Work Text:
1826, London.
Anthony,
I apologize for the delay in responding to your previous missive. I am travelling and have only moved to Darjeeling in the past week. As for your subtle, but sure demand I come back home, I apologize, I cannot.
I know you are concerned for me, and I appreciate your words of care, but I must assure you that I am not yet ready to return to England. India, at least for now, is my home. I must also press upon you the need for intervention with Mother. Please. In her latest letter she all but demanded I return home or she’d find passage to India herself. It worked the last time, it will not work this time.
She behaves as if I have wandered off like a child, lost in the woods. It is unnecessary, while I understand her concern, it is unnecessary. She does not understand, none of you do, I cannot return, not until I’ve gotten a semblance of control over myself, and until then, I will remain where I am, doing what I must.
Your brother,
Colin Bridgerton
Dearest Mother,
I am settled in Darjeeling, a quaint hilly town in the north of India. I know of it, of course, from Kate’s stories. Blessedly, my friend has been stationed here for the foreseeable future, so I have company. Robert is lovely, his wife and children have made me feel at home. I assure you.
I know your concern for me comes from a place of love, but I must beg you to understand. I have told you before that I am not yet ready to return. I am not being facetious, or difficult. It is the truth. I cannot come back, I will not be a good son, a good uncle or a good brother if I do. Not now, not yet. So, I ask you, please, to stop asking me to come back. These constant letters, though I have answered them with patience, are beginning to feel like an overwhelming weight, as if you cannot trust that I know what I am doing. I am sorry to cause you pain, I am bereft even at the tone I am taking in this letter - I will beg your forgiveness later, but for now, please mother, stop.
I know you miss me, and I miss you too. I am well, Mother. Please, do not worry. I will come home when I am ready, when I’ve found the strength to return.
But if I were to come back now... you would not recognize me.
I do not even recognize myself. What I have become is not the man you raised, and I am not yet the man I wish to be.
Please, have patience.
With all my love,
Colin Bridgerton
A sense of pride filled Anthony as he appraised his family chattering around him. His whole family, not just Kate and the children, but his siblings and their spouses, and their children. All littered around the large table in his formal dining table. It was getting too small to accommodate all of them, Anthony realized, as his gaze fell on Hyacinth and Gareth squeezed together at one end, with barely a sliver of space between. While he was certain his brother-in-law did not mind the proximity to Hyacinth, it was driven by his need to move away from the children fighting and often flinging their food at each other rather than an uncontrollable urge to be near his wife.
Anthony felt a frown crawl up his face at the sheer number of them. The older children often supped with the family till late, the littles had been sent to the nursery to get ready for bed long back. His sons, Daphne’s children and Eloise’s twins sat at the other end of the table, very carefully placed away from their parents so they could run ruckus. Anthony had a sudden urge to drag his chair to their side and chatter away with them, despite the sheer chaos they caused, he absolutely loved all the children under one roof. It was only the frustration on Gregory’s face as he tried to control their antics that stopped Anthony from going to them.
He was far too old to be dealing with this anyway. Besides, he was very happy with the Bridgerton baby currently in his arms - Agatha Bridgerton, with her deep auburn curls beginning to reveal their fiery red hues, sat on his lap, babbling away as she reached for his dessert with determined little hands. Almost two years old now, she was a complete delight. Anthony had been smitten with her from the very first time he held her in his arms. She was a striking blend of both her parents, but in a way that left him grinning. Her smile was all Penelope, that familiar warmth and joy lighting up her face, but everything else—her eyes, the curve of her lips, the soft blush of her skin—was pure Benedict.
When Agatha turned her round little face up to him, looking at him with those wide, curious eyes, she hesitated for just a moment before reaching toward his cake, as if waiting for his approval. Her silent question melted any trace of hesitation Anthony had left, and he couldn't help but nod with a soft smile, granting her permission. With a delighted giggle, she eagerly dug into the cake, her chubby fingers smearing cream cross her face. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to her soft, squishy cheek, feeling a surge of warmth in his chest.
She was truly sweet.
