Work Text:
Love doesn't just sit there,
like a stone,
it has to be made,
like bread;
re-made all the time,
made new.
She was late. Again. The nail had fallen from her candle what felt ages ago to wake her from another fitful, restless sleep, and now her new Lady’s Maid, Miss Abigail, had to repin her drooping locks. Penelope bit her tongue against the frustration as the young girl, hired on recommendation when Rae was swiftly promoted to Housekeeper, a fact that took place after a bit of a struggle with Varley and Dowager House logistics and all too much fuss, apologized and tried once more. Rae had understood Penelope and her fashions without even so much as asking, was a skillful hairdresser and always made Penelope feel beautiful.
Abigail was- clumsy. Young. Inexperienced. And usually, Penelope would have sympathy for such.
But not when she had to meet the Queen. Again. For what felt the hundredth time, even if the season was only halfway through. Abigail loosed a small My apologies- when she dropped the hairbrush once more, nerves read plainly in every trembling inch of the poor girl, but Penelope had enough. Queen Charlotte had nothing good to say of the publication recently: it was bland, boring, not near biting enough for her tastes, and she would only be more cutting if Penelope found herself late. She was exhausted. An article every two weeks had turned into the expectation for one published each week, instead, and then one every three days.
Juggling her newfound role as a mother, wife, and author was difficult enough, a balancing act she always felt she dropped something of, but adding in the newest layer of being forced to stand witness to criticism and knitpicking, when she had just sent her mother off to her Dowager House a month into the start of the season, believing herself free of it, was quite another. In truth, Penelope wore the stress of it too close to the skin, which prickled in annoyance as Abigail fiddled with the pins, smoothing down an errant curl from Penelope’s earlier slumber, attempting to catch a moment of respite from it all, only for it to spring free, Abigail needing to repin it once more, and tugging on Penelope’s scalp in her efforts.
It was the final straw.“Enough! I shall do it,” she said, grasping the brush from her lax hold with a bit too much heat.
Regretting it near immediately, especially upon seeing Abigail’s wide eyes, Penelope’s own apology caught somewhere in her throat, fizzling as she caught sight of her horrendous hairstyle once more. “I am only- late, Abigail,” she said, instead, and Abigail dropped her head in apology once more, stepping back.
“Apologies, Ma’am. I will work on my speed.” She was a quiet thing. Soft as a churchmouse scurrying behind pews. Penelope only sighed.
“Alright. You are dismissed to do so,” and watched through the reflection as she curtsied, relief loosening the line of her shoulders, and then slipped out of the room as though a ghost.
Left to clean up the mess, Penelope did her best, wrestling with the results of her sneak away nap. When first they moved in to Featherington house, Penelope insisted she did not need a separate chambers of her own. She would reside with her husband in the master suite. But Mama, naturally, insisted. You may want a place of your own, at times! And so Penelope had indulged her, believing she would never have need of it.
Now, she found herself here more frequently than not.
She was home less often as it were. There were balls to attend, and now she was invited to all of them, information to parse through for her publication, publishers to pay. She was so accustomed to doing it all alone. Any hints as to hiring a manager for the busy work was easily brushed aside. She could do it. She could. She has and she will.
It took a toll, of course, but it was not so bad. She could hold out a while longer.
This room had become a place of respite. Where she did not have to worry about bothering Colin if she came in late, (though if she came late enough that he was already asleep in his chambers and she snuck to her own, she would hear from the staff the next day that he would wake in the night to check on her), or waking Thomas, a notoriously light sleeper, or running off for a quick kip in the middle of the day.
Swiftly, she pulled her hair into a semblance of a manageable hairstyle and stood, smoothing her dress. Presentable enough. Surely the carriage was already waiting for her and had been for a while, and upon a glance outside through the dark, thick curtains that kept her room perfect for sleep, she confirmed it with a curse.
She would barely have any time to pop her head in and see Thomas, but she would risk the ire for it. Her darling baby was all that kept her afloat, some days.
When she slipped into the nursery, it was to the sight of her husband, rocking their son and singing, low and sweet. When you wake, you shall have, all the pretty little horses.
Leaning in the doorway, she felt she could breathe, finally. Thomas was in the most darling little sailor kit, all blue collar and soft cotton lace, sleepily blinking against his father’s shoulder. And Colin, in turn, was far more dressed down than she expected. Catching sight of the waistcoat he must have been wearing set off to the side, she could only imagine that Thomas must have had a bit of sick on it, which would explain why her husband was only in buckskins and his fine linen shirt.
Not that she was complaining.
As Thomas spotted her, making little noises and reaching a chubby fist out to her, she cooed, and Colin turned, all soft curls falling into his dark blue eyes and sharp jaw. She found her stomach flipping a bit at the stubble he sported, as though to purposefully make himself as enticing as possible.
“Pen,” he said in greeting, the way he always did. Gentle, tender, like he wrapped the word itself in gauze. Tiredly, she smiled back, and then when Thomas tried mimicking the noise, “-uh!” she laughed.
“Careful, love,” she said, teasingly, “it shall be his first word, and then I might never have him call me mama. Perhaps you should start claiming me as such so he follows your example.”
Colin wrinkled his nose. “Nonsense. Tommy is a bright boy, are you not? See, Thomas- that is mama. Maaaaamaaaa.” Thomas laughed as Colin hoisted him up under his arms, making a silly face at their son as he exaggerated his expression. “Say maaaaamaaaaa.”
“Aaaa-aaaaa.”
“See? He is a natural,” Colin boasted, grinning at her with that gleaming twinkle in his eyes.
“Aha, so it is only that you do not wish to cease calling me Pen,” she prodded back, but wandered into the room so she might scoop up her son, even as Colin got a good look at her. She blew a little raspberry on the back of her baby’s hand, much to his squeals of delight. “Your papa is ever so silly, little one.”
