Chapter Text
As the hack rolls further and further from the rules and rigours of the world she normally inhabits it is only her hands, continuously smoothing the paper on her lap, that betray her inner turmoil. She cannot remember the last time she felt so agitated. Unbidden, her thoughts turn to those horrible days almost two years ago, when her view of the world and those closest to her was so brutally shattered. Yet this is different. This is not about careless words or hurt friends lashing out in anger. This is a deliberate attempt to appropriate what is hers, to profit from her creation and with it, all the painstaking work, the risks she has taken and the tears and triumphs it has brought her. She cannot let it happen, and she most certainly cannot let Cressida Twombley …
She doesn’t realise that her hands have balled into fists until she notices the crumpled paper. Sighing, she pats her bosom to ensure that the copy she made just in case is still safely tucked away. It won’t do to dwell on Cressida, she needs her wits about her. Penelope forces herself instead to watch the world outside the window, where the imposing mansions of the well-to-do have given way to people in a hurry and smaller buildings, with fading signs advertising their trade. A fleeting glimpse of a blue coat directs her thoughts to familiar territory – a pathway so well-worn in her mind she knows it has left an imprint that will never fade away completely.
The memory of that night still stings, yet it is but a memory now. She sometimes mourns the uncomplicated dreams and hopes that were lost, but she also knows that something precious has been gained since. Forgiveness did not come easy, and understanding never quite completely, but somehow – fragile piece, by fragile piece – her sense of self was rebuilt and with it, a promise of a new kind of bond and friendship.
After the cathartic Lady Whistledown column, composed in defiance and the deepest despair, she refused any visitors. Still, he sought her out on the last social gathering of the season, more than a little inebriated. To his credit he did not try to explain, excuse, or justify his behaviour, and his normally smooth demeanour was nowhere to be seen as he stuttered, almost choked on, his words of apology. Red-rimmed eyes bore witness to his torment and regret but failed to stir her compassion. She accepted the apology silently but offered no words of solace or forgiveness, instead choosing her parting words carefully:
“I never asked or expected you to court me, or even to dance with me. I never wished for anyone’s pity, let alone yours. What I had a right to expect was that you would not call me a friend to my face and then diminish my worth behind my back, especially not to such company. I thought you more of a gentleman than that Mr. Bridgerton.”
Colin left for destinations unknown the following week, having finished his evening being carried home from Will Mondrich’s club by Anthony and Benedict, and then cradling a chamber pot for the better part of the night. The latter was imparted to her by Eloise, the same day she turned up unexpectedly at the Featherington country residence (after bribing her long-suffering footman to take her there). Penelope smiled at the memory of how Eloise, in her inimitable way, had exited her carriage in a flurry of impatient movements, walked straight up to Penelope and simply said:
“This will not do.”
It was painful to unpack the lies, secrets and hidden hurts, but it was also a necessary readjustment, a lesson in how utterly trapped they had been in their own heads. One day, when they had exhausted the topic once more, Eloise lay down on the grass and said tiredly:
“So, I tend to verbalise without thought or proper consideration of others, and you tend to think and observe without verbalising. Except when you expose our least flattering traits in the guise of Lady Whistledown. We’re quite the pair aren’t we.”
And then they had shared a fierce hug and a teary laugh, the first scar tissue forming on an open wound.
The letter arrived a month later, and with it a new revelation. She was apprehensive at first, not sure if she had the strength or indulgence to read his self-pitying ramblings. As it turned out, the letter was nothing of the sort. The thick envelope contained excerpts copied from a travel diary, page after page of surprisingly neatly written narrations that transported her to another place altogether – one of wonder and adventures brought alive by his quill. Colin, it seemed, was a wordsmith and writer – a fellow worshipper in the church of the written word.
The last diary entry was followed by a short passage:
I keep this diary in an attempt to capture fleeting moments, impressions and thoughts that my travels give rise to. It occurred to me that the only person I feel comfortable sharing these musings with is you. And that realisation is precisely the punishment I deserve, and why I vow never to seek forgiveness for the unforgivable. Instead, I shall endeavour to do better, to be better. I have you to thank for his excruciating insight, and even if we shall never again converse with the ease we once did, you will forever have my gratitude.
