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It is said that one’s eyes are the windows to one’s soul.
It makes sense, does it not?
Expressions can be schooled- can convey the opposite of what a person is feeling- but eyes almost always show the truth. Eyes can reflect a pain, so deep, it is better left unspoken. They can convey a silent resentment that is eating away at you, but is never to be voiced.
Eyes, however, can also show a love that is so very precious, that it cannot be confined to mere words.
As a hopeless romantic, Penelope had always fancied that way of thinking.
Your eyes… a most remarkable shade of blue- but somehow they shine even brighter when you are kind.
She had once said to the person, she had loved most.
Colin.
The man who had once made her heart leap with love.
…The thought of him alone these days only wrought her an unimaginably deep pain..
I’m afraid I cannot offer you that dance, Ms Cowper. I am to escort Miss Featherington to the floor. Colin’s eyes had shown a righteous fury and protectiveness when Cressida had ‘accidentally’ spilt her drink on Penelope.
If Penelope hadn’t loved him ever since her bonnet had planted itself in Colin’s face, making him fall from his horse in the process, she would have fallen in love right then and there.
Penelope! What a barb. Colin had exclaimed with an almost wicked amusement visible in his eyes when Penelope had suggested the illegitimacy of a titled child.
She still remembers how comfortable she had felt with him in this moment; she had let herself believe that people might possibly be able to accept her true self- perhaps even love it. She hadn’t felt anxious or lovestruck like she had so often felt when near Colin… she had been Pen; nothing more and nothing less.
Despite the fact that she had always felt less than.
Where had everything gone wrong..?
You‘re astonishing Colin. She had said; it had been the closed she had had the courage to to reveal her love for him.
You are special to me.He had responded. For a moment, she had almost believed that he could have meant it- that she hadn’t imagined the almost loving gaze he had spared for her.
As are you- to me. A part of her had wanted to tell him then. To tell him that her heart beat solely for him.
But she didn’t.
Back then, she had regretted it. Now, she wants to scold her past self for ever having hoped for more; for having acted on stupid feelings, instead of securing a proper match in Lord Debling.
The downfall of everything, she had put her faith in, had started on the same night the man she loved had called her special.
You courting the girl, Brodgerton? Lord Fife’s mocking voice had asked.
Ah, are you mad? I would never dream of courting Penelope Featherington. Not in your wildest fantasies, Fife. Colin had responded, as if even an invalid should have known the answer to that question.
Then had come the laughter.
The laughter was somehow even worse than him merely rejecting her in front of possible suitors.
In her nightmares she can still hear those mocking laughs
Penelope had been used to being demeaned, ignored and abused. But somehow that scene was one of the worst things she had ever experienced.
That was until-
I am a man of honour. And we were… intimate. Perhaps that was another part of your planned entrapment.
He hadn’t even looked at her (despite her practically begging him to), when he so effortlessly destroyed everything, she had believed them to have. But perhaps, in his eyes, she had done that beforehand.
She hates herself for it.
For ever believing that someone like her could be loved.
She hated herself for how she had given herself to the man she had been so hopelessly in love with ever since leading strings.
Penelope had always been insecure about her body and the way Colin had demeaned their joined passion hurt so much; it was so incredibly humiliating without an effort.
It was an unbelievable kind of torture to have the man she gave her maidenhood to, have demean her for it. Especially since polite society places her entire worth on her still remaining a virgin before marriage.
She had given him every part of herself, and he had only recoiled in disgust in the end.
That day, when he had accused her of entrapment had been the day she left.
Perhaps it had been cowardice, perhaps one could even call it self-preservation, but with the aid of her friend, Madame Delacroix, Penelope had disappeared into the night. With only her most treasured belongings and the money she had made with Whistledown.
Penelope hadn’t even had the decency to leave a letter that would Inform her former fiancé of her decision.
She had been too afraid to open her heart to him once more; Colin would have surely found a way to hurt her still, even thousands of kilometres away from her. (And perhaps also because a part of her wanted to try to hurt and humiliate him even just a fraction of how he had done her.)
A part of her had believed- hoped- that changing locations would magically make everything better.
That it would make her happier.
It did not.
Perhaps she did simply not deserve happiness.
It was a lovely house.
Not big by any comparison to the houses in the Ton, but lovely nonetheless.
The house even had a small library. Something that would have brought Penelope joy before.
It was a lovely house, yet it didn’t bring Penelope any sort of joy.
It felt empty; as if someone something was missing.
It takes another week to realise it after arriving at the new house. (She couldn’t bring herself to think of it as a home)
Or rather; for Rae to realise it.
“Miss?” Rae had asked Penelope, when the former brought Penelope’s meal in her room. (The room the latter refused to leave)
Penelope raised an eyebrow, preparing herself for another lecture on how she should ‘leave the room and explore her new neighbourhood a bit’. Penelope had always considered herself to be curious, but somehow even the thought of leaving her room and meeting new people, was jarring.