“It would be odd, otherwise!” he defended, looking all too put out. “I cannot call you mama. Such a title from my lips belongs only to my own mother.”
“And mine.”
“No, she is Grandmama, now.”
Penelope laughed, blowing an errand lock of hair out of her face unthinkingly. “See?” she whispered to Thomas. “As I said. Your papa is too silly.
“Fine, so he is,” Colin kowtowed, a little smile on his face as he gently guided her to the little chair they kept in their nursery, much to her jolt. This was only meant to be a short pitstop. She wanted to, of course. She did. So much. But she had an audience to attend and-
“Colin-”
“It would just be for a moment.”
She went to protest again, but he added a “please?” that was far more pleading than she liked, and upon catching sight of herself in the shining reflection of a mirror against the wall, she grimaced. She could not leave the house in such a state. Damn. She did not have near as much experience doing her hair on her own as she needed to ensure it would not fall from the style with immediacy.
“Fine,” she acquiesced. “But only if you fix up my hair.” Colin smiled at her answer, nodding and coming behind her. “Swiftly!” she tacked on, and though she could not see him, now, she could tell he plucked a pin from her locks with purposeful, though surely playful, slothfulness, making her frown. “Colin-” she warned, and the tone in her voice must have been enough, because though he paused for a moment, he continued with considerably more haste.
Relaxing for the moment, she gently cradled Thomas in her arms, watching as he squirmed for a moment and then settled. Humming softly, she knew she was not as fine a singer as her husband was, but it did not seem to matter, much. Thomas pressed himself against her chest, lulling with the vibration, and her heart went liquid to pool inside her in pure, unfiltered contentment.
Moments such as those did not happen with as much frequency as she would like, so she savored it. Closed her eyes as she relaxed from the perfectly pleasant way Colin ran his fingers through her hair, combing it for neatness best he could. From their countless escapades before Thomas was born, Colin had become somewhat of an expert at fixing up her hairstyles. She wondered why she even hired a Lady’s Maid at all if she had him at her beck and call. Having grown with Daphne and Eloise as his primary siblings, she found quickly he was a hot commodity in braiding their hair when their governess, a particular stern Missus Mandy, had done it too tight.
Thus, Colin became the first point of contact when they wished for a restyling. He had learned twists and loops, how to tuck a pin so it was invisible and how to tie a ribbon, a trait, he’d admitted once, when she was lavishing him with praise on his rope pulling skills upon her nostalgia of the great balloon fiasco, that assisted him rather handily when he was asked to tie knots on his travels. After a romp, especially when she was in Aubrey Hall for her pregnancy, unsure yet who of the Featherington Sisters would birth a boy for the inheritance, she could not call for a maid in the state she was left, and so Colin had taken it upon himself to assist her, same as she’d become a particularly experienced valet, with how she’d learned to do up his cravats.
Of course, he was not always available. Rare though it was, there were times when, even if she was readying to leave, he was already out of the house. Typically sitting cross armed and bored meeting in the House of Lords, reminding him all too much of when he argued with Anthony about their own political leanings. Anthony, being a Tory (though he detested the name, himself, insisting they were only Friends of Mr. Pitt, what crock), had assumed Colin to keep loyalty to his Bridgerton name, rather than siding with the Whigs alongside his new brother in law, John. Thus, she supposed she had to keep a full staff on roster, regardless of how much better he would attend to her than Abigail was.
She sighed, leaning back into how he soothed down the nape of her neck, gathering up her locks and tugging slightly, leaving her to tingle. Inopportune as it was, it brought back memories in- rather tangible ways. Laying sweat-soaked and satisfied next to her husband after he brought her to completion, his hands in her hair. Or softened of all her troubles for a good deal, being made presentable once more after they ceased their giggling in some closet or another, risking a maid stumbling upon them just for an errant scrap of privacy. Or even curled around one another at night, one of his palms on her belly, speaking to Thomas through her stomach, and the other gently looping a curl around and around his finger, pulling when he teased, until she turned in his arms and kissed him soundly on that plush, talkative mouth.
She missed him. Missed this. Why did they not indulge more often?
A soft knock on the door broke her reverie, her eyes fluttering open and Colin’s hands stilling. Rae stood in the doorway. “Apologies, M’am. Sir,” then, much more quietly and with a soft fondness the entire staff had for Thomas, almost a coo before returning to her no-nonsense information, “My Lord. A second missive has arrived.”
Oh. That’s why. She scowled, all that ease drained from, her, replaced with steel once again.
Inhaling, Penelope straightened her spine. “Yes, thank you, Rae. I will come down to the carriage shortly.”
She nodded, making herself invisible as only the most experienced staff could, as Penelope stood and looked down at her darling boy. Asleep, thankfully. Kissing his forehead, she muttered a little love you, before gently laying him down in his nursery pram.
“Could I walk with you?” Colin asked, and she nodded, hardly registering how quietly, how hesitantly he had asked, too occupied with blinking back her disappointment. As they walked to the entryway- rather, as Colin walked and Penelope rushed- she mumbled out a few grumbles of displeasure. What did she want now? Last time it had been that she was bored of the goings on at the Hawkings Ball, and how nothing of true scandal had taken place, before it was why she could not find the identity of The Lady In Silver and that she threatened to employ her own guard to uncover this mysterious lady wandering in their midst, and before that about how Penelope was not near as sharp this season as before, which she had attempted to explain as an aftereffect of her marriage and baby, only to be waved away.
“You are to see the Queen?” he asked, and Penelope rolled her eyes. It was not Colin’s fault, her frustration, but neither had it been Abigail’s.
