Chapter Text
This had been the year of Penelope Featherington. The year things finally clicked.
She had never imagined herself in the corporate world, but the hefty paycheck and bonuses afforded her a place in town with a balcony and a view, a walk-in closet dedicated entirely to shoes, and a cascading kitchen island with an apron sink she almost never cleaned thanks to being able to order her favorite foods.
Having a doorman and adding avocado to her restaurant-bought meals without thinking twice was the kind of financial peace she had always craved growing up.
She had a career she was good at, a title people respected, and a sense that she was finally moving forward.
It hadn’t always felt this way. Before Bridgerton Development Group, there had been rejection after rejection of her novels, until she finally accepted what she’d spent years resisting: her childhood dream of becoming a bestselling author was no longer hers to chase.
What followed were several restless years spent trying to find where she belonged once that dream was gone—and now, at last, she felt she had arrived.
You’ve arrived. Your destination will be on your left.
Julie Andrews’ GPS voice cut through her thoughts. Penelope looked around and saw nothing resembling the inn the company had booked for her.
She also couldn’t remember how long she had been driving. Since arriving at the airport and renting the car, it felt like the open, snow-dusted fields had gone on forever.
She tried checking the address again, but there was no signal. Of course there wasn’t.
She cursed Anthony Bridgerton under her breath—this was all his doing in the first place. A week before Christmas, he dropped this assignment squarely in her lap, claiming he was suddenly needed in Tokyo and couldn’t take it on. Being here now, she was almost sure that he backed out the moment he learned there were no five-star accommodations in this part of the world.
And so here she was, stranded in the middle of nowhere with no way to contact anyone
Penelope took a steadying breath as she tapped her fingers against the steering wheel. She decided to keep driving until she reached a gas station or something. Anything.
A few miles later, a large sign appeared on the side of the road: WELCOME TO MAYFAIR MEADOWS.
At least she was in the right town, she thought. But pulling into it did nothing to solve the problem—there was still no signal on her phone, no map, and no clue where the inn was supposed to be.
She parked along the street in front of a corner shop, planning to ask for directions.
The moment she opened her door and stepped onto the pavement, she nearly got run over by a small delivery truck.
“Bloody hell!” the driver shouted as he swerved to avoid her.
The truck skidded on the slushy ice, fishtailing wildly before tipping just enough to send a few crates of eggnog tumbling into the street. Penelope stumbled back as the vehicle finally lurched to a stop, the engine still growling beneath the hood.
Inside the cab, the man cut the ignition and leaned back against the seat, dragging in a deep, steadying breath.
—
Reginald Fife was having one hell of a year. Not in a good way, unfortunately. More like what he imagined farmer hell might feel like.
Still, he knew he shouldn’t complain. His grandma’s health had improved significantly, his mother was finally able to step back from being a full-time caretaker, and his sister Angie was thriving in school—mathlete champion, of all things. Maybe one day she’d even grow up to help with the farm’s finances.
Fraser Farms had been passed down for generations on his mother’s side of the family. What had started as strawberry fields and beekeeping slowly evolved into a specialized dairy operation after his great-great-grandfather about five generations back brought the first Highland cow to the United States. Reginald wasn’t entirely sure how that had worked back then, but he was endlessly grateful the old man had figured it out.
The Scottish cows produced rich milk with an exceptionally high butterfat content, giving their products a quality that stood out from the rest. But these days, competition was tough. Bigger, more modernized operations could afford lower prices, and in this economy, price often came before quality. He couldn’t really blame anyone for that.
Which was why, when he had to think fast to avoid hitting someone in the road while driving the dairy delivery truck and watched several crates of eggnog go flying in his rearview mirror, he knew he was done for the day.
It was the third disaster that morning, and it wasn’t even noon.
He was still leaning back in his seat, eyes closed, cursing under his breath, when her voice cut through the cab.
“What in the world was that?! Do you not look at the road while you’re driving?!”
He let out a dry laugh. That was… not what he’d been expecting.
“Me?” he shot back. “Do you not look for incoming traffic before flinging a car door open?”
He rubbed a hand over his face, frustration clinging to him, then finally opened his eyes and looked at the woman now barking at him.
He had to blink.
She was… not what he’d been expecting either.
Light blonde hair. A tailored black suit that almost certainly cost more than the delivery truck he was driving. Pointy high heels that belong to some designer name he definitely did not know, but instinctively understood was expensive.
