Chapter Text
“Anthony can go to the devil if he thinks being the Viscount gives him a divine mandate over all the good brandy,” grouses Benedict to his disinterested valet whilst he unhappily dresses for breakfast. Last night was just their latest argument over the matter—whilst he had been enjoying but a meagre tipple after a night out—his elder brother blasted through the damn door of their father's study, bellowing and shoving that beak of his between him and his glass.
“If I catch you in my private stash again, I swear, the next twelve months of your life will be spent balancing tenant ledgers!”
Now what is a bottle-weary man to do when the only thing that will cure him is some hair of the dog? The unwelcome morning sun blares through his chamber’s window as his mind turns towards petty vengeance, a common enough pastime for a sibling of eight. First would be the short jaunt downstairs, which not only housed the brandy but his younger brothers and sisters as well.
“There is no mischief that cannot be accomplished in a household of little miscreants,” he asserts brightly to the now empty room, readying his jacket.
And yet, it is now but an hour later and here he sits in the drawing room, head pounding and terribly frustrated. Not one of his good-for-nothing siblings is keen to smuggle over the bottle of brandy for him, and whilst by this time he certainly could have a drink from his own liquor supply, it is the principle, really! His mood does not lift until he spots one more possible accomplice entering the room, with ginger curls obscuring some of her lightly freckled face and shoes clicking softly upon the parquet floor.
What if Penelope Featherington were to help him, he wonders? The little thing is about eight years old now, surely no one would suspect anything from her. It is perfect! And if she is caught, well, he will deal with Anthony then; he is not such a monster that he would let a small girl take blame for him.
“Miss Penelope!” he tries for a subdued cheerfulness so as not to overwhelm the shy girl. “I hope you are having a splendid day. Have you been enjoying yourself with Eloise?” She turns a bit redder and gives a dainty curtsey.
“I am, my lord.”
He waves his hand dismissively, “None of that dear, I have known you for nearly a year now. Call me Benedict, please, or Mr Bridgerton if that is more to your comfort.”
“Very well.” She shrugs, shedding some of her practiced manners.
“I am happy to see you, in truth, as I have been looking for just the person to help on a quest of mine, do you think you could be that person?”
She ponders for a bit, (What could she be pondering? She is eight for goodness sake!) he worries.
“I would have to know what it is I must do first, I think.” She answers carefully.
This may take more persuasion than he is prepared for, though admittedly he knows little about Eloise’s friend, other than her being rather bookish.
“Quite right,” he stalls, “I shall tell you. There is a… erm… an elixir of sorts that the Viscount keeps in his study, which unfortunately I may not fetch for myself. But you—” he points to her “—are just the right size and just the right amount of clever to get it for me, yes?”
“Why can you not ask Anthony himself for it?” She looks more curious than defiant and waits patiently for her answer.
Anthony!? Good grief, I get called ‘my lord’ yet she throws around the Viscount’s Christian name, easy as anything! He makes an effort not to clench his teeth in irritation as he answers her.
“We are playing a game with each other, you see, you do not need to concern yourself much with it. Just go into his study, take the decanter on his desk, and bring it to me.”
She twists her mouth a bit, weighing his request, and he gets an uncomfortable feeling that this girl does not believe him one whit.
“What does it do?” She asks, her voice soft and high, yet tinged with suspicion.
“Pardon?” He is now beginning to wish he had not brought this up at all; he should have known any friend of Eloise would be too smart by half.
“The elixir, what does it do?”
He pauses a tic, trying to think of something suitable for her ears, “Well it does a few things, love, it makes a person quite relaxed, a better dancer—” He remembers then with a grin what the lads at the club were jesting of the night before. “—and it makes ladies look quite a bit prettier...”
“Oh.” Her eyes grow wide. “I will try, Mr Bridgerton.”
Pleased with her sudden acquiescence, he leans back in his chair with his arms wide in satisfaction, “Wonderful! I am sure you will succeed; now be a dear and let me rest a bit.”
She scampers off, and he feels a surge of affection for Eloise’s little friend—he should get to know her a bit more, he thinks vaguely–then busies himself with a newspaper until a wave of drowsiness takes him and he slumps back into the settee, snoring unpleasantly.