After days of conflicting emotions and anguished deliberation she penned a reply, carefully commenting on the passages that thrilled her the most, and asking questions about places and people she wished to know more about. She ended the letter with a brief note:
It is a powerful and wonderful thing, being able to make sights unseen come to a life with the flourish of a quill. You have a genuine gift. I think you may have found your purpose Colin.
And so, their correspondence began anew. The letters always followed the same pattern: accounts of recent events or new diary entries, expressed with increasing literary flair, followed by a personal note. Gradually they both started adding comments and suggestions to do with the art and craft of writing itself. With time, the personal notes transformed into little confessions, tiny glimpses of themselves and a gradual coming to terms with how hopes and fears (your own as well as those of scheming mamas) can overwhelm and blind you. The only time that fateful evening was touched upon directly was in his reply to a letter in which she had described an event involving Lord Fife behaving like the brute he is.
“I shall never know precisely what made me lose my judgment so completely as I did, but I can certainly remember the overwhelming feeling of wanting to prevent any such ideas from entering the vulgar workings of a mind like Lord Fife’s. His view of courtship, marriage and gentlemanly conduct is firmly entrenched in the tradition of the ton, and his understanding of friendship is limited to partaking in the same pursuits as other men of his standing, with no sharing of confidences beyond the proper handling of a horse. His respectability runs skin-deep, a mere façade to hide his utter lack of respect for those beneath him, including any lady he considers eligible for marriage. Unfortunately, Lord Fife is one of those people you cannot afford to ignore when trying to find your way in society, even when you lose a tiny piece of your soul with each interaction and your dearest wish is to throw him headfirst into the nearest body of water.”
She knows all too well about the instinct to prevent certain precious things from becoming public property. And she is certainly familiar with the ice-cold panic one feels when having the spotlight shone on you, especially by someone whose intentions are not necessarily benevolent. She had just assumed that these moments of mind-numbing paralysis only applied to her, not someone with all the natural advantages in life like Colin Bridgerton. Just like it had never occurred to her that Eloise might feel inadequate, even if she clearly does not wish to follow Daphne’s lead and has shown nothing but disdain for the norms that dictate the interactions of the high society marriage market.
Ultimately, she came to accept that neither Colin nor Eloise owes her the realisations of dreams they are not privy to. Once she managed to lay her crushed hopes aside, she was able to see her friends as they are; people plagued by the same flaws and insecurities as she, while at the same time equally responsible for examining their own actions and how they affect others. She gained the self-assurance to assert her right to be respected, and the conviction that she deserved respect.
She fell into a new comfortable rhythm with Eloise, their friendship once again thriving. Together, the two confidantes worked closely with Mme Delacroix as guardians of the Whistledown secret, but Penelope remained in control of the business itself – no longer trying to impress Eloise, who in turn did not demand the gossip sheet to be moulded to her own ideas. During the season’s balls and soirees, they worked in tandem to help Eloise evade unwanted approaches, even as they accepted a dance or two to appease their mamas. It was truly extraordinary, to regain something so precious and find that adversity had strengthened instead of severed their bond.
And one evening he returned to the family fold from his latest adventures in Cyprus, appearing at her side during a ball like a ray of sun through clearing clouds. Although she did blame him for the unfortunate demise of a perfectly divine éclair, she met his hesitant greeting with a genuine smile.
“You just ruined the highlight of my evening.”
Colin returned her smile, clearly amused, but his trademark grin was tinged with just a hint of sadness when he replied:
“Better to choke on an éclair than one’s own foot I should think.”
She sensed that right there and then she held all the power, and that he would defer to whatever she decided to do with that moment. In darker times she had dreamt of prolonging his punishment, to make him feel the pain he had caused, but she knew from bitter experience that the worst punishment of all is always the one you inflict on yourself. This was not about him, but about what she wanted.