And then there were her eyes.
Bright blue. Striking. Mesmerizing.
For a split second, they made him forget his own name—beautiful and terrifying all at once, like those ice zombies from the dragon TV show his grandmother loved.
She was gorgeous and mean. Just his type.
“You came out of nowhere!” she shot back. “I was the only car on the road all the way here.”
“And I’m doing fine, thanks for asking,” he said dryly, scoffing as he chuckled. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to park this thing and clean up the road before half the town sends me the bill for their blown tires.”
He reached out and tapped the bobblehead cat on the dashboard, then eased his foot onto the brake and turned the key. Just as he was about to let go, he glanced to the side.
She was still there.
Arms crossed under her chest, and he couldn’t help noticing how generously blessed she was in that department.
“You splashed slushy ice all over my shoes and my pants,” she said flatly.
He shook his head, incredulous. “You know what? I’d much rather pay for your dry cleaning than your medical bills. Take them off and I’ll get that sorted for you, doll.”
Her mouth fell open just enough before she scoffed. “Wow. Charming.”
Reginald smirked, then pulled the truck forward to park—unfortunately splashing even more slushy snow in her direction.
“Are you for real?!” she exclaimed, uncrossing her arms as she looked down at herself. “My shoes—”
“—are not fit for snow, are they?” Reginald cut in, hopping out of the truck in one smooth motion.
“I was not planning on walking in the snow,” she replied, her smile tight and forced.
He stepped closer, eyes dragging over her from head to toe. The faint flush rising on her cheeks told him everything he needed to know.
This was going to be fun.
—
Penelope could not believe this man. That was probably the fastest a stranger had ever tried to convince her to take her pants off.
He was nothing like what she expected from a small town dairy delivery driver—far too confident, flirtatious, and ruggedly handsome for her own good. She was mad at him for almost running her over and ruining her outfit, and even more annoyed that she wanted to stay mad but he was making it difficult.
Now he was standing far too close, his eyes sweeping over her, and she hated that she was blushing. Absolutely hated it.
Before she could protest—because she was definitely about to—someone came jogging toward them.
“Fife! Are you alright?!” the man called out, concern all over his face.
“I’m fine, Will,” Fife replied smoothly. “I was just… helping the lady with directions.”
He turned back to Penelope, lifting his eyebrows ever so slightly, a silent request for her to play along.
“I—yes,” she said quickly. “I’m looking for Layla’s Inn.”
“That’s an easy one. It’s right above Remi’s Bar, down the street to the right.” He gestured casually.
Penelope blinked. “Layla’s Inn is on top of Remi’s Bar?”
“Remi and Layla are married, and they thought it would be funny if—”
“—Yeah. Got it.” She cut in dryly. “I’m familiar with the… concept.”
Fife hummed, eyeing her. “Huh. I would not have pegged you for a cowgirl.”
“Excuse me?!”
Will cleared his throat, gentle but pointed. “He means—you don’t look like you’re from around here. Pardon him. I’m Will Mondrich. I own the corner shop.”
“Pleasure to meet you. I’m Penelope.” She offered her hand along with a practiced smile, then turned to Fife, waiting for him to formally introduce himself.
“Do pardon my manners, ma’am. I’m Reginald Fife.” He extended his hand, and when Penelope took it, he turned it lightly and lifted it to his lips, pressing a brief kiss to her knuckles.
She was too stunned by the gesture to react in any way. Instead, she swallowed and accepted it as normal behavior in Mayfair Meadows.
“And I should start cleaning this mess up before the knitting club walks by,” Fife said, lifting his arms to clasp his hands behind his head, as if considering where to begin.
Penelope’s eyes betrayed her, drawn to the glimpse of his abs that movement revealed. Not that she had a thing for abs, but she found herself suddenly curious about what was hiding under the sweater.
“I’ll help you,” Will added easily. “Bingo at the community center should wrap up in about half an hour, and after that, no one’s safe from them.”
Penelope laughed softly. “Knitting club. Sounds terrifying.”
“You have no idea,” Will replied with a mock grimace. “And Fife here is not on their good side as of late.”
FIfe chuckled and Penelope grinned. “I can’t say I’m surprised.”
“So how did this happen, anyway?” Will asked, glancing at the mess in the road.