“No, to wander in the woods. Yes, of course to see the Queen. Who else could command me anywhere?” she asked, though upon glancing at him, instead of a laugh at her jest, his lips pinched, instead. They had. . .found themselves off the same page for a while, it felt, but she has not had the time nor the energy to address it.
“I thought we-” he stopped himself, and she cocked her head in confusion, thinking back for a moment before she realized that they’d agreed to dine together in the midday with his mum, then to promenade, just the two of them. Cringing, she realized just how inopportune her joke had been.
“Your mum. I- oh, Colin, I forgot. I only- she is the Queen, she will not take no for an answer and-” she cut herself off with a sigh. When she revealed herself as Lady Whistledown, she had not thought it would place her beneath someone’s thumb. She fought, naturally, to be out of it, but- fighting and succeeding were different things. “I feel terribly for missing tea with Violet. Tell her I will attend tomorrow?"
She had said that yesterday, too. And Colin gave her a half smile that did not reach his eyes. “Right.”
“Tomorrow,” she said more forcefully, but he was not soothed. Upon seeing it on his face, she looked away, scrunching her mouth, and squeezed his hand in apology, releasing him to go before she felt him tighten his grasp on her. Looking down at where he had her hold, her brows furrowed, snapping her gaze back up at him. “Colin, I really must go-”
“Pen. . ." he warred with what to say next, she could see it on his face. But as the moments counted down, she wanted to inform him that she had already been summoned and she simply did not have the time, so whatever it was he had to say would really have to wait and- "Do you love me?”
“What?” she asked, flabbergasted. Of all she expected him to say, it was not that. Was he attempting some ploy to keep her here for longer? “What sort of question is that?"
"One I need an answer to."
"Stop being silly- I am already late. Come now- I’m your wife!” she exclaimed.
“I know,” he replied, looking at her for a long while, something soft and serious on his face as she blinked up at him. “But do you love me?”
“You-” He was not jesting. Colin had revealed to her more of his sensitive soul than she’d expected him to have, and she knew this time in the Ton had been. . .trying. For the both of them. They hadn’t had the smoothest start to a marriage of everyone, but they’d overcome a lot. She wished to spend more time with him, too, but- well, she supposed he needed a bit more reassurance, in the lull. Thinking back to his fears of her not reciprocating his tender feeling after his proposal, she supposed she understood. Oddly enough, she had felt so assured in his own regard for her- since their moment in that carriage, she did not question any longer if Colin Bridgerton could love her. She knew he did. She knew when he reached for her and nodded at her in their wedding; she knew when he refused her offer of annulment and when he insisted upon being in the birthing room to support her, to hold her. She thought- well, he had to know, too. How could he not feel the same assurance she did? “Colin, of course I do. You have been my dream since I was a girl,” she reminded.
“Yes but-” he chewed his lip for a moment, and part of her was- frustrated. How was it not enough? How could he question it? “Dreams change,” he finished after a long moment, and it shocked her to stillness. “Mine did. I thought- once I thought to travel was my dream. And then- then I realized it was you. And Thomas. And our life together. I was your dream when you were a girl, but. . .is it still your dream now that you are a woman?”
Her brows furrowed, a frizzle of worry sparking up her spine. She had not been so absent that he could find himself wondering that now, was she? She thought- she thought she made her love clear for him. Thought she’d proclaimed it enough. As she opened her mouth to tell him so, a sharp knock and soft “Mrs. Bridgerton-” called from the door, and she knew from experience there would be a royal messenger behind it, carrying yet another note demanding her presence. Penelope grimaced, looking at the wood shielding her from the world for a moment before turning back to Colin. Pleaded with him silently to understand.
“Colin, I-”
“Go,” he said, not to dismiss her, but to free her from the choice. A little fissure formed in her heart from the realization.
“No, we can-” the knocking was stronger, this time, and she felt her shoulders tighten. “We need time for this discussion, that is all. I will be home soon. We will talk.”
“Alright.”
“We will talk, Colin,” she promised, and he nodded at her, his hold growing more lax.
~
He held it together just until she left, played the part of the somewhat unbothered partner, unaffected by the sting of rejection. Yet, as soon as that door closed behind her, watching her back as he was all too accustomed to, now, he slumped, sighing.
Penelope was an important person, pulled in multitudes of directions. He knew that. The jealousy he had felt, once, of her success in writing had ebbed. Now, however, he knew the jealousy was new- it was toward all those who held her attention when he himself could not. He had attempted, for the last several weeks, to do as she asked of him what felt so long ago- to hold her, to kiss her, to love her. Not to overstep. To allow her to face challenges the way she wanted.
But-
“Mr. Bridgerton?” Rae asked, popping up beside him like a ghost. “Should I send word to Dowager Bridgerton?”
“No, uh- I will ready myself and make my way across the square. I can inform her.”
Rae’s keen eyes looked him up and down for a moment. “I will call for Mr. Williams.”
Colin waved it away. “I assure I can button a waistcoat and a pair of trousers with no concerns, Rae.”
Rae gave him that classic glance, one in which he swore she could see through him, but nodded. “Very well.”
“If Thomas rises, however, could you bring him to Bridgerton House?”
“Miss Celia will come over if-”
“Rae. Could you bring him to Bridgerton House? If he wakes?”
Her eyes twinkled. She did not get to attend to Thomas as much as he knew she liked, and he could tell she warmed further to him at the fact. “Yes, of course.” Her loyalties would always lie with Penelope, as would his, of course, but he could earn his way more so in her good graces to even the playing field somewhat. As soon as she departed, his smile dropped, however, making his way upstairs.
The main chamber felt emptier, these days.
