chest heaving with shocked breaths, before the corners of his mouth unexpectedly twisted up into that crooked smile, so beautiful and familiar, so hers, it had a sob stuttering in her chest, the sight of it leaving her feeling weak as an overwhelming joy she never thought she would feel again rushed through her, warming her to the very tips of her toes. A feeling she was sure she would never feel again.  

 

Her magic sang inside her, as full of joy as she was. It squirmed impatiently inside her stomach, wanting her to move closer, to touch him, as starved as she was for his presence, his touch. For just him. The sound of his voice. His scent. She wanted to lay in it, roll around until it became hers, until it would never fade from her nose again.  

 

'It worked, didn't it?' Benedict said, his voice rough like sandpaper, as if he hadn't used it in a while, but playful and teasing,full of a honeyed warmth that had knees buckling. He chuckled as he looked at her, tilting his head back, running his glazed eyes over her, taking it every wind-swept strand of hair, her blushing cheeks, her tear-bright eyes, his old travelling coat that she hadn't had a chance to remove, right down to the tips of her worn boots, as if as starved for her as she was for him, before he chuckled, the sound one of complete self-deprecation. .

 

'Of course my mind would conjure you up at the end'. 

 

Penelope's heart stopped in her chest at his words, the cold realisation of it hitting her like a slap. She could tell, from the flush of his cheeks, unnaturally red and shiny with sweat and the glassiness of his eyes, that he was caught in fever and believed her a ghost. Some hallucination, a phantom come to haunt and torment him, forever lost except in fading dreams. Her heart broke at the thought, as she wondered how many times he had imagined her, had believed she had come, had returned to him, only for the fever to break, leaving him  to face the reality that she was still lost. Gone from him. That she had abandoned him. To remember and relive it, over and over. And she hated herself for it. For hurting him like this. 

 

Penelope scoffed, the noise choked with unshed tears. She wished he would look at her with disgust as she walked towards him, coming to stand by his side, instead of like he was now, awed and reverential. She didn't deserve it, didn't deserve his love, his wonder.. 'This is not the end because you are not dying. Not if I have any say in it.' 

 

She pressed a trembling hand to his forehead, to attempt to gauge his fever, when he caught her hand and tugged with a surprising strength considering how weak he looked, and she let out a squeak as he pulled her closer to him until she almost tumbled into his lap. His lips, hot and dry, brushed along the side of her face, grazing from her temple down, sending her shivering. 

 

'"The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss. A dateless bargain to engrossing death"', he whispered as his lips brushed the corner of her own in a barely there caress that had her eyes fluttering on a wave of grief and agony and want.  

 

Says Romeo to Juliet at his death, she thought, dread filling her. He still believed her not to be real, even as she sat, real and warm beneath his fingers. He seemed resigned to death. Accepting it. Well, he might have accepted it but she would go willingly to her own death before she would ever accept his. 

 

'You will not be meeting death anytime soon. Not unless he wants me to answer to'. 

 

But he wasn't listening, his hands mapping her face, slowly, reverently, his eyes unfocused and faraway, his lips turned up the corners, dreamily.

 

'So soft', he muttered, as he played with her curls, lifting them to his lips and kissing them, 'How are you even more beautiful than when you left me?' 

 

Her? He was wrong. He was the beautiful one. He always had been. She had somehow forgotten in those endless months, her mind dulled to it, if only to protect herself from hurt, just how beautiful he was. Or perhaps she hadn't let herself remember. Songs and poems should be written about it, his dark thick hair, slowly becoming flicked with silver that only added to its lustre, the lines near his eyes and mouth, telling of a life spent choosing laughter and joy, his ever-changing hazel eyes, not green, not brown, not grey, but all, intertwined in a unique kaleidoscope that was all him, looking at her with such love and adoration, the elegant lines of his jaw and nose, his noble brown and full sculpted lips. He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen. 

 

He jerked suddenly, almost sending her sliding to the floor when his chest heaved and began to cough, the sound of it thick and painful, a barking rattle that had his eyes watering and going wide with panic. Penelope rushed forward, wrapping an arm around his back and pulling him up, reaching blindly for a glass of water on the bedside table and pressing it to his lips, helping him to swallow, to try to ease the phlegm caught in his chest. It eased after the longest two minutes of Penelope's life and he slumped back against his propped up pillows, his breath a wet gurgle, bringing tears to Penelope's eyes. 

 

She reached into the pockets of the coat that had once been his and pulled out one of the vials she had shoved into it that morning, hoping it would be of use, that it would be helpful, the pale green liquid inside shining in the dimly lit room.

 

'Here, Benedict. Drink this for me', she said, brushing it against his bottom lip and he obediently opened his mouth, letting her tilt the liquid into his mouth, swallowing. 

 

'What was that?' Benedict asked curiously, almost sounding child-like, so trusting, and Penelope felt a pang of guilt as she spoke, not able to meet his eyes as she slid the empty vial back into her pocket. 

 

'It'll help you sleep. You'll feel better when you wake.' 

 

'What?' Benedict cried out before he tried to sit up, leaning forward and gagging, as if  trying to bring the potion back up, but it had already slid down his throat, before he turned bruised-looking, betrayed looking eyes on her. 

 

'Why would you do that? I don't wish to sleep. When I wake you are always gone'. 

 

Penelope felt something in her chest crack at the pain and fear in his voice, trembling and real, and she brushed his dark hair back from his face, still so soft even soaked from his fever, his words to her from so long ago coming back to her. The reassurance they had once given her, and she made sure he was looking at her, that he could see the truth and promise in her gaze and hear it in her voice. 

 

'I'll be here when you wake.' 

 

Benedict's eyes widened, his breath catching, recognising his own words echoed back to him, and he swallowed hard before nodding, his eyes already beginning to flutter, the potion taking effect and he clutched at her hand, holding it tightly, afraid to let go. 

 

'Promise me.' 

 

She lifted his hand to her mouth and kissed it. 'I promise you, Benedict.' 

 

Benedict smiled sleepily at her, trusting her when she had done nothing to deserve it, and he gave in to the pull of the potion and rest, his breath coming easier already. 

 

Penelope slumped, feeling the tears that had been threatening to spill over since she had entered the room shimmering on the edges of her lashes and gave in, letting a few escape. Exhaustion suddenly hit her like a wave, the weight of the day, the ride through the winter storm and the emotions of facing the Bridgertons and seeing Benedict again, swamping her, her entire body feeling heavy and aching with guilt and joy and fear at seeing him so changed. 

 

She stood and began to strip out of her riding dress and stays, kicking off her boots and stockings until she was left in nothing but her chemise. She glanced at the slightly ajar wardrobe before walking towards it and pulled out one of his shirts. She pressed it to her nose, drawing his scent back into her lungs, fresh tears pricking at her eyes.. She had been so lost without it, without him, mourning when it had faded from her own clothes and the shirt she had taken to sleep with, to pretend he was still beside her. 

 

She pushed her chemise off her shoulders until it pooled at her feet, shivering in the cold air, before she tugged his shirt over her head, feeling the soft, worn material settle around her like a warm embrace and sighed, a feeling of rightness filling her. She made her way over to the bed, to her side, running her fingers over the cool duvet before she pulled back the covers and crawled in beside him. She hesitated for only a second before she curled into his side, laying her head on his chest, listening to his heart, racing in his sleep, trying so hard to fight this illness. 

 

She pressed a kiss over it, willing it to keep fighting before she closed her eyes, her breath hitching as she felt Benedict's arms come around her, pulling her even closer, and she snuggled into him, feeling for the first time in over a year, that she was truly whole. 

Notes:

Please, please let me know your thoughts, lovelies. I am on pins and needles xx

Chapter 7

Notes:

Hi darlings!! Once again, I have to start this note by thanking you all for your wonderful support that makes this whole process so worth it! You are truly the best. I have a nice long one for you today. It was originally supposed to be another flashback but I realised it doesn't really make sense with the timeline and POVs so I actually have another present-tense chapter and....Benedict's POV for the very first time!!! I hope you love it, lovelies. It's honestly my absolute favourites chapter of this fic, and it had been so long since I'd reread it that I actually teared up xx

The first thought that Benedict had when he awoke, the haze of the fever that had hung over his mind for so long it felt odd to have it lifted, cleared, his thoughts not snarled and fuzzy but his own once more, was he wished he hadn't. 

 

He had been dreaming of her again. Of his Nel. And it was akin to torture, but one he would willingly suffer, had no wish to escape and would happily endure for the entirety of his life if it meant that he would see her again, even if it was just a shadow, a fade, of her. 

 

He was no stranger to the dreams. They were not something brought forth from his illness, but had begun almost from the day he had awoken to find her gone from him, disappeared into the night as if she had never truly existed, leaving barely a trace of her behind. And he lived for them. For the vision of her, her hair alight like flames or the brightest leaves of autumn, a smile playing on her full lips, the feeling of her skin under his fingers, the weight of her against him. There was rarely anything lustful or seductive in his dreams. Instead they were a taunt, a vision of what could have been. Lazy mornings spent in bed, eating toast and getting crumbs throughout their sheets. Sitting together in his studio as they had before, her writing at the desk he had commissioned for her, while he painted, not speaking a word for hours. Not needing to. Her, round and radiant, pregnant with their children, her cheeks flushed and her winter blue eyes bright and shining with happiness, as she pressed his hand to where their child kicked and moved beneath her skin. The life that could have been. 

 

And as torturous as these dreams were….he would not give them up for anything. They were all he had left of her after all, the false memories and future his mind conjured to conserve him. To keep him standing and breathing, the only thing holding him together. 

 

But last night's dream? It felt so strange… so different. So real, in its pauses and awkwardness, in the sadness and fear that had paled her face, the way her hands had shook and trembled as she touched him, gentle even as she scolded him for speaking of his death, the tears that she hadn't been able to hide, that shone in her eyes. She was never melancholy, never sad, in his dreams. And the thought of it, of her tears and sadness, made his chest tighten to the point of pain, stealing the little breath he had in his labouring lungs. 

 

God, he could almost swear he could still feel her beside him, her small dainty fingers wrapped around his wrist, her warm breath brushing against his neck, the weight of her head against his shoulder. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, dreading this next part. Where he would be forced to open his eyes and she would be gone, nothing but empty air and cold sheets beside him. Alone again. 

 

He braced himself and slowly, loathingly, he opened his eyes. 

 

And felt his heart stop. 

 

Because she did not fade, disappearing like smoke or fog, sliding through his fingers into nothingness that carved him open every time. No, she remained, her bright red curls vibrant and fiery against the green of his pillows, her darker lashes brushing the freckled cream of her cheeks, her mouth slightly open in her sleep, her sharp chin digging into the skin of his collarbone. 

 

Benedict waited for it, for the moment when he would blink and she would be gone, sure it would come any moment, but…it didn't come. And he began to shake, his head shaking back and forth in disbelief even as he lifted his hand, his muscles weak and trembling from disuse, reaching out, needing to know… needing to be sure…

 

His breath hissed out between his teeth in shock as his hand closed around her arm, around the real and unmistakable warmth of her against his palm and fingers. Real. No longer just a longing or fantasy. No longer a dream, the heat of her a balm to his bruised and aching soul. 

 

She was real. She was truly here. The dream…it had not been a dream at all. She had truly returned to him. 

 

Benedict's sight blurred as hot tears filled his eyes and he immediately, impatiently, swiped them away, refusing to lose sight of her for even a second. It had been so long since he had truly seen her, the real her, not some memory he had summoned up, and he drank her in, covetously, insatiably, all the ways she had changed and yet was the same. Her freckles had faded slightly as they did when she avoided the sun, as they had when she had been stuck inside the cottage while she had healed, and he despised the idea of her hiding herself away as he had done so, locking himself inside My Cottage, hating the very sight of the sun, of anything joyful or beautiful, when his own life had turned to ash and emptiness. Her red hair was darker also, more autumn than flame, and her face looked tormented, even in her sleep, as if she had suffered as much as he had, hollows underneath her eyes. 

 

'Nel..' he whispered and held his breath, when she immediately came awake, sitting up so abruptly she almost hit his chin with her head, her face scrunching in confusion as her eyes opened, disorientated and muddled, before she turned her head and… her eyes met his. 