“You are perfectly right. Feet are better employed on the dancefloor, wouldn’t you say? At least I assume that is why you have approached a lady who was clearly preoccupied with other matters Mr. Bridgerton?”
She made sure to keep her voice light, almost teasing, and had to hold back a laugh when his hand shot out so quickly that he almost knocked over a tray of drinks. As they made their way through the crowded room she said, in a more serious tone:
“It really was such a delight to read your travel diaries Colin, I do hope you will continue writing, if nothing else, then for yourself.”
He inclined his head and looked, she thought, rather proud of himself.
“The best thing about writing,” he said seriously, “is that it forces you to take your time, to decipher your own actions and untangle your thoughts. It makes you realise things about yourself. And more importantly, your relationship with others.”
She was not sure what to say to this, but any awkwardness vanished as soon as they stepped onto the dancefloor and from that night onwards, she happily noted that the man she had discovered in those letters was still her Colin, except that she had stopped idolising and idealising him. In place of worship came the realisation that she had grown to like him.
Her physical response to him was as strong as ever – if anything it had matured in its nature – but her expectations were different, and she simply rejoiced in their friendship, their freely flowing conversations and of course, their dances. She even allowed herself to be discreetly flirtatious and to hold him close when they waltzed, safe in the knowledge that she no longer entertained any hopes. Her steadfast love for him was now but a dull ache, like an ailment you learn to live with. Until the other day, she would have said that this gloriously harmonious state of affairs was as close as she could get to perfection, while keeping the door open for a kind gentleman with whom she might agreeably coexist, and who might offer her a comfortable and sedate life with children of her own as well as time to continue her writing.
Then, something had happened which upset her equilibrium and she would be lying if she said that it had not contributed to her current agitation.
The ball two evenings ago had been mind-numbingly tedious, the only highlight being Eloise’s refusal of a particularly awkward and unwanted proposal. Afterwards, they decided to sneak away early and smuggled quite a significant amount of wine with them in the carriage, which they proceeded to drink on the swings in the Bridgerton garden. They wiled away the warm evening taking turns to read aloud from an illicit and deliciously scandalous book on relations between men and women that Penelope had laid her hands on while out on Whistledown business. The two friends were guffawing in a none-too-ladylike manner at the description of the well-endowed hero of the story and his swoon-worthy derriere, determining with mock earnestness that these attributes should be added to their list of demands for a desirable suitor, in addition to the half a brain that seemed so elusive among the ton’s gentlemen. Penelope was now lying flat on her back in the grass with her legs resting on the swing, stockings bared to the balmy evening. In tears from laughing, she managed to squeak:
“As much as it pains me, I think, given a choice, I would rather half a brain than half an Arbor Vitae”.
And then she heard the very deliberate clearing of a throat.
Standing before them was the Viscount Bridgerton himself, back from an evening at Will Mondrich’s club and looking as if he was readying himself for a lecture. To make matters worse, he was accompanied by Benedict and Colin, both more than a little unsteady on their feet and completely incapable of hiding their mirth.
“Well, well, well”, slurred Benedict, “this is most enlightening indeed.”
“Luckily, and while we might only possess half a brain between us, I believe the trees in our garden are all fully grown”, added Colin, causing Eloise to spray her mouthful of wine through her nose.
“Colin for heaven’s sake, mind your mouth,” barked Anthony. “Eloise! What do you think you are doing?”
“I am reading and resting after an evening of dancing with dull but distinguished gentlemen, all very respectable pursuits for a young lady I should think.”
Penelope could not help herself, the bright stars and velvety caress of the evening breeze contributing to her intoxication and complete lack of care. She added:
“We were also making an eminently sensible list of eligibility criteria for suitors, and this was the closest equivalent to child-bearing hips”.
The Viscount’s list had been the source of many jokes in the Bridgerton household, the chief instigator being the new Viscountess. Still, Penelope knew she might have (probably had) overstepped, despite her practically being part of the family.