Penelope and Fife exchanged a look, and before she could answer, he jumped in.
“I got distracted,” Fife said apologetically, casting a subtle wink at Penelope behind Will’s back. “Sorry I’ve only got five crates for your shop today. I’ll bring more by tomorrow.”
“No worries, man,” Will said easily. “Just glad everyone’s okay.”
Fife and Will began moving the fallen crates out of the way, leaving Penelope standing there for a moment longer than necessary. She watched him, intrigued. When Will had asked, Fife hadn’t blamed her—not even a little.
She’d thought she had him all figured out.
Apparently, she was wrong.
—
After Fife pointed out once again that she was not dressed for snow, Penelope left the eggnog crime scene behind and headed for the inn to check in.
When she arrived, a woman not much older than her stood behind the counter.
“Good morning. You must be Miss Penelope,” she said with a warm smile. “I’m Mrs. Layla Remington, but please call me Layla. Welcome to our little piece of paradise.”
Penelope pressed her lips together before smiling. “Thank you. This is… quite charming.”
She took in the reception area as she spoke. Dark wood-paneled walls were lit by vintage sconces, Christmas garlands draped between them. The furniture was mismatched but inviting, softened by holiday throw pillows. In the corner stood a Christmas tree decorated with pinecones and hand-stitched ornaments, and the air carried the comforting aroma of apple and cinnamon from burning candles.
“Thank you, honeypot.” Layla slid a key across the counter. “Your room is just down the hall. The bar and restaurant are downstairs.”
“Perfect.”
“Are you in town for the Christmas Parade?” Layla asked. “You’ll want to save your spot by six in the morning, or you won’t get a good view. I have folding chairs to rent, in case you did not bring your own.”
Penelope chuckled softly. “I did not bring one, but it won’t be necessary. I’m here on business.”
Layla’s smile turned knowing. “I figured as much when I saw the regal company name on the credit card. The fact that you did not try to hide it makes me think you can’t be that bad, big city girl.”
Penelope laughed lightly and made a mental note to not underestimate small-town investigative skills.
“I appreciate the vote of confidence.”
“Depending on the business you are trying to conduct,” Layla said with a knowing smile, “you’re going to need every bit of it.”
“Did you happen to see a small beige delivery truck outside on your way in? He’s running late today, which is very unlike him.”
“I… I saw him making a delivery to the shop down the street,” Penelope replied vaguely, not wanting to gossip about what really happened. “I stopped to ask for directions to the inn.”
“Ah, that explains it.” Layla nodded. “Men complain about women babbling, but they’re just as bad. At least we can multitask.”
“It looked like the owner needed some… help.”
“I see,” Layla said, already pulling out her phone. “Oh—speak of the devil. He just got here.”
Penelope’s eyes widened, heat rushing to her cheeks.
Layla continued reading, brow arching higher by the second. “And apparently I’m supposed to take your pants and shoes…?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Penelope said quickly.
“Did he get you all wet?” Layla asked, and Penelope’s mind went in a completely different direction for a moment.
“Snow,” she blurted. “He got snow on me. Dirty snow. Which melted. And now my pants are wet—I mean,not—just—” She trailed off, mortified.
Layla laughed, already reaching under the counter. “Put them in these bags and leave them outside your room door. I’ll take care of them for you.” She handed Penelope two large plastic bags. “Consider it a complimentary service. Courtesy of Mr. Fife.”
Penelope accepted them with a nod and made a swift retreat down the hallway, determined to avoid running into Fife again.
She needed to get it together.
She had a very important job to do, and one infuriatingly charming cowboy delivery driver was already throwing her off her game.
—
Penelope spent the rest of the day in her room, resting and then working. The wi-fi was spotty but workable. The room itself was simple yet thoughtfully decorated, exactly what she imagined the kids called cottagecore these days.
She planned to sleep early so she’d be sharp for her meeting in the morning, but the noise drifting up from the bar downstairs made that difficult. Laughter, music, the muffled thud of boots against hardwood floors. She twisted and turned until she remembered the ear protectors she kept from flying first class. Once she put them on, sleep finally came.
The next morning, she skipped breakfast and went straight to her meeting. She never liked eating when she was nervous. She hated being nervous at all—this had been a fantastic year for her. Anthony trusted her to handle this assignment, which usually gave her confidence enough to do anything.
But something held her back.
When she arrived at the house, she immediately understood why.