 

Those eyes. Those captivating, bewitching eyes that rivalled the sky and sea, a colour he had tried in vain to replicate in paint every day since he had lost her, dark circles under them, but that didn't change the fact that she was somehow more beautiful than the day she left him. 

 

'Benedict', she breathed, and Benedict couldn't help the sob that tore from his chest at the sound of his name from her lips, her voice shaking and full of both joy and uncertainty, hesitant and fearful in a way his Nel had never been before, not with him, her eyes wide and her lips trembling. As if terrified he would cast her out, that he would send her away. 

 

His silly love. As if, now that he had her back, he would ever let her go again. 

 

'Nel', he said once more, his own voice trembling as well but with an overwhelming joy that had tears sliding down his cheeks, his heart not racing but slow and sure, as he reached out a surprisingly steady hand and ran a finger down her cheek, awed. 'You're real. You're here.' 

 

Penelope nuzzled into his hand, closing her eyes as she savoured his touch, his fingers calloused from years of holding a paintbrush, the fear curdling her stomach fading slightly at the awe and love in his gaze, his beautiful eyes gone blue-green in his happiness that almost glowed from him. Waking to his voice…to his gentle, reverent touch…..to his eyes on her, filled with stunned disbelief but so much happiness, and lucid, the fever having fallen back for now…and not the betrayal and hatred she was so sure she would see when he truly knew she was there….it meant everything. It was everything she had never dared to hope for. 

 

'I am', she whispered, blinking back the tears that tried to spill over, giving him a trembling smile.

 

Benedict leaned over her until she had no choice but to lay back against the pillows, her heart skipping in her chest, brushing her hair back from her face as naturally as if he had been doing it everyday, tucking it behind her ear. He hesitated, unsure for the first time since she had awoken, his eyes darting to her mouth before they once again met her own. 

 

'May I… can I kiss you? I don't wish to presume… we have been parted so long…you might not…' 

 

Penelope cradled his face in her hands, the prickle of his beard tickling her skin, swallowing against the lump in her throat that formed when he let out a shuddering breath of relief, as if her touch eased some pain that plagued him, that only she could soothe. 

 

'My answer to that question will never be anything but yes.' 

 

Benedict dropped his forehead to hers on a quiet, hitching sob, relief flooding him, before he lifted her chin, feeling her breath flutter against his lips. 

 

'What if you get sick?' 

 

'I don't care', Penelope said, as she lifted her head from the pillow and pressed her lips to his and… it felt like coming home. 

 

Her fingers grasped at the hair at the back of his neck, sighing when his arms came around her, pulling her into him, her body pressed firmly to his own, their legs tangling together as they lost themselves in the taste and feel of one another, the kiss worshipping, reverent and full of so many things. Their longing and despair, their joy and their relief to be once again together, the love they hadn't put name to but sang between them nonetheless. . 

 

Benedict, despite all assurances and evidence to the contrary, couldn't believe it was real. He had thought he had remembered the taste of her, the softness of her lips against his own, the press of her body beneath his, the brush of her hair along his skin and how it set him alight, her own skin like silk as he grazed his fingers up her bare arms, causing her to shiver and arch into him as she kissed him back, but oh, how wrong he had been. She was as starved for him as he was for her, as desperate for proof that this was true and real and not their imagination. 

 

He only pulled back when he grew breathless, his useless lungs burning, heart racing as he gasped and coughed, trying to draw air into them, and had no choice but to roll away, his chest heaving even as he cursed his own weakness. Penelope scrambled up onto her knees panickedly, and he was already mourning the loss of her beneath him and reached for her but she was not going far, straddling him which would have been more than tempting if he could currently breathe. She placed her hand on his forehead and he saw her eyes widen in alarm. 

 

'You are burning up', she said, swearing under her breath. He was sick! What was she doing accosting him like that when he was so weak from fever that he could hardly sit up. 

 

Penelope lay her hands on his chest, her fingertips glowing a blinding white-gold as she sunk her magic under his skin, searching and seeking. Her stomach tightened when she felt the fluid in his lungs, the terrifying race of his heart. She could feel the sickness inside of him, squatting and insidious. She pushed her magic deeper, trying to catch it, to draw it out of him, knowing the price her own body would pay for it, but she didn't care. If it meant she could ease his suffering, she would pay that price a million times over. 

 

But Benedict snatched her hands back, her magic retreating back inside, snapping back into place, and it was even disgruntled, her eyes opening, not having realised they were closed, trying to glare at him, but her ire deflated at the chastising, indignant look he was pinning with her as he pressed her hands to his heart, shaking his head furiously. 

 

'No,' Benedict said, his heart racing for an entirely different reason, still a bit breathless but the tightness of his chest easing with every strained breath he managed, fear catching him by the throat, 'No, Penelope. Not like this. I will not risk you. Not when I just got you back.' 

 

Penelope bit her lip before reluctantly nodding in agreement. He was right. She was of no use to him if she was also struck down with illness. Though witches were immune to mortal illnesses and diseases, there was nothing to stop the infection spreading to her if she was to draw it directly into her. And she couldn't leave him to fight this alone. 

 

'Okay', she agreed hesitantly, before taking in his thin and tired body, the bones of his chest much too prominent for her liking, and she curled her fingers into the hair there, giving him a searching look. 'When was the last time you ate?' 

 

Benedict's brow drew together as he thought back, but couldn't remember the last time he'd had an appetite, having sent back all the trays that Mrs. Crabtree had sent him, not even her sternest look persuading him to eat. But he wasn't ashamed to say he felt probably chastened when Penelope pinned him with a reprimanding, disappointed look, her face stern and firm. 

 

'You need to eat, Benedict. Your body can't fight this alone. I'll go downstairs and make you some soup', she said, glancing out the window, sure it was the middle of the night and Mr and Mrs. Crabtree would have retired back to their home by now, 'And some willow-bark tea to help bring your fever down.' 

 

She went to climb off him, determined to get him eating as soon as possible, but Benedict's hands came down and tightened on her hips, holding her in place. Penelope jolted in surprise, her eyes darting down to his, and the fear etched into his face completely undid her, an ache settling in her stomach, beneath her ribs. 

 

'Don't leave', he whispered, and her heart hurt at the begging in his beloved voice, hating herself for doing this to him, for being the reason for this fear. 

 

She brought his hand to her lips, kissing the palm of it. 'I'm not going anywhere. Never again, Ben. I promise. Nothing could ever induce me to leave your side again.' 

 

Benedict felt the fear that had struck him as soon as she had gone to leave the room, to leave him, lessen slightly at her promise, at the truth in her voice, enough for him to be able to ease his grip on her hips and let her go rise off his lap, though it took everything inside him, his hands curling into fists at his side, and his eyes staring up at the ceiling, tears blurring his sight, to let her go. 

 

Penelope leaned down and kissed his forehead and then his chin, feeling guilty for leaving his side when she could see the terror that was holding him rigid, her fingers caressing one of the clenched fists by his side until it loosened, giving him a small smile before she tucked the blankets around him, noticed the way he had begun to shiver once more with the fever that was slowly creeping back in. 

 

'I won't be long'. 

 

Benedict nodded, turning his head to look at her as he heard her pick something off the floor and handed him her worn travelling boots. He stared at them, bemused, raising his eyebrows. 

 

'Collateral. I can't exactly go out in the snow barefoot, can I?' she said, grinning mischievously and Benedict snorted out a laugh before taking the boots with an almost mocking bow of his head. 

 

'I will keep them safe, my Lady.'

 

'You better. They're my favourite boots', she said with a wink before she left the room, closing the door open and magicking it shut, so no-one but she and the Crabtree's could disturb him without his express permission. 

 

She made her way down the stairs, using her magic as a brace once more, as she took them two at a time in her haste to return, not wanting to leave Benedict waiting for her any longer than necessary. She knew, though he had tried valiantly to hide it and would never speak it aloud, not wishing to burden her, that he didn't quite trust that she would return. And she could not fault him for it. She had left him. She had hurt him and he had no reason to trust her. It would take time, she knew, and she was more than willing to give it to him. 

 

She entered the servant quarters that led down to the kitchen and was pleased to find the fire inside was still lit, the room toasty and the stone floor less of an ice block under her feet. She went straight to the icebox, filled with snow she knew would have been collected from the storm outside, and felt a rush of appreciation and fondness for Mrs. Crabtree when she found a jar of chicken soup stored inside, ready for heating. 

 

She took it out, grabbing a pot as she went and poured the soup inside of it before placing both on the stand already sitting within the fire for just this purpose. She stood by the fire, warming her feet and hands that were beginning to get cold despite the heat of the flames, and was just bemoaning not having grabbed her coat or a blanket when a quiet gasp sounded behind her and she spun around, her eyes meeting Violet's own shocked ones. 

 

'Oh', Violet said, looking softer than Penelope had ever seen her, in a nightdress of her own under a thick dressing gown, her still youthful dark hair with only tiny strands of grey hidden in its depths, in a long braid that hung over her shoulder. She looked at Penelope for a long moment, her eyes dipping and widening when they took in Penelope's attire, her own son's shirt, and Penelope had the ridiculous urge to blush but pushed it away, lifting her chin. She refused to feel embarrassed or ashamed or cowed. 

 

'Penelope… I am sorry to intrude. I had just come down to get some tea. Sleep is eluding me as if it often does these days. But…I will come back later.' 

 

Violet turned to leave, and for some inexplicable reason, Penelope found herself calling out, stopping her. 'No… No, there is no need for you to leave, Lady Bridgerton. I was just heating some soup for Benedict. I won't be long.'  

 

Violet looked at her again for a moment, peering into her face, as if trying to ascertain if she was in earnest, before she nodded and gave her a kind smile. 'Thank you, Penelope.' 

 

An awkward silence filled the air behind them, only broken by the crack of the fire in the hearth, the bubbling of the warming stew, and the clink of porcelain and boiling water as Violet poured her tea. Penelope stirred the soup before taking a seat the old kitchen table, the place where she had learned to cook and bake over many afternoons which most of the time ended with her smeared with flour and something somewhat edible but it had been filled with laughter and banter and Benedict, elbow deep in dough, beside her, his dark hair almost white from clouds of flour, usually eating more of the filling of the pies they were making than ended up in it. 

 

She leaned her head against her hand at the memory and jumped when a cup of tea was placed in front of her, lifting surprised eyes to Violet's who took a hesitant seat next to her. 

 

'Cream, two sugars, right?' she asked quietly, her blue eyes searching, and Penelope suddenly had the urge to cry that after all this time Violet still remembered how she took her tea. 

 

She nodded her thanks, not trusting her voice, and took a sip of the tea, sweet and fragrant, warming the tips of her fingers. 

 

'Are you…. settling in okay? Do you need anything?' 

 

Penelope shook her head. 'No, but thank you. I know My Cottage better than I think I knew Featherington House and I was born there. If I require something, I know where to find it.' 

 

Violet paused, staring down into her tea, her fingers tightening on it, seeming to gather her courage, and Penelope felt her shoulders going tense, hunching forward, before she even spoke. 

 

'You and Benedict', she said, her eyebrows drawing together, unable to hide the bewilderment in her voice. 'I'm sorry. I know it is none of my business but I just…I  find it….somewhat surprising. I always thought it would be…well, you and Colin.' 

 

Penelope snorted at her words. At the thought of the union that had once been her most secret- or so she had thought- dream and how ludicrous it all seemed now. 

 

'Was I truly so transparent? I did, once, hold that foolish hope. But Lady Bridgerton, you have to understand…Colin and I would never have worked. Colin would never have accepted me for who I am. He broke my heart so many times, in so many different ways…I could not even name all the little wounds he inflicted on me in the years we were friends from his unthinking words that I knew he never meant to be cruel but cut anyways. And his own heart is much too flighty, too distracted by the next shiny thing that passes by to ever truly settle on me. You need only look at his infatuation with my own cousin to know that. He would have always caved to his peers' pressure and expectations, doing whatever he could, sacrificing whatever he had to to be liked and accepted, even when it came to matters of matrimony and his own heart. He never saw me. Not beyond what he wished to see. I would never have been able to share myself, be who I truly am, and be confident, assured, in the fact that his love wouldn't alter or that his pride would not get in the way. That he wouldn't turn from me. That he wouldn't resent me when he discovered I was more than what he had thought. Then he could see or chose to. He proved me right when he discovered I was a witch and Whistledown and let Anthony throw me into that cell. He never would have fought for me.'