Anthony closed his eyes briefly and then sighed, the side of his mouth twitching slightly.
“Eloise, we shall have a word while I escort you to your room. Benedict… Never mind. Colin could you please, discreetly, ensure that Miss Featherington gets home safely.”
As Penelope tried to get up, she saw that Benedict lay splayed on the ground humming happily to himself, whereas Colin stood above her with his hand extended, a wicked smile on his lips and his eyes crinkling with humour. They started on their way, very slowly, and just as she thought they might remain silent he said, chuckling:
“That was quite a list.”
“Well,” she said, trying to sound lucid and reasonable, “it is a bit of guesswork really. We do not all have the luxury of consorting with opera singers or exotic strangers in foreign lands to find out what we should be looking for in that regard. We may not even sample the goods in order to determine whether we are in fact compatible with our intended when kissing.”
By God she really was drunk. Colin turned towards her, wearing a very serious expression.
“That is indeed unfair,” he said solemnly, a slight thickening of the f in unfair the only sign that he too was far from sober. “Perhaps lessons in kissing and cavorting ought to be added to embroidery and the piano forte.”
“And are you volunteering your services for this noble purpose Mr. Bridgerton?” she laughed, but stopped abruptly when she felt him tense. This time she had gone too far.
She did not quite know how they came to face each other, or how they came to be so very close. She had no explanation for why her skin started tingling in anticipation when she met his hungry eyes, or why her hands came to rest on his chest, heaving with unsteady breaths. All she knew was that she did not hesitate when she leaned in and tilted her head. And suddenly her whole world was ablaze, a white-hot bonfire lit by his lips. As his shaking hands wandered slowly from her shoulders down her back, she marvelled at the taste of him, the feeling of his tongue gently nudging hers and could not help the moan that escaped her mouth. His reaction was to immediately tighten his hold and she could feel his entire body pressed up against hers, all man and heat. Then, just as Colin groaned and deepened the kiss further, there was a loud rustling noise and they pulled away as if burnt. Moments later Benedict came tumbling through the bushes and gave them his sweetest smile.
“There you are! Let’s get the young lady home. Safely and discreetly. And honourably. Whatever Anthony said.”
As they parted ways by the side entrance to her house, she turned to face the brothers. Her breath hitched as she saw the almost predatory look on Colin’s face, as if some wild beast had been unleashed in him. All she could do however, with Benedict beaming innocently at her, was to smile meekly and say:
“Thank you.”
Those searing flames had been scorching her body all night and they had flared up again as she stood with Lady Danbury and saw him approaching, determination in every step, just as Cressida Twombley called for their attention last night. Everything after that is a blur, although she does remember his swift rescue and concern when her legs threatened to give way upon hearing the announcement which was the cause of her current predicament.
The interior of the carriage comes back into focus as a jolt brings her back to the here and now, and the equipage comes to a halt. She composes herself and exits after a quick scan of her surroundings, then enters the printing shop, paper and coin purse at the ready. She is just about to issue her orders when she realises that Theo is looking at her in alarm. At first she is confused, but then it dawns on her that his eyes are now directed at someone standing behind her. She slowly turns, expecting the livery of the Queen’s household. What she sees is a blue coat.
She sways slightly, suddenly light-headed, and feels bile rising in her throat.
“Are you absolutely sure this is the course of action you wish to take?”
His voice is carefully measured, revealing nothing. His eyes are imploring her to do … something, she does not know what. So Penelope nods.
He looks mutinous but says nothing, simply steadies her by the elbow and nods tersely towards Theo, indicating that she should conclude her business. She fumbles her way through the transaction and then turns to leave, Colin at her side. He turns at the door, bows slightly, and says:
“A pleasure Mr. Sharpe”.
If there is a reply, she does not hear it, focused as she is on putting one foot ahead of the other. He indicates his own carriage (how had she not seen it?) and ushers her in, still without uttering a single word. This is it then – her day of reckoning, the moment in which she is to face the last remnants of her secrets.