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Chapter Text

Bedford Square, London. October 3rd 1833.

His home had become a dim reflection of its former self. The once proud townhouse now felt full of memories too stubborn to fade. The windows remained shuttered against the autumn sun, and a persistent layer of dust and cobwebs clung to the corners of every room. 

Colin Bridgerton rarely ventured out before noon. He had no reason to. He had long since stopped bothering with his correspondence, his travels, and the jovial company that once made him so beloved. His hair had greyed at the temples. Wrinkles had formed in the creases of his eyes, once bright with curiosity, now held a glassy dullness, made worse by too many late nights spent drinking in the company of men he neither trusted nor liked.

Those men were easier to socialise with, their conversation did not remind him of the things he had missed.

In the years since Penelope had vanished from his life, he had found family gatherings unbearable. The echoing laughter of his siblings, the easy affection between husbands and wives, the shrieks of children playing in the garden, all of it felt like a knife twisting in his chest, carving open his sternum and scraping the meat off his bones. It was simply too much to bear. So, he had stopped attending christenings and birthdays, and offered his regrets for Easters and Christmases. Even his mother, with all her gentle insistence and worry, had finally relented and stopped pressing him to join. He loved them all still, of course. But he could not stomach the happiness that surrounded them, not when it served only to remind him of everything he had lost.

Colin had once been the bright one, the easy going one, the wanderer with stories to tell. Now, he was simply the one who drank too much and stayed away. The black sheep.

The morning of October the 3rd, 1833 had begun like so many others, with a heavy hangover, the smell of stale coffee, and the dull ache of a life unspooling without purpose. He rose from bed, dressed hastily in his navy britches and linen shirt and made for his study. He sat slouched in the armchair of the dark-panelled room, cradling the half-empty glass he had left the night before. The fire had gone out hours earlier. A few unopened letters lay scattered on the side table beside him, which he had been ignoring for days. He did not wish to hear from his family right now. Eventually he would get to them he supposed, when one of his siblings took it upon themselves to make an unwelcome call.

It would probably be one of them who resided in London. He hoped it was Hyacinth, he didn’t wish for a bollocking from Anthony or his mother about missing his nieces birthday. Yes, he thought, Hyacinth would probably be the easiest on him.

A discreet knock at the door disturbed his train of thought.

“Come in,” Colin muttered, rubbing at his eyes.

Dunwoody, the faithful old butler, stepped in with his usual grave composure. The man had served him for years, and his expression never shifted, whether delivering bad news or a misplaced umbrella.

He eyed the glass in Colin’s hand, now full again with the clear, brown liquid. It was far too early to start on the whiskey, but he found he couldn’t care less anymore. Colin sometimes wondered if Dunwoody lingered out of loyalty or pity.

“A letter has come for you, Sir,” Dunwoody said. “By direct messenger. From Westminster.”

Colin, barely listening, reached for the envelope without much interest, prepared to flick it onto the table with the rest of his unanswered correspondence, until he saw the seal.

The House of Lords.

He blinked and sat up straighter, suddenly alert. “From the Lords?” he asked, voice rough.

“Yes, Sir. Delivered not an hour ago.”

What on earth does the House of Lords want with me? Colin wasn't a Lord.

Apart from his ample funds, it was good to be a Bridgerton after all, Colin’s only asset was the house he stood in, and it was hardly managed as it was falling to ruin.

He had no estates to manage, no tenants in need of care, no need to produce a string of heirs to succeed him.

Colin sliced the seal open. “Probably the taxman.” He murmured, more to himself than to his company, and began to read.

Office of His Majesty’s Committee for the Consideration of Noble Privileges to the House of Lords

Palace of Westminster, London

The 1st Day of October, in the Year of Our Lord 1833

Dear Mr. Colin Bridgerton,

It is by direction of His Majesty’s Committee for the Consideration of Noble Privileges, convened under the auspices of the House of Lords, that I address you on a matter of hereditary consequence pertaining to your son, Thomas Bridgerton, styled the 13th Baron Featherington, having been born on the 17th day of January in the Year of Our Lord 1816 and according to our records, is currently residing at Buncrana Cottage, Rathnew, Co. Mayo, Ireland.

It hath come to the Committee’s attention that the noble Barony of Featherington, though duly inherited by your son upon the lamented absconsion of the late Lord Jack Featherington hath descended through the matrilineal line by virtue of your most estimable wife, Mrs. Penelope Bridgerton (née Featherington). As such, and owing to the unusual character of the inheritance thus received, the privileges appertaining to the said Barony, most notably a writ of summons to sit in the Upper House, cannot, by established custom and precedent, be conferred upon the young Lord without formal inquiry and presentation.

Therefore, and in keeping with the dignity of the peerage and the solemnity of the occasion, you are most respectfully requested to present yourself, together with your son Lord Featherington, before the assembled Lords of the Committee on the occasion of his eighteenth birthday. On that day, the Committee shall be prepared to initiate the formal cessation of your own temporary guardianship over the affairs of the Barony, and to oversee the legal and ceremonial accession of your son to the full rights and responsibilities appertaining to his station.

Should circumstances arise which prevent your attendance on the appointed date, or should you require further clarification or consultation on any matter herein described, you are encouraged to direct your correspondence to this office, situated at the above-mentioned address.

I remain, Sir,

Your most obedient and humble servant,

Walter Dundas, Esq.

On behalf of His Majesty’s Committee for the Consideration of Noble Privileges to the House of Lords.

Colin felt as though the earth had fell from beneath his feet.

He stared at the letter, rereading the words, your son, Thomas Bridgerton… born January 17th 1816… Co. Mayo, Ireland… Mrs. Penelope Bridgerton, until they stopped making sense. Until the neat lettering had jumbled so much together that he could no longer read it.

Penelope, his wife. Still carrying his name. And… his son.

He had a son. She had kept his child from him.

Thomas.

Seventeen years. Nearly eighteen.

And he had known nothing.

The glass slipped from his hand and shattered against the limestone hearth. Dunwoody flinched but said nothing, stepping forward quietly with a handkerchief.

Colin stood, unsteady, the letter crumpling in his grasp. “She has been in Ireland all this time…” he whispered, more to himself than the butler. “She had my child.”

Dunwoody cleared his throat softly. “Can I fetch anyone for you, Sir?”

Colin didn’t reply. He walked to the window and pulled back the curtain and opened the window for the first time in weeks. The light was pale, cold, and blinding, but he didn’t look away. The light and noise from the street filled the room as much as it filled his soul.

“Send word to Anthony,” he said, voice hoarse but clear. “And Benedict. I need them.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And Dunwoody?”

“Sir?”

“Have the maids air out the rooms. Pack my things. Prepare for travel.”

Chapter Text

Bedford Square. London, England. October 3rd 1833.

In the hour that passed, Colin found himself pacing the study, the nausea that had descended upon reading the letter roiled in his stomach still. He looked at himself in the ornate gold mirror that adorned the cold marble mantlepiece.

What would she think of him now?

The knock on the door echoed like a bell toll in the empty townhouse. Dunwoody opened it with the sort of weary restraint one acquires after too many years in quiet service.

“Sir,” he announced with a small bow, “your brothers have arrived.”

Colin, quirked a brow, not bothering to cease pacing. “Which ones?”

“Lord Bridgerton and Mr. Benedict, sir.”

Colin rubbed his temple. “Let them in.”

Moments later, Anthony entered, his commanding presence a contrast to the dim, smoky essence of the study. He had aged, of course, they all had, but he wore it like armour, silver dusting his hair, shoulders squared with the weight of leadership long since embraced.

Benedict followed, his expression tight with concern. There were lines around his eyes now too, but softened by laughter and sun. He held a relaxed and easy grace in the way he moved.

They stood like men who knew their place in the world: anchored, certain, whole.

Colin, still in his crumpled shirt and britches, with an aching jaw and stale breath, felt suddenly threadbare beside them.

“Colin,” Anthony said simply, assessing the state of his brother’s dress, unshaven jaw, and the open carafe of whiskey still resting on a side table.

“I know,” Colin replied before either could speak. “I look like hell.”

“You look like someone who’s stopped living,” Benedict muttered, settling into the opposite chair.

“Brother,” he said, choosing to ignore the comment. “How did you get here so quickly?”

Benedict was supposed to be in Wiltshire with his wife Sophie and their four children. Of his three brothers, Colin found that facing Benedict and his family was the hardest of all.

Perhaps it was because Benedict, in theory, was most like him. Anthony, wracked with far too much obligation, far too much work. Gregory, though he loved him so, was too young to compare himself against. 

He and Benedict, both younger sons, once searched for their own purpose, but Benedict had found his.

And now, they both should have been living quiet family lives with their wives and children, no familial duties, no balls to host or calls to pay. Colin looks at Sophie from time to time and thinks how his Pen would have adored her. He looks at Ben’s children and sees what he could have had with his own wife. 

Would his son have been friendly with Charlie? They were of an age of course. Edmund and Augie too. Perhaps the cousins would have been as the three of them had been in their youth. 

Colin knew the truth of why he was so resentful of Benedict, though. He had been the first to marry after Penelope left.

In the first throws of Colin’s grief, where he had spent nights screaming, crying, begging the Lord to bring his wife back. In those dark months where his mother had forcibly returned him to Bridgerton House, out of fear he may hurt himself. Benedict had had the nerve, the gall, the fucking cheek, to fall in love.

Sometimes Colin thinks he hates him for it. 

Logically he knows he can’t hold this against him, that he is just looking for someone to be angry with. In the years since, the fury has dulled. But Colin nevertheless still finds it difficult to be around his brother and his fairy tale fucking family.

Anthony and his wife Kate are just as grotesquely in love, but being around Anthony, for some reason, is easier. Possibly because Colin had never hoped to measure up to his eldest brother anyway. 

“I have been in London the past few days”, Benedict replied. “Daphne asked if I would give Caroline some drawing tutorials.”

“Ah”. Colin responded, not wishing to question him any further.

Anthony, who had noticed the open envelope on the desk, recognising the seal, stepped forward. “This is why we came? Dunwoody said you received something official.”

Colin wordlessly handed him the folded parchment. The wax seal, deep red and broken into three fragments, bore the unmistakable mark of the House of Lords.

Anthony read it silently, his eyes narrowing. By the time he reached the signature, his expression had shifted from curiosity to certainty.

“This is real,” he said, glancing at the crest. “The seal’s genuine. I receive correspondence from the Lords as you know, there’s no mistaking this, Colin, you have a son.”

Colin blanched for a second, he hadn’t thought for a minute that the letter wasn’t real. 

Benedict stepped in behind Anthony, scanning the parchment in silence. His brows lifted. “Thomas Bridgerton, styled the 13th Baron Featherington... born in 1816.”

“Seventeen years old,” Colin confirmed, gripping the mantle. “And I knew nothing of him.”

Anthony lowered the letter. “But Penelope knew-.”

Colin cut him off. “She didn’t lie, Anthony. She just never told me. The House assumed I must have known, being his father. That’s why they wrote.”

Benedict was quiet, reading the letter again more slowly. “They’re summoning you both for his eighteenth birthday. Formal recognition, transfer of guardianship, the works.”

Anthony let out a breath. “They expect you to be ready to present him. They think you've raised him.”

Colin gave a dry laugh. “I've spent the last decade drinking myself senseless in London gambling halls and avoiding family dinners. My son has likely never heard my name.”

Anthony looked at him for a long time. “But, he’s yours Colin, you have to step up.”

He looks at the floor, ashamed. “I know.”

There was silence between them. 

He knew, of course, and yet knowing did nothing to steady him. The truth settled like lead in his stomach, thick with shame. For seventeen years, his son had walked the earth, learning to navigate manhood alone, and Colin had been drunk in a club or sulking in Mayfair, convinced he’d been the one left behind.

Finally, Colin looks at his brothers, and speaks, quieter this time, “I can’t imagine what Pen must have gone through. Leaving... raising him alone. Keeping her child a secret. I thought she had moved on. I thought I was the only one hurting.”

Anthony folded the letter carefully. “What are you going to do?”

Colin stared into the fire. “I’m going to Ireland.”

Benedict didn’t hesitate. “Then we’re coming with you.”

Colin blinked. “You don’t have to—”

“No,” Anthony interrupted gently but firmly, “you’re in no state to make that journey alone. And this” he tapped the letter, “is family business now. Whether you like it or not.”

Anthony nodded. “If your son is about to step into the House of Lords, then we damn well make sure he knows what kind of men he comes from.”

Colin swallowed, emotion tightening in his throat. For the first time in years, he was thankful for his brother’s support.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

Benedict smiled. “I’ll send word to Soph, and we shall leave as soon as possible.”

But as the fire crackled and his brothers continued to speak of travel and ships, logistics and accommodations, Colin’s thoughts drifted, away from titles, baronies and legal duties.

He would go, yes. He would reunite with his son. Sort out the inheritance. Make it right. He would somehow attempt to be the father his son deserved. That much was duty, obligation, the only thing he could offer after all these wasted years.

But deep down, beneath every word he spoke aloud, was a single, burning truth: now that he knew where Penelope had been all this time, he couldn’t not go to her. Their reconciliation, impossibly, was imminent.

And how many times had he pictured it? In a thousand sleepless nights, in every empty corner of their once-shared home, he had conjured her face, not as it had last looked, blurred by tears and heartbreak, but as it had been when she laughed freely, when her crystal blue eyes sparkled with mischief and sharp wit. He had imagined the copper curl of her hair beneath his fingers, the peachy softness of her cheek against his palm, the way her smile could undo him in an instant. In his dreams, she was always radiant, impossibly vivid, achingly close, and always just out of reach.

He would see her again. He would see her again.

He would fall at her feet. Beg her forgiveness. Beg her to take him back. 

Because if he did nothing else with the rest of his days, he had to tell her the one thing that had never, ever changed.

He still loved her.

He always had.

The next day, the morning light barely filtered through the shuttered windows of Colin’s Bedford Square townhouse when he awoke. One of the dresses Penelope had left was pressed against his nose, he had long since used it as a pillow case. The blue, flowery one. She’d been wearing it the day she read his journal. The first time he knew he could no longer avoid how beautiful he found her. 

It no longer smelled of her though, more like tears and tobacco. 

Colin had spent the night, as he always did, dreaming of her. In his nightly visions, she was there, in their bed, laughing, smiling, touching. Her big eyes looking up at him as she lay her head on his chest. 

Everyday these torturous dreams had him waking up hard, his cock leaky and aching for attention. 

But then the realisation would hit: she’s not here, you’ll never see her again, and it seemed to him as though each day he was becoming emptier than the last.

Now, however, he woke with a sensation that had become eluded from him all these years. 

Hope.

Dunwoody appeared moments later at his bedroom door. “Sir… Lord Bridgerton and Mr. Benedict have returned. And… Lady Bridgerton is with them.”

Colin sat up, surprised. “My mother? Or Kate?”

Dunwoody coughed, “Apologies Sir, the Dowager Lady Bridgerton is here.”

He had no time to question further as he could hear his brothers speaking of him in hushed towns downstairs. He dressed hastily and descended the carpeted, oak stairs to join his mother and brothers.

“Good morning, Colin,” Benedict said. His voice held the sort of finality that brooked no evasion. “We’ve brought Mother. She needs to hear what you have to tell her before we leave.”

Colin eyed his brother, reluctant. “I wasn’t ready—”

“She’s your mother,” Anthony cut in, gentle but firm. “You don’t have the luxury of keeping this from her. Not now.”

Violet stepped forward in her petal pink day dress, her gloved hands clasped in front of her. “Colin. Whatever it is, I would prefer to hear it from you.”

In that moment, he had the overwhelming urge to rush into his mother’s arms and ball his eyes out, willing that his sobs would get the point across. Pathetic.

But there was no escaping it. He exhaled, his gaze falling to the letter on the table.

“It’s about Penelope,” he said quietly.

Violet’s eyes flickered. “Penelope? What about her?”

Colin hesitated. “I received a letter. From the House of Lords.”

Anthony stepped closer. “Show her.”

Wordlessly, Colin passed the document to her. She unfolded it, reading carefully, slowly. Her eyes narrowed at first, then widened in shock.

When she looked up, her voice was barely above a whisper. “You have a son?”

Colin swallowed hard. “Yes. His name is Thomas. He’s seventeen.”