 

'But Benedict….he is different. More than I ever imagined a man could be. He knows me entirely. I don't feel that fear with him, don't feel the need to hide who I am, the ugly and broken parts, to mask and pretend to be lesser than I am. I never have and he is the same with me. We are….two halves of a whole in a way I never expected to find. He is…extraordinary. He fights for me everyday, in so many little ways, even when I gave him every reason to give up on me. He is…everything. Light and courage and joy and vulnerability and goodness. He makes me feel and wanted in a world that cast me out, who ignored and belittled and discarded me.' 

 

Violet stared at her, her eyes wide and misty, a sudden understanding filling her face, her hands trembling around her teacup. 

 

'You really do love him.' 

 

It wasn't a question. It was a realisation. An understanding that had finally come.. A shift from doubt and scepticism to belief. 

 

Penelope nodded, her eyes not leaving hers. 'I do.'

 

Violet's chin trembled as she gave her a smile so full of joy it made Penelope shift a little in discomfort. For with that happiness came expectations and obligations, a want for something, a connection, that Penelope was not yet willing to give. But before she could voice this, could try and temper the hope she could see alighting Violet's eyes, she spoke once more. 

 

'And you are….staying in Benedict's rooms then?' Violet's voice was careful, but her eyes probed and, though it could have been Penelope's imagination, were a touch reproachful. 

 

Penelope lifted her chin once more, unashamed and unrepentant. 'Yes, I am.' 

 

'Did you….was this arrangement a regular occurrence? Before, I mean'. 

 

Penelope felt anger begin to simmer in her veins at the implication of her words, the insinuation that Benedict had somehow coerced or tricked her into his bed. That he had taken advantage of her when she was under his roof and protection. It was a vile imputation. And downright insulting to both of them. As if she didn't know her own mind and wishes. 

 

'Yes, it was. For nine months before I….before I left we shared his bed. At first it was just for comfort….I suffered with terrible nightmares almost every night and he was the only thing that kept them away but after a time it…we…. changed. Over the months we spent together I….we….feel in love. He wanted me to be his wife.' 

 

Violet's hands shook on the teacup in surprise and she lowered it carefully down onto the table, her mouth falling open. 'Benedict…he never said anything…he never told me…but if he did, why did you leave?' 

 

'Because I knew if he married me, he would lose all of you, and I couldn't live with myself if I was the reason that happened. So I left.' 

 

Tears filled Violet's eyes and she gave Penelope a look of such sympathy and hurt for her it fractured something in her chest, not used to being on the receiving end of such compassion anymore, the feeling leaving her feeling horribly exposed that she had no chance to brace herself for the words that came next. 

 

'Oh. Oh, Penelope. This is the first time we've seen him in over two years.' 

 

Penelope felt like she stopped breathing in that moment, like time stopped entirely. 

 

'What?' she choked out, disbelief and shock pinning her in place. She had known Benedict had refused to see Anthony and Eloise, to answer any of Colin's letters, but….the rest of them?

 

Violet nodded, tears in her eyes. 

 

'He has not been back to London or Mayfair since the night he saved you. He hasn't left My Cottage itself in over a year and has refused to see us or even respond to any of our letters. Even now…' her breath shuddered out and she closed her eyes for a second and when they reopened Penelope could see the pain and anguish clouding them, 'He bars us from his room. He blames us that he lost you and I find I can't blame him for it, especially now knowing that it is the truth.' 

 

He had never forgiven them. Had never forgiven what they had done to her. He had chosen her, like he had always promised her he would. Even with her gone, he had still chosen her over his family. All this time, all the loss and the sorrow and longing and the pain they'd suffered, all the time she had thought she had done the right thing…it had all been for nothing. 

 

Bloody, stubborn Bridgertons! She had to physically pull her hands back to stop from throwing the teacup against the wall, to watch it shatter like she just had, fracturing and fragmenting under the force of the truth, leaving nothing but a broken shell behind. 

 

She shoved shakily to her feet, beginning to pace back and forth, picking at and wringing her hands, her magic a swirling storm inside her, singing her fingertips. She cursed his obstinacy. She cursed her own damned stubbornness. If she had reached out, if she had come sooner, if she had even just enquired after him in the village, she would have known and she would have come to him. Perhaps at first just to yell at him for being a stubborn fool but she knew if she had, if she had set one foot inside My Cottage, inside her home, if she had set her eyes on him, she would have never left again. They would never have lost all this time. 

 

A sob wrenched out of her chest and she wrapped her arms around herself, trying desperately, vainly, to hold herself together, feeling herself splitting apart into pieces she wasn't certain she'd be able to put back together this time. 

 

She could feel Violet hovering beside her, see her beside her through her blurred eyes, her hands dangling helplessly beside her sides, wanting to reach for her, to hold and comfort her. But they both knew it wouldn't be welcomed, that it might even make it worse. So she stood beside her, the girl she had once thought would be her daughter-in-law, and perhaps might still be one day, and comforted her the only way she could. 

 

By standing by and letting her grieve. 

Notes:

As always, let me know what you think lovelies. I live for your comments and kudos.

Chapter 8

Notes:

Hi lovelies!!! Once more thank you for your amazing comments and support! I am stunned by the amount of love this fic has received. You are all amazing. I promise I will respond to all your comments. For some reason, AO3 is only letting me reply to a certain amount before it comes up with an error, I'm unsure why but will definitely be responding today or tomorrow xx Early update today as I have actual plans on a weekend (shocking right?) and didn't want to make you wait. We have our second flashback today, and I hope you love it xx

Penelope came awake with a groan, her eyes reluctantly opening as she twisted within the sheets that clung to her body uncomfortably which was sticky with sweat. She frowned, her limbs feeling weak as a newborns, trembling and aching and sore all over, her hair matted to her forehead, reeking with stale and old sweat in a way that had her nose wrinkling as she rose onto her elbows and looked around. 

 

What… what in the name of the Goddess had happened to her? She felt like she had been hit by a carriage, her head pounding and her mouth dry, tasting most foul. Her entire body was pulsing like an old bruise, not contained to her leg as had become the constant these last weeks of healing, stuck in this very bed at…. 

 

Benedict's Cottage! 

 

Her head turned, knowing before her gaze found him that he would be there, and he was, slumped forward in a chair by the side of her bed, his head turned towards as the upper half of his chest lay sprawled on the bed by her hip, his hands reaching for her. He looked so uncomfortable, his neck twisted in a way that she knew would leave him with such a  terrible crick when he awoke that her own ached in sympathy for him. 

 

She reached out weakly and touched his hand, gently, softly, not wishing to startle him by that simple touch was enough for him to jerk upright, his face creased from the duvet, his hair sticking up wildly, as if he had been running his fingers through it, dark circles under his eyes still bleary with sleep that was quickly fading from them as he found her looking at him, his mouth falling open, gaping at her in disbelief, before his eyes filled with tears. 

 

'Thank God', he breathed, standing and pressing his lips to her forehead hard. 'You scared the hell out of me, Penelope. Never do that again!' 

 

'What…what happened?' Penelope asked, her mind blurry with confusion, straining to try and recall… anything. The last thing she remembered was telling Genevieve that her leg was feeling a bit hot under the bandages and then….nothing. She couldn't remember anything after that. 

 

'You caught an infection. No matter what we did we couldn't wake you. I thought…' Benedict's voice broke, his eyes closing on a wave of fear and grief that tightened the lines at the corner of his eyes, feeling a hundred  years older than when he had woken five days before to find her on fire with a fever they couldn't break, no matter what they tried, her leg seeping with pus, crying out for her Mother, for Colin, for Eloise, for those who had betrayed her….and for him, while he had sat there, unable to do anything but hold her hand and pray. He had not felt that utterly helpless and useless since the day they had lost his Father…since the day his Mother had laboured with Hyacinth and had almost chosen death over her family, blind to anything but her grief. And, yet for some reason he didn't understand…this had felt a hundred times worse. He opened his eyes, clearing his throat, his cheeks flushing as he realised what he'd alluded to and said, '... we thought we were going to lose you. You have been asleep for five days! I could throttle you for scaring me like that.' 

 

'I'm thirsty', Penelope said, looking up at him with wide, beseeching eyes and Benedict felt a brittle, completely unexpected laugh escape him, the feeling of it, after spending the last five days terrified for her, the fear of losing her, of watching her fade away, taken down by something as small as an infection when she had survived so much, survived being burned alive, like a weight lifted from his chest, the release of it leaving him almost lightheaded with giddiness. 

 

He nodded, still chuckling, brushing her sweaty curls that had stuck to her cheek from her face.  

 

'Okay. I'll get you water.'  

 

After she had drunk down almost a full jug, her thirst satisfied, Penelope asked Benedict after Genevieve and he told her she had gone to the village to get more supplies. He had volunteered but Genevieve knew what they needed. 

 

'I want a bath', Penelope said, wrinkling her nose as she felt the layer of grime and sweat that had formed over her body, leaving her chemise sticking uncomfortably under her arms and every crease of her body. Her leg had healed enough to bear it, to bear the water against her still sensitive skin, still wrapped in bandages that she would need to be replaced afterwards, but she didn't care. She needed it. She was sick of sponge baths, of never feeling completely clean. 

 

Benedict hesitated, glancing nervously at the doorway, knowing Genevieve would kill him if he let her and she ended up hurting her leg further.  'Penelope…' 

 

'Please, Benedict'. 

 

Benedict's face softened as he took in her wide, pleading blue eyes, looking so tiny and miserable, that he knew he could never deny her this. 

 

He asked Mr. Crabtree to heat the water and fill it, and unwound her bandages as they waited for him to leave the room, which he did with a small wink at Penelope, before he carried her into the small bathing room off her guest room. He set her off on her feet and Penelope immediately swayed, her head spinning dizzily and her body weak after all the weeks abed, her legs as wobbly as a newborn deer. 

 

Benedict caught her before she could fall to the floor, his eyes wide, his large hands catching on her waist. 'Are you sure this is a good idea?' 

 

'Benedict, if I don't get into that bath right now, I swear to you I will drag myself down the stairs, bum leg and all, and bathe in the lake for all to see. I am disgusting!' 

 

Benedict snorted, before sighing in reluctant agreement. 'Fine. Do you…uh…can I help you….bathe….I mean, get in the bath.' 

 

Benedict's cheeks flushed bright red and Penelope stared at them, fascinated by the sight, that the thought of helping her undress had made the confident, rogue and rake Benedict Bridgerton blush. She raised an amused eyebrow at him and he groaned, closing his eyes in embarrassment. 

 

'Oh shut up, you know what I meant. I swear I won't look.' 

 

Penelope bit back a snicker and decided to be merciful and nodded, knowing she should be scandalised, should refuse and send him away, but she was likely to fall and hit her head or have her leg, which still felt numb half the time, go out from under her. And she wanted this bath more than she wanted her next meal or next breath even. 

 

Benedict felt his heart begin to speed up in his chest as he kept his eyes on hers, her blue eyes so trusting as they met his own, as he reached down and took the hem of her nightgown, damp from cooled sweat, and tugged it over her head, leaving her covered with nothing but the fall of her hair. 

 

His eyes remained on her face as he had promised, searching her own for any discomfort or embarrassment but she felt none. Benedict had proven time and time again that she was safe with him. She trusted him with her life and her body, her virtue, with every single part of her. 

 

He took her hand and helped her to step into the bath, making sure she had a steady hold on the edge of it before letting go so she could lower herself into the steaming water, letting out a hiss as it brushed against the raw and sensitive newly regrown skin of her leg, but refusing to let the sting deter her, and groaned in appreciation as the sting quickly faded and the warmth settled around her, quickly removing the sticky grime of sweat from her body. 

 

Benedict immediately took a seat beside the tub, not caring that his trousers would inevitably become soaked from the bathwater spilling over, settling with his back towards her and she felt her chest warm at the sight. Her loyal guard and protector.

