Chapter Text
“You were astonishing, Colin.”
In this moment—golden and astonishing—Colin wonders what it would be like to kiss Penelope. Somehow, he knows her lips would be soft. He knows the way his hands would fit on the curve just above her hip, the way her voice would sound whispering his name.
It is only an inkling. A vague notion that he nearly wants to shove away, because this is Pen.
Pen, who looks at him like he is some type of hero.
Swept away by the high of thwarting Jack Featherington’s scheme, Colin feels invincible. Drifting from the ballroom after his dance with Penelope, he stands in the middle of a crowd of gentlemen, not quite following the meandering course of the conversation. When Fife says that the way Colin danced with Penelope was certainly interesting, panic tightens around Colin’s throat.
“You courting the girl, Bridgerton?”
Colin cannot tell these men that he has forsworn women. He cannot explain to them why Penelope is the exception to such a rule, why he cannot give her up. They will not understand a friendship like the one he shares with her. Attempting to voice these thoughts will only be met with derisory laughter.
For some reason, he does not think he can take such mocking. Not about this.
And so, Colin blurts out an emphatic refusal. He pastes on the smile they expect and says something they can understand.
“Are you mad? I would never dream of courting Penelope Featherington.” He would not dream of courting anyone. “Not in your wildest fantasies, Fife.”
The conversation shifts to another topic. Colin exhales a sigh of relief.
A stack of unread letters sits on Eloise's desk. Pieces of Penelope, all tied up with a yellow ribbon.
She will not read them. She has no desire to do so. She should cast them onto the fire.
Eloise stares at the letters. She chews on an ink-stained fingernail.
One. She will read one letter. And she will certainly not reply to it.
Dear Eloise,
I have lost count of how many letters I have sent. The weather is still dreary, and I still miss you. I am still sorry.
I wrote to Marina. I did not confess to being Whistledown, but I did tell her I was the one to spread her secret beyond our household. She has replied, saying she had always suspected me of playing some role in it. She is very pragmatic, my cousin. I feel she understands my motivations better than any other. Is that not strange?
Marina told me she does not need my apology, and she will not offer her forgiveness. She said she understands why I made the choices I made, but she will not absolve me of my guilt.
I often contemplate how it could have all gone differently. I could have gone to you or Anthony and confided in you about Marina, for instance, but I knew that if your family mysteriously became aware of her situation, my mother would blame me.
I begged Marina to choose anyone else. I confess I gave very little thought to the happiness of this potential other man, at the time. I only wished for him to not be Colin. Now, I wonder if I might have gone so far as to assist her in luring this other man to the altar, had she listened to my plea. I suspect I might have, so great was my desire to keep Colin from being tricked into marrying her. My selfish disregard for this imaginary stranger may make you hate me even more, but I believe if I am to regain your friendship, I should not lie to you. It was the lies which truly caused the rift between us, was it not?
Perhaps I could have let Marina in on my own secret, used Whistledown to solicit information about Sir George Crane's whereabouts in some clever way, and thus saved both Colin and Marina. I do not know.
There are plenty of things I would do differently about Whistledown. I would not publish anything that hurt you. I would tell you about writing it from the start. At first, I did not realise how popular it would become. I had no idea what sort of power I would wield. Why would anyone listen to me?
But listen they did, and lies built upon lies. The longer it went on, the less able I felt to tell you. I feared precisely what happened: that you would turn away from me. I think of all the times you called me a true friend, and I wish I could turn back the clock and make it true.
I am currently devoting my time to writing a novel. I am writing a headstrong young heroine who passionately believes that women are not merely decorative. I shall create a hero who is worthy of her.
I hope you are well, El.
—Penelope
Pen,
Is your novel to be centred around a romance? I thought you were seeking my forgiveness.
—Eloise
Dear Eloise,
It is a romantic novel, yes. My hero is an intellectual who does not attempt to diminish the heroine’s indomitable spirit. He loves her as she deserves to be loved: for precisely who she is.
—Penelope
Pen,
Ah, a true work of fiction, then.
I daresay a romantic novel will prove to be popular. So few people have the sense to see the superiority of allowing a woman to chart her own path.
And what of Whistledown next season?
—Eloise
Dear Eloise,
I have had many sleepless nights since our disagreement, pondering the future of Whistledown. Your words and accusations kept repeating over and over again in my thoughts. I have come to the conclusion that I wish to expose the Lord Berbrookes of society, not the Marina Thompsons. Next season, I shall take aim at the powerful. I shall attempt to be a force for good. I never intended to be otherwise, despite how it may appear. I made mistakes when faced with difficult choices. I believe I would have benefitted from the counsel of a trusted friend.
I wish to turn a mirror on society and show its most powerful members why they should not like what they see. You, of all people, understand why society richly deserves my mockery.
I believe I erred in allowing my focus to drift away from the truly powerful, for they are the ones who most need to see their own flaws reflected back at them. To begin with, I shall aim my quill at the most powerful person of all. Her Majesty’s family shall provide no end of material.