He paused, allowing his mother a second to breathe, “and he’s apparently held the title of Baron Featherington since the day of his birth.”

Eyes never leaving the letter, Violet sat down slowly on the nearest chair, as though the weight of the revelation had knocked her legs from beneath her.

“Oh my dear, my darling boy....he’s seventeen,” she murmured. “And you didn’t know?”

“No,” Colin said. “I had no idea. She left, Mama. I thought she had gone because she just didn’t want me anymore.” He paused, taking in a shaky breath. “She was with child. She must have been terrified.”

Last night was the first night Colin hadn’t taken a drink in years. He had spent the time doing the maths in his head. He would never forget the date he proposed, May 1st, 1815. And Colin, like the cad he was, had immediately anticipated his wedding vows. 

Penelope must have been two months along by the time she left him.

Anthony’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“I was angry for a long time,” Colin continued, “but I’m not anymore. I just… I miss her.”

Benedict spoke then, turning to his mother. “We’re going to Ireland with him. He’s in no condition to make the journey alone.”

Colin gave a hollow laugh and scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “I’m not.”

He looked at Violet, who was staring at the letter once more, “Buncrana Cottage” she said quietly, almost to herself, “it rings a bell, but I can’t think why.”

“I have to go,” he said, “To meet my son, yes… but also… to see her.”

He paused. What’s the point in holding it in?

“To fall at her feet, if she’ll let me. To beg her to take me back. I still love her.”

There was a silence in the room, thick with all that had been left unsaid for years. Then Anthony stepped forward, his hand coming to rest gently on Colin’s shoulder, a rare gesture of softness from the eldest Bridgerton brother.

“Colin,” he said carefully, “she may not have remarried… but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t found someone else. Someone to care for her. To help raise your child.”

Colin flinched slightly, as if the idea had landed like a physical blow. He didn’t speak at first. He knew that his brother could see right through him, and could tell that if he found her there, in domestic bliss with another man, he would never recover.

His brothers were joining him because they were afraid he would throw himself off the Cliffs of Moher if this endeavour went badly. 

“I know,” he finally said, hoarsely, wishing Anthony had not spoken it into existence. “I’ve thought of that. But I have to see her. Even if I’m too late, I have to see her.”

He had to see her. All he could think to say. 

Violet, still holding the letter in her hands, looked at Colin with a furrowed brow. Her voice, soft but deliberate, broke the silence.

“Should we tell Eloise?” Violet asked, her voice trembling. “She was Penelope’s best friend, after all. She deserves to know, in fact she will probably insist she comes with you.”

Fuck. Eloise.

Colin’s stomach twisted. He hadn’t thought of telling her, not because she didn’t deserve to know, but because the mere idea was like pressing on an old bruise.

He and El barely spoke now.

In the days after Penelope left, when he’d finally found the courage to tell his family, his sister had erupted. Not wept, raged. She had hurled herself at him, fists pounding, hair wild, shrieking like a child who had been betrayed by the world itself. A child who could not see her own fault in the tragedy.

“This is your fault, Colin!” she screamed, beating her fists against his chest. “You made her so unhappy!”

The memory hit like a lash. Eloise, his whip-smart, fiercely loyal sister, had been gutted by the loss. She had disappeared from society for months, spiraling inward, seeing no one, speaking to no one. A silence so unlike her it had frightened them all.

Until one day, like Penelope, she ran away too.

But they had found his sister, and it was love that finally pulled her from the darkness. 

Her marriage to Philip Crane brought her back into the world, and eventually, cautiously, back into Colin’s life. But their relationship was a pale imitation of what it once was, a ghost of the easy closeness they had once shared.

And now this.

“I don’t think we should keep anything from her,” Benedict said, his voice steady, “but this is a matter for you, Colin. It’s your decision.”

Anthony, who had remained quiet throughout the conversation, spoke then, his voice softer than it had been earlier. “Eloise has always been strong. If you do tell her, she’ll handle it.”

Violet nodded thoughtfully, her gaze softening as she met her son's eyes. “If she is to be told, Colin, it’s best that you’re the one to do it. She’ll need to hear it from you, not from us.”

“I agree I should tell her.” Colin conceded, “but Mama, it will take days for her to come from Gloucestershire”. 

“Longer”, Benedict cut in, “she’s up in Scotland with Franny.”

Violet conceded defeat. “Alright my dear, go to Ireland, leave Eloise to me, we will be waiting for you, whenever you return.”

Chapter Text

Bedford Square, London. England. July 6th 1815.

Eighteen years earlier.

Colin stumbled into the garden of the home he shared with his wife. His feet stung, the leather of his boots had been cutting into his heels the entire walk home. The pain he felt with each step was a penance, and no less than what he deserved. 

It was nigh-on three in the morning in the height of the London season. Carriages still rolled down the streets. Drunken party goers were staggering out from balls, dressed in all their finery. 

Looking for bed. Looking for their next drink. Looking for their next conquest. 

Colin had spent all day at Bridgerton House, hiding away his family in his darkened study. Avoiding difficult questions. Trying to entertain himself so he could wheedle down the hours and return home assured that his wife would have given up waiting for him and gone to bed.

He couldn’t bear it, couldn’t face her, not yet. Not until the storm of anger and frustration had calmed, when he would be able to speak to her with the dignity and respect she deserved.

So, he would sit behind his desk, staring at the ceiling until drool formed at the back of his mouth. He would argue with himself, argue with an imagined Penelope and say all the things he did not have the courage to in those moments where he actually saw her. He would try to add to his budding manuscript, but unlike his wife, found that words eluded him. The feeling of inadequacy weighed down on him until his neck and shoulders ached. 

Pen probably thought he had strayed from her already. He hadn't, of course. He knew that he would never be able to do such a thing. Never look at another woman again. His heart was too fragile. He loved her too much. It was as though she held his feelings hostage. As though his heart was made of glass which she held in her palm. 

There was, however, a small, tiny, petty , part of him that wanted her to think he held the power to betray her too. 

He fumbled for the brass key in his pocket, he did not wish to wake the staff at this hour. 

As he entered the threshold, the key slipped from his fingers.

It hit the tiled hall floor with a sharp metallic ring that echoed too loudly in the silence. Colin's eyes were fixed on it as though it might somehow explain the weight pressing down on his chest. A sense of wrongness lingered in the air, like a whisper that grew louder with every passing moment, demanding his attention, yet he couldn't quite understand it.

Something was off.

As Colin sank to collect the key, he called for her, "Penelope?" her name pouring forth before he could stop it. His lips formed a half-smile, as though she'd already stepped around the corner with a teasing glance, calling him out for his late arrival.

But the silence that greeted him instead was colder than any winter's evening. It was heavy. Unyielding.

With a sense of dread creeping over him, he stepped inside, his boots clicking against the marble with a hollow sound. The house that now, somehow, felt more empty. The place smelled different. The quiet was thick, like a fog that wrapped itself around his body, making it harder to breathe, harder to think.

The parlour was dark, the curtains drawn tightly against the moonlight. Wives were usually found here, perhaps reading, or arranging flowers. But there was nothing. Just the faint mustiness of an unused room. He moved on, a little faster now, his mind attempting to rationalise. It’s the middle of the night, she won’t be found here.

He cast his eyes over to the drawing room, equally still. The piano keys lay untouched. Her embroidery basket sat beside the hearth, abandoned, as though she had simply stopped in motion. His eyes moved to the crystal vase, the peonies he instructed the staff to place for her had begun to wilt.

Fuck, Colin thought, a growing trepidation clutching at his ribs. He wasn’t sure why his mind was spiralling. She wasn’t gone, she couldn’t be. Penelope would never just leave. Not without him. Not without so much as a word.

He turned and rushed up the stairs, two at a time, the bannister feeling cool beneath his fingertips. "Penelope?" he called again, his voice wavering with the uncertainty that had begun to settle like a stone in his stomach. She’s sleeping. He told himself. She must be sleeping. 

The bedroom door swung open with a groan, and he froze in the doorway.

Empty.

Her nightgown, gone. Her quills, gone. Her bottles of scent, gone. She was absent from the bed they had never shared. The room, once filled with the quiet hum of their shared life, was now bare. Where is she? She couldn’t have just vanished.

His eyes darted across the room, desperately searching for something, anything, that would explain this. A letter. A note. A clue. But there was nothing . Not even a trace of her. His throat felt tight, and he couldn't swallow. His chest was heavy with a sickening realization that started to claw at the edges of his thoughts.

Colin took a trembling step back. He was still holding the key, its cold metal pressed against his palm as if it could anchor him in this nightmare. His fingers began to shake. How could this be? The question battered against his skull. His vision was blurred at the edges. The rising bile of panic travelling up his windpipe.

The cold reality crept in, she hadn’t gone to her mother, she wasn’t out delivering a column. Her room had been ransacked , packed in haste. The sheets were on the ground, pulled from the mattress. One or two of her dresses remained, shoved hastily back into the wardrobe. 

"Penelope!" he shouted, the word tearing from him, raw and desperate.

But his voice was nothing. It was swallowed by the house. Swallowed by the emptiness.

He spun around, rushing down the stairs again, into the garden, calling her name over and over, his voice hoarse, breaking on every syllable. Tears now streaming from his face, "Penelope, where are you?!" His heart was thundering in his ears, so loudly, it was as if the world around him was melting away. No, no, no - dear God no. 

The garden was just as still. No sign of her. No sign of anyone, really, except for Penelope's maid Rae, standing in the distance, her figure half-shrouded by the ivy. Her face was already drawn with sorrow, as though she had been waiting for this moment, hiding in the last place he would check. Her eyes were full of something dark. Something that Colin didn’t want to see.

He walked toward her, his boots sinking into the wet, mucky grass. Each step felt like he was falling deeper into some unshakable, unseen pit.

"Where is she?" His voice was barely a whisper as he grabbed her shoulders, his fingers trembling against her worn apron. He needed to hear something. Some sort of explanation. He needed to know this was just some nightmare he would wake from.

Rae stared at the ground, her voice unsteady. "She left, Sir. She packed a trunk… said she was leaving." Her voice cracked, a quiet sob threatening to break free. "She... she wouldn’t say where she was going." Her hands twisted together in a nervous knot. "But I.., I feared this. She had been distant for weeks, not quite there. I tried to stop her, Sir, begged her, I swear it."

"No! No!," Colin snapped, shaking her, though he knew it was futile. "She wouldn’t have left. Not without a word. Not without telling me."

But Rae only looked down, her voice faltering. "She said she couldn’t stay. She said she was sorry, but that she couldn't stay here." She paused, finally making eye contact. "That’s all she said. She wasn’t speaking to me, Mr. Bridgerton. She just kept on and on, muttering to herself that she was sorry".

The words slammed into him like a fist. Sorry? Sorry? She was sorry for what ?

His mind reeled. He couldn’t understand. How could she leave without a word? How could she not have come to him? But the empty room, the trunk gone, the silence, it all pointed to the same truth. She had made a choice. A choice that didn’t include him.

"She..." His voice was hoarse. "She didn’t tell you anything else?"

Rae shook her head, her eyes full of helplessness. "Nothing, Sir. I wish I could say more, but… I don’t know where she’s gone."

For a long moment, Colin stood there, his entire body numb with disbelief. He shoved the heels of his palms into his eye sockets, "Fuck!", he wailed, through gritted teeth.

The garden walls felt suffocating now, the ivy clad walls closing in on him. How could she leave? How could she leave without him, without even a reason?

In the silence that followed, the wind rustled through the trees, but Colin didn’t hear it. He didn’t hear anything.

All that remained was a hollow ache, a chasm that had opened up between him and the one person he thought in his arrogance, that he could never lose.

He turned away from Rae without another word, his footsteps heavy as he moved back inside, his mind still spiralling, trying to make sense of the wreckage of his life.

And just as he was about to leave the garden, his thoughts drifted to one undeniable truth: the moment she left, Penelope had taken his heart with her.

PS Hibernia. Dublin Port. October 7th 1833. 

The wind coming off the Irish Sea was sharp and briny, lashing at their coats as the packet ship made its slow, groaning dock into Dublin port. The sky was a dull pewter, heavy with coastal mist and the vague threat of rain. Colin stood at the rail, gripping the worn wood until his knuckles turned white, his eyes scanning the unfamiliar shoreline for that familiar flash of red, as if Penelope herself would be waiting there for him.

She wasn’t.

Behind him, Anthony and Benedict disembarked in grim silence, both men still slightly pale from the rough crossing. The journey had been swift but miserable, three days of poor sleep, sour stomachs, and no time for planning. They had left London for Southampton almost immediately after Violet’s tearful blessing, packing only the essentials and forgoing any real preparations in their haste.

Now, standing among the crates and chaos of the bustling Dublin port, it dawned on all three of them that they had not arranged any transport to take them the considerable distance west to Rathnew. According to a steward onboard, it would take them four days by hired carriage to reach the village, likely more if the roads were poor. And they were in no position to rely on the kindness of strangers or wait for the usual comforts afforded to men of their station. 

Colin felt as though Penelope had hidden herself away in the farthest corner of the country, never to be found. 

“Brilliant,” Anthony muttered, scanning the quay for signs of a reputable coachman. “No carriages, no horses, no bloody idea how to get where we’re going.”

Colin didn’t answer. He was staring across the misty rooftops of Dublin with a tight, unreadable expression.

Benedict rolled his eyes at his elder brother. "We will hire a hack, Ant. It's Dublin not Timbuktu", he continued, addressing Colin now. “I suppose we could send word ahead to Rathnew?”, trying to sound practical. “Warn them of our arrival, at least?”

“No,” Colin said sharply, a small fear he held growing larger: if Penelope knew he was coming, she may well flee him again. “We ride. Or drive. Or walk, damn it, I don’t care what we do.”

Anthony exchanged a look with Benedict. They had not seen that expression on their brother since the weeks after Penelope left—determined, half-mad, and heartbreakingly sincere.

“We’ll find something,” Anthony said. “We will reach her soon enough. For now though, we should find somewhere to rest and make a plan.”

The route from the docks dragged them through the hard underbelly of the city, past crates piled high with salted fish and wool bales. Hench dockworkers slung canvas bags of cornmeal from assembled carts onto the ship they had just departed. 

Just beyond the port gates loomed a hulking grey building with barred windows and a yard enclosed in rusted iron. The work sign above the door read Union of South Dublin . 

A workhouse.

A ragged line of people stretched outside its entrance, women with hollow faces and infants bundled in shawls, shirtless men bent with age or drink or defeat, their ribs sticking out like iron railings. Some shouted hoarsely at the watchman by the gate, pleading for admittance as the drizzle turned heavier. One child clung to the hem of her mother’s skirt, her bare feet blue from cold, her cheeks streaked with soot.

Colin turned his face away, ashamed. It wasn’t that such suffering didn’t exist in London—but here, it felt nearer somehow. Rawer. Mayfair, St. James’, Bedford Square, they all felt cocooned from poverty, cushioned in their own bubble from any harsh realities. In Ireland, it was as though the veil between survival and starvation was thinner. He glanced at Anthony, whose jaw was tight, eyes forward. Benedict shifted in his seat, expression unreadable.

The streets narrowed as they pressed further inland, cobblestones slick with rain. Smoke curled from low chimneys, staining the air with the bitter tang of turf and coal. Every so often, they'd pass a half-shuttered shopfront or a ruined tenement with its windows gaping like broken teeth. Tattered posters flapped from the lampposts, rent strikes and rebel bounties scrawled across them.

And then, almost without noticing when the change began, the city softened.

The lanes grew wider, the paving stones cleaner. The buildings were lifted higher, four and five stories of red brick townhouses with glossy, black railings and polished knockers. Their windows, though some were still bricked, no longer looked hollow, but proud—framed with neat curtains and fresh paint. The grime lessened. Even the drizzle seemed gentler here, merely damp instead of cold.

The perfect symmetry of Merrion Square appeared at last like a world apart. Georgian facades stood shoulder to shoulder with a kind of elegant aloofness, bright doors topped by fans of glass punctuating the row—carmine reds, forest greens, butter yellows—as though the city had dipped its fingers in colour and dared the world to look away.

“In England,” he murmured aloud, “they’d have painted them all black. To mourn the death of King George.”