 

She took a hold of the soap, which she could tell had been imbued with aloe vera from the sappy scent of it to help soothe the skin of her leg, and began to wash herself, humming a little under her breath. 

 

'Did I miss anything? When I was asleep?' 

 

Benedict leaned his head back before chuckling in a way under his breath that had Penelope freezing, her cheeks flushing for some reason she could not quite remember but filled her with dread. 

 

'Oh Goddess, what?' 

 

Benedict sobered, his mind flashed back to the third day of her fever, in the early hours of the morning when it had just been the two of them and she had been writhing with pain, her leg on fire, burning with fever as she sobbed, sounding so heartbroken and resigned it had broken something inside his chest. She had been delirious, speaking nonsense, barely conscious and he could still taste the terror that had shivered through him, certain if she closed her eyes they would never open again. She had confessed something to him, a fear that he was sure she had never shared with anyone else. And he had made a promise, if only to stop the tears that made him want to hunt down anyone and everything that had ever hurt her, who had ever made her feel insignificant and small when she was the strongest and bravest person he had ever known. 

 

She was still so pale, so weak, and if it took reminding her of their conversation to bring some of that beautiful colour back into her cheeks, well….he wasn't above a little harmless teasing. He was an elder brother after all. It was in his nature to tease. 

 

'Oh, it's nothing. I just can't seem to be able to forget a certain conversation where one of us was crying over the fact that they had never been kissed…' 

 

Penelope choked indignantly, turning to glare at him, opening her mouth to deny it, to call him out as a liar when a mortifying flicker of memory stirred to life… 

 

'I don't want to die…' 

 

'You're not going to die, Penelope. You can beat this, I know you can….' 

 

'I haven't even been kissed yet…' 

 

'Live, Penelope. Fight this and I promise, I will kiss you when you are well…' 

 

Penelope's cheeks felt like were on fire as the memory faded away, pressing her wet hands to them, hiding behind them as she let out a low, horrified groan that had Benedict grinning, leaning his head back to look at her face, pleased to see the brightness of her cheeks and blue eyes peeking out from behind them, even if it was from embarrassment. . 

 

'Well, that's not humiliating at all', she whined, dropping her hands and glaring at him when Benedict began to laugh so hard his shoulders shook, going breathless, his eyes watering with it. She hit him, which only made him laugh harder. 'Oh shut it, you! You can't tease me for what I said when I was delirious. That is not very gentlemanly of you!' 

 

Benedict wiped at his eyes before turning to look at her hand, his hazel eyes bright with mirth as he leaned over and flicked her nose playfully. 

 

'Have you forgotten? I'm a rake, not a gentleman. You wrote so yourself.' 

 

Penelope crossed her arms over her bare chest, not missing when Benedict's eyes flickered down briefly before he quickly looked back at her face. 'I called you a libertine, not a rake. If you are going to quote me to me, at least do it properly', she said with a haughty sniff that had him laughing again, coaxing a small smile from her, happy to see him laughing once more.

 

His laughter faded and they sat together in silence, nothing but the splash of the bathwater and the slide of soap on skin, until Penelope settled back, resting against the lip of the bath, thrilled to feel clean for the first time since she had arrived at My Cottage eight weeks before. Her recovery had been slow, aided by the magic imbued poultices that had soaked her leg for the first month. She knew how lucky she was. If she hadn't had Genevieve here, if she had been mortal, she had no doubt the only choice would've been to amputate her leg. And so few survived such an operation, succumbing to shock or infection or blood loss. And as ugly as her leg now was, ridged with red and white scars, and how useless it often felt, barely able to support her weight, she was grateful she had been able to keep it. 

 

She turned to look at Benedict, seeing he was also lost in his own thoughts, his brow furrowed. 

 

'Have you heard any news from Mayfair? Or your family?' 

 

Benedict's shoulders immediately tensed  and Penelope sat up straighter, concern and worry filling her. 'Benedict? Are you okay?' 

 

Benedict let loose a breath, his shoulders loosening as he slumped before he leaned his head back against the cold porcelain,, sighing, the very sound of it heavy. 

 

'Mother wrote. She told me what had happened to you. What Anthony and Colin and Eloise did. She forced them to confess. She thought I had already left for My Cottage before it happened and wouldn't…wouldn't know. She is furious. She begs me to come home.' 

 

'Will you?' Penelope asked after a moment, dreading his answer. She didn't want to be here alone without him. It would be lonely indeed without his friendship, the one that had sprung up between them, unexpected but no less cherished for it.

 

Benedict's head snapped towards her, his eyes gone stormy, more grey than green, clenching his jaw so tightly she wanted to touch it, to try to ease the ache, the pain and heartbreak he couldn't hide or perhaps chose not to, sharing his hurts as she did hers. Freely. Trusting her as she did him. 

 

'Never. I will never step foot in that house again, not after what they did to you', he said the words with such force, with such conviction, that Penelope knew he spoke the truth. That he meant every word. And her heart broke for him. 

 

She gave in to her urge, sensing that he needed it, and placed her hand on his cheek, her thumb caressing the tight line of his jaw, feeling as he inhaled sharply, closing his eyes, as if trying to gain control once more. It was not unusual….for them to touch like this. To offer comfort through physical touch, something that had long been denied them both, certainly her more than him, as he was free to seek out pleasures and freedoms that she had not been. The rules of society had fallen away in this room, in his home, and they touched freely, innocently, with no ulterior motives or goal in mind, just because it brought them comfort.  

 

Benedict breathed deeply, shivering under her touch, grounding and warm and as necessary to him that in that moment as the air in his lungs. She somehow always knew what he needed, how to ground him. He tugged her hand off his face, giving her a small smile full of thanks and she nodded, knowing what he was saying without the need for words, though the worry didn't fade from her eyes that turned the colour of a winter sky with her concern. She didn't pull her hand away, letting him tangle their fingers together, letting him hold on for as long as needed. She had become his anchor, the only thing that stopped him from spiralling away into the fury that had become a living breathing entity inside him most days, a feeling that was once foreign to him, felt only fleetingly. But now it was sometimes all he could feel, violent in its intensity, flaring every time he thought of what had happened to her, every time he had to listen to her cry and scream in pain, as she begged them in fevers and her delirium to kill her, to let her die, and every time he remembered that it was his family, his brothers and sister, who had done this to her. The family he couldn't ever see himself forgiving for being the ones who had signed her death warrant. 

 

'She also wrote that the Queen is sick. Dying. From some disease they cannot name or find a cure for. They have never seen anything like it before.'

 

Brutal satisfaction rolled through Penelope at his words. 

 

She had received her letter. She would be punished. Would no longer be able to hurt Penelope's people. If it meant she ended up spending her life in hell, in eternal damnation…so be it. It was a price Penelope was willing to pay. 

 

Benedict's eyes filled with tears, a sob escaping his chest, drawing her back from her violent thoughts, his fingers spasming and clenching on hers as the final words in his Mother's letter, so tear-stained and smudged they had almost been illegible. 

 

'She wrote that… that Lady Danbury gave Mother some letters that were written to the Queen's physician. Telling him to place bee pollen into a bottle of whiskey and send it to Aubrey Hall as a gift for my Father. My Father was allergic, the entire Ton knew it….  She killed my Father, Penelope. She killed him because he was fighting her, fighting for the witches. So there would be no-one to stop her from sinking her claws into Anthony. She took him from us'

 

He broke down, resting his head on his knees as he wept, tears sliding down his cheeks. Sobbing out years of grief, for the Father he had thought simply lost to a freak accident, but who had been stolen from them, murdered, the truth of it too horrifying to face. For his Mother who had lost the love of her life because of greed and hatred. For the brother he had adored and who he had watched as every part of him that was kind and gentle and loving, that was their Father, was chipped and carved away until a cold, hard and violent stranger was left behind. For the family he would never see again, who he couldn't forgive, who he couldn't allow himself to miss or want. And for Penelope, who had lost everything due to his family's cruelty and prejudice and hate. 

 

Penelope's eyes filled with tears as Benedict sobbed, unable to bear hearing it, to see him so undone, and she wrapped her arms around him, pressing herself into his back, holding on as tightly as she could, pressing her cheek to his.. He reached blindly for her arms around his shoulders and held on tight, tears dripping down his nose and chin, soaking her arms and his shirt. 

 

Benedict cried for what felt like hours, the grief and pain and horror of it all, wringing him out over and over until slowly the sobs began to fade, and the tightness that had resided in his chest and arrested his lungs since she had faded into sleep, since he had learned the truth of his Father's death, easing and he felt like he could breathe again for the first time in days. 

 

'Thank you', he whispered, sniffling and wiping at his flushed cheeks, his eyes feeling swollen and hot, and felt Penelope shake her head where it leant against his own, her soft cheek brushing his. 

 

'That's one thing you never have to say to me. Always, Benedict.' 

 

No matter what. She didn't speak the words aloud but he heard them anyway and he couldn't help himself from pressing a kiss to her temple before he rose, reaching for a towel that had been set on a stool by the bath and held it out for her. 

 

She stood, a little unsteady and shaky, but warmed and refreshed from the bath. She stepped out and let him wrap the towel around her, before letting go, turning his back to allow her to dry herself. 

 

They realised they had an issue when they stepped into the room and remembered that she had no more chemises or dresses to change into. They hadn't exactly had time to pack her a bag before they had left London, and she had sweated through every borrowed nightgown they had been able to scrounge up that had been left behind by his sisters when they had visited. 

 

Benedict ran upstairs and brought down one of his old shirts and pulled it over head, Penelope dropping the now damp towel as it settled around her knees. Benedict laughed as he took it in, how much it swamped her, the sleeves falling far past her hands and needed to be rolled up more than six times. 

 

''You look ridiculous.' 

 

She looked cute, though he would never say it aloud, her outraged expression only adding to it. 

 

'Hey! Not all of us can be giants. We didn't all get the impeccable Bridgerton genes.' 

 

She laughed but sobered when Benedict looked away, avoiding her gaze, and she immediately knew what he was thinking. She rose shakily onto her toes and grasped his face in her hands, making him look at her. 

 

'Don't. Don't do that. Don't be ashamed of who you are. Their actions don't define you, Ben. There is good in your family too.' 

 

'Is there? I'm not so sure of that anymore. I'm not even sure who I am anymore. I… I let it go on for so long…too long…I tried but Anthony would not hear me…would not see sense. It's my fault. I should have stopped it….' 

 

 Penelope frowned. 'But you did. No, listen to me, Benedict. You stopped it. You saved me. It's not your fault. You are not to blame for others' choices. You are kind and true and you have done so much good. You have helped so many witches when you could have ignored our plight like the rest of them did. You're a miracle, Benedict.' 

 

Benedict shook his head, pressing his forehead to hers, his hands closing around her cheeks, looking at her like she was something he didn't understand, something rare. Like she was extraordinary. 

 

'You are the miracle, Penelope. The fact that you can even stand to be near me…that you trust me…' 

 

He looked bewildered by it, and Penelope's eyes softened, rubbing at the scruff on his chin, drawing his eyes back to hers. 

 

'I trust the hands that pulled me from the pyre, not the ones that lit the flames.' 

 

Benedict stopped breathing, his heart skipping in an entirely distracting way, as he shook his head once more. 

 

'I wish I could see myself through your eyes, Nel.' 

 

Penelope blinked at him in surprise as she dropped back onto her heels, her eyebrows rising as she smiled teasingly at him. 

 

'Nel?' 

 

Benedict felt his cheeks grow warm and he rubbed at the back of his neck, coughing awkwardly. 'I…yes… I notice the way you react to Pen now….' 

 

Penelope flinched without meaning to, at the nickname Eloise and Colin had given her. She hated it now, couldn't bear to hear it spoken, but hadn't realised he'd noticed. 

 

Benedict's face fell and he took her hand once more, squeezing it, before continuing. 'And I wanted to call you something new. Something that is only yours.' 

 

Penelope smiled and she brought their joined hands to her stomach. 'Ours. It can be ours.' 

 

Benedict smiled, his melancholy forgotten, nodding in agreement. 

 

'Ours.' 