She knocked on the door and froze when it swung open to reveal the delivery driver.
“Good morning, Miss,” he said with a smirk. “I was not expecting you to come looking for me so soon, but I’m flattered.” He crossed his arms and leaned casually against the doorframe.
He was wearing light wash jeans and a red plaid flannel over a white undershirt, the neckline dipping just low enough to reveal a hint of chest hair. He looked different from yesterday. More domestic and somehow more dangerous.
“Don’t be,” she replied sharply, returning his smirk with one of her own. “I’m here for Eliza Fraser.”
His expression faltered and he gave her a confused look.
“Reggie, who’s at the door?” a voice called from inside.
“It’s a… Miss Penelope,” he answered slowly. “For you, Nana.”
Penelope didn’t react outwardly but internally, she was panicking.
He wasn’t just the delivery driver.
He was the grandson.
The one who was firmly against his grandmother selling the land.
The land Anthony wanted.
The land she had been sent here to secure.
Notes:
*I had to talk myself down to writing ten chapters of this, you can tell I was having too much fun. So as of now, it's a short 3-chapter story that I'm wrapping up by New Year's🩷
*Beware of the Knitting Club!! You know those ladies have more intel than the cops.
*Mrs. Layla Remington 🥹
*Dun dun dunn
🎄🎁🎄🎅🎄🎁🎄🎅🎄🎁🎄🎅🎄
This story is part of “A Very Merry Rare Pair Holiday” event. Check out the other holiday themed stories in the collection! Thank you for participating!
🎄🎁🎄🎅🎄🎁🎄🎅🎄🎁🎄🎅🎄
Chapter 2: Fraser Farms
Notes:
Thank you so much for the wonderful comments on the first chapter. I got a little carried away on this one inspired by them. Hope you enjoy it ❤️🎄✨
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Penelope sat at a round wooden table by the window just off the kitchen. The farmhouse was spacious and immaculately kept despite its age. The cabinets were painted an antique green, detailed with intricate trim along the bottom, and the wooden floors creaked softly under her feet. Behind the counters, small painted tiles lined the walls. She had seen kitchens like this countless times on home renovation shows, but this was the first time she was standing inside the real thing—the lived-in inspiration behind every vintage trend people tried to recreate.
She could hear muffled voices drifting in from the living room. Fife and his grandmother, most likely, coming up with a strategy before facing her. For what felt like the twentieth time, Penelope wished she were anywhere else but here. Anywhere, really. Even Phillipa’s chihuahua birthday party that she was missing sounded better than being here. Frida was turning six, and that meant something special for her sister that Penelope could not remember at that moment.
Penelope had been cursing Anthony Bridgerton before she even reached her destination, which should have been her cue to turn the car around and find another shiny pin on the world map board he kept in his office. Surely there was another prime piece of land with a far more willing seller.
Normally, this was not a problem for her. Penelope Featherington did not struggle to get people to say yes.
But she also was not usually attracted to them.
And she hated that this time, she was.
She was a professional, first and foremost. A flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows had no business being so damn distracting.
Penelope had dated handsome, successful men before. Theo Sharpe, an editor at The New York Times. Alfred Debling, a research scientist at Columbia University. Friedrich Ludwig, a German diplomat. She was well-connected, impeccably put together, and owned a pair of shoes for every conceivable occasion.
Every occasion, apparently, except one that required cowboy boots.
And Reginald Fife existed in a category entirely his own, handsome and successful in a way that felt almost unfair. He was tall and rugged, though he was the intentional kind of rugged, she assumed. She had reviewed the farm’s finances in preparation for the meeting, and they were solid. More than solid.
Which, irritatingly, made her job harder.
Bridgerton Development Group often came in as a lifeline—saving people from financial ruin, offering solutions when money was the problem. But money was not Fife’s problem. He could afford to modernize, expand, and hire a team to manage the day-to-day while he sat atop a pile of hay issuing orders like some rural aristocrat. Hell, he could be the Earl of Mayfair Meadows if he wanted.
Why Anthony wanted to be the one doing that, it was unclear. Why Fife was not already doing it, she did not know either.
The only conclusion she could come to was that he was stubborn. Traditional. She smelled that kind of man from miles away, Anthony Bridgerton was her boss after all. Except Fife was the type who would not think twice about missing a board meeting, but would probably die if he missed the birth of a calf.