He caught Kate looking at him with amused eyes as she shook her head. He winked at her in response and continued tuning everyone out as he helped feed the little girl the cake she so craved, most of it ending up on her dress than in her mouth. He loved his children, a love so fierce it frightened him at times, but his little Charlotte had been the most precious thing ever bestowed on him. Now, Charlotte was no longer his little girl. So everytime Anthony got the opportunity, he held Agatha close and relished in the memories of having a little girl. But as he looked down at Agatha, a soft smile tugged at his lips. Soon, he and Kate would welcome another child into the world. It was a surprise, one they hadn't expected, especially with Charlotte already eight.
He hoped it was a girl.
His eyes then drifted to Agatha’s parents, his brother, Benedict, and Penelope, who sat close together, their love now undeniable. They exchanged quiet words, smiles, and the soft, tender gestures that made it clear—whatever doubts had once existed about their relationship, they were long gone.
As Anthony had long suspected, Agatha’s arrival had done more than add another Bridgerton to the family. It had been a catalyst for something deeper. For Benedict and Penelope, it had marked a new chapter, one that transformed the foundation of their bond. Their marriage, which had once seemed impulsive to many—built more on mutual understanding and respect than on wild passion or love—had evolved. In the years since their vows, any reservations, any insecurities had dissolved, replaced by something far more enduring. No one who saw them now would ever label their union a mere marriage of convenience. It had started that way, certainly, but it was no longer that. His brother had found love, true all consuming, sometimes terrifying love. And in that truth, Anthony’s heart swelled with joy, for there was no greater gift he could wish for his brother.
But as the conversation turned to children, expectant additions to their brood, Anthony’s eyes instinctively turned to his mother. Violet, who seemed a little more subdued tonight, a drink in her hand, her mouth in a tight smile as she watched Kate address the table at large.
"Three women, expecting,” Kate remarked, her eyes twinkling with playful mischief. "Daphne, Eloise, and myself." she added, her gaze falling momentarily on Penelope with a quirked brow, as if to ask the red-head if she’d like to add her name to the list. Anthony watched as Penelope rolled her eyes in good humor, trying to hide a smile.
“I am alarmingly short, while Benedict’s progeny has proven to be remarkably large. Believe me, I couldn’t conceal a pregnancy even if I tried,” Penelope replied with a playful smile, teasing Kate.
Benedict’s face flushed at the remark, but the way he looked at Penelope softened the moment. Their bond was as evident as ever. But it was in this instant that Anthony noticed something. His mother’s demeanor had changed—subtle, but undeniably different. Violet’s gaze seemed to fall into herself for a moment, the smile from her face fading as she traced the rim of her glass absentmindedly.
A humorless laugh escaped Violet’s lips—sharp and unsettling, a sound they had never heard from their gentle, kind mother.
Anthony could feel the shift, a palpable change in the atmosphere. He was sure that everyone around them felt it, too. And in Benedict’s eyes, he saw it—the recognition of something unspoken, the same unease that seemed to cling to the room. To Anthony, every sound faded into a distant echo, as if the world itself was holding its breath. The stillness was suffocating, the calm before an inevitable storm.
And then Violet spoke, looking at no one and nothing in particular.
“Colin should be here.” Her voice thick with emotion, “He should be here. He has missed so much.” A sob seemed to escape her then, but she tamped it down. Shifting forward in her chair and placing her glass of sherry back on the table, “So many children, so many birthdays, anniversaries, he should be here.”
“He should be here.” She said again. And though the words were meant for all of them, she looked directly at Benedict as she spoke, as though the weight of the words was meant solely for him. The room fell into an awkward silence as Anthony’s heart clenched. His mother had never been one to hide her feelings, but this was different. There was an ache in her voice that wasn’t easy to ignore.
And Anthony knew, deep down, that the letters they had received from Colin that morning were partly to blame. The cold, detached words, laden with finality, had cast a shadow over them both. The sherry had certainly contributed, its warmth dulling the edges of reason, but it was Violet’s sheer agony—her grief at losing one of her sons—that stood at the forefront, consuming her in a way nothing else could. The weight of it was unmistakable, a mother’s heart breaking under the unbearable distance of a son who had chosen to remain gone.