 

'Well, hello there. Finally you decided to join us once more, Penelope', Genevieve's amused voice came from the doorway and they both sprung apart almost guiltily, both blushing bright red, avoiding the other's gazes as Genevieve swept into the room, her dark eyes narrowed and knowing as they moved between them, before her face smoothed into a smile, setting her basket down on the chest and hugged Penelope. 

 

'You scared us, ma cherie. You look well, though I need to make you some new dresses. This is entirely…indecent. Lucky for us', Genevieve said, winking at her, making her laugh and slap at her, as Benedict blushed, his eyes dropping down to the amount of leg that was exposed by his shirt, not to mention the collarbone that kept peeking out from the collar. He had been so lost in Penelope and their conversation he had barely noticed. 

 

'Mrs. Crabtree said you had awoken and sent me up with some stew. It's in my basket.' 

 

Penelope let out a noise that could only be described as pure pleasure and took the bowl before she limped carefully over to the bed to eat, leaving him entirely at the mercy of Genevieve, who raised an eyebrow at him, smirking. 

 

Benedict pointed a finger at her, feeling the tips of his ears go hot from his blush spreading. 'Not a word.'  

 

'I don't know what you mean but…. if something were to be happening between the two of you…. You could do a lot worse than Penelope, Benedict.' 

 

And she could do a hell of a lot better than him, he thought, shaking his head, trying to banish Gen's words from his mind. Penelope was like a sister to him…. No, he thought, his stomach twisting sickeningly at the word 'sister' in relation to her, rejecting it. No, she was his friend. Somehow in the last two months she'd become his best friend. Nothing more. 

 

So why exactly, when he looked over where she sat curled up against the headboard, digging into her stew ravenously with little hums of joy, eating more than she had in weeks, his whole body softening in relief and something else, something so wispy it slid away before he could catch and examine it, and figure out what it was, did it not feel true?

Notes:

As always, let me know what you think lovelies!! I adore every comment and kudos that comes my way

Chapter 9

Notes:

Hi lovelies!!! A bit of a late update today, sorry, had a jam-packed day but finally got there. I hope you really like this chapter, it holds a spot in my heart, and has a confrontation that definitely needed to happen (though perhaps not the one you expect).

'You've been crying. What happened? What did they do?' Benedict pushes himself up, anger rising inside him as he took Penelope in as she entered the room, seeing her tear-streaked cheeks, the skin under her eyes puffy and pink as they always were after she cried that only a cold compress on her eyes for at least an hour would ease. 

 

He didn't care if he could barely hold his own weight, if anyone in his family had made her cry, he would crawl down the stairs if he had to and rip into whoever had put that look on her face. He didn't care who they were. Hadn't they done enough? Hadn't they hurt her enough?

 

Penelope couldn't help the small sad smile that curved the corners of her lips as she walked towards him, a steaming bowl of soup in her hands, at the indignant fury clenching his jaw, looking on the verge of pushing himself up and going after whoever had hurt her. He was always so protective of her. So caring, even before they become them. But he couldn't save her this time. She had, in truth, been the only one who hurt herself. He couldn't fight a battle against the past, just as she couldn't take back leaving, no matter how much she wished she could. 

 

'It's nothing. I'm fine. I brought you soup', she said, coming to sit beside him, holding the bowl out to him and a spoon. 

 

Benedict opened his mouth to argue, to try and get answers from her, needing to do something to help, to take away that hurt and broken look on her face, but the words died on his tongue when he saw the way she turned her head away, tucking her chin into her shoulder, unable to hide the despair that bruised her eyes, stealing the light that had always been hers. He reached for her, catching her chin in his hand and turning her face towards him, though she tried to resist for a second, before she sighed and turned to face him. 

 

'You can tell me if you're not. Always, right?' he said, caressing her cheek and Penelope's entire body softened at his words, at the memory of what that word meant for the two of them, and nodded, laying her hand over his on her face. . 

 

'I know. Now let's get this soup into you before it goes cold', she said with a false brightness that Benedict let her get away with, for now anyways, and took the bowl and spoon from her.

 

Benedict's hands shook uncontrollably as he tried to spoon the soup into his mouth, trembling so badly the soup spilled straight back into the bowl and onto the sheets and his chest. He clenched his jaw, teeth grinding together, and tried again but after the fourth attempt, Benedict swore loudly and dropped the spoon into the bowl, barely resisting the urge to throw it and the bowl to the floor, closing his eyes on a wave of frustration, hating how useless and inept he felt. He hated this. Hated how weak he had become. How useless. He couldn't even bloody feed himself. How pathetic could he get? 

 

Penelope pressed her lips together to keep from crying as she watched him growing more and more frustrated with himself. She knew him, and knew how badly this infirmity would be weighing on him. He had always been so free, so vibrant and full of endless energy. For him to be struck down in such a way, restrained to his bed, relying on others for everything…it was worse than torture for him. 

 

She took the bowl and spoon from him and scooped some up, holding it out for him. Benedict looked at her for a second, before sighing and leaning forward to take it into his mouth, letting out a groan at the taste of it after having gone so long without food. She feeds him mouthful after mouthful until he had eaten every drop, falling back against the pillows once they were done, breathless and exhausted, his cheeks flushed once more, even just from that simple task and Penelope couldn't bear it any longer, the words bursting from her. 

 

'Why did you wait so long? How could you let it get so bad without asking me to come.' 

 

Benedict stilled, staring at her in disbelief. She couldn't be serious. What did she think he'd been doing for the last twelve months? Did she really think he hadn't been searching for her everyday, facing defeat after defeat, despair after despair, never finding a single sign of her. 

 

'I didn't know where you were and I didn't know if you come even if I did', he said, lashing out despite himself, her words scraping against the wound inside him that her leaving has caused, the wound that was still tender, raw and bruised, igniting the anger and bitterness he had tried so hard to bury, to hide from her, no wishing to scare her away. But the leash had snapped and he couldn't hide it any longer because how could she do it? How could she just leave him like that? As if he…as if they…had meant nothing to her. 

 

Penelope stumbled back off the bed, her heart feeling like it cracked in two at his words, the pain of it lancing through her,leaving her breathless,  She clutched her elbows, nails digging deep, frozen by the accusation that shone in his eyes, the betrayal, anger and hurt he no longer pretended was nothing. 

 

'How could you think that?' she whispered, her voice tight and trembling as she fought back tears, 'I would always come to you, Benedict. Always.' 

 

'You left, Penelope. You disappeared in the middle of the night with nothing but a god damned letter! You left me!!' Benedict screamed and Penelope stepped back, wincing, before she dropped her arms, her regret and guilt churning inside her, sickening and painful. Tears sprang to her eyes and she let them fall as she stepped forward, her blue eyes dark and sparking as anger rose as well. 

 

'Because I didn't want you to be trapped here with me. Don't you get that, Benedict? If you chose me, you'd lose everything you'd ever worked for. You'd never be able to return to London or the Ton or to the Academy. To your life. I am an outcast, a stain on that society. They hate me. Some of them still hunt for me, still wish me dead. If you chose me, you'd always be in danger. You'd always be losing something, including your family. I couldn't be the reason you lost everything. I didn't leave you… .I gave you up .' 

 

Penelope spun around, her head bowing on a whimper as she sobbed, wrapping her arms around herself, bereft and bare, never having felt so exposed, so cut open for him to see all the things she tried to hide from him. Her shame, her guilt, her pain. Her fear that she would lose him still. But it would always be his choice. She would never take it from him again. 

 

'I know I hurt you and if you can't… if you can't forgive I….I'll go…' 

 

Benedict's insides turned to ice at her words, at the resignation in her numb voice, the clear belief that he didn't want her any longer. That he didn't love her. Terror filled him as, as in his silence her breath shuddered, as if she was sure she had gotten her answer, and she took a step towards the door, and he pushed himself up, reaching for her in a panic, catching her arm before she could go any further, knowing he would not survive watching her walk out that door again. It would kill him, shatter the last bit of hope he had clung to, which was all he had had for the twelve long and lonely months he had spent without her. 

 

Penelope stopped, though she didn't turn around, her shoulders tight, as if readying for a blow. He tugged gently on her arm, pulling her down onto the bed beside him. 

 

'Penelope, look at me. Please'. 

 

Penelope squeezed her eyes shut before reluctantly turning her head, opening them and looking at him, awaiting her sentence, for the axe to fall, awaiting the moment he would send her away. This time for good. But Benedict only looked at her, bringing a shaking hand to her face, tracing a path so gentle the tears shining in her eyes once more spilled over, down her cheeks and coating the skin on the back of his hand. 

 

Benedict shook his head. 'There was never a choice to be made because it would and will always be you, Nel. This year without you… it was as if my heart had been ripped from my chest. I have been a ghost. Lost entirely without you by my side. Dreaming of nothing but your smile and your taste, the feeling of your soft skin on my fingertips, hearing your laugh in my ears as I woke and reaching for you only to find the sheets cold and empty. Only to remember you were gone from me. I couldn't leave My Cottage because if there was a chance you would come back…. I would have waited all my days, until I was old and grey, given up everything and anything I have for the smallest chance you would one day come back to me. You have had my love, my heart, my soul since the moment you looked at me on that pyre. So unafraid, so trusting, even when I should have been your enemy. My heart will always be yours. I love you'. 

 

Penelope let out a sob, collapsing into him, nuzzling into his touch, her eyes closing for a second, before they reopened and met his, and she said the words he had dreamed of hearing for over a year. Had perhaps waited his entire life for. 

 

'I love you too. I have never stopped, not for a single second we were parted. I have loved you from the moment we danced together in the study. Every part of me belongs to you and always will. I'm yours, Benedict. I love you so much. I was days from coming back to you, from losing the fight to stay away, the right thing to do be damned. Because I found out quite quickly that a life without you, was no life at all. You are my choice. You have been my choice since the moment you pulled me from the flames. It was always meant to be you.' 

 

Tears spilled down his cheeks even as his heart soared and he pulled her to him, kissing her, tasting the salt of both their tears as he pulled her into his lap, his arms wrapping around her, knowing he would never let her go. Never again. 

 

Penelope laughed against his lips, her happiness bubbling through her like champagne, effervescent and causing her head to spin, able to feel his lips curve up against hers at the sound, tasting his smile, their kiss sweet and soft and soul-affirming. She pulled back, balancing on his thighs as she sat back, staring into his face, holding it in her hands, unable to believe this moment to be true. That she had finally spoken the words that had been written across her heart for so long, able to return the love he had so freely given her. 

 

Benedict brushed her curls over her shoulder, leaning down to kiss his way down her neck, his lips a light brush that had her shivering and rocking into him, chasing it, making him chuckle, pulling back to her dismay and looking into her eyes, needing her to say it again. Just once more, to dispel his fears forevermore. 

 

 'Never leave me again. Please. I wouldn't survive it'. 

 

'Never', Penelope readily agreed, vehemently, kissing him gently, the kisses not meant to arouse but to soothe, to comfort. A vow. 

 

'You waited here at My Cottage for a year. For me.' 

 

Benedict smiled at the awe and still lingering disbelief in her voice, her eyes wide and stunned and so full of hope, and he crashed his lips to hers once more, his forehead to hers, as he told her. 

 

'I would have waited an eternity for you, Penelope Featherington. Because you were worth every second.' 

 

Penelope's eyes filled with tears once more, laughing at herself, before she kissed him again, and though there was a lot for them to speak of, old hurts and pain to release, stories to share of the time they had been parted, none of that mattered in that moment. For they were together and they had all the time in the world for all that later.

Notes:

Let me know what you think as always lovelies. I live for your comments and kudos xx

Chapter 10

Notes:

Hi darlings! It's that day again, update Saturday. We have another flashback this week and another glimpse into the budding romance and feelings of both Benedict and Penelope- we even have both POVS this week. I hope you guys like it x

                                                                 Benedict 

Benedict found himself standing in front of Penelope's door, his hand wrapped around the door handle, his forehead leaning against the wood, moaning quietly as he silently argued with himself, fighting a battle he knew was futile. That he knew he would lose. As he had every other night that week and he knew this one would not be any different. 