—
Reginald had a plan.
He was going to let the city girl get a proper night’s sleep. He was convinced that at least half of her sharp edge the day before came from being exhausted—too much driving, too much frustration, not enough rest. So he would have Layla take care of her pants and shoes and return them looking like nothing had ever happened.
Then he would leave a bouquet of wildflowers at the reception desk. Nothing fancy, but thoughtful. Handpicked from the greenhouse. Along with a short note inviting her to Remi’s Bar that night.
At the bar, he would buy her dinner. And drinks. She looked like the kind of woman who enjoyed those fruity ones in oddly shaped glasses that were far too much work to hand-wash, like a Sex on the Beach. He had no idea what actually went into that cocktail, but the name sounded like something they could do together one day.
He would pick a slow song on the jukebox and ask her to dance. James Taylor, he decided. Something in the Way She Moves would have been perfect.
The plan was flawless.
Until he opened the door that morning and learned she was there to buy his grandmother’s land.
“Nana, did you know she was coming?” he asked, pacing the length of the room while Eliza remained settled in her favorite armchair, hands folded calmly in her lap.
“Yes, Reggie,” she said evenly. “I scheduled the meeting.”
He stopped short and planted his hands on his hips. “So you did not tell me on purpose.”
“I only wish to hear them out.”
His jaw tightened. “Why?” he asked, unable to keep the edge completely out of his voice—though he was still careful to stay respectful. “Are you actually considering selling it?”
“You wanna know why I wanna hear this lady out?” Eliza asked.
He hesitated. Then, with a quiet sigh, he nodded.
“Because with you working yourself to the bone and refusing to trust anyone else to help carry the load, this industry is gonna move on without you,” she said. “And life’s gonna pass you by.”
“But Grandpa would have wanted—”
“Don’t start that with me, boy.”
Reginald winced. He always knew he was in trouble when his grandmother called him boy. And more often than not, he felt exactly like one when she did.
“I loved your grandfather,” she continued, her eyes alight with a fire he never quite knew what to do with. "And I always will. But he’s gone and been gone. We can't keep coming up with things we think he would have done or said because the truth is, we don't know.”
He scoffed. Respectfully. “We know how he ran the place and I'm doing what he taught me. What he did. Why is that suddenly not good enough?”
“Except you are not doing the same way,” she said gently but firmly. “He had me and you to help him. I might be doing better now, but I won't be around forever. So tell me, between the calving, the milking, the deliveries you insist on doing yourself, when are you planning to find someone to grow old with, like what your gramps did with me?”
Reginald stared at her. “That’s what this is about?” he asked. “Me not having a… wife?”
“You are the one always going on about tradition and the old ways being the right ones,” she replied. “So who are you planning on passing all this down to?”
He could not believe this was where the conversation had landed. But he also could not pretend he was surprised. After all, his mother and grandmother had once tried to sign him up for that farmer-looking-for-a-wife TV show.
“The traditional way, too,” he added with a small laugh and a crooked smile. “Not a TV show. Not some dumb phone app where you pick women like food off a menu.”
“Mmm,” Eliza hummed. “Arranged marriage, then? Doesn’t get more traditional than that.” She flashed him a bright, clever smile.
“You would love that, wouldn’t you?”
“We know everyone in Mayfair Meadows, Reggie,” she shot back easily. “You think you are finding a wife at Remi’s Bar? Besides, I’m fairly certain you have already taken the most eligible ones for a test drive—and didn’t like any of them enough to bring home with you.”
He wanted to disappear.
He had lived and worked on this farm since he was fifteen, and for the first time in twenty and something years, he wished he were anywhere else.
“Can we go back to the lady waiting for you in the kitchen?” he said, drawing in a steadying breath.
Eliza glanced toward the kitchen, then back at him. “She seems sweet,” she said thoughtfully. “And tough. Like a good cookie. Might be a fine fit.”
“No—no,” he said quickly. “That’s not— That is not what I meant. I just don’t understand how selling the land helps us at all, when we don’t need the money.”
“That,” Eliza said calmly, “is exactly what I would like to find out too, my dear.”
He nodded, resigned but respectful. “Alright, then. It’s your meeting.”
As much as he wanted to listen to everything, he knew he would not be able to hold himself back, so he needed to retreat.
“I’ll be at the barn.”