He had told himself he was being silly when he missed her on her excursions. That it did not matter if she wrote at night when he asked her to come to bed and she refused- just a little longer- until she began doing so in her own chambers, uninterrupted, a place she would find herself in for rest more and more frequently. The first time, when he woke in the night and found her absent to a thunderous heart, he had scrambled through near the entire house, sick in his stomach, until he was informed by a sleepy maid that she had made her way to her chambers a short while ago. He’d been confused- their room had been empty.
And then he realized they meant hers. Not theirs. Hers. And upon opening the door, found her curled atop the linens, still fully clothed. He’d wandered in, something smarting, and undid the pins in her hair so she would not bruise, pulled the slippers from her feet, and hesitated before tucking a blanket around her. If she wished for his company, she could have had it. She came to this room and not theirs for her solitude, so, he left her be. Even if he never slept restfully away from her. Even if he reached out across the bed for her form, and shivered no matter how warm the night was when she was not there. And it only grew more frequent a scenario as she was requested at more and more lady’s parties, staying late into the night for the best morsels of gossip, only true when divulged from fully tipsy lips.
He felt foolish for pouting when he slept alone, or when he attended to Thomas and learned Penelope was not home and had risen early to meet with someone or other. When she kissed his cheek swiftly and said she was off to see Eloise, for they did not get to spend time together as often, or that she was just busy, and he knew she was dealing with the Queen.
But it hurt, after a while. To realize how small his world had become. Colin attended meetings with Lords when they requested it, it was the season for such, after all, and he had to learn for Thomas’s sake when he came of age, but those men were not his friends. And Anthony and John and Will, sitting in for his own son, would go for a drink or two, before informing that they were off to their wives. Benedict, who had once been his closest confidant, was wrapped up in his own dramatics, pining for a mysterious Lady in Silver he had obsessed over for ages, now. Daphne in her enormous home so far away. Fran, wrapped up with John, and Eloise and he not particularly close to begin with. Mum was indulging in a whirlwind romance with a Mr. Anderson, which became yet another battleground of Colin and Anthony’s. Though they both held concern for their mother’s wellbeing, Anthony had considerably more loyalty to their late father than Colin did. Besides, Mum seemed content, he’d argued, happy, even, and had her own life to attend to.
Yet here Colin was. Uninspired to write now that he no longer traveled, hungry for his wife who’s absence grew like a chasm, slowly but surely, and without even Portia of all people’s company, droning on about curtains. He knew it was bad when he missed Portia.
Loneliness had been a companion for a long time, but he’d thought to bid it goodbye when he married. Instead, he poured his time into caring for Thomas. When he looked at his son, he saw Penelope. Her spark and brilliance, and all the strength she'd poured into creating their beautiful son. She had done something so wondrous as bringing a life into this world. And he was just. . .Colin.
You were my dream since I was a girl!
But she had not known him. Now, she does. And, like every time someone comes to do so, he becomes a choice picked after their first. Even at Eton. Growing up, Daphne preferred Fran and Fran preferred solitude. Anthony preferred Benedict and Benedict preferred Eloise. Eloise preferred Penelope and Penelope- well, she had preferred Eloise, as children. Now, it felt she preferred Whistledown. And Colin preferred her, but he had never been anyone’s favorite.
Pity was a poor look and a poorer companion. He refused to pour tea for it at his table.
Instead, he did up a fresh waistcoat, slinking into Thomas’s room to gaze upon his son with pride swelling in his chest and relief he was sleeping soundly before scooping up the vest he’d mussed after a changing, depositing it in a linen’s hamper for their laundress to attend to. The air was sweltering, humid and thick as he made his way across the cobblestones. Mama took tea at Bridgerton house, even if she now had her own Dowager’s home at a Number 5 address, choosing a new abode after meeting Anderson and his calls with Anthony’s eyes as though a hawk’s staring to chaperone them.
It was odd, really, to come into his this house, now. He had not been raised here- that was reserved for Aubrey Hall and Eton, places where he saw his boyhood ebb away, but he’d spent most summers there for the past several years. Ever since Mama insisted they come with Anthony to Mayfaire for the social season- two years prior to Daphne’s debut so she could get a feel for the scene and ensure her success.
It felt a liminal place- where he had been caught between adolescence and adulthood.
Mama stood up and threw her arms open to him when he arrived, and the other seats were empty. “My boy!” she exclaimed, “I knew I could depend upon you.”
He smiled despite himself. He loved his mum, and he dearly needed the embrace. “Fran and Eloise could not attend?”
“Oh, she is a newlywed, I did not expect her or John’s company. And Eloise- well, Benedict has roped her into some scheme or the other.” Something needled in him, but he maintained a placid expression. If Fran was a newlywed, surely, he was expected to be, too. “Is Penelope behind you?”
“She- uh, was called away. On business.”
“Ah,” Mum replied, releasing him with something far too gentle on her face. Like he were fragile. Which he was, but did not want others to know. “Well, all the better. I have wanted you to myself for a good while! Come, I have already had biscuits brought down.”
~
She was accustomed, now, to standing before the Queen, her watchful shadow behind her regarding her as she attempted to stand straight, no swaying, and take her criticisms with a placid expression. Typically, Lady Danbury was there to guide her from beside the Queen, offering pointed looks that informed what direction Penelope should take. It would seem discussing with their monarch was a balancing act akin to walking a tightrope in stockings, twenty paces above the floor and with porcelain teacups teetering atop her head.
For a woman who enjoyed that Lady Whistledown had such a sharp tongue, she was certainly particular about the way she was replied to.
But Penelope was glassy-eyed in front of her, now, for different reason. Though usually it was to bite her cheek at critique, now, she was thinking. Her mind was buzzing, in fact.
The entire carriage ride over, she had poured over what Colin had asked. Why he had asked it.