“Sir, Lady Bridgerton is having Lady Danbury for tea. Would you be pleased to retire to your chambers?”
The butler has startled him awake with his polite entreaty to vacate the room, and drowsily he checks his pocket watch to see that an hour has elapsed, one hour with no sign of the girl he has sent on a mission to steal liquor from the Viscount.
“Shit, Penelope!”
He murmurs something to the butler and is off like a shot, scrambling towards his father's study and quite nearly screams out at the view before him. The girl’s body is laid out on the floor, the decanter open next to her, emptied now to a disturbingly low amount. His heart drops with fear as he crouches down to shake her as gently as his nerves allow.
“Wake up, love, are you well?”
She opens her eyes and groans.
“It tasted terrible.”
He has not the faintest idea why she would do something so naughty and destructive—seemingly so out of her character—but he is too focused on getting the girl out of there to wonder.
“I am sure it did; now up you get and we shall sort out what has happened here.”
He lifts her up and grips the girl against his chest. Weakened from a still blaring hangover, he shuffles down the hallway whilst he formulates a plan.
Colin is reading in his room when he is surprised by his elder brother bursting through the door with an unconscious-looking Penelope in his arms, whom he immediately settles down onto his bed. He can only look upon the surprising and awful scene, mouth agape, before his instincts take over and begins to scramble into action,
“What happened to her, Ben?! We need a doctor… get Mothe—”
He is cut off by his frantic brother.
“—We do not need a doctor, and we certainly do not need Mother. Miss Penelope here has accidentally imbibed some… much… brandy and just needs to rest a bit. Is that not right, love?”
Penelope grumbles something unintelligible, which, if anything, at least confirms to Colin that his brother has not outright killed their family's young friend.
“Yes, she is perfectly fine”, Benedict asserts. “There is no need to tell Mother anything, and there is no reason at all to tell Anthony.”
Colin gasps, context snapping into place, “That was Anthony's brandy!” He bends down to get a better look at Penelope's face, brushing some of her hair aside to view her fully.
“Hello Pen, it is Colin… are you well?”
“Hullo, Cawin.” She mumbles, her eyes still closed.
“How did this happen?” He turns to him and yells, “This must have been one of your stupid ideas! And out of all the people to harm you chose Pen, a guest in our home who would not hurt a fly!” The scowl on his face takes Benedict by surprise; he has never seen his younger brother scold someone like a mother hen before. In fact, how many boys of ten-and-three would?
He sighs, “She is not hurt! She will be fine again after a long nap and, um, expelling the drink. I will apologise to her then, you can be certain; but I did not tell the girl to drink anything, only to sneak me the bottle! I do not know why she would.” He cradles his head in his hands, willing himself to remember their earlier conversation for clues.
“Colin, may I see a mirror, please?” Penelope whines, clearly uninterested in their argument, and the boy immediately halts his current search for a basin she may be sick in to crouch over her.
“Why would you—hmm, well, of course, let me find one.” He opens his dresser to retrieve a pocket mirror and hands it over to her, and with great labour she brings the looking glass to her face and finally opens her eyes.
“It… it did not work!” And to both brothers’ horror, she begins to weep into Colin’s pillow.
“Pen! Pen—what did not work? All is well, please do not worry yourself.” He spins around to stare Benedict down. “What did you tell her?!”
“I have no ide—”
“I am not any prettier, the elixir did not work!” She wails, raising her head to look at Colin. “There is nothing which could make me pretty!” And he swears his heart stops when she begins to cry even harder.
“What did you tell her?” He grounds out, trying to gain as much height as he can against his larger brother. Colin could pass for an outraged governess at this moment, Benedict thinks.
“Aha, a misunderstanding it seems. It was a jest I spoke about the drink being able to make girls look… well… prettier.” And it is to the boy’s great credit that Benedict finally has the wherewithal to look ashamed of himself. Colin stomps up to him, the volume of his voice no match for Penelope's crying.