What the young woman did not expect, however, was what the older one said- or rather asked- instead.
“When was the last time you bled?”
Penelope felt her heart drop; somehow, she knew.
She knew that the universe hated her enough, to add to her miserable life in such a way.
Penelope’s intuition turned out to be correct.
Because of course the world would
have her suffer some more.
Despite the concerned gazes Rae regularly sent her, Penelope ignored it.
She didn’t dwell on it. Or all the symptoms that plagued her; the frequent emptying of her stomach in the mornings, her new-found disgust at meals that she had formerly liked well enough, the way her chest was beginning to grow larger or how her feet started to swell after even the smallest amount of time spent standing (not that she left her bed that often anyhow).
Didn’t think about any of the implications or how she’d always wanted to be a mother. Or how she’d be a terrible one.
Even as her stomach began to swell, she refused to acknowledge it.
The doctor had called it melancholy.
Perhaps she ought to feel ashamed; feel weak for it, but all she could feel was an all consuming numbness.
The numbness was easier to deal with than the sadness.
After a few fortnights of Penelope refusing to leave her room, Rae had insisted on calling a doctor.
A part of her felt guilty for making her friend, that had kindly accompanied Penelope’s running away, but she would just do something wrong, should she try to apologise for her behaviour.
She didn’t want to destroy another treasured relationship.
When asked, Penelope couldn’t properly explain her behaviour.
How is one to explain that the thought of leaving her bed left her with unimaginable dread?
That her existence feels more of a burden than anything else?
That even forcing herself to do anything, felt like an impossible task?
That she just wishes that all the pain, all the complications… her existence would stop?
It is not like she would purposely… hurt herself (especially due to the thing she wouldn’t acknowledge), so why bother even mentioning it?
Despite only giving the doctor short answers and barely speaking otherwise, he still came to the conclusion that Penelope must suffer from melancholy.
He had warned that it is often worse after the birth of one’s child and how pregnancy itself makes the symptoms worse.
Rae had paid careful attention to how the doctor was going on about changing environments and engaging in activities to disrupt Penelope’s melancholy.
Penelope, however, barely paid attention.
No matter what the doctor recommended, it wouldn’t undo everything that has already happened; every pain she has already faced.
It wouldn’t make her whole.
What is once broken can seldomly truly be repaired; a shattered vase will still have visible cracks, a permanent residue from what happened.
Penelope often had always felt like she was born broken.
As Penelope stared at the shattered pieces of the inkwell, that her grandmother had gifted her a few years ago; before she had passed.
Why couldn’t it stop? Why did God send her wave after wave of misery?
Due to Rae’s ever more insistent nagging, Penelope had started to write and read a little again (sometimes she even went to her garden to read), even though her mood did not really improve, it did serve as a well enough distraction.
Penelope did all of this more for Rae’s benefit than her own.
She doesn’t understand why, even when trying to be better, even when she thinks that things can’t get worse, she still finds new ways to induce more misery into her own life.
She doesn’t understand why she keeps on breaking things that are dear to her.
With shaking hands, Penelope gathers the shards of what was once a gift from her late grandmother.
The only family member that supported her and encouraged her to read, despite her mother’s protests.
It makes her heart ache- to have disappointed her grandmother even beyond her grave.
What did that say about Penelope?
Would she regret it now? That she had loved and trusted Penelope?
Penelope wouldn’t blame her.
If, after a break, cracks remain visible, Penelope decides that she must resemble the shards in front of her the most; small fractured pieces, too damaged to be repaired in any meaningful way. A shell of what they used to be.
Why was she being punished again and again- she simply wanted to write a letter to Genevieve..?
“Miss Featherington!” A voice frantically exclaimed.
Rae was already on the floor, next to Penelope, before the latter could even lift her eyes from the mess in front of her.
Penelope doesn’t realise what Rae wants from her, until the older woman takes her hands into hers.
She ought to have been disgusted or frightened by the sight of her own blood escaping her hand.
When had she even cut herself?
Penelope had never been able to stand the sight of blood; even when she bled once a month, she had always felt overwhelmed by the sight and feeling of lying in her own blood.
But now?
Now she was morbidly mesmerised by the sight of the rich red that escaped her own body.
Penelope was vaguely aware of Rae speaking to her- scolding her?- whilst the older woman bandaged her hand.
It felt like a déjà-vu; she had once bandaged another with the same care and concern that Rae had offered her.
They don’t talk about it afterwards; not that the increase of worried glances do not give away exactly what Rae is thinking of the whole situation.
At some point it was impossible to ignore.
As her stomach grew ever larger, so did the difficulty of movements.
Where she once had been able to easily leave her bed, albeit reluctantly, she now has trouble even lifting herself off her bed.