She did not feel their distance especially sharply prior to the middle of the season, when things truly became a whirlwind. At first, a bit of separation had done them some good. Missing each other when they had spent so long glued to one another’s side during her pregnancy had been unexpectedly welcome. A new dynamic that made them long for each other’s presence, where before it had been commonplace. Of course, Mama overstayed her welcome, and she wandered into rooms when they attempted to be close with each other, forcing their separation. A few times, they’d grown frustrated enough that they’d snuck out- a romp in a carriage, in the garden, and, most shamefully, in church, in a particularly uncared for confessional after service broke and all others had left to discuss outside.
But since then, they had not found much time for each other. Mama moved out, yes, but Penelope was asked for more frequent articles. Demand was high. She was invited to parties, lady’s nights. Had to maintain a friendship with Eloise. To care for her son, read to him and play with him and raise him. To visit her Mama now that she was not around to bother her if just to ensure she would not come over too frequently to make it up. And, of course, audience with the Queen, which she could not beg off.
What had once been a means of freedom, a way to express herself, had quickly soured into an obligation with another’s hand in the pie. The Queen was particular, and though Penelope had criticized her plenty in her publication in the past, it was one thing to do so anonymously, and another to stand before the woman and have a discussion dissecting each article henceforth.
When she thought to how she’d been juggling it all the last month or so, knowing she would have to drop certain things, each time she ruminated on what it was she had let go, she realized- it had always been Colin. It was not that he was expendable. Only that he was the most steadfast. That he could withstand it more than her other connections.
Until, it seemed, it took a toll.
“-and, truly, I do not care about Miss Lao and her flirtation with Mr. Patel, they are so very droll. There is no purpose in wasting ink discussing them. I believe the next publication should finally uncover this Lady in Silver. You have had more than enough time and I fully expect-”
“No.”
The room went silent. Penelope did not even know she had said it, but something deep inside her bubbled to the surface. To find the Lady in Silver, which Benedict had asked her to do, as well, and became the real mystery of the season that the Queen herself sunk her teeth into, would pull her only further away from her life. She had dedicated so much damn time in all those parties to uncovering it, and she didn’t even care.
What had started as a favor for a family member, one she, admittedly, could not even recognize by name before she married Colin, spiraled into an obligation that felt more a shackle than anything else.
“. . .no?” Spoken as a woman who had never been denied anything ever before.
“I cannot uncover her with such swiftness, your majesty,” Penelope corrected, voice flat. “I have attempted and dedicated much time to the matter, and it has proven fruitless.”
Queen Charlotte scoffed. “Please- Lady Whistledown can uncover any scandal, can she not? You have unmasked others.”
“In time.”
“You have had time.”
And yet, it was all she seemed to want. If she had it, why did it feel she was always losing it?
“Not enough.”
“If you cannot uncover one measly woman, a member of our very own ton, then either you have lost your touch or I was incorrect, and I am never incorrect, that you had it in the first place.”
“Your Majesty, it is unreasonable-”
“I hunted to uncover you, the notorious Lady Whistledown, and you cannot even unmask-”
“I am tired!” she exclaimed, losing herself. Sleepless nights editing and parties and disappointment and now- now- her own husband, her heart of hearts, questioned if she even loved him because she was pulled away so much. It was enough. “I am tired,” she said again, more quietly. “You- your majesty is divine. I am but a woman. My son spent a month largely growing apart from my presence in pursuit of this- this- game- I’ve a family to maintain! A marriage to nurture. My own needs to attend to. I- I-” The Queen looked- almost disgusted at such a proclamation. The final weight upon the stack. “I quit.”
“You- what?”
“I quit. I need- I need time. To rest. To ruminate. To be with my family.”
“You cannot quit. I forbid it!”
“Then- then at the least, I go on hiatus.”
“Hiatus? You had an entire off season of hiatus!”
“I was growing a babe in my belly! That is work, as well.”
“You cannot-”
“It shall be one or the other,” she insisted, more firmly than before, not realizing she had cut the Queen of England off. “I refuse to burn myself aground, scrape my quill dull in pursuit of a whim. I cannot work- create- in such a way. Not well.” A gamble. The porcelain cup was tipping onto the floor. “And when I return, it shall be a better publication.”
Less thunderous but considerably still displeased, she raised her head and her brow. “Well. There is your bite, finally.” Penelope’s mouth scrunched, but she gave nothing else away. “You will still publish?”
“Yes. Just- without deadline.”
Half of her expected to be laughed at, making demands, but she gave one nod of her head. “Fine then. So long as the quality sees improvement.” She could have fallen over. Her pulse rung in her ears, the reality that she would not be punished for such indiscretion coursing through her. Lips curling, Queen Charlotte waved her hand once, then turned away. “To next time.”
Penelope curtsied, deep, counted off in her head, and all but ran out of the hall.
~
“Alright,” Mum said, setting down her teacup. “Speak to me.”
“I. . .was?”
“No. Speak to me.”
“Mum, I regret to be the one informing you of this, but when I open my mouth and noise comes out, that is, generally considered speaking.”
A light slap on his arm was the reply to his teasing. “Enough of your cheek,” she retorted, rolling her eyes at him affectionately. “You talk, but of nothing. What weighs you?”
“Nothing. Can a man not enjoy a tea party with his own dearest mother?”
“If it is about Lord Anderson-”
“What? No-”
“He is a perfect gentleman, I can attest. Kate can, as well, she has been our chaperone with darling Edmund and-”
“Mama-” he cut her off, looking at her as he saw her own nerves bloom, “I have no concerns with him so long as he brings you happiness.” And he meant that. Mum deserved joy.
“Anthony has his concerns-”
“Anthony has nothing but concerns-” he grumbled back, to a disappointed look from her. He knew she wanted them all to get along.