“You… you, CAD!” He yells, catching just a breath before pronouncing ‘cad’, something he has never shouted before, and his brother's eyes widen at the insult. “She is sensitive about such matters, and it is a shame I have to explain this to a grown gentleman! Her…” he then drops his voice to a hoarse whisper, quite unnecessarily as Penelope can hear none of it, “—Her mother is critical and her sisters mock her, she comes here for comfort and does not need cruel tricks done to her as well.”
“I will fix this,” Benedict responds, affecting calm in an effort to placate him.
“I shall fix this!” his younger brother snips before sitting down on his bed next to the crying girl. The poor thing is really now just a heap of auburn curls, yellow silk, and tears.
“Pen, the drink did nothing because you are already pretty, there was nothing to improve,” Colin says gently. To their great relief, her sobs are reduced back down into sniffles.
“That is not true.” She replies mournfully, “Mama says…” She mashes her face into the pillow then, and the two Bridgertons can barely make out her mumblings, something about freckles and a too-round something-or-other.
Benedict has never been in a position before to uplift a young girl’s spirits in this regard, out of his sisters only Daphne has any real preoccupation with beauty and does not need his assurances, and for the others, well, he may (has done) call trolls and it only makes them giggle. He looks down at the forlorn girl and has an unbidden memory of his late father taking her hand and passing her a sweet, and then another of his mother embracing her long and lingering before seeing her home. He is realizing that the heaviness he has been feeling deep in his chest is no longer simply from bottle weariness.
He takes a slow breath and summons as much charm as he can,
“No more tears love, Colin is correct. No beauty potion would ever change your looks because you are quite perfect as you are, and anyone who says otherwise is in need of spectacles. We are all quite in agreement in this home over the fact.”
She pries open her eyes then to look at him, a bit shyly.
“My word!” Benedict shouts with exaggerated astonishment. “Get the mirror again… check your eyes, Miss Penelope, I think they have changed!”
“No, they have not.” She pouts after looking again, thankfully now at least distracted from her crying.
“Are you certain?! I have never seen a little girl with such blue eyes before! Have you, brother?”
“No, I do not believe I have; they are like the topaz gems in Mother’s necklace!” Colin’s praise must be more effective because finally, finally Penelope giggles and Benedict lets out his long-held breath.
She shyly pokes her face through the underside of the pillow to bestow the boy a grateful little smile, and Benedict notices for the first time her bashful gaze, and realises with a warm certainty that she must fancy his little brother.
“I may have to send word to the Queen about this so she is ready for your debut!” Benedict layers on, and she laughs again rather wetly as Colin at last finds the presence of mind to hand her a handkerchief whilst his brother strategises.
“You stay here and I will fetch some provisions for the young miss. Can you keep an eye on her? She will likely fall asleep soon, I would think.”
As upset as he is at the danger his awful brother has put Pen in, Colin is grateful at least that she has been brought to his room to recover. He trusts himself to take care of her diligently and takes her small hand as a calming act for them both. He will not hesitate to call over the entire family plus the doctor if he fears for her safety, his brother be damned.
“Very well,” he replies with resolve.
(He feels very grown up.)
“Pen, I was just reading a book of Greek myths; would you like me to read some to you? It would be best to rest here and then sleep, I think, until the potion—”
He shoots one more poisonous look at Benedict, “—wears off.”
“Yesh pleesh,” she answers, face planted back into his pillow.
He wants to say something else to Benedict before he leaves, yet is overwhelmed at the anger he is feeling. He is not often angry; in fact, it is possible his brother chose him to confide in partly due to his relatively gentle countenance. But he is very fond of Pen, she is bright and sweet and tempers his sister Eloise effortlessly, and to see her so miserable and sick twists his face into an unfamiliar visage of deep frustration and disappointment.
“You owe her something from now on, Ben, a great debt… do not forget it.”
And Benedict does indeed feel a weight upon him, the knowledge that he is in some way beholden to the little redhead who is currently more brandy than girl. He is no stranger to responsibility, for certain, but at just eight-and-ten he is not yet sure what this might mean.
His afternoon turns out quite differently from what he had planned that morning. He finds himself running about to fetch drinks and light fare for Penelope, whilst Colin reads to her and rubs her back as she is sick, makes excuses to Eloise—who has been searching for her—and, most unpleasantly, to Lady Featherington, to explain her absence. It was that woman’s fault, he finally rationalises (to lessen a little of the dreadful guilt weighted upon him). Who raises a young girl to think so wretchedly of her appearance?