Even little Agatha stilled in his lap, twisting around to look at her grandmother. Anthony felt someone taking her from his lap, Eloise, he realized as she mumbled to the little girl and got up from her chair next to him.
“Violet,” Kate said softly, guilt visible on her face as she reached out to hold her mother-in-law's hand. Her voice pulled Anthony out of his shock as he turned to look at Benedict. His brother, usually incredibly capable of monitoring his emotions, looked bereft, his mouth open in shock and his eyes dark and stormy as he stared at their mother. Shaking his head, Anthony’s gaze flicked to Penelope. She had already turned her whole body to face Benedict, her hand gently but firmly resting on his shoulder in an effort to calm him. There was a pleading in her eyes, a silent request for him to look at her, to ground himself in the love they shared.
He heard Penelope softly whispering to Benedict that it was okay when he heard a soft anguished cry from his mother. Violet’s face crumpled, the weight of pain and guilt of her words clear in her expression. Her hands shook as they rose to cover her face, as if trying to shield herself from the rawness of her emotions, but it was futile.
And then Anthony knew he had to intervene. Swiftly getting up from his chair, he looked to his eldest sister Daphne and Kate to escort mother to his study for a reprieve.
“Some coffee would be good as well,” He said with a swallow, nodding at his mother in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture. He saw Daphne and Kate both look at Benedict as if they wished to comfort him, but he shook his steadily.
Not now , he signaled.
Eloise and Phillip had taken charge of the rest of the family, quickly distracting the remaining shocked adults and children with a rendition of Oliver and Amanda’s most creative pranks as children.
Anthony looked at Benedict, his heart tightened at the raw pain on his brother’s face. “Calm yourself, Ben,” he said, his words firm yet compassionate. “Mother didn’t mean it. You know that. We need to speak with her, but you must be calm first.”
He nodded toward Penelope, who immediately understood, shaking off her own shock. Rising gracefully, she moved to Benedict’s side, wrapping him in her arms. She leaned in, her voice a soft whisper in his ear, soothing him with words only he could hear, words only he needed to hear.
An hour later, Anthony and Penelope found Benedict in the nursery, a sleeping agatha perched on his shoulder as he lightly swayed her.
“He puts her to bed every night,” Penelope whispered, not wanting to disturb father and daughter.
Anthony smiled, remembering the joy of having his first child as he watched his brother with his first. A smirk worked its way on his face as he leaned down towards his sister-in-law, “Let’s see Ben manage to put two toddlers to bed.”
Penelope looked up at him in surprise, a blush working its way up her cheeks as he inclined his head. Anthony paused for a moment, his gaze lingering on the woman his brother had chosen as his wife. Despite the years she had lived—more than three decades—there was an undeniable youthfulness about her, an innocence that made her seem almost ageless. Even when she had been nothing more than Eloise and Colin’s friend, Anthony had always sensed something extraordinarily sweet about her, something genuine and unpretentious that set her apart.
“How?” She asked as Benedict noticed them standing in the doorway and let out a sigh, adjusting Agatha in his arms as he moved to put her down in her bassinet.
“Kate,” Anthony responded. His wife was a miracle. And within minutes at tea a few weeks ago she had known Penelope was increasing again. “You really are very short.” He teased earning himself an eye roll.
Benedict walked over to them, some of the tension in his face dissipating, “She’s asleep. Poor this was overstimulated.” He spoke to Penelope with a small smile, before turning to him, “Shall we brother?” Antony nodded and moved to allow Benedict to walk out with him.
When Penelope made to follow, he stopped her, “No, Pen. Let me speak to my mother alone.”
“But,” Penelope protested, looking between the two brothers, “Ben I want to be there with you.”
“I know, love,” Benedict murmured, gently lifting her wringing hand to press a soft kiss to her knuckles. “But I need to do this alone. Please?” His voice held a subtle desperation, a pleading note that softened Penelope’s resolve. With a quiet sigh, she nodded, stepping back to give him the space he needed.