“So then, if not that then what? What ails you?”
“Why do you assume something ails me at all?”
“Darling. . .you have not asked for second helpings.”
“. . .”
“I am your mother, lest you forget. I know when you are unlike yourself. Speak to me.”
“I- it is nothing, really.” She gave him a look, then, when he did not budge, she shrugged, taking another drink.
“Alright.”
He blinked. Mum never gave up so easily. His brows furrowed. “Alright?” he asked, suspiciously.
“Alright. You are my most honest and good son, and if you claim nothing is the matter, surely nothing is.”
Damn. So that was what she was doing. He refused to bite.
“Alright.”
“Alright,” she parroted, serenely, sipping.
“. . .”
Slurp.
“. . .”
Slluuurpp.
“. . .”
Sllllluuuuuurrrppp.
“. . .”
Sssssssllllllllluuuuurrrrrrp.
“. . .mum?” he broke, and she hummed innocently. “Did- had you ever spent time apart. . .from Papa?”
Mum’s sipping stopped abruptly. “Hm?”
“Well- when you married and he was Viscount. Did he have. . .constant business to attend to?”
“We- oh, no, dear, your father was not Viscount when we married.”
“What?”
“No. We were young! Edmund only became Viscount after your grandfather passed. We’d been wed for two years. Anthony had already been ten and five months of age. I'd learned of Benedict's soul in my body but two weeks prior.”
“Oh. I thought- my apologies.”
“No, I suppose- I did not talk of him, much, with you. You would not have known. You were so young when- you were so young.”
“Yes,” he responded, looking down at his cup.
“But-” she cut in, “there were- difficulties. When he did.”
He glanced back at her. “Yes?”
“Of course. We had spent so long in our own world- suddenly I had to share him with it.”
“That- must have been difficult.”
Mum looked at him, all too knowingly. “Yes. I had my own occupations, of course. Anthony required attention, and I had my friends, but- well, Edmund had been my closest companion. To be without him as much took adjustment.”
“Did it. . .improve?”
“It did. . .after time. There is-” she hesitated for a moment. “There is good reason you came into our family so long after Benedict.”
Eight years. He and Benedict had eight years between them. Colin’s face blanched. Would it take eight entire years of adjusting? He was only two and twenty. That was- he did some quick arithmetic- near a third of his life! Seeing his expression, Mama continued on quickly, “But we overcame our difficulties, dear!”
“Eight years,” he whispered back.
“It was not just- well, it was more than- we had-”
“It will take eight years to. . .to overcome this?”
“Colin,” Mama said firmly, snapping him from the spiral. “Your father and I had no one for council. We did not know how to be in love. His parents were matches of convenience, and mine as well.”
“But- but that should make it easier to overcome, should it not?”
“Dear-” she sighed. “You are my most sensitive child, and that is both blessing and curse. You are like me. And like me. . .you will realize that though love is. . .beautiful. Life changing. Heart stirring. It cannot be the only pillar. And if untended it- it can crumble. Your father and I- we simply did not know how to tend it until- until we figured it out.”
“But how? How did you figure it out?”
“With difficulty,” she admitted. “We did not have guidance.”
“Guidance to do what?”
“I supposed. . .mostly to. . .talk to each other.”
“You did not talk to each other?” A tad more judgmental than he intended it to be.
“Well-” Mum made a face, arching a brow at him. “Dearest, surely you know now, having a love match of your own, the assumption that your partner simply knows.”
“I-” well, yes, that was fair. But of course Pen would know! She knew him better than he knew himself, sometimes!
“Right. Well, they do not.” He sat, chided for what he did not even voice. “And assuming it of them without discussion just chips the foundation you have until it feels unsteady. Whatever it is you are feeling, Love, you are certainly not the first in all of time to feel it. You will certainly not be the last. But time is- so very, terribly short. Talk to her.”
“She is not- she is busy.”
“As was Edmund. She will find time.”
“She hasn’t,” he replied, petulant the way he hadn’t been in a long time.
Mum gave him a look. “She will.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because she loves you,” Mama said, so simply. How do you know?
“But-”
“Ma’am,” a voice called from the entryway, “A Mrs. Bridgerton to see you.”
“Ah, how delightful!” The smirk curling on her face, was all but dripping with ‘see?’.
But instead of relieved, he was- concerned. Had something happened? Penelope’s meetings with the Queen were a slog- they went on and on and on. For it to be cut so short-
“Violet,” Penelope said, standing in the doorway. It felt almost like when he returned from his trip to Greece, the first he had planned all on his own, poring over maps, making and remaking an itinerary, only to go and find himself so horribly sad. When he returned to Mayfair, when he saw her in that same sitting room- she’d taken his breath away. She was so bright, so sweet. Incandescent as sunshine. He'd carried her words with him across countless acres, across the sea, found comfort in them in dark, cramped rooms and drug fueled ruminations, how she'd made him so happy with little more than ink and parchment, and then, all at once, there she was. All of her, smiling at him, real and honest- and he knew he was home.
He hadn’t questioned it, then, barely even acknowledged it, but now he knew that so much of him had already been hers, even all that time ago. She didn’t do her hair in the tight ringlets she once did, now more loose and flowing, pinned up at his hands into something of an artful cascade, and the high cut of her dresses was replaced with considerably lower, now, but the memory of her superimposed upon the reality of it. She still made his chest tight, his pulse quicken, just the same. The feeling had been there- he just had name for it, now. He watched as Mum stood to embrace her. He’d stood, too, but, suddenly nervous, he didn’t know if-
“My girl, you look beautiful as always,” Mum praised, smiling wide and smoothing down a curl from his wife’s forehead. She smiled back, still tinged in that same tired cloud she wore for the last few weeks.