What do you believe I should do with Whistledown?
—Penelope
Pen,
Have you lost your mind? Perhaps I was not as thorough as I ought to have been upon repeating Her Majesty’s threats to me last season. She asked if I valued my pride more than my breath.
When I consider how Her Majesty might crush you like a serpent (for those were her words to me) if you make her the target of your scandal sheet, I find myself reaching for my pin money to bribe a footman to take me across Kent to you, even after all that has passed between us. What I might do when I reach you, I do not know. Put your quills under lock and key, perhaps? Shake you until you see sense?
I implore you to reconsider. Take aim at the Lord Berbrookes of society, by all means. Hold a mirror up to all of them. Use your words for good, but do not goad the Queen. Aim your quills at society’s shortcomings with subtlety. If I am truly your trusted friend, then please heed this advice.
—Eloise
Penelope rereads Eloise's latest letter for a third time. If I am truly your trusted friend.
Is she?
Can Penelope do away with the constant secrecy and shine a light upon the dark corners of their friendship? It makes a bubble of panic rise in her chest to think of being so exposed to Eloise's unflinching judgement.
Penelope wrote letter after letter to ease the stinging of her conscience, but now a vindictive voice in the back of her mind whispers that Eloise hurt her as well. Eloise threw Cressida's words in Penelope's face. Insipid wallflower. Eloise knows precisely where to hit her the hardest, how to make her bleed.
Penelope clenches her eyes shut. Part of her wants to burn every last olive branch. No more Bridgertons. Whistledown is all she has. If she succeeds with her plan for Whistledown, her influence will be greater than ever.
But these months have been long without Eloise. It is lonely at the top. Or at rock bottom, if that is where Penelope is. Late at night, when sleep refuses to come, thoughts of those she has hurt turn over and over in her mind. Especially Eloise.
Perhaps she will fail—run back to the comfort of her secrets—but they have been friends for so long. Penelope can try.
Picking up her quill, she begins her response.
Dear Eloise,
I believe I shall heed your advice. I do not know whether you are indeed my trusted friend, but I would like you to be. Is that a role you might wish to resume?
If you find yourself amenable to continuing our friendship, then I wish for there to be no more lies and deceit between us going forwards. It would do neither of us any good to face another falling out a few months from now. I will not hide myself away from you in the future, as I have done in the past.
I shall end this letter on a hopeful note, with a question to begin a new dialogue between us as friends. How is your family?
—Penelope
Dear Pen,
I have missed your companionship, but I need you to mean it when you say there will be no further lies and deceit between us. I need to know I can tell you things in confidence without my words landing in your scandal sheet. If we are to be friends again, keep your quill aimed well away from my family.
I believe I can give you a second chance, but there shall not be a third.
I was quite resolved to hate you, you know. I still do hate you a little bit for making it impossible for me to hate you. Do not say that does not make sense, for you know it makes perfect sense.
I am still hurt. I will not pretend otherwise. Like Marina, I will not absolve you of your guilt. Only time and effort can prove your apologies are genuine.
My family is well, though strangely insistent upon attempting to make me hold little Augie every time I see him. Do they think being dribbled upon will spark some as yet undiscovered maternal instinct and have me running for the altar?
What is your novel about, apart from romance? Might I be permitted to read it?
Your friend,
Eloise
Writing a novel is engrossing. Penelope can lose herself in it, pouring her emotions onto the page as she leads her heroine through various trials and tribulations.
She finds herself so buried in her writing that when a letter from Colin arrives from Italy, it spends most of the day unread. She finally rips through the seal in the late afternoon, reading a letter that is shockingly, heartbreakingly ordinary. It is no different from the letters he sent from Greece: full of descriptions of far-off vistas, tales of his adventures, and inquiries about how she is passing her time.
Penelope does not know why she thought anything would have changed. It is not as though they spoke of what he said—nor does she wish to. She has not even told Eloise, and these days she confesses absolutely everything to Eloise, in an attempt to make amends for when she did not tell her enough.
Sighing, Penelope stares out of her window at the distant green hills, her gaze tracing their shape, comparing them to Colin’s descriptions of foreign mountains.
She cannot blame him for not loving her in the way she loves him. She never truly expected anything more than friendship to exist between them. Oh, she wished and dreamed and fantasised, but she knew he would never look at her in that way. Marina was correct. An unrequited fantasy. It hurts—it does—but what brings tears to her eyes is the memory of his laughter. Colin laughed at her. He mocked her with those other men, as though he was not her friend. As though he had not vowed, less than an hour before, to always look out for her.
Penelope does not know what to do about the letter. She cannot allow her friendship with Colin to continue in the same manner. Her love for him has always urged her to allow him to take liberties she would deny to any other man. Her heart cannot take it if he continues to hold her hand and call her Pen, knowing that same charming voice has spoken of her with such derision.
She used to think he was the only man who would never laugh at her.