 

He didn't understand it. This irresistible compulsion he had. The undeniable need to check in on her. On Penelope. To see her sleeping peacefully, safe in his home, in sheets he himself had purchased after he had bought My Cottage. All he knew was that he would not get a wink of sleep until he did so. 

 

It had been thus for the last four nights. He could not pass by her door without giving in to the itch to press it open and simply watch her breathe. To assure himself she was alive. That she was real and safe and there. 

 

He could pinpoint the moment that the unignorable impulse had begun, to the very minute. Only four days before, the day after Genevieve had left them, deeming Penelope healed enough to be cared for by the Crabtree's and himself alone, they had removed her bandages and Penelope had seen her leg, what it was now, how it would truly remain, for the very first time. And it had been the first time, since the day she had awoken, that Benedict truly saw her break. 

 

The sight of it wasn't a shock to Benedict anymore. If anything it was a relief, as he had seen what the flames had done to it, how her flesh had melted almost entirely off the bone, and he had been sure that it would require amputation but Genevieve had refused, draining herself everyday, using every drop of magic to stitch Penelope's muscles and tendons and skin back together, to give her the use of it at least, that the furled pink and white and red skin, stretched tight over her calf and thigh, was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. 

 

But for Penelope, who had never seen the extent of the damage in the beginning, who they had tried to protect from the truth and horror of it…who must have believed, had held a secret hope that Genevieve would be able to restore it to what it once was, maybe one she hadn't even been aware of herself… she had stared down at it, so still she appeared half-statue, her face draining of colour so quickly he thought she might faint, before something inside her seemed to snap. She had clawed at her leg, at her arms, pulling at her hair, a sound escaping her that had all the hairs on his arms rising, a wail of grief and loss that echoed through the room and that had shattered something inside him. 

 

He had pinned her down, panic shaking his limbs, laying half on top of her to keep from harming herself even further, her arms sliced open and bleeding, seeping into her dress, and she had burst into tears, turning her head away, her chest heaving with them, broken and defeated, something his Nel had never been before. 

 

'Nel….please…' he had begged, pressing his cheeks to hers and she had shook her head, jerking against his hold, 'It's okay…' 

 

'It's not. How could it ever be okay? Look at me! It's hideous….I'm a monster…' 

 

'I am. I am looking and you know what I see? The bravest person I have ever met. You beat them, Nel. This…this is just proof of how strong you are. That you survived them. That as much as they tried to, they couldn't kill you. They couldn't take your strength, your determination, your fight.' 

 

'It's so ugly. I don't know if I can bear it, Benedict.' 

 

Benedict had lifted off her and grasped her face in his hands, determinedly making her look at him, caressing her wet cheeks until she opened her eyes and looked at him, her blue eyes shattered and devastated. A scratch on her cheek welled with a drop of blood that he brushed away as he gave her a firm look full of sincerity.  

 

'You will never be anything but beautiful, Penelope Featherington. This…your leg…is just a part of that beauty. It only makes you more so.' 

 

He had been able to tell she didn't believe him. And it was that night that his nightly visits had begun. At first, because he had been terrified that she'd hurt herself, give in to the despair that had her curled up in her bed, not eating or speaking, not even sleeping, just staring at the wall or ceiling. Existing only because she had no other choice. But now…he couldn't name the reason he continued to come every night. All he knew was that he couldn't resist it any more than he could stop his instinctive need to breathe, and so he turned the doorknob and stepped into the dark room, the moon outside barred from it by the thick curtains Penelope had asked remained shut. 

 

He stood, his hand braced on the door, not letting himself step inside any further, to invade her privacy in such a way, the vice of his chest loosening as he saw her curled into the middle of the bed, her legs drawn up to her chest, one arm wrapped around her pillow, her eyes closed as she finally slept. 

 

You've seen her. All is well. Now time to get back to your own room and end this madness, he scolded himself silently. He sighed, knowing that voice, though annoying, was right, and he turned, determined to close the door behind him and climb the stairs to his room on the third floor and try to get some sleep of his own when a noise, a whimper, so quiet he would've missed it if he was so attuned to her every movement and sound, cracked the silence. 

 

Before he could even turn his head to find her once more, a scream ripped through the air, making him jolt backwards into the door, as Penelope scrambled up, her eyes wide and her face stark with terror, gripped by some nightmare he could not see. She kicked at sheets, slapping at her legs, as if trying to put out….flames. He watched, crushed, as she, realising her leg was no longer aflame, that she was no longer tied to that pyre, she collapsed against the mattress, sobbing uncontrollably, blindly reaching for one of her pillows and pressing it over her face. The movement was practised and almost routine, as if she had done this often. 

He didn't understand for a moment, why she would do such a thing, and then it hit him as her muffled cries barely reached his ears, that she was smothering her sobs. 

 

So he would not hear.  So she would not disturb him. 

 

Benedict's heart shattered, knowing the reason she did so and it broke him. The fact that she still felt she was a burden when it couldn't be further than the truth. She was his light in the darkness that had become his life. How could she ever be a burden? 

 

He rushed to the bed in three steps, wrapping an arm around her back and under her knees and pulled her into his chest, cupping her head lightly. 

 

'Shush. Shush, Penelope. I have you.' 

 

Penelope stiffened in his arms, her breath stopping for so long he had to resist the urge to shake her to try and bring her back when she suddenly inhaled sharply, her hands reaching for him, as if she sensed, as if she knew, it was him who held her and she sagged against him weakly, clutching at the back of his nightshirt and sobbed into his chest as if her very spirit was broken. 

 

And perhaps it was. She had been brutally betrayed by the man she had loved and the person who was supposed to be her dearest friend. Who wouldn't be broken after such treachery?

 

Shame crawled up Benedict's throat, the taste of it bitter and acrid. He would never stop feeling it, the shame that it had been his own family who had done this to her. Who had handed her a death sentence. Who had left her damaged beyond repair, crippled, all because of words, of a non de plume, an alias, that had been used for good more than it had ever harmed. Which had saved them, mostly from themselves and their own actions, more times than he could count. 

 

She was so good. She had used her power, her influence, to help save the lives of dozens, if not hundreds, of witches. How could they not see that? How could they not see past their own anger and hate and jealousy? They had turned their backs on her so easily, so quickly, their friendships cast aside as if they had been nothing but Benedict knew for a fact that it had once meant everything to his siblings, who had flocked to Penelope as if she was the sun, though they had never even noticed, hadn't even tried, to see her, to see the woman under the quiet, wallflower facade that she presented to the world- the woman of a spine of steel, who had held the Ton in thrall, who had had more power than the Queen, but still remained kind and humble, who had wanted nothing more than to help others- or to truly hear her. If he had been asked in the weeks prior if he thought his siblings would ever betray Penelope, he would have claimed it to be impossible. 

 

Oh, how wrong he had been.  Perhaps he had never truly known his family at all. He had chosen to be blind to their bloodlust and hatred of witches, hoping that his own work would balance it. Perhaps he truly was the fool he'd always worried he was. 

 

They fell asleep together that night, Penelope falling into sleep in his arms, her face still shoved into his neck, tears still running down her cheeks even as sleep dragged her away, And he swore, as he held her, his chin resting on the crown of her head, his neck and the front of his nightshirt damp with her tears, that he would not leave her to sleep alone again. Would not leave her to face the nightmares alone. 

 

From now on, they would face them together. 

 

 

***

                                                                     Penelope 

 

Two weeks later

 

It was strange. Falling asleep with him. Even in the two weeks since they had begun sharing a bed, the strangeness of it had not yet abated. 

 

She had never shared a bed with anyone before, not even her sisters when they were young. The heat of him was a distraction, the dip and shift of the feather mattress as he rolled over or moved in his sleep jarring, the hushed rhythm of his breath in the night, warm against her shoulder or face or neck sending goosebumps rising across her skin and rustling her hair. It was both soothing and…disconcerting. Confusing. 

 

The first real night they had climbed into his bed together, the first time they had chosen it and not simply fallen together, seeking comfort and a reprieve from the hurts that pulsed like an old bruise for both of them, she had lay frozen, barely daring to breathe or move a muscle, not wishing to disturb him, but not knowing how to relax, her limbs locked in tight. He had brought all her worries to an end when he had simply wrapped an arm around her waist, tucking her into his side and kissed her head gently, before murmuring, 'Just sleep, Nel. You're thinking too hard.' 

 

And now? She didn't know how she'd ever slept without him. The warmth of his chest against her back, the comfort of his even breathing in the night shadowed room that was no longer just his but, in the weeks since they had begun sharing a bed, had become theirs., the smell of his skin, the faint sweet smell of paint and the smoke of charcoal that clung to him still- though she knew he hadn't touched either since they had arrived at My Cottage- as well as musk, cloves from his cigarettes and something else she couldn't name, that was simply Benedict…. All of it, all of him, fought back the spectres that stalked her nights and days. He chased away the nightmares and memories of that night and all that had come before it, with just his presence and his touch. 

 

And, after weeks of sleeping beside one another, she still didn't understand why he did so. Why, after the night he had found her when she had awoken screaming, trying to smother her cries in her pillow and he had held her, when he had chosen to stay with her….he had continued to every night since. She hadn't asked him why…couldn't bring herself to, too afraid that if she did, he would stop. That he would remember how improper it was and insist that she should return to her old guest room and she would be left alone in a room that didn't feel like hers and be unable to hide from the numb emptiness inside her, one she feared she would one day soon drown in if he was no longer there to pull her up and out of the current of it, out of the darkness as he did everyday just by being there. 

 

But she couldn't tell him that. Not any of it. He already carried so much. He was risking so much by protecting and harbouring her. She couldn't, she refused, to ask him for more. She wasn't his sister or his family. He was under no obligation to care for her, to stay with her, to sleep beside her every night. She was not his to protect. 

 

And yet… he stayed. 

 

Sometimes, when she had given up on sleep, when her ghosts and the pain were too loud to drown out any longer, her body heavy and aching with exhaustion, too tired to keep fighting back the nightmares, she would just lay there, tracing the constellations of the barely-there freckles in the dip of his throat and smattering his arms, that had always been hidden by his cravat and shirts, with her eyes. Memorising his face, peaceful in sleep in a way it never was awake. She would brush her fingers quietly and lightly over his, not wanting to wake him and simply watch him. Guarding him in the night as she knew he did her. Because she might be too tired to fight against her own horrors and demons…but she refused to leave him alone to face his. Not even in sleep. 

 

It was the least she could do to repay him, and she knew that her presence helped him as much as his did her. She often felt him startle awake in the night, torn from sleep by some awful memory he would sometimes share with her in whispers, on the nights when sleep remained elusive for them both, letting her in, sharing their pain. While others, he would simply tremble beside her, his breath coming in panicked bursts he tried to choke back. It would only take the touch of her hand on his arm or face or him reaching for her, finding her beside him, to calm it and him, and he would lay back down, his chest still heaving, burrowing his face into her hair which had inevitably encroached onto his pillow, curling his fingers into it. 

 

She tried to imagine what her life would be like once she left My Cottage, as she knew that despite Benedict's reassurances, that she could not stay there forever. He had a life back in London. He had his family waiting for him. He had his art and his friends, and his place at the Academy. Things and people she knew he must be missing. He couldn't stay playing nursemaid for her forever. She couldn't hold him back. 

 

So why did the idea of leaving… of leaving him…now that she truly knew him, now that she had him in her life, now that he had become so dear and precious to her, bring tears to her eyes? Why did it feel like she was carving her own heart out? 

 

As she looked at him, at the man who had become her best friend….the truest one she had ever known…who she could share the parts of herself she had never dared to with Eloise and Colin….who she knew she could depend on, could lean on, something she had never trusted herself to do before….and who did the same with her… As he snuffled in his sleep, a crooked smile curving up the corner of his mouth making her heart flutter, easing the worry that had always seemed to hang so heavy on his brow these days, she decided she would stay as long as he would have her. And when the day came that he would eventually decide to return to his real life… she would have the memories of their time, their friendship, to sustain and feed her. 

 

It would just have to be enough. 

 

Because she knew it would be selfish to ask for more. And she refused to be selfish. Not when it came to Benedict. He had given her so much. He had saved her life. And when the time eventually came…she would have to give him back his.