Anthony followed his gaze, nodding. “You’re not wrong. But this isn’t England. The Irish do things their own way.”

Benedict, curious as ever, added, “And look there. The windows. Bricked up.”

“Window tax,” Anthony replied knowingly. “Same as home. Though it seems many of the Irish cannot pay, or are refusing to.”

It was quiet here. Not the silence of despondence, but of wealth. Of muffled parlours and coal fires. Of lives lived behind lace curtains. And for a moment, Colin couldn’t help but feel like an intruder—not just in this city, but in the life of his wife and child too.

They had managed to secure lodgings in a modest but respectable inn on Merrion Square. As they dismounted the hack, the air, damp with sea salt and chimney smoke clung to their coats as they entered.

Colin turned to look once again, noting the disjointed symmetry on the otherwise elegant buildings. He wondered, briefly, if Penelope had ever walked through this part of Dublin when she had first arrived, all those years ago. If she, too, had felt as though the city was more vulnerable to unrest then London ever would be. Dublin felt both alive, and half-asleep, as though it could not decide whether to roar or retreat.

Hours later, Colin joined his brothers inside the inn’s fussily decorated foyer. He was hit with immediate darkness as soon as his head hit the pillow. He felt as though he had slept for days. Anthony had come to his door and suggested they meet for a walk and search for some dinner.

It seemed however, that his brother had used that as an excuse to lecture him once more. 

As they crossed the cobbled street into the manicured gardens of the square. Anthony began:

“There’s unrest in this country, Colin. Dublin, but in the countryside too. The Anglo-Irish live in comfort here, but out there, beyond the cities, it’s different. The rebellion of ’98 was crushed with British steel, but the anger never died. It’s still simmering. This reconciliation with Penelope and your son is…timely.”

Colin questioned him, “What can-”

“Penelope is your wife Colin, and Thomas is your son. It would be safer for everyone if you bring them home, before the next spark lights an inferno.”

Colin blanched. In all truth, he hadn’t really thought about what would come next. He knew that he had a deadline, of course. January 17th 1834. Three Months from now. But what about afterwards? 

Would he force her out of the home she had lived in for nearly two decades? A home she had built for herself? What right did he have to uproot her now, after failing her once already?

What if Penelope had indeed been living in sin with some other man? A man Thomas called his father . Maybe by now she had an army of children. The thought made him nauseous. 

Colin knew one thing to be true though: he wouldn’t be separated from them again . Even if that meant pitching a fucking tent in her garden and living the rest of his days as a degraded, pitiful cuckold.

Colin said nothing for a moment. He merely nodded, staring at the dark, wet street beyond, the flicker of lantern light in puddles and windows. He hadn’t come for politics or history—but history, it seemed, had not waited for him.

Bellies full, and stumbling slightly as they made their way back to the inn. The owner Anthony had been speaking to earlier approached them with news. “There’s a stagecoach due to depart for Galway in the morning. I’ve secured you gentlemen three seats. It leaves from Bachelor’s Walk at half-past seven”

“And from there?” Colin asked.

“We’ll need to ride the rest of the way ourselves,” Anthony interrupted. “Rathnew lies just across the county line. No regular routes go that far, it's too rural.”

Chapter Text

Outskirts of Dublin City. Ireland. October 8th 1833. 

The mist from the night before had not yet lifted, and the morning came in grey and damp. Colin’s eyes lay fixated on the diminishing infrastructure of the city as the stagecoach rattled away from Dublin. 

The journey west was slow, the road winding through soft green fields and stretches of bogland, each mile drawing them further from smoky, industrial city and deeper into a countryside that seemed older, wilder, timeless. 

The coach’s route took them through villages no larger than a parish hall and a single shop. Where elderly men sat pipe-smoking tobacco with yellow tinted fingers and women slung themselves over the edge of the wooden half-doors of their thatched roof cottages, calling for their children to return to them. 

Despite Colin’s impatience and the gnawing anxiety that pulsed like a second heartbeat beneath his skin, he found himself unexpectedly grateful for the slow, panoramic unveiling of the island which his son called home. The lush, wet hills rolled out before them like an endless green quilt, stitched with low stone walls and scattered sheep. Here, he could hear music everywhere, chatter untamed by the reserved nature of English character. The language, the slang: lyrical, as if the Irish were unafraid to take up space. 

This place was taunting him, confronting him on the self-doubt that had long since permeated through his skin.

At times, the three men rode in silence. At others, Anthony filled the quiet with talk of what came next.

“You’ll need to make inquiries about the tenant rolls,” he was saying. “Find out what rents are due, who’s been managing the land in your absence, assuming anyone has. Tutors too, Latin, accounts, estate law. I will help where I can, of course, perhaps Thomas can join myself and Edmund on our rounds at Aubrey Hall? Colin, when his birthday does come, and we do manage to present him to the Lords, there’ll be legal petitions to lodge, parliamentary filings—”

Colin pressed his fingers to his eye sockets. The instructions buzzed around his skull like wasps, each one stinging more than the last. He hadn't even known he held guardianship over the Featherington estate until a few days ago. He had never even seen the lands, never so much as inquired after its condition. 

What state would it be in now, neglected? Bankrupt? Derelict?

He had no answers to quell Anthony’s tirade, no information, no defence. In truth, since Penelope had vanished from his life, Colin had made a deliberate habit of avoiding any and all news of his in-laws. What scraps he had gleaned were years old, last he heard, Portia Featherington had retired to the countryside to live with one of her married daughters. As for the rest, he remained willfully ignorant. 

Whenever he found himself in Grosvenor Square, Colin had trained his gaze to avoid the facade of Featherington House with the same discipline he had used to avoid his own reflection in the mirror at home. 

Now it meant that his son would be completely unprepared for the job that lay ahead of him. 

His son.

The thought circled in his mind like a vulture, relentless, impossible to shoo.

He didn’t know the first thing about his child. What colour were his eyes? Did he have Colin’s rueful half-smile, or Penelope’s thoughtful mouth and clever, titian-haired head? Was he bold or reserved? Did he prefer ink-stained fingers and the solitude of books, or the wind on his face atop a horse? He strained his mind for something, anything, to tether his imagination to, but found only shadows. When he tried to picture Thomas, all he could summon was a hazy, faceless version of himself at seventeen, as though his mind was waiting for the truth to arrive and colour him in.

What if they had nothing in common? What if his presence was a disruption, not a restoration? What if he stood at the threshold of this child’s life and found only silence where there should have been connection?

The questions gnawed at him, each one worse than the last, until his chest felt tight with the weight of them.

And yet, there was one thing, one glimmer of certainty that kept the panic from growing into full-blown hysteria.

Penelope.

She would have been a magnificent mother. Of this, Colin had no doubt. For all her reticence, her wryness, her sharp tongue hidden beneath layers of propriety, she had always brimmed with quiet strength. He could see her now, brushing crumbs from a boy’s lip, coaxing truth out of him with nothing but the cock of her eyebrow, stroking his hair and holding his hand when he cried. 

She would have nurtured kindness, curiosity, and resilience. She would have loved him fiercely, thoroughly, whole-heartedly. 

Loved him enough, he prayed, for them both.

Colin pressed his forehead briefly to the cold windowpane and sighed. He wasn’t ready. He tried to rationalise, to tell himself that the anxiety bubbling in his insides was of no use to him now. 

Benedict, annoyingly attuned to the tightening dread in his brother’s gut, offered gently, “Perhaps Penelope has been managing it herself. Preparing him, quietly, away from London. She was never the sort to leave a thing undone.”

Huh.

He ignored Anthony’s sharp quip that Benedict's notion was too optimistic, that she couldn’t possibly have managed it all from so far away. 

Colin knew she could do anything she put her mind to. 

He had never graced his family with the reason for himself and Penelope’s fallout. And eventually, they had stopped asking. In all these years, he remained steadfast, fiercely protective of her secret. Eloise was still the only person who knew the full story and he barely ever sees her now. 

The words he spoke then still haunt him to this day, poised to pop into his mind out of the blue. 

I will never forgive you. 

Your planned entrapment. 

You are being foolish! 

His brothers didn’t know what he knew. That Penelope could have managed it all. She was, still is, the great Lady Whistledown. 

And when his anger faded, when his envy faded, all he found left was pride. 

Colin stared out the window, jaw clenched. The thought should have comforted him. Instead, it made his throat tighten further. If Penelope had done it all, managed the estate, raised their son, built a life without him, what did that make him now? 

An interloper. 

What good am I to you?

A ghost trying to step into a life that had already learned to go on without him.

Galway City, Co. Galway, Ireland. October 11th 1833.

The guesthouse on Eyre Square was little more than a converted farmhouse, its beams sagging with age and its hearth puffing smoke like a lazy dragon, but it was cozy. The fire crackled just enough to mask the damp chill still clinging to their boots. Their well-earned meal of marmalade glazed ham, creamy parsley sauce, and some other-worldly concoction of mashed potatoes mixed with cabbage and dripping in butter known as colcannon, was steaming hot and utterly delicious. 

Despite the fact it was only early afternoon, they’d had no choice but to stop. The rain was fast turning into hail and sleet. As soon as they dismounted the coach, they were completely soaked through. The roads were a churned mess of muck, and their coach driver assured them no stablemaster would be convinced to rent them three horses in this weather, lest they spend the next week re-casting their shoes.

“Brother, I love you.” Benedict sighed upon hearing the news, “But I am not risking my health walking ten hours in the pissing rain.”

So, Colin found himself stretched out in a battered armchair, boots steaming near the fire, a glass of whiskey resting in his palm. Across from him, Anthony and Benedict nursed their own drinks, both of them looking more relaxed than they had in days. Colin was pleased that the travel had forced them to shed their cravats, top-hats and silken waistcoats for once.

Anthony leaned back with a groan. “Mary swears she’s going to be a cavalry officer. She made Kate pretend to be the French army so she could liberate the stables with a wooden sword. Nearly took her eye out.”

Benedict snorted. “Sounds like the time when William tried to lock Alexander in the wine cellar because he claimed he was ‘plotting against the crown.”

Colin chuckled, the sound more natural than it had felt in a long while. “At least they’re patriotic.”

“They’re lunatics,” Benedict said fondly. “All four of mine. Violet has just turned nine, and do you know what she asked me last week? Whether she could have roses or lilies in her wedding bouquet.”

Anthony laughed. “No.”

“Oh yes! Then she asked when she could start choosing suitors - whether I would prefer a Duke or a Prince for her!”

Colin smiled. “She takes after her namesake then.”

“Exactly. Be grateful you have a son,” Benedict said, tipping his glass toward him. 

Anthony chimed in, “I thought I would find girls easier, you know, thinking that’d I’d already steered our sisters through to happy relationships, but daughters are harder work than I ever imagined.”

Colin managed a wry smile, hiding the strange pang that threaded through his chest. He took a sip of whiskey to mask the flicker of discomfort.

Benedict leaned over and poked his hard brother in the chest. “You didn’t steer any one of them! You mostly just delayed the inevitable.”

Colin had twenty-four nieces and nephews - and counting. Even though he found it difficult to involve himself in their lives, he still kept the drawings they’d sent him in the back of his desk drawer at Bedford Square, still forced himself to procure birthday gifts and cards for them every year. But hearing the stories now, not through strained small talk or second hand anecdotes, but from the lips of their fathers, was different. 

For the first time, it didn’t sting. Not like it used to.

For the first time, it made him want to know .

Anthony, stretching his legs toward the fire, added, “You’ll find your feet soon enough, Col. It’s terrifying, yes, but you grow into it. Faster than you’d think.”

Colin didn’t answer immediately. He stared into the fire, eyes fixated on the way the flames licked the peat briquettes.

He thought of a boy he hadn’t met yet. His son. A boy who had grown up without him, who might not want him at all.

Maybe one day, he and Pen could have —no. He stopped himself. 

Benedict’s words echoed strangely in his ears.

Be grateful you have a son.

He finished his drink and said quietly, “I just hope I’m not too late.”

Neither brother spoke. They didn’t have to.

The fire crackled. The wind howled through the gaps in the shutters. Tomorrow would bring answers. Or questions. Or heartbreak.

But tonight, Colin let himself believe in the possibility of something better.

Rathnew, Co. Mayo, Ireland. October 12th 1833. 

By the time their horses' hooves crunched over the gravel road into Rathnew, dusk had settled like a shawl across the Irish countryside. The rolling hills were dim silhouettes against the fading lavender sky and the smell of peat smoke drifted faintly on the breeze. Colin sat forward atop his horse, straining to focus as the outline of the village came into view, stone cottages huddled together, fields flanking the narrow main road, a modest church steeple rising in the distance.

“We’ve arrived,” said Anthony, rousing his exhausted brother.

Colin nodded but said nothing. His heart was hammering in his chest, each beat louder than the last. The thought that she was here, just minutes away, had his heart jumping into his throat.

But Benedict, stretching his arms and yawning, placed a hand on his shoulder. “You should wait till morning, Colin.”

Anthony nodded in agreement. “It’s nearly dark. You’ll be exhausted, riding all day, and turning up at her doorstep in a state?… Well, it won’t help. Rest tonight. See her with a clear head tomorrow.”

Colin groaned, another night? Really? But, in truth, he could see the sense in it. He should shave, wash, brush the muck from his boots. After a moment, he gave a short nod. He had to make a good impression. He had to make the perfect impression.

They directed their horses to the small courtyard square in the centre of the town, where they spied an inn, An Bolg Buí . It stood across from the church, its sign swinging slightly in the wind above the door, the gold-painted name crumbling off. The innkeeper, a woman with greying hair and a practical look about her, gave them a trio of rooms without fuss. 

If she was surprised by a trio of English gentlemen arriving with hardly a valise between them and requesting open-ended stays, she didn’t show it.

After freshening up, the three brothers descended into the warm glow of the pub below. The fire was already lit, casting flickering shadows across the low-beamed ceiling. The soft hum of chatter and the scratch of instruments in the corner as a band prepared to play. Locals nursed pints at a few scattered tables, and the scent of tobacco filled the air. Behind the bar, a tall, wiry man with ruddy cheeks and a balding head greeted them with a nod as they approached.

“Evenin’, gents. What can I getcha?”

“A pot of stew each and three pints of your darkest,” Anthony said, easing onto a stool. Colin had to smirk at his Lord-brother attempting to appear rough and ready. 

“Surely.” the man said. He moved with practiced ease behind the bar. “Not often we see Brits here this time of year. You just passin’ through?”

“We’ve come from London,” Benedict replied. “Business of a personal nature.”

The barman quirked a brow as he set the creamy pints before them, seeming interested. “That so?” 

Colin supposed they must be hard pressed for gossip in this town, the irony of that swirling at the back of his mind. 

The barman continued. “Name’s Séamus O’Hara, by the way.”

“Anthony Bridgerton,” his brother said, extending a hand.

The barman shook it politely, then paused. His brow furrowed.

“Bridgerton, you said?”

“That’s right.”

A beat.

Séamus cast his eye left, then leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice just a touch. “Are yous relatives of Miss Penelope, by any chance?”

The glass stopped halfway to Colin’s lips. He set it down carefully.

“You know her?” he asked, voice husky.

“It's not a very big town”, the barman replied with a chuckle. “Course I do. Everyone here does. Fine woman. Quiet sure, but she’s well-liked. Raised her children out there off Buncrana Lane.”

The word hit Colin like a fist to the gut. “Children?” 

He had only one. Thomas.

A sense of cold dread spread over him.  

Children. That was it then . His fears confirmed. 

Thomas is his, but what of the others? Where had they come from? That familiar image of Penelope with another man flooded into his mind once again. 

His lungs struggled to intake any air. A proper family. 

She found someone else, how could she not? He cringed. She's perfect.  

The thoughts came unbidden, rushing through his mind like an angry stream. His son did not have a father, but he had a surrogate for one. 

Séamus seemed not to notice the shift in Colin’s demeanor, continuing with his casual chatter.

“Yip, the twins” he added with a knowing nod.

Colin choked, his breath catching in his throat. Twins?

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe. 

He stared at the barman, dumbfounded. “Twins?” he repeated, as if the word itself couldn’t possibly belong in the same sentence as Penelope’s name.

“Aye,” Séamus said, grinning a little. “Two of ‘em.” 

Obviously.  

“Fine youngones they are. Just like their mother.”