It hit her when she least expected it.
She was having a cup of tea with Rae (Penelope had to insist her having a cup as well, if she wanted that Penelope enjoy one as well), when, as she was about to take a sip, she felt movement.
It shouldn’t have surprised her the way it did, but the cup that fell out of her hand and shattered on the floor, proved the opposite.
The hand that had once held that cub, swiftly landed on the swell of her stomach.
As if it sensed her hand there, it moved again.
“Miss, are you alright?!” Rae exclaimed worriedly, neglecting her own cup on the table.
The older woman worriedly made her way towards Penelope, although Penelope’s face remained blank; not even suggesting a hint of pain.
After a moment, that feels like an eternity, Penelope mummers as if she was telling a guarded secret “I am with child.”
Rae didn’t respond, although Penelope could practically feel the concern radiating off of her friend.
“I am with child.” Penelope repeated, more loudly this time.
She didn’t know when the first tear came, but it came nonetheless.
“I am with child…”
When she repeated herself for the third time, she completely broke.
How often can she still break until there is nothing left of her?
How could someone like her become a mother?
How could someone like her deserve to be a mother?
“I-“ a sob caught in her throat.
She barely registered how arms snaked around her; pulling her towards Rae’s body.
“I cannot do it. I cannot be a mother...” Penelope finished in a rather pathetic whimper, that somehow managed to be simultaneously frantic and despondent.
She couldn’t do it; she couldn’t become her mother.
Her mother, who had always made her disinterest in her youngest clear.
Penelope had always wondered why she specifically was the unwanted one in their family; her sisters, despite lacking brains, were the one that were pampered and adored by their mother.
Why had she always been less?
What was so infuriatingly wrong with her that even her own mother never cared?
Why had she always been broken?
Warm hands caressed her back, as her sobbing slowly started to calm.
Why was the person that was supposed to be nothing more than a maid, more of a mother to her than the woman Penelope called ‘mamma’.
When tear soaked eyes met the kind older ones, Penelope felt a kind of love that sh e ever truly felt for her own mother; coupled with a safety she had never felt with her own mother.
“My dear, if there is anyone who is brave and strong enough to do this- to have a child, it is you.” Rae smiled at her encouragingly.
Penelope shyly wiped away some tears and locked her gaze on the floor- ashamed of what she was about to ask and the vulnerability of it.
“What if I end up being like my own mother?”
Somewhere Penelope knows that her mother cares about her; might even love her, but it wasn’t enough.
Love in itself wasn’t enough.
It couldn’t undo all the hurt inflicted- all the trust that was lost.
It wouldn’t be enough to just love her child.
Penelope could hardly bear to look at how Rae’s seemed to soften so much.
After a moment of silence, Penelope’s eyes broke away from the older woman’s eyes.
She doesn’t deserve this kind of care. Penelope is nothing more than a broken burden.
“Your mother is a complicated person; I do believe she loves you… in her own way.
You certainly share some qualities with her, if I may say so Miss, her sharp mind; sometimes even her ruthlessness.”
Penelope tensed, feeling new tears form in her eyes. She doesn’t think that she could survive having the closed thing to family telling her what an awful person she is. Like Eloise and Colin have already done.
If Rae noticed Pen’s inner conflict, she didn’t let it show; she merely continued “But you are still your own person, Pe- Miss Featherington.”
Penelope doesn’t miss how Rae almost called her by her given. Penelope had already, more than once, told Rae that she was welcome to call her Penelope, but for some reason Rae had always steadfast stuck with Miss or Miss Featherington.
“Despite your less than favourable upbringing, you are a lovely woman, my dear. You are everything a mother could wish for and more. And there is no doubt in my mind that you’ll be the most amazing mother as well.
Besides, I will always be at your and your child’s side, should the two of you be in need anything.”
Rae chuckled at Penelope’s shocked expression; Penelope probably looked like she had seen a ghost.
With another kind smile, Rae continued “You need not do everything on your own; I promise that you will not be lonesome, Miss.”
Penelope couldn’t help but return Rae’s smile.
Without much of a thought, Penelope encased the older woman into another hug.
“Thank you” Penelope whispered, although those meagre words weren’t enough to convey even a small friction of the gratitude, she felt.
In the arms of her closest friend, Penelope felt happy for the first time in many months.
…Perhaps happiness was not beyond her reach after all.
It was a normal day when it happened. One could even call it average.
It was neither too hot nor too cold.
The birds sang as they always did, and the flowers looked just as beautiful as the day before.
Penelope even went on a stroll with Rae through the beautiful countryside they live in now.
It was still hard to be somewhat happy, but with Rae’s unwavering support and her understanding nature, Penelope tried her best to get better.
Some days, only the thought of having her precious baby in her arms made the day bearable.