“Mother’s already terribly sorry for it, brother,” Anthony said as they walked down the stairs to his study.
Benedict’s jaw tightened, his steps firm but strained. “I know, Ant,” he replied, his voice clipped. “I know. But I need to end this. I can’t keep carrying blame for something that isn’t mine to bear.”
Anthony’s office had always been a serious sort of place, where difficult and critical decisions about the estate and the future of their family were taken. Where his father sat before him. But today it had a sombre mood over it, Violet sitting in a large armchair by the fire as Kate and Daphne stood near her, having a conversation with their eyes in the way only women could. They jerked up at their arrival, giving a glance at the tightly held Violet before leaving. Daphne paused in front of them, turning her gaze up to Benedict and asking him to be gentle.
As if their brother would ever be anything but gentle to their mother.
But Daphne had always been the closest, both to their mother and Colin. She had lost her favorite brother as much as mother had lost her favorite son.
Anthony closed the door behind him, prepared to be the mediator as he had so many times before. When Daphne and Eloise had fought as young girls, when Benedict and Eloise had had a row, when Edmund and Oliver had pranked Amanda and Amelia, even when Hyacinth and mother had resorted to glaring at each other over the breakfast table during her first season, Anthony had been the mediator.
However, before he could get a single word out, Benedict spoke.
“What would you have me do, mother?”
Violet turned at the sound of Benedict’s voice, her face streaked with tears, her eyes no longer clouded by the usual haze of sherry. They were raw, wide with emotion, and full of a depth that spoke far beyond the warmth of the drink.“Benedict…,” Her voice was barely audible over her sharp intake of breath.
“What would you have me do?” Benedict asked again, his voice steady and measured, but the storm in his eyes betrayed his calm. Gray beneath green, they reflected the depth of his anguish as he took a step forward, then knelt before his mother. “I know I am the reason Colin refuses to come home. I know I am the cause of all his pain. But what would you have me do?” His words were soft, but each one carried the weight of his sorrow.
“Shall I abandon my wife and child because it hurts Colin that they are mine ? Shall I ship her off to him like she’s a damned trinket? Should I never have married her, never have courted her, never have loved her?”
“She was not promised to him, she was not courted by him, he stood outside this very house and declared that he would never marry Penelope Featherington. I did not steal her, I did not betray him. How can I take something from him that was never his?” The words came out broken, like pieces of him slipping through his grasp, and he swallowed hard, fighting the overwhelming tide of emotion.
Violet’s gaze dropped to the floor, her hands trembling as she shook her head slowly, tears slipping freely down her cheeks. No longer able to hold them back, her grief poured out in silence, the weight of it heavy between them.
“Oh Benedict.” She whispered softly.
“I know you miss Colin, I miss him too, mother.” Benedict said softly, sounding so many years younger than he ever had before, “He may be a man of seven and thirty but he is still my little brother. He is still the boy I taught to climb trees, cheat at cards, play pall mall, smoke cheroot and steal Anthony’s good whiskey. I love him, I miss him. But I cannot carry this blame, I cannot feel guilt for my family, for my child, for the children we will have.”
“I know Ben,” Violet whispered softly, wiping her tears as she lightly cupped Benedict’s cheek. Anthony turned away, instinctively trying to give them some semblance of privacy, as if he were intruding on a moment that wasn’t meant for him. Mother and son—especially this son—had never been this vulnerable. Benedict, who had always kept his emotions guarded, rarely spoke of what weighed on his heart. He was a man of action, showing his feelings through deeds rather than words. But now, those words came pouring out, raw and unrelenting, like a river steeped in agony, flowing from him in a way Anthony had never witnessed before.“I am so sorry, it is not your fault. I will never forgive myself for how I behaved today, I…” She stumbled, unable to finish her words and simply letting her regret sit in the air with them.