—
Penelope glanced at her watch, on the verge of pacing around the kitchen, when Fife finally walked in. He tipped the brim of his hat in brief acknowledgment, nodded once in her direction, and then walked straight out the back door.
Through the window, she watched him head toward the red barn.
She was just about to follow when a voice stopped her.
“He needs a minute, sweet pea. You must be Miss Penelope.”
Penelope turned immediately. “Mrs. Fraser. Thank you for meeting with me.”
“Please, call me Eliza,” the woman said with a light laugh as she took a seat at the table and gestured for Penelope to join her. “Mrs. Fraser makes me sound ancient.”
Penelope smiled and sat.
“I understand you have already met my grandson.”
“Yes,” Penelope said carefully. “We, uh… he helped me with directions.”
Eliza hummed, amused. “He is a good man. Just stubborn. And carrying more than he ought to.” Her tone softened. “But don’t we all, at some point?”
Penelope nodded. “That is actually why I’m here,” she said, her smile gentle but sincere. “We have a generous proposal, and I know money alone is not your motivation. But there are other ways to be generous, ways that don’t involve giving anything up.”
Eliza’s eyes sharpened with interest.
“Mr. Bridgerton believes there is an opportunity here,” Penelope continued, “to expand, improve, and modernize the farm’s operations. You already have the funds to do so. What we offer instead is strategic expertise and organizational support—to take Fraser Farms to the next level.”
“That sounds like what an investor would do,” Eliza said evenly. “Why does Mr. Bridgerton want a piece of the land if the intention is not to walk away with the farm?”
“Modernizing and growing the operation would require additional acreage,” Penelope replied. “You would keep what you have. The land acquired for expansion would belong to Mr. Bridgerton.”
Eliza leaned back slightly. “So in the future, he could turn his land into something else if he wanted—and dismantle our operation.”
Penelope smiled, genuinely impressed. This woman was sharper than half the so-called sophisticated people she had met over the years.
“Yes and no,” Penelope replied. “Beyond the legal agreements that would be put in place between you and Mr. Bridgerton, there are local regulations that govern what can be developed in this part of Mayfair Meadows.”
“And I have been to enough town meetings, Miss, to know people can make all sorts of requests to change that.”
“That is true,” Penelope conceded. “But this jurisdiction has strong protections for agricultural land, and Mayfair Meadows sits outside the county’s urban growth boundary. It would take a great deal to turn this into anything else.”
Eliza straightened up on her chair, leaning her forearms on the table to get closer to Penelope.
“You did your homework, sweet pea,” Eliza said warmly. “I’ll give you that. But men like Mr. Bridgerton have a way of making people bend.”
Penelope exhaled softly. Eliza was not wrong, and she could not lie to her face. This had to be about them, not Anthony. She glanced out the window, toward the red barn, then met Eliza’s gaze again.
“I can’t speak to what Mr. Bridgerton may want ten years from now,” she said honestly. “I can only speak to what he wants and is offering presently. You clearly understand the risks. I’m confident you can see the benefits as well.”
She paused, choosing her next words carefully.
“This could be your legacy, Eliza. A smoother, more sustainable operation. One that allows your family and everyone who works here to have a better quality of life. To be involved because they want to be, not because they have to.”
Eliza nodded softly, and before she could reply, a young girl and a woman walked into the kitchen, chattering to each other and clearly unaware they had company.
“Angela Marie, can you stop that already,” the woman said. “No means no.”
“But, Mom, you don’t understand—” the girl started, then stopped short when she noticed them. “Oops. Hi, Nana. Who’s this?”
“Is that the manners I taught you, girl?” the woman said, elbowing her gently. “You introduce yourself first, then ask her name.” She turned to Penelope. “I apologize. I did not realize Mama had company. I’m Eleanor.” She extended her hand.
“Hi, I’m Penelope,” she replied, standing to shake it. She then turned to the girl. “And you must be Angela Marie. Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, ma’am.”
“Oh, no ma’am,” Penelope corrected quickly. “Just Miss. Or Penelope.”
“Penelope,” Eleanor repeated, thoughtful. “That name rings a bell.” She tapped her chin. “Ah—you’re staying at Layla’s, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Penelope said with a smile. “It’s a very charming place.”
“Doris mentioned you at the knitting club this morning.” Eleanor smiled, then turned toward Eliza. “They send their kisses, Mama. You were missed today.”