He sends more curses Portia's way as he finally ends his miserable day, spending nearly a week's worth of expenses to replace the bloody brandy.
Penelope does not feel ready to debut into society, but debut she must, looking in her estimation like an unfortunate canary.
It is an auspicious beginning to the London season, she thinks. A windstorm has been kicking up the entire evening, whipping down the cobbled streets and knocking over loosely set top hats and debutantes’ feathers. Like some tricky spirit is at play with them all.
She looks up to the faintly rattling windows high up in the ballroom whilst standing at the edge of the party, and it is the beginning of what she fears is to be her new life as the ton’s latest ‘wallflower’.
Perhaps it is for the best, for she is dreading the moment Colin discovers she is here, embarrassed by her lonesome state. She would rather watch him instead, so sweetly handsome she cannot help but swoon a bit at his dashing smile and manners. He is not as outwardly sensitive as he once was, she thinks. He has adopted an easy charm which he uses to flirt rather cheerfully with the young ladies presented to him—yet is seemingly careful to provide nothing deeper than winking conversation.
She is lost in dreams again and focusing a bit too closely upon his windswept hair when she is approached by another Bridgerton—someone who learned years ago that Penelope Featherington was not one to overlook.
“Miss Penelope.”
She startles, “Mr Bridgerton!”
“You look very lovely tonight, I must say.”
It is an inside joke of sorts that was really no joke at all, not for her. For something changed that day when she lay accidentally drunken and prone in Colin’s room, weeping at her ugliness. Henceforth, each jab or poisoned look from her mother and sisters was countered by a playful yet sincere ‘Why, you look enchanting today, Miss Penelope.’ or a ‘Pen, you look pretty as a picture this evening!’ from the two brothers. The rest of the family must have naturally followed suit, as eventually for every one disparaging remark made towards her was met with double the sweet praise.
“I do not. I look a fright and my dress displeases me,” she answers sourly.
Benedict’s eyes narrow. “Well, that is easily remedied. I am… acquainted with the Modiste.”
“You are acquainted with many beautiful members of Mayfair.”
He returns to her an affronted laugh, “Save that sauciness of yours for my brother, for I am decided that I shall help you this season.”
She is deeply distrustful of his wide smile and sparkling eyes. “Why?”
“Because I am not impressed how those silly Featheringtons have managed to take a beautiful young miss like yourself and made her feel like she must sink into the wallpaper. And you have a strategic game to play which must begin as soon as possible.”
“And what is that?”
He looks pointedly at Colin and then back at her. It is no secret to him that she holds a tendre for his younger brother, one that has lasted many years, changing over time from girlish crush to dear companion and now that she is expected to marry, a rather heartsick wish to be courted.
“You jest! Unless you have procured another magical item for me, a djinn’s lamp, perhaps?” She scoffs.
“That tongue of yours! Again, save it for Colin; it excites him. Now excuse me whilst I work my own magic on your mother.”
“Mr Bridgerton!” She hisses lowly, so as not to be overheard in her rudeness.
He winces, “I am sorry that I said that, actually regretful. Just make sure you speak with him tonight and enjoy your dance, for he shall ask you, I am sure, just after I spin you about myself.”
She sighs, “I am grateful for your help, I suppose. Tonight I have been in need of a friend, and you have come to find me even as your sister is newly debuted. But do not think that you still have some silly debt to me that you must fulfill by making a match so… impossible.” As she speaks, her eyes are drawn back to Colin; he is wearing one of her favourite waistcoats, the one with the white ivy motif over green silk. He is just so dashing, she laments.
“It is not impossible in the slightest. Do not look so forlorn.” He must notice her yearning look, and she quickly straightens herself back into a more controlled and poised position.
“Lean into your easy friendship with him,” he continues, and she is surprised by his outward earnestness. “He does treasure it, but remember as well that you are a young lady now, not a child, and there is nothing that the other debutantes have which you do not possess.”