Anthony, still trying to navigate the delicate nature of the conversation, leaned in cautiously, not wishing to give away what they knew. “Are they boys? Or girls?” 

“One of each,” he replied with a contented grin, entirely unaware of the shock he’d just delivered. “Tommy, sound youngfella, keen to help his mother”, he paused, observing Colin, “He’s the head off you actually.” 

Colin closed his eyes in agony, taking that statement in, only to snap them open again. 

"The girl's a mouth, could talk for Ireland. Her name's Agatha”

Agatha. 

Chapter Text

An Bolg Buí. Rathnew. Co. Mayo, Ireland. October 12th 1833.

As Séamus wandered off to attend to other patrons, the brothers were left in stunned silence. Colin stood motionless for a moment, his hand trembling slightly as he ran it through his hair. 

I have a daughter.

He felt Anthony grasp at his shoulder, steadying him. “Come, let’s sit down”.

A few seconds passed after he sank into the worn leather bench, and a second wave of shock and anxiety hit Colin, harder now, his pulse quickening. Twins? He had never even known. How could this happen?

Colin had spent seventeen years analysing every last beat of the one encounter he had had with Penelope. That bright afternoon of sweet lovemaking where he had peeled back all the layers of himself and gave everything to her, as she had given everything to him. 

It had all seemed possible then. 

He held onto that memory like a vice, as though if he thought not on it, it would slip away as quick as it had occurred. 

But now, all he felt was guilt. He had known, really, that Penelope could have fallen pregnant. He supposed he had just always thought she couldn’t have been, because if she was, she would have come back to him. 

He should have looked for her, hired some private investigator. Hell, he should have spent the past seventeen years scouring the globe for her himself. But that image, of her happy somewhere else, happy without him, seemed to halt him at every turn. 

Coward.

He knew that if he had turned up at her door one day, and her new paramour had answered, it would have been the end of his life as he knew it. 

But now, hearing the word children , he felt something deep within him shatter. His children had suffered because of his cowardice, his weakness.  

To raise two children alone with no help, no support. Awe and remorse filled him in equal measure. 

Finally, he put his head in his hands, overwhelmed by the weight of it all. 

“I have a daughter too. A daughter”. The words repeated over and over in his mind, and he couldn’t quite make sense of them. 

Anthony spoke, but Colin barely registered it, “The letter would have had no reason to mention her Colin, she hasn’t inherited anything.”

Benedict, ever the one to try and ease the tension, leaned back in his chair and let out a small, wry chuckle, “I thought you said you only anticipated your vows with Penelope the once? I’m impressed.”

“Don’t give him too much credit, brother. Aren’t Penelope’s elder sisters twins?”

Colin, who had been slowly re-joining the conversation, gave a small nod. “Yes”, 

He spoke again then, the words not forming in his head before he said them. “Marina-, Lady Crane had twins as well.” 

Marina. 

It had been years, in truth, since he thought of the woman who had attempted to entrap him. He can’t even remember the day he had been told she died. But, he could not deny the disturbing similarities between Penelope and her late cousin. 

He had accused Penelope of such deception too. Penelope had delivered twins too.

It was just that, in the aftermath of finding out about Whistledown, he had felt as he had when he found out of Marina’s deception, only a thousand, million, times worse. And so he had panicked, thinking that perhaps Penelope’s love had been some sick farce as well.

Perhaps that was another part of your planned entrapment. 

The shame of his callous comment had seared itself onto the back of his brain almost as soon as the words had left his mouth.

He had accused her of entrapment and she left him. 

His fault. His fault. 

He had driven her away.

But none of that mattered now, did it? He had to focus on the present. 

He had two children and he had to meet them, speak with them, try to make up for the years he had lost. And then, perhaps, he could face the woman who had left him all those years ago. 

Séamus, unaware of the shock he had imparted on the men, made his way over their table, slapped his hands on the surface and leaned towards them.

“Listen, if you are here to see Miss Penelope,” he said, his voice softening a touch, “She’s likely at home now. You’ll find her just out past the fields. Take the path to the right, about another twenty minutes on horseback.”

Colin’s thoughts were a chaotic swirl. Half-frenzied, half-determined, he muttered “Right,” pushing himself out of his chair. His brothers gave him looks of concern but said nothing as they followed him out the door.

Anthony, catching up to his him, grabbed a fistful of his woolen coat. “Colin, I know this comes as another shock. But our task is the same. We’ll figure this out. But let’s wait till morning, just a bit more time.”

Colin pulled himself out of Anthony’s grasp and mounted his horse. “No....no, it’s no good. I have to go now. You can follow in the morning or fuck off back to London for all I care but I can’t go a minute more without seeing her.” 

His brothers exchanged a look of shared exasperation, reluctantly saddled themselves up and followed after him into the darkness. 

As the light from the streetlamps faded, black night had fallen over them like a velvet curtain drawn tight. The moon hung low in the sky, fragmented by the silhouette of bare branches, and a thin wind rustled through the hedgerows as the three Bridgerton brothers rode in silence down the narrow country road. The only sounds were the soft clop of hooves on packed earth and the distant cawing of crows.

Colin rode ahead, his posture rigid with barely contained nerves.

He had said it plainly, he couldn’t wait. He wouldn’t wait. Not another night, not another hour. Not after everything he had learned.

“They might be sleeping,” Benedict had cautioned, even as he walked his horse.

“It’s well past calling hours,” Anthony had added. “This is completely improper.”

Colin had heard them both, but the ache in his chest would not be reasoned with. “If she sends me away,” he called back to them, “Then so be it. But I have to see her.”

And so, they rode on.

When Buncrana Cottage came into view, all three men drew in sharp breaths.

Even in the dark, the house was impressive. Its pale façade glowing faintly in the moonlight. Its cream-coloured stone dappled with ivy and creeping honeysuckle. Its tall windows mostly darkened save for the warm flicker of candlelight behind one on the upper floor. The fountain in the front courtyard, dotted with wet leaves, glinted dully with rainwater. Glimmering, granite steps led up to a broad oak door, flanked by two towering pillars. The garden was wild, unmanicured but oddly charming, as though nature had been permitted to creep in gently. 

Benedict whistled low under his breath. “This is no cottage.”

“No,” Colin said hoarsely, eyes fixed on the house. “It’s not.”

His stomach swirled with the familiar sense of anxious nausea. His heart hammered in his chest, each beat a heavy blow against his ribs. 

He had imagined so many things, Penelope in a modest cottage, Penelope alone and quiet, Penelope as he had left her, gentle and sweet. In his mind, she’d hidden away and cocooned herself in the bosom of her family to protect herself from the outside world.

But this , this place spoke of command. Of permanence. It breathed history and agency. She had not just survived the last seventeen years. She had thrived .

“How in God’s name could she afford all this?” Anthony asked, bewildered by what stood before him. 

“Featherington inheritance, maybe?” Benedict offered, though he didn’t sound certain. “Or something left by Jack Featherington?”

Colin swallowed hard. By some miracle, the ton never made the connection with Penelope’s leaving and Whistledown. The author had just faded into the ether, as though she was never there at all. 

They had underestimated her, which filled him with anger and relief in equal measure. 

His gaze remained fixed on the flickering window. Was she there now, sitting with a book in her lap, unaware that he was mere feet away? Was Thomas with her? Was Agatha?

His daughter. 

The thought had plagued him every moment since Séamus had uttered the word twins .

“She made a home here,” he murmured to himself.

Anthony swung down from his horse and took the reins from Colin, grounding them both. “Are you ready?”

Colin dismounted slowly. He wasn’t ready. Not even close. But he couldn’t go back to the inn. He couldn’t lie awake all night, scratching at the walls, thinking of her just beyond his reach.

“I don’t know what I’m going to say,” he admitted.

“You’ll say what you need to,” Benedict said gently. “And we’ll be here, Col. No matter what happens.”

He stepped forward, the gravel crunching beneath his boots as he approached the front door of Buncrana Cottage. The old brass knocker was cold beneath his fingers. 

For a long moment, he stood motionless.

Then he knocked. Three sharp, metallic raps that echoed into the quiet night like a bell.

Behind him, his brothers waited in silence. Somewhere beyond the door, a light shifted. And within Colin, every nerve braced for the moment he waited half a lifetime for.

The heavy door creaked open. 

And there she was.

His wife, framed in the golden lamplight of the entrance hall, a warm halo spilling out behind her like sunlight through amber glass. Her hand still rested on the brass handle, her breath caught mid-inhale.

She was in her nightclothes. A plush, quilted, robe tied at the waist. Her vibrant, red hair plaited and loosely over one shoulder. She was barefoot. 

Her eyes locked onto Colin’s. She didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came. There was something unguarded about her expression, a vulnerability not born of fear, but of disbelief.

Colin said nothing either. His entire body seemed to hum with the effort of simply looking at her. Seventeen years and she hadn’t changed, not in the ways that mattered. Her face was more mature, softened in some places and sharpened in others, but it was still Penelope. Still the woman he had loved, still the woman he had searched for in every crowded room since.

The cold October air suddenly fell away. She truly was the most beautiful creature he had ever laid eyes on.

“Mammy?” a voice called from somewhere inside the house. A voice, deep and full, edged with the weight of manhood, but still clinging faintly to its teenage awkwardness.

“Who’s at the door?”

No answer. Neither adult moved, as if some invisible thread had stitched them into the moment.

Then came footsteps, firmer now. Two figures appeared in the hallway behind Penelope.

The boy was tall, just shy of a man in height and bearing, with dark, curling hair and eyes so achingly familiar that Colin felt a jolt, like a hand closing tight around his heart. His face was lean and striking, and utterly, undeniably his. He stopped just behind Penelope, his gaze flickering with suspicion toward the strangers on the doorstep.

Beside him stood a girl, a few inches shorter than her brother, with a head of vivid copper curls, perhaps a shade darker than her mother’s, and a dusting of freckles across her pale skin. She had Penelope’s bone structure, her bearing, her poise, and the same sharp, ice-blue eyes. She studied the men, her brows drawn together in puzzled calculation.

The silence stretched.

Colin couldn’t breathe.

There were his children. Thomas. Agatha.

The realisation hit him square in the chest, he had missed everything. First steps, first words, childhood birthdays, scraped knees, bedtime stories. Here stood two, fully-formed human beings. And they had lived their whole lives without knowing his name, while he had spent years not even knowing they existed.

Still, he could not speak.

Penelope’s hand dropped slowly from the doorknob, her lips finally moving as she whispered, just barely audible, “Colin?”

He swallowed hard and gave a single nod.

“Yes,” he said, hoarsely. “It’s me.”

Penelope’s eyes shimmered, but she didn’t look away. Her knuckles were white where she had clutched the fabric at her waist, but her voice was steady.

Agatha spoke next, her tone crisp and cautious. “Mam… who is that?”

Penelope didn’t answer at once. She looked back at her children, then again at Colin. Her throat moved as she swallowed, hard.

Then she pulled open the door fully, stepping aside to allow him entry.

“Please,” she said, “Come inside”.

Her voice was quiet. Measured. But it cracked, just slightly, on the last word.

The door remained half-open behind her. The children were still watching.

And Colin, reeling, stepped forward. 

Into the house, into the light, into the rest of his life.

Buncrana Cottage. Rathnew, Co. Mayo, Ireland. October 12th 1833. 

As Colin passed the threshold, Penelope's eyes drifted from his to his brothers standing behind him. She didn’t ask them to wait. She didn’t turn them away. Instead, she stepped back from the door and held it open wider.

Turning to his brothers, she said, “Well, don’t just stand there,” her voice brisk. “Come in, both of you.”

Her tone was neither warm nor hostile but clipped, controlled, as if held together by the force of will alone.

Anthony and Benedict exchanged a glance but followed Colin inside without question. The entrance hall was dimly lit, the polished wood floors creaking softly under their boots. Ornate cornices curved across the ceiling, and faded damask wallpaper bloomed along the walls in swirling patterns. The hallway stretched long and grand, a glimpse of what had once been the home of a great estate, now gently faded with time and use.

The air smelled of beeswax and rose oil and her.

“Thomas, Agatha,” Penelope called over her shoulder as they stepped in. “Put the kettle on. We have guests.”

Her voice was authoritative enough to brook no refusal. The twins, still lingering in the hallway with wide eyes, seemed to instinctively obey. Thomas blinked once at Colin, then gave a short nod and tugged Agatha’s sleeve. She rolled her eyes but followed quickly behind him, muttering under her breath.

Just as Penelope closed the door behind them with a firm snap of the latch, a shout rang out from the kitchen stairs.

“Who the fuck are they?”

Penelope closed her eyes for a moment, drew in a deep breath through her nose. “Language, Aggie,” she said through clenched teeth.

Anthony coughed into his hand to hide a laugh. Benedict failed to contain his smile altogether.

Penelope waited until her children’s footsteps faded, and turned, her eyes flashing, focused all her energy on Colin.

“How on earth did you find me?” she demanded, angry, but controlled. 

Colin stood very still for a moment. He was uncertain how much of her fury was genuine and how much was fear and shock. He tried to remind himself that this was as much of a shock to her as it was to him.

“It wasn’t from anything you did,” he breathed, unwillingly matching her tone. “You’ve kept your life well hidden.”

She raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

He continued. “The House of Lords wrote to me. They assumed I would already know... about Thomas. About his inheritance, Penelope. The barony.”

Penelope flinched at that, just barely.

Colin pressed on. “The letter came addressed to me as his father. The seal was real, Anthony confirmed it.”

“I did,” Anthony added, stepping forward. “There can be no mistake, the letter is genuine.”

Penelope’s jaw tightened. Her hands curled into the folds of her dressing gown.

“We left immediately,” Benedict said. “Didn’t even arrange a full route. Took a stagecoach to Galway and crossed into Mayo ourselves.”

Colin glanced towards the stairs. “Penelope”, he spoke, softer now. “I didn't even know about our daughter until the local barman here spoke of you.”

“Our daughter.” Penelope repeated softly. 

She lifted her head to face him, and digressed. “I know about the title, but I haven’t told Thomas. I’ve known for years. When my Cousin Jack absconded London, he did so on the condition that the firstborn son of me and my sisters would inherit the title.”

Colin took a small step towards her. “But, why didn’t you tell him?”

She folded her arms, lifting her chin and smiling incredulously in that way she always had when she felt backed into a corner but refused to show it.

“Because he’s my son,” she said. “Not theirs. Not yours. Not the Lords’. Mine. And I wasn’t about to hand him over to the wolves of the peerage. I wanted him to have a normal life.”

Colin looked stricken. “He is my son, Pen. They are my children”. 

Eyes closed, she took a deep, shuddering breath, and continued speaking. “I assumed at some point the title could pass to one of my sister’s sons.”

A beat of silence followed.

Anthony approached her, oddly gentle, and said, “I am afraid that is not how it works Penelope. Your son will hold this title for life.”

“Besides Pen”, Colin added. “I don’t believe your sisters ever had any sons.” 

“I have the right to protect them!” Penelope snapped back at them, ignoring their logic. Her voice wavered for just a moment.

Colin stepped closer, unsure if he was about to be shouted at again, or if he even deserved anything less.

“I would never have taken them from you,” he said softly. “If I’d known... if I’d known.” Fuck. If he’d known.

Penelope stared at him, her eyes swimming with unshed tears, but she said nothing.

She looked so, so beautiful.

From the kitchen came the clatter of cups and the rising hiss of the kettle.

Penelope’s arms were still crossed, but her shoulders had dropped slightly, her posture less rigid. She looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with age. Colin saw it now, not just the mother of his children, not just the love of his life, but a woman who had built herself out of nothing, stone by stone. 

Forcing herself to grow out of the hard cold ground and turn into the light. She was the light.

Anthony cleared his throat. “The letter from the Lords wasn’t just about inheritance or titles in Debrett’s, Penelope,” he said, stepping forward into the faint glow from the sconces on the wall. “They’ve summoned him. According to the statutes, Thomas must present himself to Parliament on his eighteenth birthday. Publicly. Formally.”

Penelope blinked, chastised by her brother-in-law's logic. 

“If he doesn’t,” Anthony continued, “the title will be challenged. Contested. And if the peerage decides he’s not fulfilling his duties, they could strip him of it. The estate. The name. All of it.”