Notes:

As always let me know what you think, lovelies. Your comments mean the world.

Chapter 11

Notes:

Hi lovelies!! Once more, thank you so much for your wonderful comments and support for me and this story. I know I say it every week but it has been the only thing that has kept me going in the last few weeks. My role has changed at work and I am so exhausted and my responsibilities have grown extensively so being able to share something I do for fun and the love of it with you all every week means the world.

This chapter is a little shorter than usual but I still think it's very important to our story, and the way their love is building, so can't wait to hear your thoughts xx

Confined to the house, Penelope's leg healed enough to start learning to walk on it once more, Benedict leading her, holding her weight up, at first one arm wrapped around her shoulders and the other holding her hand, and then just letting her clutch his hand, earning every painful, buckling, knuckle-whitening, sweat-inducing step, slowly progressing from his room, to tackling the stairs, and then out into the small garden surrounding My Cottage. All this time together, and Penelope held back by the limitations of her leg, left Penelope and Benedict with not much else to do… but to talk.

 

And talk they did. About everything and anything that crossed their minds, open with each other in a way that was a first for both of them. Penelope, who had spent her every entire life learning to hold her tongue, to pretend, to mask, to be meek and not speak unless spoken to or risk her Mama's wrath and effortless cruelty, and Benedict, who had always been allowed to speak, to be, but had never truly felt understood, who felt like he was considered fickle and moorless, lacking purpose and responsibility, found a freedom, a haven, in one another, a place where their feelings and thoughts would be not mocked or dismissed, but would be guarded, treasured and perhaps, for the first time, understood. 

 

Penelope spoke for the first time about Whistledown one morning as they broke their fast the morning she had first made in down the stairs, her legs feeling weak and wobbly, trembling beneath her even as she sat curled up on the settee in the sitting room, eating a scone that tasted like victory, over her body that still didn't feel like hers anymore. She spoke quietly, telling him how she had come to be Whistledown, how lonely and unseen, how invisible she had felt at that first ball. How all her quiet hopes for her first season had died that very night under the cruel and harsh critiques and dismissiveness of the other debutantes and how not a single gentleman had looked at her, dressed in her horrible citrus dress that made her look like a child still and not the young lady she so wished to be, which should have made her stand out, and yet somehow, only made her all the more invisible. How her magic had manifested late and unexpected, so late she had been sure they would never come, and how alone she had always felt. An outcast within her own family, so different and misunderstood and unaccepted. 

 

And then, her Papa's lawyer had found her scribblings in her journal, detailing all the scandalous things she had overheard and observed while no-one took any notice of her, and how, instead of scolding her, he had laughed, and encouraged her to publish, the first person in her life who saw something in her. He had helped her to connect with a printer, helping her to print her first column. And everything had changed. Under the Ton, and the Queen's, nose, she had become the most influential voice and influence within the Ton, exposing secrets and affairs, indecencies and injustices, with the scribble of her quill. She was powerful and people listened to her. She was revered and respected, perhaps even feared by some, people listened to her, even if it was under a different name, and she knew she could use this power, this influence, for good.

And Benedict listened. Truly listened, with a steady gaze, his face devoid of pity or rebuke, but an understanding that threatened to undo and remake her. He listened as she whispered her fears as they lay together in bed, sleep evasive and far away. How scared she was that she'd lost her magic, the magic she had struggled to feel since he had broken the collar from around her neck, the place inside her where it had once resided, warm and golden, was now just empty and hollow. How it felt like she'd lost a limb. 

 

And, slowly, Benedict began to share his hurts with her as well. Hurts he had never spoken aloud or dared to even write them down, ashamed of feeling such anger, such loneliness, when he knew how privileged his life had been. He could barely meet her eyes as they limped slowly through the gardens, lavender and jasmine thick in the air, so bright and fragrant, so contrasting to the heavy feeling between them, as he told her he had left the Academy before the end of the season after learning about Anthony buying his way into Academy. How. ever since, everything he had drawn had felt juvenile, rough and worthless, and he hadn't been able to bring himself to pick  up a paintbrush, pencil or piece of charcoal since, his confidence shattered, feeling like nothing more than a talentless fraud who had had the nerve, the arrogance, to call himself an artist. 

 

He had confessed he had also felt powerless in his own home, unable to reach Anthony, unable to do anything but watch as the brother he had known and loved, who he had always looked up to, but had become a stranger that he didn't know anymore, someone so far from his own morals and beliefs that it was monstrous to him. That it had led him to join the resistance, gaining his entry through the parties he had attended at the Granville's, after learning they were often used as a front, a smoke-screen, for their meetings, able to finally do something, to be of actual use and to make a difference. 

 

Penelope had come to a halt beside him, looking exhausted and pale but her face determined as they sat down on a iron bench under a tree, offering them shade, turning to look up at him. 

 

'I think you should try again, Benedict.' 

 

Benedict turned his face away, his cheeks flushed, not wishing to discuss it, but Penelope wouldn't let him hide from her, digging her nails into his hand until he yelped and turned to gape at her indignantly, while she glared back at him. 

 

'I mean it. I've seen you, Ben. You love it, I know you do. I saw the way you lit up when you were at the Gallery showings and your enthusiasm and how intensely you concentrated on getting a sketch just right when you were sat in the drawing room during my visits…. my visits for tea. Please. Do it for yourself. You will never know if you don't try. And I've seen your work. You're very good.' 

 

Benedict scoffed, not believing her, but leaned back, surprised and a little wary, when Penelope narrowed her eyes at him. 

 

'Would I lie to you? Have I ever?' 

 

Benedict blinked at her, surprised to realise she hadn't and by how irate and stubborn she was being about this. Why did it matter to her if he never touched a paintbrush again? If he left his artistic aspirations in the past where they belonged. 

 

But Penelope refused to let it go. She knew what it was to lose one's purpose, one's true calling. She had lost it when she had been discovered, and when she had been captured and imprisoned and exposed as Whistledown and as a witch. But Benedict, who had already lost and given up so much….he had a choice. He didn't have to lose this as well. She had watched him in Bridgerton house, had seen his love for art, his passion and the tiny flame of belief in himself that Anthony had so recklessly, even if it had been unintentionally, snuffed out, leaving him doubtful of his own talent. He had always been so absorbed in his work, so much so that he had sometimes not even noticed there were others in the room, leaving her free to observe him as he drew feverishly, with a love and devotion to his craft that she understood all too well, his need to capture the perfect image as she did to find the perfect word or phrase. It was the only time she ever saw his restlessness ever cease, where it had seemed at ease and comfortable in his own skin. If she would do everything she could to try to convince him to try again…to help him get that back after everything he had sacrificed for her. 

 

'I know how you feel, Benedict. I haven't been able to pick up a quill since my last Whistledown column. My writing….it was the only thing I had. And I hate that they have made me so afraid of it, of the very thing that once brought me such fulfillment and happiness. But…I'm willing to try if you are. Please, do it for yourself. Or, if it makes it easier, draw something for me. And I'll try and write something for you.' 

 

She held out her hand for him to shake, and Benedict stared at it for a moment before hesitantly, reluctantly, taking it, already believing it was pointless. But that afternoon, as Penelope was being assisted in the bath by Mrs. Crabtree before she departed back to her home for the evening, he had gone to his studio on the third floor and with little enthusiasm pulled out one of his sketchbooks, covered with a thick layer of dust, and opened it, putting graphite to paper and drawing a line, that he soon recognised as the very curve and shaped of Penelope's cheek. 

 

And once he started, Benedict found he couldn't stop. Within the first week, he had to order more sketchbooks, the pages of the ones he had filled with rough sketches of the willow tree laying its limbs over the lake, shafts of light spilling through the kitchen window and onto the table laden with bread and preserves, of Mrs. Crabtree's hands digging into dough, of a butterfly alighting on a cheerful purple pansy and….of her. Penelope. 

 

He would never admit it aloud, but she had become his muse. He spent hours watching her, bordering on obsessively, sketching her likeness over and over until his sketchbooks were full of nothing but her, unable, or perhaps unwilling, to stop. Her laugh, so rare nowadays, her smile, the way her now much-shorter hair, the singed strands having been trimmed by Genevieve before she left, curled around her ears. Her frown, the way she curled up into a ball as she read, leaning forward when something exciting or unexpected happened in her books. He catalogued it all, hidden away within his sketchbook for his eyes only. 

 

But when he showed her the sketch of her reading three weeks after they had made their deal, feeling like he was sharing a part of himself with her, feeling deficient and unsure, her eyes had lit up with delight and surprise, her smile wide and glorious. 

 

'Benedict…this is wonderful. You made me look pretty', she gushed, pressing the sketch carefully, as if she considered it something valuable and precious, to her chest. 

 

Benedict frowned at her words, ready to disagree, to tell her she hadn't done anything, that she was pretty entirely on her own, when she looked up at him with wide, hopeful eyes, and asked, 'Can I see more?'. And he knew, in that moment, that he couldn't, that he wouldn't ever, be able to deny her anything. 

 

And two days later, when she shyly handed him a stack of papers at dinner, a short story about a knight who saves a witch from certain death, a knight with his own pain and hurts and cracked armour. A story of growing back together, of how two lost souls found and healed one another. And that night, as he read it as she slept beside him, under the light of a single candle, the feeling of being truly seen, of being truly understood, began to heal something inside him that she hadn't broken. 

Notes:

As always, lovelies, let me know what you think xx

Chapter 12

Notes:

Hi lovelies!!! So sorry I haven't had a chance to answer any of your amazing comments. I promise I will get to them soon xx Work has been crazy and I am just utterly exhausted at the moment. I'm hoping to write the last (Ahhhh!) chapter this weekend, this is already kind of drafted out. I can't believe I've almost finished this fic but at least it means consistent updates every week :)

I hope you like this new chapter, where we are back in the present.

Penelope learned, very quickly, and to no-one's surprise, especially not her own, that Benedict… was a terrible patient. 

 

'I'm sick of being inside', Benedict whined on the third night after she had arrived and they had reunited, sticking his bottom lip out dramatically at Penelope where she stood at the end of his bed, her hands on her hips, an exasperated look on her face. It was deliberate, his pout, as he knew  she could never resist his pout. It was his secret weapon and he was not above using it in this case, using the charm he knew he was infamous for to convince her.

 

Penelope rolled her eyes at him, huffing out a vexed breath. 'Benedict, you're fever just broke this morning…' 

 

'I feel fine. Please, Penelope. I'm losing my mind. I haven't seen the sky in weeks. Please…just for an hour…' he cajoled, biting his lip to keep from grinning triumphantly when Penelope sighed heavily in what he knew was put-upon irritation and acquiescence. 

 

'Fine. But only for one hour', she said, eyeing him sternly, waiting until Benedict nodded his head in eager agreement before she turned to go and grab his coat from where it hung in the closet. 

 

Benedict let his grin escape and eagerly kicked back the sheets around his legs, immediately shivering in the cold air but he didn't care, throwing his legs over the edge of the bed and pushing up to stand. 

 

His eyes went wide when his legs wobbled dangerously beneath him, refusing to hold his weight and he quickly lowered himself back onto the mattress, stunned and disheartened to find even that small movement had left him breathless. He cursed under his breath, rubbing at his face with his hand, trying to shove away the irritation that bubbled up inside, but he couldn't help it. He despised this. Despised how weak this illness had left him, unable to look after himself, dependent on others for everything. 

 

He felt a hand settle on his shoulder and lowered his hand on a shuddering breath and lifted his head to look at Penelope, her eyes sad and her face gone soft with understanding. And he knew, if anyone truly understood his frustration and anger, that it was her. After all, only two years before she had been in his place, utterly dependent on him and Genievieve and the Crabtree's for everything. He had even helped her to the privy for the first few weeks, an experience that had left both of them blushing and avoiding eye contact for hours after the first time. 

 

She caught his chin in her hand, leaning down to press a quick kiss to his mouth that he attempted to chase, smiling at him sweetly. 

 

'It's your turn to lean on me', she said, before holding out his coat, shaking it temptingly, already having slipped into her own coat, the one that used to be his, making him laugh before he held out his arms obediently. 