“Thank you, Violet. And you more radiant than ever!" Penelope looked at him, then, from around Mum’s shoulder. “Though I owe you an apology, as well.”
“Oh?”
“I have come to steal your son away, I’m afraid.”
“I do believe I gave him away at your wedding,” she jested, “so I suppose you cannot steal what is yours, now.” Pen gave a little laugh at that, shaking her head. “Do come visit soon? And with my darling grandson?”
“I will,” she promised, squeezing mum’s hand before dropping it and offering to him, instead. “Col?”
He blinked back to the present, looking between them. “Uh- right.” Hand outstretched, she waited a beat, another, and then just as she went to drop it back to her side, he took two big steps and put his atop. It was- almost comical. She was so small, much smaller than him. He engulfed her. But she wrapped her fingers around his palm gently and tugged.
“Can I walk with you?” an echo of earlier.
“Of course.” He didn’t let her go, even as he kissed Mum’s cheek in goodbye and she waved them off. It was a short walk, of course, just across the square, but she wrapped her arm around his elbow, easy motions, and nudged him to the side. “Where-”
“Well- I had promised you a promenade, yes?”
He knew she was exhausted, but he did not fight. He enjoyed too much how soft she was, pressed against him, and having time with her, uncontested. Despite their difference in size, it was as though she fit perfectly with him, two of her steps matching one of his, and they made their way in the warm day down a quiet little path, her fingers playing against his sleeve.
Talk to her. He chewed his cheek.
“Pen. . .what happened with the Queen?”
“Oh. Uhm. I- told her I quit."
He almost tripped over his feet. “You- but you- you’ve been pouring into Whistledown.”
“I know,” she said, so quietly. “I realized I needed to- slow down.”
Now he did. He stopped, looked at her with wide eyes, and something gnawing in his guts. “You do not need to stop because I asked if you love me, Pen. I would feel horrible if that is why.”
“Wha- no. No. Colin that is- well, partly-”
“No. Oh, no, Pen- I did not want you to stop because of me! You- you have built a legacy with Whistledown, it is a triumph. I could not bear it if-if I am the cause of- ” Why, why couldn’t he just have said what he wanted? Not just asking if she loved him, but telling her that he just- wanted to be picked, too. Mum was right. He didn’t talk to her. Not truly. And now he would make their pillar crumble, and she would come to resent him, eventually, and-
“Col- listen,” she commanded, grasping his hands once again. “I told her I quit- for now. I am not stopping. I am slowing. And not because of you. I am. . .slowing down because I am tired. I- I was pouring too much into Whistledown and I did not even think- it was unreasonable. Something was always sacrificed and today- today I realized that something had been you. It had been us. That is what your question caused. An epiphany. Everything else is my choice regarding it."
He had no argument against that. There was. . .something so healing in hearing her acknowledge it. He had felt silly and dramatic, selfish and wrong, convincing himself he was exaggerating, but- “I-. . .I’ve just missed you,” he said, softly. "I am glad I did not- inspire you to cease your passion."
“I know,” she squeezed his hand, waited until he squeezed it back, and tucked herself against his side again. “And you are also my passion. I’ve missed you, too. Terribly. At first- at first it was not so bad, but now-"
“No,” he agreed. “It was. . .good, at first, truthfully. We were both occupied at times, but-”
“But we had time for each other,” she finished. “It was nice missing you a little.”
“Yes. Just. . .not a lot.”
“Right,” she replied, the two of them in step once more. They walked, letting it settle between them for a moment. “When did it change for you?"
He did not even have to think. “When I woke and you were gone.” Saw her cringe from the corner of his eyes. “I was- Pen, I was so scared. It was dark, and you were not there. I feared- feared something unspeakable had happened to you and- and I looked all over the house for you until Lin told me you had slept in a different room. I was- so relieved you were safe but- but it felt as though. . .you did not want to be with me.”
“Of course I wanted to be with you,” she assured, holding him close, even when he avoided her eyes. Those blue, blue eyes he always flayed open to. “Colin, I want to be with you,” she reiterated, stopping their stride with a pull, standing in front of him, making him see. “I did not wish to wake you, that is all.”
“I wish you had,” he replied. “Wake me. I would rather you do. I would rather wake to you than without you.”
“I did not- know that. I was- attempting not to inconvenience you. To let you rest.”
“Incon- how could you ever think- you could never be an inconvenience to me, Penelope. Never. I always desire you beside me!”
Flinching, she looked at him from beneath her lashes, glaring at his raised emotion. “Have some compassion, Colin. Don’t you understand it is the first I am- that I am experiencing this? I was an inconvenience in my home, before!”
It struck him, then, how unfair he had been. All the feeling ballooning inside him popped, like a knife had been twisted between his ribs. Mum had told him, hadn’t she? That she’d had no one to guide her.
Neither did Penelope. She did not grow in a house with a love match. She had been- she had been little loved, herself, for too long. Had to live to survive largely on her lonesome. He had not so much as spoken to her about how it felt for him, to bring attention to how what she was accustomed to doing, what she had learned to do, could affect him in ways it had not affected any other. And he had let it fester for weeks, with him brushing his hurts aside, telling himself he had to come to terms with it on his own.
When that was what she had felt, too. Alone.
He did not want her to feel alone. Never again. He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her in. Stiff at first, then like honeycomb in hot water, she melted to him when he curled in to be closer.
“I am sorry, Pen. You are right. I should have spoken with you.”
She’d nuzzled her face into his chest, breathing in. Standing with him. “In fairness to you- we have not had much time to do so,” she said, quietly. "Which is my failing in the matter."
"I should have voiced it, regardless. You need not carry on alone."