A long silence stretched between them.

Penelope’s expression faltered, her face tightening with something like grief. “That’s three months away,” she murmured, more to herself than to them.

Colin nodded. “I know. January 17th. It was in the letter. Their birthday falls just before the spring term resumes. If Thomas is not in London by then, he risks losing everything.”

Penelope’s lips parted, but no sound came out. Her chest rose and fell rhythmically as she calmed herself, transfixing Colin for a moment. Her fingers pulled on the tie of her dressing gown as if she needed something to anchor herself.

“I didn’t want this life for him,” she whispered eventually, her voice raw. “I didn’t want him shackled to that world. To your world. He’s just a boy.”

“It doesn’t have to be a shackle,” Colin replied quietly. “It could be a key, too. A way forward, for all of us.”

He awaited her response with quiet intensity, his hands curled at his sides, every muscle drawn taut.

“Colin.” She whispered. “Do you think I don’t know what they’ll say about him? About me? A baron’s mother who fled her marriage. Her son, Irish, no education from the likes of Eton or Harrow.” Noting the look in his eyes, her voice raised slowly, pleadingly. “Be reasonable Colin, please. He went to Saint Brendan’s up the road for Christ’s sake. Will the Lords accept that? Will society? I can’t bear to see my child forced to face up to those men with secrets like bones in the walls, pretending to be something he is not .”

Even after all these years, he could still hear Whistledown in the way she spoke. 

Colin let out a shaky breath and reached for her hand, soft and smooth, fitting perfectly in his own. “Then we tell them the truth. Or enough of it that they understand we’re not ashamed of what we are. Of what we made. It needs to be his choice, Penelope.”

Penelope turned her eyes to the ground, ashamed.

She flashed those gorgeous eyes back up at him, “He’s just a boy.”

Colin, swallowed, forcing back the acid that was rising in his throat, “No one is saying this is easy. But whether or not you tell the world, you must tell him. You can’t keep this from our son, not now.”

He had to say it again. “I didn’t know, Pen. I didn’t know where you were.”

Anthony, ever the tactician, stepped back in with practiced calm. “The Crown is expecting a man, a baron, to stand up in front of Parliament next spring. He deserves time to prepare for that.”

Penelope exhaled, slowly. The sharpness in her eyes replaced with resignation.

“Your right,” she gave in at last. “He should be told. He’s grown up now.”

Her voice broke a little on the last word.

Colin slid his hand up her arm to steady her, but she didn’t reach back. Do you still love me?

“He’ll hate me,” she said, eyes fixed on the doorway to the kitchen, where the sounds of clinking porcelain and low sibling bickering drifted faintly through.

“No,” Colin said, just above a whisper. “He might be angry. Confused. But he won’t hate you.”

Penelope swallowed hard, “How can you be so sure?”. 

Colin smiled at his wife, for the first time in years. “Because he’s my son, and I…I could never hate you.”

She nodded, her face unreadable. “We will tell him. Tonight. Before he hears it from anyone else.”

Benedict looked over his shoulder. “And what about Agatha?”

Penelope’s mouth twisted into something half a smile, half a sigh. “No use in keeping it from her, she’ll get it out of him before bed. Besides, Aggie already thinks she runs the country. She’ll probably start packing for Parliament herself.”

That drew a small laugh from Colin, weak and worn, but real. Anthony relaxed a little beside him, and for the first time since stepping into the house, something like peace hovered in the air.

From the next room, his daughter's voice rang out again, this time clearer, more assured. “Is the tea coming to you or are you coming to it?”

Penelope gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head and turned her head left toward the large double doors flanking the hall.

“We should sit,” she said, not looking back. “We have some introductions to make.”

Chapter Text

Buncrana Cottage. Rathnew, Co. Mayo, Ireland. October 12th 1833.

The drawing room was warm with lived-in charm, soft candle light glowed against shelves crammed with well-thumbed novels, heavy encyclopedias, and children’s books. Half-finished embroidery hoops sat idle on the sideboard, and the scent of black tea and old stone clung to the air. This was unlike the grand salons that served for drawing rooms in Mayfair, but a family room. Large yes, but quiet, unpretentious, and comfortable.

Penelope led the way inside without ceremony, followed closely by Colin, Anthony, and Benedict. The tea sat before them in mismatched cups and saucers. Thomas and Agatha were already seated, Agatha sat cross-legged in the cream, upholstered armchair and Thomas lay slumped back on the matching sofa next to her.

As Colin entered, Agatha’s gaze flicked upward, pinning Colin with a look far too knowing for a child. Her blue eyes, so uncannily like Penelope’s, narrowed with the sharp precision of someone putting a puzzle together in real time. She stared at him intensely, looked quickly at her twin, then back again. Her brow furrowed, her mouth parted slightly, and she nodded. Before anyone could speak, she asked, calm and certain, 

“It’s you, isn’t it?”

Thomas turned to her, “Who?”

Agatha looked at her brother and cocked her head toward Colin, “Your dad.”

Colin’s breath caught. The word, simple, but somehow melodic in her accent, landed in his chest like a thrown stone. He gripped the back of the nearest chair for balance. 

No one had ever called him that before.

Thomas sat up, startled, “What are you on about?”

She kept her eyes fixed on Colin. “Look at his face! Mammy said you were the spits of him.”

Thomas turned to Colin slowly. He looked again, really looked this time, and his face drained of colour.

Penelope stepped towards her children, placed a hand on each of their shoulders and said quietly, “She’s right.”

“This is your father,” she added, turning to Colin. “Both of yours.”

Thomas’ hand flew to the back of his neck, rubbing it hard. He glanced at his sister once more, and uttered “Colin Bridgerton?”. 

She responded only by raising a brow, as if daring him to argue with her powers of observation. 

Tears were forming in the back of Colin’s eyes. They knew him. Thank God.

“Yes.” Penelope said calmly, “and these” she gestured towards his brothers, “are your uncles. Anthony and Benedict Bridgerton.”

Anthony offered a shallow bow. Benedict gave a short wave and an apologetic smile. “Bit late to the party,” Benedict said gently. “But glad to be here.”

Colin took a hesitant step forward, his voice shaking. “I never knew,” he said, directing the words to them both, pleading with them to understand. “Not until recently. I never knew you existed.”

Thomas shot a glare at his mother, and leaned back into the sofa, his arms folded across his chest. 

Penelope, as if she could read her son’s thoughts, walked across the room, placing a hand gently on the back of the sofa where he sat. “I didn’t lie to you,” she said. “But I didn’t tell you everything either. It's a long, complicated story. I told you your father wasn’t part of our lives, because he wasn’t .”

Agatha rolled her eyes, “And who’s fault was that?”.

Colin’s eyes darted towards his wife, “Please, don’t blame your mother. She’s right, it is a long, complicated story, and she only wants what’s best for you.” He glanced at Penelope, as to communicate some unspoken agreement, "and we will tell you. I promise."

Agatha sighed and leaned back in the upholstered armchair. Colin has the sense that neither child was content with that, but were resigned to hold their tonuge for now. Penelope gave Colin a relieved, grateful smile. 

The tenor of Thomas’ voice finally matched the rest of the room. “So then, what’s changed? How did you find out about us?”

Anthony stepped forward, careful not to crowd the moment. “Your father received a letter informing us of your existence Thomas, your name, where you live”. 

Thomas looked at his uncle, eyes full of suspicion. 

“And your title,” Colin added. “There’s much you have not been told.”

Agatha looked between them, her eyes widening. “What title?”

“The Baron Featherington,” he replied. “It’s yours, Thomas. You’ve inherited it.”

Agatha scoffed, scanning the men's faces for answers. “You mean he’s a Lord?”

Penelope gave a tired smile. “He is. The title passed through me because there were no more direct male heirs in my family. You, my darling, were the firstborn grandson of my father.”

Colin met Thomas’s eyes again. He couldn’t bear it if they thought he only came here because of some inheritance. 

“We’re not here to make demands. Only to tell you the truth. The title doesn’t matter a bit to me, I promise. I came here because you are my children. And I had to meet you.”

Thomas rubbed his hands over his face and let out a slow breath. “Jesus.”

Agatha cast a look at the three men, biting her lip. “Did the letter say anything about me?” 

Colin stepped towards his daughter. “I’m afraid not, though it should have. I only found out about you earlier this evening, when the barman in town mentioned Penelope had twins.”

Agatha grinned, “Seamo’s a mouth, and I think-.”

Penelope sighed and finally took a seat beside Thomas, cutting off her daughter. She gestured for the men to take the remaining seats, “Let’s have our tea before it gets too cold.”

The tray sat on the low table between them, untouched save for Agatha, who had already poured herself a cup and was now dunking a biscuit with casual defiance. Thomas remained slouched on the sofa, his fingers drumming restlessly on his knee. Colin sat opposite, elbows on his knees, trying not to appear as tense as he felt.

It was Penelope who spoke first.

“There’s something else you need to know.”

Thomas exhaled heavily. “ Another thing?”

“It’s about your birthday,” she replied lovingly. “You turn eighteen in January.”

“I’m aware, yeah,” he quipped sarcastically, then looked at his father, “What about my birthday?”.

Colin shifted forward slightly. “Under statute, you must present yourself to Parliament on the day you turn eighteen. It’s a formal requirement, part of claiming the title and assuming your responsibilities. You’ll be sworn in publicly, recognised by the Lords. ”

Thomas blanched. “What, like, in London?”

“Yes,” Anthony said. “Westminster.”

There was a long pause. Then—

“You’re joking.”

“No,” Colin said gently.

Thomas stood abruptly, beginning to pace. “I’ve never been to London. I’ve never been outside Connacht. You want me to go there and stand up in a room full of powdered aristocrats and say what? ‘Cheers for the land and the title, lads’, oh and by the way, ‘ fuck you for ruining our country’?”

Agatha snorted into her teacup. “You won’t be allowed to speak. You’d trip over the Latin.”

Thomas turned on her, angry now. “You’re not helping!”

Ignoring her brother, she sat up straighter, “I think it sounds class. A trip to London? Dresses and parties? I’ll need a new wardrobe.”

“You’re not going!” Thomas snapped.

“You don’t get to decide!” she snapped back.

Penelope raised a hand. “Enough. Both of you.”

Agatha huffed and folded her arms. “I’m just saying, it wouldn’t kill you to look at the opportunity.”

“It’s not an opportunity,” Thomas muttered. “It’s a trap. I’m not like them. I’m not English. Why should I play act to any of them?”

“No one’s asking you to play act anything,” Colin said quietly. “But you have rights, Thomas. A seat. A vote. A voice, if you want it.”

His breath quickening, Thomas ran a hand through his hair. “I just, I don’t know. I’m not-”

Penelope’s grasped for her son's hand, her voice softened. “Let’s put a pin in this for tonight. It’s been a big day. None of us are at our best.”

Thomas sank down heavily. He pushed the heel of his palm against his brow, then dragged it down his face. When he finally spoke, his voice was tight, thin as wire. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”

Colin's eyes were fixated on his son, Thomas' swift rise to panic was something he recognised in himself. There was a short silence as his breathing returned to normal. Then, hesitantly, he turned to to face him.

“Do you…have other family?”

Colin blinked, startled by the gentleness in the question. “Yes,” he said. “Quite a lot, actually. We have five other siblings, so eight of us in total.”

Agatha leaned towards the group, eagerly, “Like who?”

Anthony responded to her in kind, suddenly animated. “Well, let’s see. Benedict here lives in Wiltshire. You’ve an aunt in Scotland, Francesca. And another, Daphne in Hastings, on the sea. Myself, our younger brother Gregory and sister Hyacinth all reside in London, and - Colin of course. You’ve an army of cousins waiting to pester you too. Between all of us, we’ve, what is it now, Ben? Twenty-three?”

“Twenty-four,” Benedict replied. “And more to come, Daphne and Lucy are with child again.”

“Right. Twenty-four.” Anthony turned to Thomas and Agatha with a small smile. “Our mother of course, she will embrace the pair of you with open arms, I can assure you.”

“And Eloise?” Penelope asked softly, unable to help herself.

Colin smiled back at his wife. “She’s married fifteen years now, and happy. She named her daughter after you actually.”

Before Penelope could respond, Agatha turned to him with a concerned look in her eye. “Do you…do you have other children then?”

Colin choked on his tea, his budding joviality completely shot, “No, no of course not.”

He looked at Penelope in desperation, who’s eyes locked on to his immediately. 

Relief. She looked relieved. 

Fuck. Fuck yes.

Benedict carried on, either not noticing the tension or wishing to move swiftly past it. “There’s always some new baby on its way. Someone falling in love. The children are always starting new terms at school, or preparing to make their bow.”

Anthony nodded at Agatha, “As the sister of a baron, you could make yours too, at eighteen you’ll perhaps be a bit late, but no matter of course.”

Agatha raised an eyebrow. “Make my bow to who? ” Though Colin suspected she knew exactly who. 

His brother continued, “To Queen Adelaide, of course. All young ladies of your station do so.”

Thomas turned and grinned to the group, as if to say, good luck . 

“The Queen, of England? ” She scoffed, but there was mirth in her eyes, “Listen, I am more than happy to go to a few parties and meet the rest of your family, but I draw the line at bowing to the Queen.”

Colin nodded at his brother, in a gesture meant to say, you heard her . 

“Just like Thomas, no one is going to make you do anything you don’t want to do. For now,” he said, looking at his son too, “I would be honoured if you would just give me a chance to know you, and to give the rest of my family a chance to know you too.” 

But Colin was lying, he wanted much, much more than that.

He wanted his family back. 

He thought of his dim, dilapidated house back in Bedford Square. He thought of his bedroom, strewn with whiskey bottles. He thought of how he had unintentionally left his son's estate neglected. He thought of how he had purposely avoided his nieces and nephews for nearly the past two decades. 

What on earth did he know about being a father?

In the hearth, the fire had burned low, the room cloaked now in a softer kind of warmth. Agatha’s cup clinked gently in its saucer. And across from her, Colin watched his children with quiet awe, as the panic faded.

They were beautiful.

Thomas’ unsure voice interrupted his thoughts. “Will they like us?”

Colin’s grinned, glad at least he was sure of one thing. “They’ll love you.”

He yawned in response, “Good. I wanna meet them. I’m not sure about all of this baron stuff yet but, I’ll go to London I suppose. I’ve never seen anywhere like London before.”

Penelope, clocking her son’s drowsiness, rose and gathered the empty teacups. “That’s enough excitement for one night, it must be two in the morning by now,” she said. “To bed, the both of you.”

Thomas rose, but hesitated. “Will you… will you still be here in the morning?”

Colin nodded. “We have rooms in the village. I’ll be back first thing, I promise.”

Agatha snapped her head up at her mother, “They shouldn’t go back to the town now, Mam.”

Penelope sighed, turning towards her guests, “She’s right. Rathnew is safe enough, but there'll be men leaving the pub now after a night of drinking. Running into three English gentlemen on the roads?” She shook her head. “We have the room. Stay here, and go back for your things in the morning.”

The guest bedroom he had been given was small but serene, its walls papered in a cream, floral pattern. The small, printed wildflowers seemed to dance across the room. The curtains were faded by years of sun. A large bed dominated the space, its mahogany frame creaking faintly as Colin settled against the mattress. 

The sheets were a pale, dusty pink. The pillowcases were embroidered. Insular, weaving knots of golden thread. Colin recognised them as Celtic Knots. 

A single candle on the matching bedside table cast a low, reddish glow, flickering as the wind creeped through the fractures in the window frame. Above the dresser hung a small, gilt-framed mirror, and beside it, a framed watercolour of a ship tossing in wild sea foam. He stared at it for a long moment, feeling not unlike the vessel depicted, weathered, adrift, and long overdue at shore.

This house’s exterior spoke of authority, but its interiors breathed domesticity. The kind that had not existed in his life for a very long time.

Domesticity. Colin stretched over the side of the bed, slid a hand into his tan leather satchel and fetched his journal. He slid out the cracked graphite pencil, ripped out a page from the back, and began to write. 

Buncrana Cottage. Rathnew. Co. Mayo.

Ireland. 

October 12th 1833.

Dunwoody, 

I write to you on a matter of utmost urgency. I am not yet sure the exact day I will return to Bedford Square, but I must request that you get the house into proper shape as quickly as you can. 

