Chapter Text
Francesca Bridgerton might have been as beautiful and dazzling as the rest of her family, yet she was a quiet girl, and this allowed her to remain in the background, unnoticed by most.
It suited her well.
She had never sought the limelight as her siblings did; she had never yearned for the kind of attention that turned heads and set tongues wagging. Silence had always been her refuge, a shield against the expectations placed upon her.
Over the past few weeks, she had observed her older brother, he was different — lighter, almost happy. There was a vitality in him that she had not seen in years, as if the weight he had carried for so long had, at last, begun to lift.
It was a consequence of his courtship with Penelope, she was sure of it.
So when the morning after the Hasting’s ball, she had learned what had befallen Penelope, when she had pieced together the way her family had orchestrated everything, disgust had curdled in her stomach.
That betrayal was one thing — difficult to reconcile, but not altogether surprising. But to hear from Mrs. Dankworth that Penelope, despite it all, had continued to defend them? That had left Francesca feeling something far worse than anger.
It was a hollow, aching sorrow, a deep and weary disillusionment.
Perhaps she ought to marry, to cast off the name Bridgerton and escape the weight of its scandals. But the disgrace upon their family would not fade so easily. It would cling to her like a stain, whispered about in drawing rooms and murmured over tea.
Maybe it would be best to see out the remainder of the season, then pay a visit to Aunt Georgiana. Her aunt would no doubt be delighted to introduce her to a selection of eligible gentlemen, and Francesca might, at last, secure a match that would take her far from London—far enough that even the most persistent of visitors would think twice before making the journey.
Far enough that she might finally breathe.
***
The carriage ride from Hastings House to Bridgerton House was steeped in silence, thick and oppressive.
No one spoke, each lost in their own thoughts, their own worries.
Upon their arrival, Violet Bridgerton wasted no time in inquiring after the Viscount, only to be informed that he was not at home. When she pressed further, asking when he was expected to return, the response sent a ripple of unease through the air — he had not come back since leaving for the ball the previous evening.
Violet let out a sharp breath, her fingers tightening around the folds of her gown. For a fleeting moment, it seemed as though she might curse Anthony outright, berate him for the scandal he had wrought upon them all. But before she could speak, Eloise interjected, her voice tight with frustration.
"It is Penelope’s fault," she said bitterly. "Perhaps he followed her."
The words hung in the air like a slap.
Remembering, perhaps even to her mother, that it was not Anthony who brought the scandal upon them.
And yet, amid the tension and uncertainty, a small spark of hope flickered within her.
Perhaps Anthony and Penelope were together now.
And if that were true, then perhaps — just perhaps — things might yet be made right.
***
Before they could leave the room, Hyacinth and Gregory burst in, their youthful enthusiasm untouched by the heavy air that lingered within the house. With innocent curiosity, they asked where Anthony and Penelope were — had Anthony proposed? And how had Penelope reacted?
Eloise stiffened at the questions, her expression darkening before she turned on her heel and strode away, her anger still simmering just beneath the surface.
Francesca watched her go, perplexed. What, precisely, was Eloise so furious about?
Their mother pressed a trembling hand to her lips, her eyes glistening as silent tears began to fall.
'Hypocrite.' Francesca thought before breaking the silence, her voice measured, careful.
"Penelope was unwell," she said evenly. "And Anthony did not propose."
Hyacinth and Gregory both widened their eyes in unison, the innocence of their surprise almost painful to witness. Hyacinth was the first to speak, her words tumbling out in quick succession. "Is Penelope all right? Is Anthony with her? Can we go and see her?"
At that, their mother let out a quiet sob, muffled but unmistakable.
Francesca exhaled softly, barely suppressing the flicker of a grimace.
No one noticed her, because the moment passed in an instant, overshadowed by the arrival of Colin, whose presence commanded immediate attention.
***
Francesca was taken aback by her brother’s arrival, but the expression on his face — and their mother’s — told her that Colin already knew everything.
The children, oblivious to the strange tension in the room, let out excited cries and rushed toward him, clinging to his arms and bombarding him with questions about gifts. Colin smiled, ruffling Gregory’s hair, and assured them he had brought something special. Then, turning to Francesca, he greeted her warmly and asked if she wanted to join them.
She hesitated for a moment, her gaze flickering toward their mother. Colin had ignored her completely.
Neither Eloise nor their mother appeared for the rest of the day. As night fell and Hyacinth and Gregory were finally tucked into bed, Francesca found herself alone with Colin at last.
"When did you arrive?" she asked, her voice quiet but steady.
Colin arched an eyebrow. "That’s not really what you want to know, is it?"
She inhaled deeply. "Mother knew you were here. And you obviously know what happened last night. So tell me — when did you get here? And how much do you know?"
"Why does it matter?"
"Because I care about Penelope. Because I heard what happened to her. Is Anthony with her?"
Colin let out a slow, heavy sigh and sank onto the couch beside her. His usual easy confidence was gone, replaced by something far more solemn.
"I don’t know everything," he admitted. "I don’t know how they’re doing. But I think they’re together. All we can do now is wait... and hope."
Francesca nodded, but her throat tightened. She hadn’t cried. Not once since she had learned what had happened. But when Colin wrapped an arm around her shoulders, something inside her cracked.
The grief she had kept at bay crashed over her, and she broke. She wept for the child that would never be born, for Penelope, for her brother.
Silent, Colin held her as she finally allowed herself to grieve.