She tries to believe him in that moment, for there is certainly nothing to be gained by this roguish brother-figure of hers to lie.
“I shall think upon it,” she concedes.
His expression returns to its naturally pleased state, one of dry amusement and vague distraction. She spies a few young ladies eyeing him appreciatively, and they both get the sense he should get moving along before he is roped into insipid conversation.
“Excellent, now let us have our dance and then I may be dismissed by my own mother to leave this stifling hall.”
“Of course, but do not let the wind blow you all the way to the modiste tonight, Mr Bridgerton.”
Despite her doubts, Colin does indeed approach her that evening of his own volition. It is an adjustment for him to see her out in society, for whilst she was a bit young to have debuted, Eloise’s friend is now on the marriage-mart and it is making him feel, well, old.
“It is wonderful to see you, Pen! A bit of lovely sunshine to brighten the room, as that nasty wind howls outside. One cannot have too many friends at these things.”
And she is, as such, a rather dear friend in fact, one who has already settled him into a kind of comfort he has not felt all night. To his dismay, however, the petite Featherington is looking a bit sad behind the eyes.
“That is true, one cannot have too many suitors either I have heard, but tonight seems to be rather luckless for me.”
He frowns, disappointed she is in want of something he cannot simply fetch for her, like a book or a lemonade.
“You desire suitors, Pen? But why not wait… next year Eloise shall be–”
“I cannot wait!” She is scolding, but with a kind of low resignation. “I have scant time, Col, a few years at most to make a match for myself. I am beneath the same circumstance as Daphne, except with my mama’s attention upon my sisters, yet you think I am somehow exempt? Why?”
It is a pressing question that cuts to the heart of the slight unease he has felt since seeing her here at Lady Danbury’s ball. None of it makes sense, really, but he has these vague feelings of Daphne being ready and of Pen being… small. He does not like the thought at all of these hypothetical men descending upon her, or courting her; how could any of them know her? She is quite enigmatic, even more so as she matured, and quite consistently surprises even him, who has known her well for years. And she needs care, gentleness… Who here can give her that? No one.
But now too much time has passed since her question, and she is scowling at him, making him feel at once both cowed and hot of blood.
“I think… Perhaps I am imposing my own notions upon you. I certainly did not desire marriage at seven and ten,” he offers, it was not untrue in any case.
“Waiting for otherwise is a luxury I do not have.”
He can never stand to see her cross, and it is a new experience entirely to witness whilst she stands in her debuted finery and jewels. Once upon a time he might flick her little nose to rile her or fetch a favourite pastry to sway her mood, but here with all of society's eyes upon them there is not much to do but grovel.
“My apologies, Pen. Would you forgive me? I would like to dance, please, even if you throw your drink at me first, as it looks like you wish to...”
“Of course.” She huffs a bit in lingering frustration, but he can see the disturbance of her mood has passed. In its place she takes on one of his favourite expressions, her sky-blue eyes large and gleaming, paired with an impish grin. No doubt she was to share some amusing secret she had uncovered.
“Did you know some people put liquor in their lemonade?”
He nods, charmed by her naivety.
“Did you know Lady Canterbury does so?”
He nearly trips upon the floor, for the great dowager has quite the reputation as a teetotaler, which she never fails to self-righteously remind anyone suffering in the same room as her.
“She cornered me not one week ago, croaking about temperance, to save more for herself, surely!”
“The Duke of Hastings does as well, although that is perhaps not as surprising. What I do think interesting, however, is that he is here in want of a wife, but is really in no want of one, for he has cursed his father's legacy and wishes to end the house of Hastings. Very dramatic, if you ask me.”
“Really? He does come in like a storm cloud, I have noticed. Now, what do you think…”
So begins their evening of gossip and laughter, stolen desserts, and one brilliant and smiling dance, his favourite of the night. She has done something quite astonishing, he thinks, dispelling the dreary pomp and artifice so typical of these society balls.
It reminds him of times at Eton, how right as he fell into gloom or homesickness her letters would somehow arrive, full of such teasing and fondness. How the very air around him brightened and warmed after reading them.
In truth, he reflects, it was foolish to think her appearance into society was to be anything but wonderful.