I will need two, three of the remaining guestrooms properly furnished. Hire whatever staff you deem necessary: Maids, footmen, a stable hand. A cook, an Irishwoman, if you can find one; someone with a kind face and easy manner. Speak to Mrs. Newham next door, if I recall, her cook is from Kerry, and her house always smells delicious. Bill everything to the house account as usual.

We’ll need a proper landau, perhaps a curricle as well. Two horses at least, four, ideally. I can no longer rely on hired hacks. 

And Dunwoody, books. Fill every shelf. Furnish the library with as many books as will fit. The classics, and some modern titles too, whatever is popular. 

Create an account and fill the coffers with the modiste. 

Make it a home. I put my faith in you. 

I will return as soon as I am able. 

Yours sincerely, 

Colin Bridgerton.

He folded the paper and put it back in his satchel. Deciding that he would find time to enquire about postage in the village when he returned for the rest of his things tomorrow. 

He contemplated writing another letter, to his mother, or Eloise perhaps. His mother did not yet know about Agatha. He conjured the image of the shocked, tearful expression his mother would surely sport upon meeting her new grandchildren. In truth though, any letters to his family would take a toll of self-reflection he couldn’t face up to that night, at least not on paper anyway. Yes, he would come up with the right thing to say and write to them in the coming days. 

As Colin lay back against the pillow, one arm tucked behind his head, eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling. He grinned to himself as his children’s faces swam before his eyes, Thomas’ guarded pride, Agatha’s sharp, shining intelligence. They knew him. They wanted to know more. 

He loved them. He loved them before he even knew they existed. 

And Penelope. Exquisite Penelope. In her robe and plaited hair, strong and tired and endlessly beautiful. She had not softened for him, not yet. But she had opened the door. She had let him in. 

He would not waste it.

He would show her, through patience, through presence. Through proving he could be the man she deserved.

He would be strong in his convictions. He would not be separated from her again. He would give them a choice. 

London. Rathnew. It didn’t matter where he ended up, it would be home.

He reached for the candle, lips puckered to extinguish the flame, then—

A soft, unmistakable knock against the door.

He froze.

Another knock, barely louder than the first.

He rose slowly, the timbered floor cool beneath his bare feet, the candle throwing long shadows against the walls as he crossed the room. He opened the door.

Penelope.

Framed by the low flicker of her own candle, his wife stood barefoot on the worn runner carpet, her robe drawn tightly around her and one hand still raised from knocking. Her hair had come loose from its plait, her wild curls seemingly defying gravity itself. 

Her expression was unreadable.

“Get your coat,” she said softly. “We need to have a talk.”

Chapter Text

Bridgerton House. London, England. July 10th 1815.

Colin couldn’t remember how he got there. 

The streets had blurred as he stumbled through Mayfair. The uncharacteristic July rain had obscured his vision as he walked, but the route between Bedford Square and Grosvenor Square had become muscle memory in the past weeks.

His coat, soaked with rainwater, weighed down his already weak body, his feet were aching and his eyes were stinging. The smell of stale liquor clung to him. His hands were nicked and swollen from clearing away the decanter he had smashed against the mantle the night before, or the night before that. He couldn’t recall. 

He hadn’t eaten. Hadn’t shaved. His beard was itchy against his skin. He had barely moved at all, except to retrieve another bottle from the hutch or pull another drawer out by the handles. The house was engulfed with silence, the kind of silence that comes when you run out of breath mid scream. The past days had poured away, soaking the pages of his life like the black from an overturned inkpot.

She wasn't coming back. 

Humboldt opened the door and startled at the sight of him.

“Mr. Bridgerton?”

As he pushed himself past the butler and into the entrance hall, his mother’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. 

“Colin?”

Hushed, but urgent with concern. She rushed toward him, hands trembling. Her face blanched by the sight of him. He knew that he looked like death, smelled like it too. 

She grasped at his shoulders and pulled him toward her, “What on Earth’s happened?” She craned her neck towards the door. He wished she wouldn’t. She wasn’t following him, “Where is Penelope?”

Colin clutched at his mother’s dress and shook his head into her shoulder. 

“She’s gone,” he croaked. “She left me.”

He waddled slowly, with much help from his mother pushing him, up the stairs and into the drawing room. Violet clutched her son tighter and pulled him inside, he barely registered her pained cries of “Anthony? Anthony! Make haste!”.

The quick footsteps clambered across the marble floors, and then Anthony’s hurried, concerned voice, “Mother, are you quite wel-”

He could feel his brother stop short at the sight of him.

“Christ!” Anthony started, “What’s going on?”

“He says Penelope’s gone,” she responded, her voice shaky with confusion. 

Anthony turned to him sharply, “Gone where?”

“I don’t know.” Colin mumbled, rubbing his fist down his face.

“How long has she been gone?”

“Four days.”

Anthony pulled his face forward so Colin was looking straight at him, unable to avoid eye contact.

“You waited four days to say something?” his voice, cutting like a blade. “Have you searched for her?”

Colin wrenched himself free, tears forming in his eyes. “She left! She doesn’t want me anymore!” He wailed, spittle flying in his brother's face, “I waited, I thought - I thought she might come back. But she hasn't. She’s gone.”

The room fell silent, the crackling hearth the only sound.

“She’s gone?”

Eloise. She stood in the doorway, her expression unreadable.

Colin rose automatically. “Eloise—”

“She’s gone?” she repeated.

“I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean to let her leave?” Her voice was rising. “You didn’t mean to drive her away?”

“I didn’t know—”

“I knew something was wrong!” She careened forward, eyes blazing. 

“You forced her away!” She slammed her fists against his chest. “You coward!” 

“Eloise,” Violet warned, but her voice was quiet, shocked at her daughter's reaction.

She didn’t stop. “This is your fault Colin!” she kicked and screeched, “You’re a bastard! You made her so unhappy!” 

She continued to wail, to hurl abuse in his face until Anthony finally managed to wrench his tirading sister from him.

But as he pulled her back, she paused. Gave up her fight, and looked him directly in the eye. “She loved you, Colin. And you…” She shook her head, bitter tears shining in her eyes. “You didn’t deserve her.”

He didn’t argue. He didn’t shout back.

He only sat again, slowly, and stared into the fire.

He knew she was right. 

Buncrana Cottage. Rathnew, Co. Mayo. Ireland. October 13th 1833.

Colin hastily donned his coat and pulled on his boots. He followed Penelope down the wide stairwell, two steps at a time, the old wood groaning beneath his feet. She didn’t seem to care about waking anyone else up. He barrelled down the endless staircase until they reached the cold stone servants quarters. Which, he noticed, was inexplicably absent of servants. 

She didn’t speak as they crossed the basement kitchens, she wove with habitual grace past the tables and worktops. The candle she held threw flittering shadows across the room, illuminating the large copper pots which hung like church bells over the stove. 

She paused, briefly to bend and tug on her worn garden boots. Even in the thick quilt of her dressing gown, the sight of her plush arse bent up towards him caused a stirring in his britches that was not quietened by the nervous anticipation he felt grinding in his chest. He flicked his eyes forwards and cursed his timing. 

Then, she unlatched the back door with a click, pushed it open and gestured for him to follow her into the small walled courtyard beyond. 

The air was bracing, the cold seemed to travel directly up his nose and into his lungs, chilling him from the outside in. His breath was visible before him like soft wafts of pipe smoke.

Moonlight filtered through the niches in the wall, casting ribbons of silver luminescence across the flagstones. Thick tangles of honeysuckle plants crawled across and over the wall, draping the air in a sweet, sugary scent. 

In the centre were two, ornate iron benches sat across from one another, flanking a low, equally ornate table. She placed her candle down upon it, the flame guttering slightly in the breeze, and took a seat. 

Colin took the one opposite her, spread his knees and braced his palms on his thighs.

He waited for her to speak. 

“They don’t know, do they?”

He blanched for just a moment, “Know-”

“Whistledown. Your brothers. They don’t know.”

Oh. That. 

If that's what she wanted to discuss. He could handle that. He was happy to tell her outright. He took a breath, and responded in turn; “No Penelope, I never said anything. Nor did Eloise. Neither of us has said a word about it to anyone.”

He waited for some sign of surprise, or relief, or gratitude, but it didn’t come. 

“Not you Colin.” She looked at him, and her voice turned brittle, “Cressida.”

His brow furrowed, “Cressida? Cowper, you mean?”

If there was anyone he hadn’t given a single thought to in seventeen years, it was Cressida Cowper. She was from the world before. Before everything had been ripped apart. He strained his memory to remember the last thing he could remember of her, but nothing came.

“Yes. She knew, Colin,” she started shakily. “She came to the house and told me she knew.”

He spoke before any words formed in his mind, “What are you talking about?”. 

Then, she broke. Her breath hitched, her composure fractured, and tears began to spill from her cheeks. She put her head in her hands, and a pained, stuttering voice burst forth, “Fuck. Fuck, fuck . Nobody knows.”

Colin stood up to join her immediately, his chest tightening. Trying to remain calm, he questioned her, “Penelope, what do you mean?” He tried, but the crying didn’t stop. He tentatively placed his hand around her shoulder, when she didn’t flinch, he pulled her closer, “Shh. Pen, please. Start from the beginning.”

“She blackmailed me, Colin. Demanded ten thousand pounds to keep silent.” She sobbed. “It was the day I found out I was pregnant. ”

He blinked, dazed. “I…what? Penelope? How did she know?” 

“I-I don’t know. I think she followed my printer. She just knew. She assured me, in no uncertain terms, that she would ruin me if I didn’t pay her. But, ten thousand pounds. It was… it was all I had Colin. If I gave it to her I was trapped , and things had gotten so bad between us that I just, I just, I didn’t know what to do.”

Cressida. Blackmail. This was why. This was why she left him. He was going to kill her. He was going to find Cressida, and he was going to end her life. 

He took a slow, trembling, breath, willing himself to remain composed, to not frighten the woman in his arms, “Penelo-”

But she barrelled forward, unable to stop. Talking so fast, as if she was trying to convince herself as well as him, “Cressida could have kept coming back! Demanding more money every time she ran low. She had ruined her own marriage prospects, why shouldn’t she leech off me till she dies?” 

Colin was quiet, seething, he could hear his blood rushing in his ears. 

“And even then, giving her the money was no guarantee she wouldn’t have exposed me anyway.” She wiped her tears with her sleeve. “Who was to say she wouldn’t have marched straight to the Queen, took her five thousand pounds as well? I wouldn’t have only ruined myself, but you , your family , and my baby. When Whistledown started, I fancied myself brave for taking the risk, but I was foolhardy. I was a stupid, stupid, reckless girl. Fuck.”

“Penelope.” He choked, his rage now turning to tears, “Why didn’t you tell me?” “I would have… I would have—”, he didn’t know what, in truth. But no matter how angry he was, no matter how useless and inadequate he had felt, he wouldn’t have let anyone blackmail his wife.  

“You didn’t love me, Colin.”

The words landed with such force he physically reeled. His heart was breaking. Yes, he could feel it. Tearing in two. That all familiar sensation of a hand reaching into his chest, and clawing at his vital organs until blood spills forth. He knew it, his rage subsiding back into the guilt he was used to. 

Cressida might have been the catalyst, but she wasn’t the reason.

“You could barely look at me. You wouldn’t touch me. You regretted everything. That house was so cold, and dark and dead. I just, I couldn’t see any future between us anymore.” 

She steeled herself, removing her shoulder from his grasp and pushing herself to the other end of the bench. 

“When Rae told me what my missing courses meant, suddenly it wasn’t just my, our, happiness that mattered anymore. It was as though this overwhelming sense of danger settled over me and it quickly became clear, I had a choice,” she breathed,  “Stay, and be trapped in a marriage without love, in an endless cycle of blackmail or in a life of ostracisation and ruin. Or flee, raise my baby in as happy a home I could create.”

She lifted her gaze to him at last, streaks of dried tears now salt against her cheeks.

“You accused me of entrapment and you were right, I didn’t mean to, but I did. I trapped you with a baby. Babies!” She laughed bitterly, “Trapped you in a marriage you didn’t want, I knew you’d never stray from me if I told you. You were too kind, too good. I couldn’t be the person you stayed with out of guilt of duty.” she said. “I didn’t think myself honourable Colin, I swear it. But I thought, if…if I left, the blame wouldn’t be placed on your family. You could be free, procure an annulment on the basis of fraud…or abandonment, married someone else, had a life-” She stopped herself, breathing heavily as though the very words were painful to say. 

When she finally continued, she sounded resigned and tired. “I thought the scandal would be all over London by the time I’d reached Southampton. But now you’re telling me nobody knows?” She shook her head in defeat. “I knew it when Lord Bridgerton spoke of bringing Thomas to Westminster, of Agatha being presented. He’s a good man, but even he couldn’t condone bringing scandal on his family to that degree-”.

“Penelope, stop. Please.”

He rose slowly, stood before her, then dropped to one knee, grasping her hands in his own.

“I am so, so sorry,” he said softly. “I was, fuck, I was so angry when I found out.” He knew keeping the truth of why he had stayed away was of no use to him now. 

“But I was scared too, Pen. I thought that it was all some sick joke. I thought you didn’t love me.” He pushed his forehead against hers, crying in earnest now. 

“When I left you alone in that house, it was because I knew if I spoke to you, I wouldn’t be able to control myself. We would argue again and I couldn’t, I couldn’t bear to be at odds with you. I thought, if I just waited until I was able to say the right things, I-” 

The guilt rolled in his stomach like a swimming parasite. “I left you every day because I wanted you to feel the pain I was feeling, I wanted you to think I could betray you too, and you have no idea. Fuck, Pen you have no idea, how sorry I am. How sorry I have been, for years.”

She gripped his hands tighter, “I thought we could never come back Colin. Me and the babies. I thought we could never come back. I am so, so sorry for it now.” She shook her head against his. “We were both so young. Barely older than the twins. We made a mess of things together.” She repeated to herself once more, “I thought I could never come back.”

He was shaking in desperation. “But you can come back now. You will, won’t you? Say you’ll come back with us.”

Penelope laughed now, her tears returning. “I don’t think I have a choice.” 

Colin smiled with relief, placed a small, gentle kiss on her forehead, and slowly rose back to the bench. He winced, not wanting to let her see that his knees weren't what they used to be. 

A quiet peace fell on them then, a beat of silence. The breeze stilled, as though mother nature herself had made room for the moment. 

“You deserve to get to know our children. They deserve the chance to know you. I won’t stand in the way of that, but…” she trailed off, her voice growing quiet again. “It’s been so long. I don’t know if I can go back to all that…if we can.”

She looked at him, her crystal blue eyes glowing in the moonlight, wide and unsure, “I don’t know if I can be that person again.”

Colin tried to shove down the disappointment bubbling in his gut. He knew what she was referring to. He tried to speak, but no words came. Words that would say that he wanted her back, that he wanted her fully. His wife, in their home, happy and safe and in love. With his children, God, with more children , if the Lord saw fit to bless them so. 

He knew what he wanted to say, but saying it out loud was another matter entirely. He had come so far, for her to turn on him now-, it was too much. He was weak, and he wouldn’t survive it. He resolved to keep silent for now. 

Convince her. Slowly. Bring her back to him. All was not lost. 

He settled for a nod. “Let’s take it one day at a time, till their birthday at least. It’s not the high season now, everyone will be off at their country estates. Agatha and Thomas can meet the rest of the family at Aubrey Hall.”

She flinched, putting her head in her hands once more. “Your family, God-what will they think of me?”

He gently pried her hands free from her face. “They never blamed you Pen, not for a second. They blamed me. ” He smiled at her reassuringly, “Anthony and Benedict made me tell our mother before we left to find you. She wants you back. She misses you. I’m quite sure he told Kate too. So that’s the Viscountesses down at least?”

She giggled, a sweet, melodic sound that was a balm to his soul. “Aggie will have started packing already, so there’s no point in me delaying the inevitable.” 

God. Aggie, Thomas.

“I want to know everything, Pen. Everything about them. Even the boring bits. Especially the boring bits.” 

She giggled some more, and looked up at the star filled sky. “Alright.”

“They were both born blonde, you know. I had to put a bow on Agatha so people in the village could tell them apart. It wasn’t ‘till they were about a year old that their hair started to change.” 