Penelope could not help but chuckle, remembering what Will had said the day before. Apparently, Fife’s mother and grandmother were part of the knitting club and he was very much still on their bad side.
“Thank you, dear. I had an important meeting I couldn’t miss,” Eliza said lightly.
Eleanor glanced between Penelope and Eliza, then down at the bare table. “An important meeting with no tea and scones, Mrs. Eliza? Where are the manners you taught me?” she teased as she moved through the kitchen toward the cupboards. “Angela, put some water on to boil, please.”
“It is quite all right,” Penelope said quickly, then turned to Eliza. “I think we are good for now, and I know you will want some time to think things over.”
“Well, that is even better if business is done,” Eleanor chimed in before her mother had a chance to reply, as she opened the fridge. “Now we can just visit.”
Penelope offered them a small smile, her gaze flicking briefly to Eliza silently checking. Eliza returned it with an encouraging smile.
“Ellie is right,” Eliza said warmly. “It would be lovely to get to know you better.”
“I love your earrings,” Angela said as she set small porcelain plates on the table. “They look so heavy.”
“Thank you. They are not too bad,” Penelope replied.
“Not that I would know,” Angela sighed. “I don’t even have my ears pierced.”
“Angela, why would you want earrings on a farm?” Her mother said as she arranged scones on a tray. “So they can get tangled on something?”
“I could wear them when I’m not here,” Angela replied, as if it were obvious. “Like at school?”
The look she earned from both her mother and grandmother told her she was not winning that argument.
“Have you tried clip-ons?” Penelope asked, trying to chime in without overstepping. “I wear them sometimes to avoid irritation. My ears can get sensitive, depending on the material.”
“Really?” Angela brightened. “I thought those were just for old people.”
Penelope and Eliza laughed. Eleanor only rolled her eyes.
“They make some really pretty ones now,” Penelope said, reaching into her purse. “I think I might have a pair… Here. You can have my emergency earrings.”
Angela’s eyes widened. “Wow. These are so pretty. One day I want a fancy purse with emergency earrings too.”
“That’s very kind, but she can’t accept something like that,” Eleanor said gently.
“Yes, she can,” Angela protested, referring to herself in the third person.
“That looks expensive, Angela.”
“It’s no trouble,” Penelope said softly. “Consider it an early Christmas gift.”
“Thank you, Miss Penelope,” Angela said, grinning as she wrapped her arms around Penelope’s neck. Penelope laughed softly and hugged her back.
“Do you have any siblings?” Eliza asked.
“Two older sisters,” Penelope replied. “Though I always wanted a little sister.”
Eleanor and Eliza exchanged a brief, knowing glance.
“You seem to have a knack with children,” Eleanor remarked.
“I’m not a child,” Angela muttered. “I’m twelve.”
“Twelve and already so temperamental,” Eleanor said dryly. “I was not this bad, was I, Mama?”
Eliza laughed. “The apple does not fall far from the tree, Ellie.” She turned back to Penelope. “What do you think of Mayfair Meadows so far, Miss Penelope?”
“It’s… quaint,” Penelope said thoughtfully. “Quirky—in a good way. Like something straight out of a Hallmark movie.” She smiled. “I only arrived yesterday, so I have not seen much yet.”
“And how long will you be staying?” Eleanor asked, her tone casual but curious.
Penelope opened her mouth, then closed it again. “As long as my boss needs me, I suppose.”
Eleanor’s expression softened. She folded her arms, studying Penelope. “You poor thing. Does that mean you might be spending Christmas alone out here?”
“Most likely,” Penelope said quickly, then added, glancing at Eliza, “but there is no rush on any decisions. Truly, it’s fine.” She brightened a little. “Christmas in the country sounds lovely. I heard there’s a parade?”
“Yes!” Angela said eagerly. “We take our prize cows down Main Street and they strut like Miss Rodeo.”
“Well, it’s decided then. I can’t miss that,” Penelope said with a smile. “I’ve always loved cows.”
Eleanor and Eliza exchanged another subtle glance, their brows lifting in quiet unison.
“They are the most adorable creatures,” Eleanor agreed, taking a seat and pouring tea for Penelope. “So—would anyone be missing you for Christmas? Besides your family, of course.”
Penelope chuckled to herself. This must be what Will and Fife meant, the knitting club truly was onto everything. The attention to her personal life was unexpected, but she had nothing to hide and building rapport with Eliza certainly wouldn’t hurt.