“I know.” He held her a little tighter, just to drive it home. There, nestled against him, she pressed a palm to his chest and he raised their held hands to rest above his heart. Like a little hiding place for her to find refuge. "I am sorry, too. I do love you, Colin. I understand your concern, but I do."
He nodded. It felt easier to accept when he was with her this way. With her in his arms with no threat of a sudden departure. Able to show her he cared, and her letting him.
“I just think-” she breathed against him, “I think- I do not know how to love you.”
“Of course you do,” he dismissed.
“No, Colin-” she tilted her head up, resting her chin so she could look up at him. “I do not know how to show you.”
“Just being you is enough, Penelope.”
“But it isn’t, is it?” she asked, a little sadly, “because you had to ask.”
He flinched, hot in his belly. “That wasn’t because you are lacking in any way.”
“I am not saying that- that I am deficient-”
“Good, because you are absolutely not in any way-”
“I am saying-” she continued, pointedly, though a bit flushed, “that it has been a year since we were wed, but I have had a lifetime otherwise. I have not seen it as you have. I do not- know. It hurt me, that you did not believe I did, but I do, and I do not want you to feel that way again. So I am asking- how do I show you?”
“You only need to be with me, Pen. That is all I need.”
“That is- too vague.”
“It is the truth.”
“But-”
“It was your absence that hurt,” he admitted. “Being without you. I know everyone wants your time, Love. I understand why- who would not want your insight or time? I do not begrudge them that. Nor do I need to be your only choice- that is not a choice at all- but- I would like to be your first choice, at times.”
“You are my first choice.”
“But I am not, am I?”
“You- you are my favorite choice, at least," she acknowledged, as it was true that she had not chosen him first for a good while, now. "I have obligations, but- I enjoy time with you very much. Please know that.”
“That eases me, to hear you say it.”
“I- will show you, too," she insisted. "We will spend more time together. I can do that. I am doing it now, am I not?”
“You are. Thank you.”
She nodded, pleased at the acknowledgment. "Alright. Good. Have I..... Assured you, then?"
It endeared him, how she asked it almost shyly. Everything she did endeared him, really but especially when he could see the tender underbelly she showed to so few. He pet a hand down the back of her neck. "Yes, Pen. You have assured me."
"Truly? There is nothing else that would ease you?" she pressed.
“Well. . .I would like to ease you, really. I wish you would let me help you.” As her mouth opened, perhaps for argument like the one they had so long ago, he continued- “not because I need to be of good to you, but because- I want to assist you.”
“But you do assist me. You assist me with Thomas-“
“That is not assistance- he is our son. Caring for him is my duty, too.”
“Well- you- you assist me with my hair!”
Of all her arguments, most admittedly brilliant, that was the weakest. “You are exhausted, Penelope. I could have- visited the publisher, or negotiated with the Paper Boys, or even read your drafts. You are not alone.”
“I- know that.”
“So let me help you. Not with everything, I will not impose upon you. It is your endeavor and triumph, I know this. I do not wish to change it. And I am glad you are not quitting for good, but I have seen how the pace has ailed you. I can bring ease. I want to do things for you.”
“I am- I am simply not accustomed to it.”
“Could you. . .try to become accustomed to it?”
“I- could. Yes. But- could you- could you ask first, in turn? I- sometimes it would be welcome but-"
“Of course!" all too excited. Upon seeing her amusement at such, he cleared his throat. "I mean, of course I will ask. Thank you." No, that was a bit too formal, now. "I mean- it means a lot to me, that you would consider it. You are a good woman.” He could drown in her eyes, how the insides had widened for him. Then- “How- how could I show you, too? How much I love you?”
“Oh-” she laughed. “Col, you already do. I’ve no worries of your love for me.”
“But-”
“I was too busy to worry, in truth. And you were so- steadfast and loyal, the entire time. I do feel it most when you hold me,” she admitted. “Which has not happened for a good while. It makes me happy, to feel it again. You wrap your entire self around me, and it- how could one feel unloved in such a moment? When you kiss me, or run through my hair- I would like you to arrange it more often, however. I am ready to divulge upon you an allowance for the duty-” he chortled, all the seriousness ebbing, to her obvious delight.
“For the sake of clarity- are you offering to give me. . .pin money?” he asked, poking one of the many shiny baubles he’d twisted into her long mane, much to her snicker.
“Yes. We will call it your Pen money.”
“Hmmm- I could use the wages, I suppose.”
“Yes, I married a complete pauper, didn’t I?” she teased, poking him against his sternum, even as he snatched her hand as quickly as she’d slipped it out of his grasp to complete the motion, kissing her knuckles and resting their hold back on his heart.
Penelope rose up on tiptoes, using their handhold as leverage to kiss him in the broad light of day, and he reciprocated instantly. She was perfect on his mouth, lips sweet as ambrosia, making him sigh, lovesick. When she tilted her head to deepen their embrace, he felt the tickle of her lashes, the plush of her body pressed into his. He understood her best in this language without words they had become fluent in. Perhaps they had a hiccup in not speaking it for a while, but they fell back into the mastery with swiftness. He felt it, too, how she loved him when she did, the depth of it.
It felt silly, almost, to question it when she spilled herself into him this way, nipping at his lower lip until he opened to her. “Col-?” she asked when they pulled away, just to connect once again, swallowing his hum. He could not get his fill of her. Each time they split apart, they managed just a breath before before meeting anew. “Take-” A kiss. “Me-” Another. “Home.” Kiss kiss kiss. "Now." He would never tire of it.
Later, when she blinked bleary-eyed up at him, exchanging lazy, sleep-soaked pecks as he ran through her hair, undoing that meticulous style he’d put it in earlier, just wanting to stretch the moment he had with her for as long as possible before she left, again, he held her the way she liked on their bed, and they could rest easy.