Colin leaned forward eagerly, his anxiety calmed by such simple talk of his children, “ I was born blonde.”

She smiled back at him with her sweet doll-like face, “I know.”

“What else were they like as babies?” He couldn’t help himself, he was tired. Exhausted. But his giddiness was trumping his fatigue.

“Agatha hated being swaddled. She would scream like a banshee if I so much as tucked a blanket under her chin. And Thomas…” she exhaled a laugh, shaking her head. “Would only fall asleep if he was held. I never got any rest, I would sit up for hours, just so he could doze against my chest.” 

Colin swallowed the ache in his throat. “You did it all alone.”

“Yes.” She tilted her head, not angry, not accusing. Just truthful.

“I’ll make it right, Pen.” he whispered. “I’ll do right by both of them.”

“I know,” she said softly. 

He said nothing, just gazed at her in awe, so she continued her stories. 

“When they were very young, they used to stare at each other endlessly, as though willing the other to start a conversation. When they did learn to talk, they spoke to each other before they said a word to me. Always keeping me out of the loop. Of course, the Irish doesn’t help.”

His brow furrowed, “the Irish?”

She grinned, “They speak in Irish to each other. Well a mix of both languages really. I can understand some, after living here for so long. But they speak faster and only as gaeilge when they're really hiding something, and at that point, I’m useless.”

She poked him softly in the chest, “Maybe you can learn, I remember you wrote to me that you would try to learn the language of the cities you visited so you could keep up with the locals.”

He never did that. He thought ruefully. Must have been a lie to make himself sound more impressive in his letters. He made a mental note to purchase some sort of Irish language dictionary when they returned to Dublin. 

“Even though they vex me every single day. It was all worth it.”

“Yes.” he agreed, “They’re perfect.” 

She snorted a laugh without realising, then quickly quietened herself so as not to wake the others. “Give it a few days, your opinion might change.”

Chapter Text

Buncrana Cottage, Rathnew, Co. Mayo, Ireland. October 13th 1833.

The room was cool. The soft, purple light of pre-dawn filtered through the gauzy curtains, diffused and drowsy, catching in the folds of white linen and illuminating Penelope’s eyes an outstanding blue.

She was lying beside him, not as she had been years before, tentative and blushing, but as she was meant to be; steady, assured, familiar. Her smooth legs tangled with his, her hand resting against the bare plane of his chest. His skin hummed under her touch.

Her eyes were half-lidded, lashes fanning against her cheeks. Her lips were parted just slightly, plump and pink. Her breath, slow and even. Calm. He leaned forward, drawn by some ancient instinct, and kissed her.

First, just a brush. Featherlight. A whisper of contact.

Then again. Deeper. He felt her lips yield to his, soft and full and still tasting of sweet lemonade. She let out a small sound, somewhere between a sigh and a moan, and it bloomed in his chest like a lit match dropped onto parchment.

His hand slid down the length of her spine, the silky cotton of her nightgown a pale barrier between them. She arched into him, fingers curling around the nape of his neck, mouth open now, eager. The heavy fullness of her breasts pushed against him, her perfect little nipples poking through the fabric. 

He kissed her like a man dying of thirst. He couldn’t get close enough. Not with the sheet between them. Not with air between them.

Her body moved against his with effortless rhythm, like they had never stopped learning one another. Her hands gripped his shoulders, his jaw, his hair, anything she could reach. 

“Colin please ”, she moaned, her voice wracked with desperation and desire.

Her eyes told him she was sure. His heart pounded in his throat. She wanted him, all of him and he was going to give it to her. He slid his hands up her nightgown, groaning at the softness of her skin. He pried apart her plush, supple thighs, taking in the sight of her perfectly pink, sodden folds. He gripped himself, nudging the tip of his cock into her entrance. 

“I love you,” he groaned, and pushed himself into her creamy warmth. Finally home. Finally where he was supposed to be.

He jerked awake with a harsh, shuddering inhale.

The dream scattered instantly, like mist hit by daylight. The room was too bright. Too warm. The sheets were tangled around his waist. His hair and neck were damp with sweat. His lips still tingled. His pulse thundered in his ears, his body still aching from a dream that had turned to smoke, as it so often had before. But made somehow worse by the fact that his wife was only in the next fucking room, and he couldn't touch her.

He sat up abruptly, then winced as the blood rushed from his cock to his skull. The room was too stifling, he could hardly draw in a full breath. It seemed that Irish Octobers were the same as in England, where freezing nights were followed by sun-drenched mornings. Sunbeams darted across the room and directly into his eyes, worsening his sweat and blurring his vision. The dawn had come in too fast, dragging him forward into the day without mercy.

It seemed that it would take more than his entire future opening up before him in the space of a day to break his long forged habit of sleeping past noon. He spied the clock above the door, it was a quarter-past twelve.

Shit. 

He was late. 

His first ever breakfast with his children. 

He could hear them downstairs, chattering and laughing. 

He had promised himself, he had promised himself last night that he would be waiting in the drawing room for them, dressed and presentable and ready to take on the day. As any real father would be. He could hear the assured, unmistakable voices of his brothers conversing alongside them. His brothers were real fathers, and they had managed to rise early.

And yet here he was, bleary and crumpled, pulling his waistcoat and jacket over the clothes he'd slept in. At least Anthony and Benedict would fare no better, they had all left what little luggage they had at the village inn. 

“Brilliant”, he muttered to no one.

As he clambered down the wooden steps, his boot caught the edge of the Persian carpet and nearly sent him flying through the window pane. He just barely gripped the banister to catch himself. Brilliant, again.

He hesitated just outside the half-open door. 

The breakfast room was grand, but weathered. A high plaster ceiling arched overhead, its edges browned faintly with time and the faint trace of candle smoke. The walls were papered in a faded damask of ivy green and dove grey. A long mahogany table stretched across the centre of the room, scattered with water rings and knife marks. The unmistakable signs of use. An aged sideboard sat between two tall windows, stacked with pewter trays and a cracked ceramic teapot. 

Man of the house that he was, Thomas sat at the head of the table, but child that he also was, pushing himself back on the legs of his chair, boots up upon the fine mahogany. Agatha, wearing a linen blouse tucked into a dark green woollen skirt, was deep in conversation with her uncles whilst simultaneously chewing a sausage, balancing it between her fingers like a cigar. 

Colin smiled, it seemed his children would not stand on ceremony for anyone. 

He stepped forward, clearing his throat. All four heads turned. 

“I-” he ran a hand through his hair, “Slept in”. 

Thomas didn’t smirk, exactly, but there was something sly in the way flicked through the paper he was reading and said, “Must be nice”. 

“Breakfast’s on the sideboard,” Agatha added, not missing a beat.

Scrambled eggs. Crispy bacon. Sausages. Potatoes. Soda bread. He inhaled as the gaping hole in his stomach grew into a full blown cavern. It was only then he realised how hungry he was. His last morsel of food, spare the few sips of tea he'd managed to swallow the night before, was the breakfast in Galway City, and even then he hadn’t consumed much as he was badgering his brothers to hurry up out of the inn and get fucking going already.

“Colin”, Anthony added, awe in his voice. “They cooked this themselves. ”

“Did they? Have you no servants?”

He clocked the look on his children’s faces. Shit.

“Bloody aristocrats”, Thomas said under his breath. 

But Agatha only laughed, “Oh c'mon Tommy, you're one of them now.”

"Don't call me Tommy in front of them," he whined back.

“I didn’t mean it like that”, Colin said, taking a bite of his scrambled eggs, “This is delicious. Really.” He settled in and began to eat with a ravenous hunger that embarrassed him.

It wasn’t that he expected servants. Of course not. It wasn’t that he thought them lesser for not having any. It was just… this house. The rooms were grand and the furniture was fine. How on earth did they get on without any staff? 

He had meant to ask Penelope about it the night before, how she had come to be here. But he had been thoroughly distracted by her revelations, and their stable yet tentative truce. 

As though he could read his thoughts, Benedict cast his discerning eyes around the room, taking in the stately oil-portraits that donned the papered walls. Each subject was different, but they all shared the caramel skin and sumptuous thick dark hair, dressed in fine clothing pulled from the past two centuries. Clearly not of Penelope's family. They flanked the room in quiet command, looking down upon them with judgement. 

Benedict frowned, and turned to the twins. “I take it this house is not part of the Featherington Estate then?”

Agatha followed the path his eyes took around the room, then came back to look at him. 

“Well spotted,” she said dryly. 

"Your mother never thought to take down the paintings?" Anthony queried.

"Nah," Agatha grinned, "She's too short."

Thomas sniggered alongside his sister but generously explained, “This house was gifted to Mammy when she left London for Ireland. The old lady had no use for it, some wedding present she never took advantage of, so she gave it to her.” 

Agatha balked at that, stabbing the table with her knife in a gesture of mock theatrics, “Gave? Gave? Ohhh no, she paid a price. Or actually, I paid a price.”

Colin stiffened, “Price? What price?” Given what he’d heard from Penelope last night, that question made his heart knock violently against his ribs. His mind leapt to dark places; blackmail, threats and worse.

But in the haughty, outraged voice all teenage girls seemed to share, “The woman who gave us the house asked for no money,” she said, stabbing a sausage with her fork. “She just told Mam that all she wanted in return was for her to name her firstborn daughter Agatha, after her”, she said, giving a fluttered gesture over herself, as though to say, and here I am . 

“Lady Danbury”. Colin said quietly, turning to his brothers in shock. 

“That’s the one.” she confirmed, shaking her head. “I could have been a Marie, or a Kathleen, or an Eileen! But no, Agatha. Tragic.”

“I can’t believe this.” Anthony gaped. “She’s mother’s closest friend.”

“Oh don’t be so shocked brother. Lady Danbury never needed permission for anything, if she wanted to help Penelope, she was going to help Penelope,” Benedict pointed out.

Colin knew he should have seen this as a betrayal, but in all truth, he couldn’t bring himself to do so, she had given his children somewhere safe to grow up. A sanctuary. The next time he saw Agatha Danbury, he felt sure he would kiss her. Might be better to keep it from his mother though, for now. 

Anthony, still grumbling over this wrong, turned to face his nephew. “Thomas, I imagine you’ll be thinking about your education now. University.”

Thomas blinked, and Colin was about to tell his brother to shut up, when his son softly spoke, “I haven’t made my mind up yet.”

“All the Bridgerton men attend Oxford, though of course Cambridge is an excellent choice too. It depends on what you’d like to study. History, philosophy, though as a Peer, perhaps law would-”. 

“No,” Thomas said, putting down his fork. “I haven’t made my mind up about any of it. The title, the position. This is my home. Here. Rathnew,” he said, facing Colin. “I want to meet your family, I want to know you, I just, I don’t want to abandon Ireland.”

Colin leaned towards his son, “I meant what I said last night, nobody will force you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

But Thomas just looked at the ground and gave a small shrug, which Colin recognised was not disinterest, or apathy. It was protection, guarding what mattered to him with silence. 

Colin’s throat was dry. He reached for his tea again, but didn’t drink it.

“Well,” Benedict said lightly, trying to ease the mood, “at least we know you’re not afraid to say what you think. That’s half the battle of being in the House of Lords.”

Thomas offered a tiny, rueful smile. “Or surviving breakfast.”

The tension broke,  not fully, but enough. A few chuckles passed around the table. 

It was just then that Penelope made her way into the room. Her arrival pulled the air from his lungs in one breathless sweep. She was dressed in a simple, sage green day dress, cut to perfection, and cream shawl, draped loosely around her elbows. Her hair was pinned in a half bun, allowing her curls to cascade down around her shoulders, catching the light. She was stripped back, allowing her natural beauty to shine through and grace Colin’s morning like some angel cast down from heaven. 

She looked composed, but her eyes flicked across the room quickly, cataloguing each face, each plate, the pause in conversation.

“Good morning,” she said simply.

“Good afternoon,” Agatha muttered with a smirk, earning a half-hearted elbow from her brother.

Colin stood automatically, his napkin tumbling to the floor. “Pen-” he started, but she waved him back into his chair.

“No need. I don’t need to eat, I just-” She reached the table and poured herself a cup of tea from the pot with a kind of wifely grace that made Colin ache. “We need to discuss the journey.”

Anthony set down his fork. “Of course. If you intend to return with us, we’ll need to arrange-”

“I do,” Penelope cut in. “At least until January. They have a right to meet the rest of their family, but I don’t intend to leave my children in anyone else’s care. I’ll need to pack the essentials, make arrangements for the house, settle my accounts. Our neighbour, Declan, can keep an eye over the house and stables. I will speak to him this morning about driving us to Galway.” She looked pointedly at Colin. “The sooner we sort the logistics, the better.”

Colin blinked. She was all briskness, all resolve. She was doing it for them. Not for him. Not yet.

And who the fuck was Declan?

Agatha, however, had dropped her fork.

“We can't leave straight away,” she whined. “Not before tomorrow night!”

Penelope sighed and turned to her daughter, “Agatha.”

“No Mammy! Absolutely not.” She sat back in her chair, arms folded defiantly. “The Céilí is the only exciting part of being in Rathnew. We’ve been looking forward to it all month. I had plans. I have a dress .”

Penelope took a seat and mindlessly twiddled with her napkin, “Aggie, if we are going to go, I’d really rather get on with it. Your uncles have their own families to get back to and-”

Agatha ignored the question and turned to Colin instead. “There’s a Céilí, a country dance, at the pub in the village tomorrow night. Everyone goes. We’ve never missed it,” she grinned at her father. “If you want to get to know us, you should get to know our culture too.”

Benedict brightened. “A village dance? How charming. I’d like to see it.”

Thomas spoke then, his voice careful, “Mam, you not going to let us say goodbye to everyone before we go?” He turned to Colin hesitantly, “We could go into town beforehand. Show you around. You could meet the village.” 

Colin turned to him, trying not to show how deeply those words thrilled him. We. Not you . Not they . “I’d like that,” he said, and meant it.

Penelope sighed, but the corner of her mouth twitched upward. “Fine, we will go tomorrow night. But we leave the morning after. No protests.”

Agatha beamed triumphantly and snagged another piece of bacon off Thomas’s plate.

Colin watched the scene unfold, warmth seeping into his chest. It was happening, they were a family again. He was sitting there, at the breakfast table, discussing weekend plans with his wife and children. It was awkward and mismatched and scarred, but they were at the same table. That counted for something. It was sacred.

Agatha stretched back in her chair, a bit smug. Clearly gambling her victory, she said, “We’ll need clothes, you know. For London.”

Penelope didn’t bat an eye. “You have clothes.”

“Not London clothes,” she replied with a dramatic sigh. “Mammy, please.”

Penelope shook her head. “We’ll discuss it later.”

Colin sat back in silence, he wanted to say that he would buy Agatha all the silks and satins in London if that’s what she wanted. Anything they dreamed of, his family, he would get it for them. Material possessions after all, he could provide with ease. However, he suspected that infringing on Penelope’s parenting choice would set him back in his mission to win her heart once again. 

He didn’t try to speak again right away. He didn’t try to steer the conversation or make grand declarations. He simply watched them, his children, his brothers, his wife.

His family. 

It was more than he had yesterday.

Chapter Text

Rathnew. Co. Mayo, Ireland. October 14th 1833.

The sun was beginning its slow descent behind the soft green hills, casting the narrow country path to Rathnew in a honeyed glow. The sky above was painted with streaks of coral and violet. Every so often the breeze would sway the grass in the fields either side, swarming his nostrils with the unmistakable scent of grass and country air. The soft chirping of songbirds and the distant groaning of cows narrated their stroll. 

The entire day previous had been spent in a flurry of action, planning their return, packing their things. Colin had managed to send out his post. He’d written to his mother and gave her an account of the last few days, save for mentioning his daughter, who requested she remain a surprise. 

Agatha had dragged Thomas ahead of the group, and with his brothers deep in their own conversation, it gave husband and wife time to hang back and speak. 

“I couldn’t keep them in their cot”, Penelope laughed. “By the time they were two they were scaling the furniture. Once, I caught Aggie balancing herself on the back of a chair in an attempt to reach the oranges on the Christmas garland.”

“Just like Hyacinth, you couldn’t get her to sit still either,” Colin mused happily. 