 

And, to Penelope's delight, lean on her he did. They stumbled down the hall as they snuck him out, past the rooms where his family slept, giggling like little kids as they banged into walls and tripped over one another, their legs tangling together, threatening to pull them both down to the floor. 

 

'Ssh', she said, hushing him, pressing her hand over his mouth to muffle his laughter even as a loud laugh escaped her own mouth. She felt drunk with happiness, even as she stumbled under the heavy drag of her leg and the weight of Benedict slung across her shoulders, leaning against her. She curled a tendril of her magic around his waist, helping her to hold him up, shooting him an apologetic look when he startled as he felt the brush of it. The apology died on her lips when he suddenly groaned, closing his eyes for a few seconds before he opened them once more, pinning her with a look that had her biting her lip and pressing her thighs together beneath her skirt. A look she had never forgotten, his eyes gone dark with desire. 

 

Oh my. 

 

Benedict shivered as Penelope's magic curled around his waist, the long-forgotten feeling of it, like phantom fingers, warm and caressing. He couldn't help but recall a day, not so long ago but what also felt like a century past, when those phantom hands had restrained him, his hands pinned beside his head on his desk in his studio, as more roamed his body as she sat atop him, his length deep inside her, his body entirely hers to do with as she pleased for an entire night. And what a night it had been. 

 

Penelope looked away from the want in his eyes that tempted her to give into her own, curling hotly inside her, heat rising to her cheeks, wanting nothing more than to press Benedict into the wall beside the stairs, or even better for him to pin her to the wall, but she knew that neither of them were in any state to follow through with the need, hot and urgent, pulsing in the air between them and the pleasure that it promised.

 

She stilled when she heard the squeak of a door and turned her head slightly, not wishing to alert Benedict, knowing he would not wish anyone to see him like this. Her eyes found Anthony poking his head out of what she assumed was his room, his hair sticking up, clearly having been asleep, though his dark eyes were alert. He looked at the two of them for a moment, before jerking his chin at Benedict, who had not noticed him, silently enquiring if she needed help. 

 

Penelope surreptitiously shook her head. She knew that even if it was offered, Benedict would never accept Anthony's help. He needed this, needed to feel he could make it down those stairs on his own, to feel capable and independent, to have a sense of autonomy and pride after being forced to depend on others for so long. It was a feeling she understood all too well, having felt the same frustration and powerlessness after weeks spent abed recovering after the fire. The joy and accomplishment she had felt when she first managed to walk down these very stairs by herself after she was burnt, Benedict and the Crabtree's cheering for her, making her cry, even as Benedict had hovered anxiously at her side the whole time, ready to steady her if she needed him. 

 

He would accept her help, but she was different. They had already seen each other at their very worst, weak and vulnerable and broken. They felt no shame leaning on one another, but his brother… she knew he would hate for Anthony to see him this way, to be so exposed and helpless before him. 

 

Anthony nodded back, his face twisting sadly, before he disappeared back inside his room, closing the door quietly behind him. 

 

They walked slowly down the stairs, both sweating and gasping for breath once they reached the ground floor, but Benedict's smile was brilliant and victorious and the sight of it was all that mattered. Penelope left him for a few moments to collect a couple of blankets that had been left on the back of the divan in the sitting room before they made their way outside. 

 

They sat on the ground in the gardens outside the side door, heavy fog hanging in the air even as the sky slowly began to lighten, dawn approaching. Penelope wrapped herself in a blanket to ward off the chill of the early morning, the snow thankfully having stopped sometime in the night, leaving the ground cold but dry, before helping Benedict to lower to the ground, wrapped in his own coat and blanket, his head in her lap as they both looked up at the few stars still flickering in the purple-black sky, shivering despite their coverings. 

 

Penelope narrowed her eyes at the ground beside them and flicked her fingers, grinning when flames flickered to life in front of them, smokeless and leaving no mark on the ground, but radiating a warmth that washed over them, seeping through their too-thin clothes and blankets, chasing away the chill. 

 

Benedict let out a groan of appreciation, holding his hands out towards it, letting it melt away the cold in the tips of his fingers, smiling up at her. 

 

'You've been practicing,' he said, openly impressed. She had been so timid with her magic after what had happened to her, terrified of using it, of what could happen to her if she was caught, the consequences that had become all so real to her, but now she seemed to use it instinctively, as easily as breathing and he was glad. It was so much a part of her, as much as her bright red hair, as the dimple on her chin when she smiled and the stretch marks on her soft stomach, so rare and radiant, and it had hurt him to see her so lost without it. 

 

'Well I had nothing but time', she joked, her smile quickly falling from her face as she realised what she had said, watching as Benedict's own smile slid away, replaced with a pained expression that made her stomach clench, and she deliberately glanced away, searching for something to say to ease the sudden, horrible tension between them. She looked over at the house, at the grounds had become overgrown and unkempt, and said the first thing that came to her mind. 

 

'We are going to have a lot to do come Spring.' 

 

She kept her eyes on the gardens and straggly plants and didn't see Benedict's hand reaching for her face until his fingers were on her cheek, titling her face down to his, looking up at her with such hope on his beautiful face that her chest tightened, the warmth of his fingers against her skin a solace. 

 

'We, huh?' 

 

Penelope smiled, nodding, curling her fingers into his hair and running her nails along his scalp, grinning when his eyes closed at her touch, his back arching into it. 'Yes, we. It is my fault My Cottage looks like this after all. We will set her to rights, though.' 

 

Benedict frowned, his eyes opening, dark eyebrows drawing together. 'What do you mean, it's your fault?' 

 

Penelope shrugged, hoping the gesture came off airily but she could tell from the way his gaze sharpened on her face, taking note of every minute change in her expression, that she wasn't doing a very convincing job. 'Exactly that. If I hadn't left…' 

 

Benedict shook his head fiercely, rising until he was sitting, leaning back on his hands, ignoring the way they shook beneath him. 

 

'Penelope. You have to stop blaming yourself…' 

 

He hated it. He could see so clearly that she was still blaming herself for how he had chosen to handle their year apart. She had thought she was doing the right thing, and though he didn't think he'd ever understand how she could ever believe he would just accept her leaving and give up on the two of them and everything they had built together, that he could so easily forget her and the year they had spent together and his love for her and just return to the gilded cage he'd always despised and to the family who had betrayed not only her but him, who had made him question his values, his worth, his principles, who had done such awful things, not just to her but to so many others, he didn't blame her. He couldn't. He loved her too much to ever do so. And he was the one who had chosen to close his doors, to banish the Crabtree's from My Cottage, unable to bear hearing noises in the house, his mind tricking him into thinking they were her, returned to him, chasing her ghost only to find the Crabtree's and see their own devastation reflected back at him as they watched the realisation hit him that it was not her. He hadn't cared that the home had once taken such pride in was falling apart around him. It didn't matter, not if he didn't have her to share it with. He had been the one to give up, even knowing it was the last thing she would've wanted for him. 

 

'I can't,' Penelope whispered, her blue eyes gone misty with the tears swimming in them, shaking her head. 'I don't think I'll ever be able to forgive myself. For leaving you. For hurting you. It's all my fault.' 

 

Benedict's face fell and he tugged her into his chest, his fingers carding gently through her tangled red curls as she cried quietly against his chest, kissing her head softly. 'I do. If it helps…I forgive you, Nel. I have never once hated you for leaving me. I never blamed you. All I ever wanted was for you to come home. And you have. That is all the apology I will ever need.' 

 

But Penelope didn't seem to hear him and he lifted her head from his chest, hands firm and eyes not leaving her face until she lifted her eyes reluctantly to meet his, her nose red and her eyes bloodshot. He wiped at the wetness gleaming on her cheeks, silvery in the rising sunlight, giving her an exasperated smile. 

 

'You have been so focused on what I would be losing if I were to choose you, but did you ever consider what I would be gaining? A life with the woman I love. The children that we will create and raise together. A life full of joy and happiness and freedom. Hang society. This is all I want. A happy home, you, me and our future.' 

 

Penelope stared at him, barely breathing at the conviction in his voice, the longing, and she saw the truth in his eyes even as he pressed her fingers to his heart, showing her how steady and true it was.

 

'Forgive yourself, Nel. So we can have that. Because if we lose it because you can't… that is when I will never forgive you.' 

 

Her heart racing in her chest, Penelope could do nothing but look at him, at the little patient smile that tugged at the corner of his gorgeous lips, before he pulled her back into his arms, lying back against the cold ground as they watched the sun begin to rise. 

 

"What did I miss in the last twelve months? I want to know everything.' 

 

So, Penelope spoke. For hours. She told him of the little cottage she had rented with the funds Genivieve had sent her a few months before she had left- having snuck into the abandoned Featherington House and magicked a trunk filled with her Whistledown funds to My Cottage. How she had refused to buy a home for herself, the idea of feeling too permanent, too final, the final nail in the coffin that was them. How she had tried to make a life there, visiting the nearby village and spending her coin, slowly gaining their trust and helping any villagers that were brave enough to ask for it. How she had learned to cook and to knit, but it had never distracted her from the unbearable loneliness of being without him. 

 

And then it was his turn. He told her about how he had thrown himself into his art, refusing any visitors. Not the Granville's who had come to his door, begging him to open it, or Genevieve, who had threatened to knock the door down and drag him out, and especially not his family, no matter how many times they had tried. He didn't open or answer any letters, but he did send a painting to Henry Granville, one of her on the pyre, one he had painted after a nightmare of the night he had almost lost her before he had even realised who she would become to him, and how the cheeky bastard had submitted it to the National Gallery where it was now on display. How he still got some twisted pleasure from knowing that the Ton would see it,  that they would be forced to confront their sins, their ignorance and their hypocrisy so publicly. 

 

Her trying. Him waiting. Both barely holding on for want of the other. God, what a pair they were. 

 

They could feel curious eyes on them as they lay curled together, knew his family was peering out at them through the many windows of My Cottage, but neither could bring themselves to care, content to just be together, holding onto one another in the garden of the home where they had fallen in love. They would've stayed there all day if a voice hadn't suddenly yelled out from the entrance to the kitchens, tone furious. 

 

''Are you two trying to catch your death? As if that one needs any more help', Mrs. Crabtree scolded them, glowering at them, her hands on her hips as she pointed an accusing finger at Benedict. 

 

Penelope looked at him, at the thoroughly chastised and sheepish look on his face and burst out laughing, hiding her face in his throat before calling out a chastened, 'Sorry, Susan.' 

 

'Don't you 'Susan' me to try and get out of trouble. Back inside, the two of you. I have Mr. Crabtree boiling some water for a bath. Go and wash up and get warm. Separately. I don't know how you two ever managed to get clean before with all those baths you shared', she said, tutting her tongue even as she walked over to help them to their feet and Penelope to carry Benedict back into the house. 

 

Benedict chuckled. 

 

'Seems a waste of perfectly good bath water', he said as they walked over the threshold, leaning down to whisper into Penelope's ear, his breath hot against her sensitive flesh, and Penelope shuddered, before shaking her head at him with a giggle. 

 

'Behave yourself.' 

 

'What's the fun in that?' he said, winking at Penelope, before hastily straightening his face when a suspicious Mrs. Crabtree spun around and raised an eyebrow at him. 

 

"What was that, boy?' 

 

'Nothing, Ma'am.' 

 

Mrs. Crabtree sniffed. 'Smart answer.' 

 

Penelope bit her lip  as they made their way up the stairs to keep from outright laughing as their bickering continued as they headed towards the bathing room, warmth curling in her chest as Benedict's arm wrapped around her waist, his thumb caressing her hip, just because, and she leaned into him, enjoying the kiss he pressed to her head, almost absent-mindedly. 

 

Oh, how she had missed this. 

 

Determination filled her and she made a vow to herself that she would never have cause to miss it again. Because what he had said to her, the future he painted of what they would gain if they chose one another…she wanted it. Wanted it more than anything she had ever wanted before. And she would never let anything, not even her own fear, what was right or even Benedict's illness, take it from them again. 

Notes:

As always let me know what you think lovelies xx I live for your comments every week x

Notes:

What did you think? I am anxiously awaiting any comments and kudos you send my way. Can't wait to hear what you think xx