Perhaps if she insists upon a friendship without a hint of impropriety, she can force herself to fall out of love with Colin. She can chat pleasantly with him at balls and dance with him when he asks, and no one will see anything untoward in their conduct. She can bury every childish wish of her heart, be his (rule-abiding, proper) friend, and he shall never know how he wounded her.
Picking up her quill, Penelope begins to draft a reply.
Dear Colin,
Thank you for once again sharing your travels with me. You have such a talent for describing places; I feel as though I have seen them myself.
I fear, however, that our correspondence must come to an end. It is improper for an unmarried lady and gentleman to write as we do. I do not wish for our friendship to cause another scandal for either of our families.
I hope to hear tales of your travels when you return to England. Until then, I remain:
Your friend,
Penelope
There. That will do nicely. Perfectly friendly. He cannot object to any of that. It was far easier to write than the letters she sent to Marina and Eloise.
In all likelihood, Colin will hardly notice the change. He shall not miss her.
Colin misses Penelope.
Rolling over in his narrow, uncomfortable bed, he frowns at the light sneaking around the edges of the curtains, as though the sunrise is to blame for his turbulent inner thoughts.
Why has Penelope developed a sudden devotion to propriety? It has never troubled either of them before. Colin has always liked how free they are with one another. He has been apart from her countless times, but now she is truly gone, and he hates it. He hates this longing for her company, for her words. He hates that so many things remind him of her.
And he keeps thinking about kissing her. He keeps remembering that night—astonishing—and imagining pulling her back into that drawing room, pressing her up against the closed door, and lowering his mouth to hers.
The dreams of her do not help matters. Dreams in which her yellow dresses fall away. Dreams which leave him hard and aching.
It is the more tender dreams that truly unsettle him. In these dreams, Colin and Penelope talk and laugh together in the same manner as they always do, but she sits on his lap or curls up next to him in bed. It feels natural, as though it is something they have done throughout their friendship.
Anthony would undoubtedly place the blame for all such dreams upon how green Colin still is. The notion of lying with a stranger makes Colin feel strange and cold, but the notion of lying with Penelope…
He stands up, pacing around the room. There is little sense in denying it. That inkling from the night of the Featherington Ball has grown. Bloomed. Perhaps he had to feel the absence of Penelope in order to see her, as though he spent ages in a darkened room, and his eyes needed time to adjust to stepping into the dazzling sunshine.
There is nothing for it. Colin must write her a letter. He cannot keep all of this to himself, and Penelope has always understood him better than any other. Even if she doesn't return his affection, they can remain friends.
Friends who keep their behaviour exceedingly, painfully proper. Colin grumbles.
Sitting at the small table in the corner of the room, he attempts to make some sense of his jumbled thoughts.
Dear Penelope,
Did Anthony get wind of our correspondence and scowl at you until you agreed to be the one to banish all impropriety from our friendship, as I clearly will not? If that is the case, then you must ignore him, as I always do.
If you made that request of your own volition, then I apologise for sending you this letter. I have no excuses for my behaviour, other than this: I miss you terribly.
I have had much time for reflection in Italy. Our friendship has occupied a great deal of my thoughts—not only because I miss you, but because the way I see you has changed. When I return to London, I intend to court you. I feel I should give you advance notice, lest you interpret my romantic overtures as gestures of friendship (do not deny that you would do such a thing). It feels fitting to make this confession in a letter, for we have spent so much time writing back and forth.
I look forward to seeing you upon my return. Until then, I remain:
Yours,
Colin
Prudence reclines on the sofa, rolling her eyes as her mother and Penelope drone on and on. Lifting a feather that has fallen out of a cushion, she blows it up into the air above her face. Exhale, up. Inhale, down.
“Oh, Penelope, honestly,” Portia says, lifting a hand to her temple. “Must you be so difficult? Perhaps I should admit defeat and devote all of my energy to finding a match for Prudence this season.”
“As you wish, Mama,” Penelope says in that syrupy voice she uses when she is being particularly annoying. Under her breath, she adds, “You shall need a minor miracle to accomplish such a thing.”
Prudence lets the feather drop. At least she has had a suitor. She was engaged. What has Penelope had? Nothing.
Deciding she cannot stand the sight of her sister any longer, Prudence stands up and flounces downstairs. A silver tray with a stack of letters sits on a side table. Prudence shuffles through the letters, not expecting to find anything interesting, but Penelope’s name leaps out at her. Why is Penelope getting a letter from Italy?
Prudence does not hesitate. As the older sister, she should make certain Penelope has not involved herself in anything scandalous. Ripping the letter open, Prudence devours the contents. Her eyes get wider with every word.
Colin Bridgerton wants to court Penelope? Has he taken leave of his senses?
Prudence taps the letter against her chin. Colin Bridgerton is the reason Cousin Jack had to flee to the Americas. It is Colin Bridgerton’s fault that Prudence’s engagement was broken. She would be married by now if not for his interference.
Truly, she is doing him a favour. If Prudence wanted to punish him, she would give the letter to Penelope and let the fool court her. Instead, Prudence crosses to the fireplace, drops the letter into the flames, and watches it turn to ash.