Will the child look like her or Colin?
She is writing a letter to Genevieve when it happens.
A sharp pain.
Penelope unceremoniously drops the quill, she had been writing as indescribable pain flows through her whole body.
Penelope couldn’t even be bothered about the ink stain the quill had left in its fall on the floor, too preoccupied with getting used to this excruciating pain.
When it finally stopped, Penelope had to catch her breath, before she finally yelled for Rae.
When the older woman entered Pen’s room; looking panicked due to Penelope’s unorthodox way of summoning her, Penelope spoke up whilst clutching her swollen stomach “Call for the midwives.”
(Luckily they had made arrangements beforehand which is why the midwives had been living a house away ever since Penelope got closer to giving birth)
As realisation dawned on the older woman, Rae didn’t waste a moment to get help.
It was too much, Penelope could feel it in her bones.
Her body was too small- too frail- for what childbirth expected of her.
It felt like she was being ripped apart.
She barely registered the bloodcurdling screams that left her mouth.
When the pain lessened a bit again, she felt her hand being squeezed reassuringly.
“Miss Feath-… Penelope.“ A familiar voice started. It took a moment for Penelope’s foggy brain to realise that that voice was Rae’s.
With a very great deal of effort, Penelope’s pale face turned towards Rae.
If Penelope was of sounder mind, she might have realised that Rae had called her by her given name for the first time- or how devastated and anxious the older woman looked and sounded.
The woman, whom Penelope considered to be more of a mother than her own mother ever was, squeezed her hand again and spoke up once more “Penelope..”
Penelope only whimpered in pain in response.
A loving hand came to push a sweaty strand of hair out of the red-head’s face.
How she wished that that hand was Colin’s; despite everything a part of her still yearns for him.
“I know, my dear. You don’t deserve to go through a pain like this, Penelope, but please keep on fighting. You can do it.” The hand that formerly pushed hair out of her face, now carefully caresses Penelope’s cheek.
Only after a moment did the red-head realise lazily how Rae was wiping tears away that Pen hadn’t even known were leaving her eyes.
“It’s too much...” Penelope said through gritted teeth, hopelessly trying to convey the magnitude of the situation.
Even those few words felt almost impossibly exhausting.
“It will be alright.” Rae whispered.
Penelope wasn’t sure whether the lie was meant to comfort her or Rae.
She didn’t know how long she spent in agony.
She was beyond caring; she just wanted everything to stop.
Rae had needed to leave at some point; when more people frantically entered Penelope’s chambers.
Despite the pain, despite the feeling that her rationality seemed to leave her along with so much blood, Penelope felt a clarity in her dazed state.
She knew how this would end.
She somehow knew.
She knew she ought to cry and beg for a different outcome, but she didn’t; couldn’t. Perhaps from exhaustion, or mere acceptance that God seemed to hate her specifically…, but she did not even fear her fate.
Many Christians are privy to horrific tales of what happens to one should they pass and have lived their lives in sin.
After all the horrible things Penelope had done in her life, all the friends she had betrayed, she knew where she was going.
She knew that no one would mourn her for long, knew she was nothing; meant nothing.
The only positive thing that she could call herself was a title that she hadn’t even earned yet, that she wouldn’t have the time to wear proudly.
The title of mother.
A title easily given, but rarely earned.
As her stomach had grown over the months, she had often wondered whether she’d ever be able to earn it; or whether she’d end up like her own mother.
It boarded on ironic, the way Penelope had sworn to never become her own mother, to be better.
Yet, she wouldn’t have the chance to be better.
…Perhaps this outcome was the only way for her to keep her promise of being better than her mother.
Penelope wasn’t quite sure whether the screaming, that she barely heard over her rapidly beating heart, was hers or the midwives’.
Why were the midwives screaming?
As Penelope instinctively pushed for the umpteenth time, she finally felt something more than just excruciating pain; relief.
Even with the ringing in her ears, she heard another screaming voice appearing.
Through heavy eyelids, she barely managed to glimpse to where the voice is coming from.
Her midwife was holding a screaming bundle in her arms.
An almost instinctive need to hold and nurse her little love crashes over her like waves.
There is nothing that she wants more than to hold her baby, yet she cannot.
She cannot even voice her desire to care for her child.
It was too much.
…And she hadn’t even been informed of the sex of the child.
The panicked voices grew louder as the midwife walked away with Penelope’s baby.
Somehow, Penelope knew that that had been her only chance to gaze upon her child.
What a pity, Penelope thought absentmindedly as the world seemed to close into itself, I never even got to see their face
As her eyes grew too heavy to bear, Penelope mustered all her remaining strength to listen to her little angel’s cries.
Wherever she was going, she would forever treasure the sound of the precious life that she loved most in the world.
…Perhaps it was for the best, perhaps her child would be better off without her.
Everyone else is.