“Not really,” Penelope replied lightly, taking a sip of tea. “It’s been a very busy year. Not much time for… distractions.”
“Well, it’s the holidays now,” Eliza said pleasantly. “We may be a small town, but we have quite a few nice distractions.”
Penelope nearly spit out her tea, caught completely off guard.
“And it is all true what they say about cowboys,” Eleanor added ominously.
Penelope did choke this time.
“What do they say about cowboys?” Angela asked, wide-eyed.
Eliza and Eleanor stifled a laugh, Penelope was still too stunned to react.
“Just look at that Charlotte gal,” Eliza said, still chuckling. “Big city royalty and she left it all behind to marry Farmer George.”
“Oh, Farmer George,” Eleanor sighed. “Such a catch.”
Penelope shifted in her seat. It had been a long time since she had dated anyone, and the combination of cowboys, reputations, and pointed looks was doing her absolutely no favors. She was now even more curious about just how rowdy the knitting club got. Heat crept up her neck, completely uninvited and inconvenient.
Eliza noticed how flustered Penelope got, saw an opportunity and took it.
“Dear,” she said gently, “would you mind taking some tea and scones to Reggie? When he gets working, he forgets to eat.”
It felt like both a lifeline and a life sentence.
Penelope did need air. Very badly. But facing Reginald Fife right now and alone felt wildly dangerous.
“I would be happy to,” she said anyway.
—
Penelope was holding a thermos of tea and a bag of scones as she made her way to the barn. The door was propped open just enough that she nudged it with her foot to step inside.
She was unexpectedly greeted by a black-and-white border collie. The dog didn’t bark, only wagged his tail enthusiastically, tongue lolling as he circled her. Penelope smiled at him, though her hands were too full to pet him.
“Hi there,” she said softly. “Would you like some scones too?”
The dog continued orbiting her, nose fixed on the bag.
“Careful, boy,” Fife said, wiping his hands on a rag pulled from the back pocket of his jeans as he approached them. “Could be poisoned.”
Penelope rolled her eyes and handed him the thermos and the bag. “I’m not the enemy.”
“I know,” he said, taking them. Their fingers brushed and his fingerprints lingered against her skin, charged. “You are just the messenger.” He paused. “Or in this case, the sniper.”
“Would you just hear me out before making assumptions?” Penelope shot back.
“Happily,” he replied. “Tell me, does your boss always send you to do his dirty work?”
She stilled. Something in his tone told her this was not a casual jab.
“What do you know about my boss?”
She crossed her arms beneath her chest, shifting her weight onto one hip. She knew the pose was foolproof to soften stubborn men, and by the way his eyes darted to her neckline she knew it worked.
He coughed and cleared his throat. “You work for Bridgerton Development Group, don’t you? Hate to be the one to tell you, but Anthony Bridgerton is a coward.”
Penelope wet her bottom lip, strategically. “It doesn’t sound like you hate saying that.”
He let out a dry laugh, then lifted the hem of his shirt to wipe sweat from his face, revealing the kind of abs that came from years of manual labor. She pressed her arms tighter against herself, resisting the urge to reach out and check if they were real. Damn it, she thought, he was trying to disarm her too.
“I just can’t believe he thought sending a pretty face would change my mind,” Fife continued. “The bastard couldn’t even make the drive himself.”
Penelope absorbed all of that at once. First, Fife thought she had a pretty face—she filed that away for later. Second, and far more relevant in the moment, it was clear he and Anthony went way back. This was not just a deal. It was personal.
Before Penelope could respond, the dog suddenly perked up, ears twitching. Something outside caught his attention and with one last hopeful look at the bag of scones, he darted past them.
“Hey—!” Fife started, but the dog was already gone.
He slipped through the narrow opening of the barn door, his body nudging it wider just enough to squeeze out. A second later, the door swung shut behind him with a heavy thud.
Then came the unmistakable sound of metal sliding into place, an old latch catching on the outside.
Notes:
*Reggie had a whole date planned 😭
*A matchmaking Mama and Nana? They are doomed. 🙂↕️
*Farmer George honorable mention 🥹❤️ (from Queen Charlotte mini series)
*The dog was a paying actor too, locking them in the barn. That should help with... talking. Lots of talking. 🤭