“I forgive you, Mother,” Benedict said, his voice steady, yet imbued with a quiet strength. “But you must hear me now—no matter how Penelope and I began, no matter how others may judge, I love her, and she loves me. This is my family. This is my truth.” His eyes met hers, fierce and unwavering. “And if I have wronged my brother, then I will pay for that in the next life. But in this life, in the truth I stand upon, I will not allow anyone—not even you—to make me feel guilty for the one thing that has brought me peace, the one thing that has made me whole. I cannot. I will not.”
His words echoed in the silence that followed, a declaration carved from the depths of his soul, a promise made to himself and to the woman he loved. There was no room for doubt in his heart, no space for regret. His truth was unshakable, and no force in this world could make him surrender it.
“Please,” Violet spoke after a beat of silence with a tinge of desperation to her voice, shaking her head, “You did nothing wrong son, neither did Penelope, I will apologize to her, I-oh the poor thing. I am so sorry Benedict, you have no penance to pay, my child. I am sorry.” Anthony turned to see Benedict nod his head solemnly, looking down at his hands.
The tense atmosphere softened ever so slightly, the sound of Violet’s muffled sobs the only noise that filled the room. Anthony moved slowly, as though treading on fragile ground, and placed a gentle hand on Benedict’s shoulder, urging him to rise from his kneeling position. Benedict, still raw with emotion, discreetly wiped the wetness from his eyes as he stood. The weight of everything hung between them in that moment—heavy, unspoken, and palpable.
Violet, her hand trembling, reached out to grasp Benedict’s, pulling him toward her with a rush, as though afraid he might slip away. She rose from her seat, her face a mask of grief and determination, and regarded him with a tilt of her head, her eyes searching his as though she were looking for something she could not find.
“Colin wrote to me,” she said, her voice tight, strained. “He has no plans to return... and he begged me to stop asking him.” A sob caught in her throat, but she pressed on, her words barely a whisper. “I-I… it’s not an excuse, but he has always been one of my most sensitive children.” She glanced from Anthony to Benedict, knowing they understood the depths of Colin's soul better than anyone. They had all loved him, all seen the smile he wore to shield his pain.
“And I could…” Her voice faltered, and she looked away briefly, her chest rising and falling with the weight of unspoken sorrow. “I could feel his pain in his letter. He never shows us how he feels, always hiding behind his jokes, always running, always armed with a smile and a witty remark to charm and beguile us. But he’s in pain, Benedict, and I… I was distraught.” The words broke from her in a rush, the grief and helplessness pouring out like a torrent.
She fell silent for a long moment, her eyes glossed over as she stared at the floor, the weight of it all too much to bear. Finally, she whispered, more to herself than to either of them, “A mother can only take so much.”
“But you must know,” She spoke again, steel behind her otherwise emotional voice, “Despite my reprehensible behaviour tonight, I have never wished for his happiness at the cost of yours Benedict. Or vice versa. All I’ve ever wanted is for each of you to be happy. And I was doubly happy the day you married Penelope Ben,” She added with a smile, looking more like their warm mother than she had the entire night, “I have loved her as a daughter long before I loved her as my daughter-in-law.”
Benedict let out a soft laugh, a sound laced with relief, and lightly nodded, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to his mother’s cheek. It was a simple gesture, but one that spoke volumes of the quiet understanding that had begun to bridge the space between them.
And Anthony knew, as he helped mother to her old chambers in the house and told her all would be well, that this night, as horrifying as it had been, was the start of a new beginning. He knew as he watched a still highly strung Benedict help Penelope and Agatha into their carriage that one day their brother would return. So, despite Kate pleading with him to abandon his mission and come to bed, he swiftly kissed her in apology and moved to his study once again. To send his brother the letter he should have in the beginning.
Dear Colin,
I am sorry, forgive me brother. If India is where you need to be, then I will not begrudge you. I will not guilt you, and neither with mother, you have my word. You take the time you need, Colin.
But know that whenever you wish to return, we will be here for you. Your family will be here.
And if England is no longer home for you,if your heart has wandered too far, then you have but to say the word, and I will gather all thirty of us—every last one, dogs included—and we will come to you. You are my brother, our brother, and no distance, no separation, can ever sever that bond. You will never lose us.
Yours,
Anthony