She cast her eyes over the surrounding landscape. “They made their own fun here I suppose. One time a fox got into the chicken coop. They held a funeral. Full procession. Thomas delivered a eulogy for each hen. Agatha sang three hymns. It was really rather beautiful actually.”

Colin’s shoulders shook with laughter. “Did they bury them?”

“In shoeboxes. Beneath the hawthorn tree.”

He watched her as she chatted away, so beautiful in this sunset light, all orange and pink and blushing. Her dress was a feminine rose. He liked her in pink, and green, and blue, and nothing at all. 

“Thomas cried blue murder when he lost his first tooth. Begged me to put it back in. He kept it on his bedside table for weeks.” She laughed, “and Agatha hated getting her haircut, she still does.”

He laughed in turn, baby teeth he couldn’t argue with, but it would be a grievous crime to cut any of his daughter's beautiful hair.

“In fact,” Penelope gulped, continuing, “I should tell you. Thomas wrote you a letter once. He was only eight.”

Colin’s heart nearly jumped out of his chest, “He did?”

“Yes.” She stopped walking and looked at the dusty ground beneath her feet. “I remember he stayed all morning in his bedroom, came marching down the stairs and presented me with a letter. Dear Father, I am Thomas. I am eight. I like trees and books. I have one sister and no brothers. If you are very far away, please know my Mammy takes good care of me.” She swallowed guiltily and looked up at him. “Of course...you know I never sent it. I would like to say it was to protect him, but it was because I was scared. Scared of what I would find out if you’d replied,” she said, her voice shaky. “I-I kept it. I can give it to you-”

“Penelope,” he said gently, his voice thick, willing himself not to cry at this news. 

“It’s in my bedside locker back at the house. I will-”

“Penelope. I’m not angry with you. I was scared too, terrified really. I could have had Anthony hire some private investigator to look for you. We could have found you in a matter of days had we tried. My entire family, after you left, badgered me and begged me to look for you,” he clutched her hand. “But I wouldn’t let them. I was so frightened, Pen, paralysed by the idea that you didn’t want me anymore, that you had found someone else.”

“We were both afraid of the same thing it seems. What a mess of this we’ve made,” she said, shaking her head at her feet.

It was more than that, he had to admit to himself. Not only the overwhelming fear that she had found love with someone else, but the fear of showing her what he had become as well. 

A useless, inadequate wastrel with too much drink and too much time, his life pouring away without purpose. A bastard who'd driven his wife away.

The correspondence from the Lords had been a lifeline. A second chance. A chance to do better. 

Colin adored her still. He couldn’t be angry with her, when he had cowered away from attempting to make contact too, and he hadn’t had the threat of blackmail and two children to think of. 

They crested a small hill, and suddenly the village spread before them in the soft dip of the valley.

The grey, desolate square Colin had arrived to not two days previous had been transformed. 

“They’ve put on a show tonight.” Penelope breathed, “The news of your arrival must have spread like wildfire.”

Lanterns strung from window boxes illuminated the square like fireflies caught in a jar. The scent of beer wafted through the air as villagers filtered in and out of An Bolg Buí, pewter tankards and glossy black pints in hand. Trestle tables had been dragged out into the courtyard. Dining tables, chairs and stools from the surrounding houses too. Old ladies in their Sunday best sat perched upon worn leather sofas, chattering amongst themselves. Young children were running about, chasing each other with some sort of deformed Pall Mall mallet which Agatha had said were called hurls. The game thereof, she had informed him, she was very good at. 

In the far corner a band played with such vigour, that the vibrations seemed to invade his chest and change the way his heart beated. A drum pounding with riotous energy, the fiddle strung high and furious, a flute cutting sharp over it all like morning birdsong. This was something primal. Joyful. Free.

There must have been a hundred people here. Maybe two. And he had never seen anything like it. 

Colin had travelled all across Europe in his youth, but he’d stuck to cities for the most part, the ancient artefacts, the tourist attractions and, admittedly, the whorehouses. He had missed this, he had missed real community and real culture. He slowed his pace, taking it all in. 

Within moments of stepping fully into the square, Colin found himself greeted with nods, handshakes, curious glances and cheerful slaps on the back. He glanced at Penelope, who smiled back at him, encouraging him to take it in his stride. 

“I need to find Declan,” she said, pulling her elbow free from his. “About tomorrow. The drive to Galway.”

Colin blinked, the jealousy already setting in. “Declan-?”

“Connolly,” she clarified, already scanning the crowd. “Our neighbour. I said yesterday, I asked him if he might take us in his cart tomorrow morning, just me and the twins. You and your brothers can ride ahead on the horses you rented,” she clicked her tongue, scanning the crowd. “I just need to confirm.”

Before he could respond, she was gone, swallowed by the tide of partygoers.

Colin stepped back, watching her weave gracefully through the square. She moved with ease here, a bounce in her step, her face open. So unlike how she had held herself at the many balls they had attended in London, with her shoulders guarded and her expression unsure.

Then she found him, a tall man near the pub doorway, laughing with another farmer over a tankard. Declan Connolly.

He was younger than Colin expected. Strong-looking. Hench. His hair was thick and dark, and he had that sort of smug, boyish smile which made everyone around him lean in. When Penelope tapped his shoulder, he turned quickly, his face lighting up in recognition.

Colin watched as she reached for his elbow, speaking low and close, her smile warm, friendly. Too friendly. Declan nodded enthusiastically at whatever she said, then leaned in a little more, tipping his head closer to hers.

A cold, irrational thread twisted in Colin’s gut. What the fuck?

He squinted, trying to make out the glint of a wedding ring. He glanced down at his own, he had never taken his off. But she had. He pulled his hand down his face in an attempt to rationalise. He told himself that she was only speaking with this man because she was facilitating her return to him. It didn’t help though. 

How long had she known him? Neighbours she said? A neighbour she went to for favours?

Just then, a group of women passed behind him, wrapped in knit shawls and carrying steaming mugs. 

“Is that him then?” one asked, nodding subtly in his direction.

“Aye. Must be. The Englishman she never speaks of.”

“The father?” another said, tilting her chin. “Can’t be one of the other two, not with that face.”

“No wonder she went quiet all those years back. Look at the cut of him.”

He stiffened and jutted his chin forward. He didn’t mean to eavesdrop but they weren’t exactly whispering, and their inexplicable switch to English made it easier too. 

It felt like walking into a room where posters declaring your sins hung on every wall.

He glanced at Penelope again, still talking to Declan, now laughing softly at something he said. And for one brief moment, Declan touched her elbow as he turned to call over a friend.

Colin’s hand tightened into fists.

“Brother,” came Anthony’s voice, cutting through his spiralling thoughts. “Do you always glower like that when you’re jealous, or is it a new development?”

Colin turned to find both of his brothers now seated on a bench by the square’s edge, a bottle of whiskey between them and three small glasses in hand. 

“I am not glowering,” Colin muttered, joining them.

“You are pouting though,” Benedict said cheerfully. 

Colin grumbled. “He’s… her neighbour.”

“Charming sort,” Anthony added with a sip of whiskey. “I suppose he couldn’t find a shirt that fits.”

Colin nearly laughed, and hated that it helped.

Benedict poured him a dram. “You’ll need this.”

Colin took it, but didn’t sip. He knew it would taste of ash anyway.

Benedict lifted his glass again. “Irish whiskey, unmatched. The Scots have competition.”

“Don’t tell Michaela,” he replied, managing a smirk. 

He glanced back to the square and caught Penelope’s eye across the crowd. Her gaze lingered on Colin, just a breath longer than polite. She made her way back, weaving through dancers, curls bouncing with each step, the barest smile playing on her lips.

He relaxed, knowing she had stopped talking to that bastard. 

He turned to spot Agatha clambering up upon the raised wooden dance floor and watched in amazement as she waltzed right up to a young man, grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him into the fold. 

Gone was the propriety of London ballrooms; the dance cards, the ambitious Mamas, the crystal thimbles that served for lemonade glasses. 

“That’s Patrick Connolly,” Penelope explained as she arrived, nodding to Agatha’s partner. “Declan’s eldest boy.”

“Is he respectable?” Colin asked calmly, in an attempt not to give away that all he wanted to do was to smack the spawn of Satan’s hand off his daughter’s waist. 

“Not for Mayfair perhaps, but for here? Yes, very respectable. Close friend of Aggie and Thomas.”

Colin looked around, where was Thomas?

He scanned the dancers, the doors by the pub, the food laden trestle tables. But then at the edge of the square, half-shadowed behind an apple cart, stood his son. One hand shoved into the pocket of his waistcoat, the other twitching in time with the music. His jaw was set, watching everything, but his feet hadn’t moved an inch. 

Colin’s heart tightened. 

Colin crossed to him slowly, careful not to startle.

“You alright?” he asked, settling beside him.

Thomas shrugged without looking over. “Fine.”

The music roared behind them. A slip jig, maybe. Feet slapped the wood, skirts spun in fans. But here, in the shadow of the cart, it was quieter.

“You don’t have to dance, if you don’t want to,” Colin said. “I felt out of place dancing at your age too. Your mother was the only one who could steady me.”

Another shrug.

Colin tried again. Perhaps his son was embarrassed he’d been spotted. “You don’t have to rush anything. Not dancing, not London. Not Parliament. There’s time to figure it all out.”

Thomas flinched, and Colin knew he’d chosen the wrong thing to say.

“You keep saying that,” Thomas muttered, his jaw clenched. “London. Family. Parliament.”

Colin froze. Fuck. “I just meant-”

“I don’t know how to talk to people. I hardly fit in here, ” Thomas snapped suddenly, louder than intended. “And if I don’t fit in here, I won’t fit in anywhere. At least in Rathnew, I won’t be expected to stand up and parade myself to a bunch of English pricks .”

He stormed off before Colin could say anything more, disappearing into the swell of dancers, head ducked low, shoulders tight.

Colin exhaled slowly, throat raw with guilt.

He shouldn’t have said anything. He’d pressed too hard. In his rush to do right by his children, he’d been too eager to bond, and he’d rushed him. He should have just stood there and let his son feel what he needed to feel. Let him come to it in his own time. Colin was no father. He felt as though he was stumbling around in the dark, bungling the most important thing in the world to him, and if coping with all this was difficult for him at nigh on forty years of age, it must be world altering at only seventeen. 

A soft voice over his shoulder, “Don’t mind him.”

“He’ll come around,” his daughter said, taking the seat next to him. “Tommy. He doesn't take to the dancing like I do." She grinned, "And with this barony stuff, he’s just nervous. He doesn’t understand what this opportunity could mean yet. He’s frightened he won’t have the right words to say to those Lords, and…he thinks leaving would be giving in, but it's not. ”

“You don’t think so?”

“Well no, he fancies himself loyal to his home, but he’s scared he will make a mess of things. Tommy can make all the grand notions about staying loyal to Ireland that he likes. But the way I see it, you have to play the game if you want to win it. And a seat with the Lords? Think of what he could do.” She exclaimed passionately, counting on her fingers. “Join O’Connell and overturn the Act of Union for one. The Corn Laws for two. Catholic Emancipation was progress, but the Gaelic Irish are still required to pay tithes to a church that is not their own.” 

Colin listened to his daughter in silent wonderment, she was extraordinary. 

“Tommy’s protective. He’s protective of Mammy, he’s protective of our home. He’s even protective of me, though he’d get a kick if he went too far in showing it,” she giggled. “He’s nervous of change. He refuses to admit that sometimes change has to happen.”

“What do you mean?” Colin asked, shuffling closer, sensing the topic had moved away from the political and into the personal. 

“A loaf of bread now costs three times what it did last autumn, turf for the fire and wool for clothes are more. We are so lucky to own Buncrana, but most people here can’t make their rent,” she gestured to the crowd. “Some of them even pawn their church clothes on a Monday for the rent money, buy them back on the Friday payday to wear to Mass, only to repeat the process over again week in, week out.” 

She paused, searching for the right words to make her point, “Mammy has tried to shield us from it, but it doesn’t take a genius. She’s been frugal our entire lives, and we never wanted for anything! But being a mother doesn’t pay…and I know what money she has is running out, quickly.”

Colin blanched, Lady Whistledown had seemed the wealthiest woman on Earth before he’d known her identity. Ten thousand pounds Penelope had earned for herself, a large sum of course, but seventeen years , two children. Agatha was right. 

“She’d pawn the furniture. If anyone in Rathnew had use of a crystal chandelier.”

He didn’t know what he could do to improve the situation in Ireland, he didn’t know he could do anything at all. But he could provide for his family. 

Even if Penelope rejected him, threw him out on his arse tomorrow night. Even if they made it to January only for her to say she never wishes to set eyes on him again. He’d make sure they were provided for. 

It was good to be a Bridgerton after all. 

Guilt laced nausea was bubbling in Colin’s gut, “Agatha I promise-.”

But she brushed him off, and Colin suspected that she didn’t want to ruin their night with the melancholy conversation. 

“Ah nevermind that, you’re here now aren’t ya?” She stood up, “I only came over to say Mammy’s looking for you. I think she wants to dance,” she pulled him up by the arms, a stronger girl than she looked, and pushed him towards her.

Penelope stood with her arms crossed loosely over her chest, watching him approach with the hint of smirk on her lips. Her cheeks were flushed from the warmth, her fiery curls looser now, swaying in the breeze. She looked alight, like she’d swallowed a lit match.

They met in the middle of the courtyard. 

“A decent conversation?” she asked prettily, the lantern reflections dotting her eyes like stars. 

“With Agatha. Not so much with Thomas, I upset him, Pen.”

“I know. I spoke to him. He’s not angry with you, he’s just overwhelmed by all this change,” she grasped his hand as the music started to swell once more. “He just needs time. I promise, Colin.”

He nodded slowly, still unsure, still wracked with guilt. 

“Let’s dance,” she said. “The Siege of Ennis. You remember?”

“Our first dance,” he replied. “The Vauxhall ball. You were wearing that pink dress.”

It was a lively country jig. An Irish country jig. Not romantic like a waltz, nor respectable like a quadrille. But precious, sacred, theirs.  

The music surged the familiar reel, wilder than he remembered. All around them, the crowd clapped and whooped. 

Penelope grabbed his other hand and stepped backwards into the steps, eyes dancing, hair tumbling loose. Her skirt flared around her calves as she bounced lightly on the balls of her feet. He pulled her by the waist to spin her round, his hand nestled perfectly in the curve of her hip. She became a glorious blur of rose-gold and orange as they spun, faster and faster. 

He could almost believe they were children again. Where for one, impossible moment, it had never gone wrong. 

When the music finally slowed and the set ended, Penelope staggered back with a breathless laugh, cheeks flushed the most delightful pink. Her curls had slipped from her pins, tousled and unbound. Perfect. 

He looked to Anthony and Benedict, sniggering to each other and throwing him a thumbs up. 

He looked to Agatha, completely uninterested, laughing and chatting with some other boy. 

He looked to Thomas, who was smiling at his parents. 

Thank God.

Chapter Text

Buncrana Cottage. Rathnew, Co, Mayo. Ireland. October 15th 1833.

The morning came like the last, brisk and bright. A light misty rain cooled the effects of the sun, dew clung to the tall grass and spackled the windowsills which seemed to soften the landscape into a tapestry of green and gold. 

Colin should have felt triumphant, he was after all, victorious. He had succeeded in his goal of travelling to Ireland and returning with his family. But as he hoisted the last of the trunks down the oaken stairway and set it by the front door, his nerves pricked with unease. 

The awkwardness between him and his son still lingered from the night before. Thomas had carried his own trunk down the staircase, set it by the front door and sat down to breakfast without a word of greeting to anyone. Agatha asked him something that Colin assumed meant something like “Are you alright?” but he just shrugged and sulkily pushed his scrambled eggs around his plate.

Penelope had told Colin he needed time, and his brothers had echoed her sentiments. 

“Teenagers can smell desperation Col,” Benedict had told him in some attempt at comfort. “You’ve got to let him come to you.”

Penelope’s neighbour, the man that had swiftly become Colin's sworn enemy, arrived not long after breakfast. He came clattering up the narrow dirt path with his cart in tow, a pair of Irish draught horses snorting clouds of steam into the cold air around them. By Colin’s reckoning, he looked far too excited to be there. 

The man greeted his wife first, of course he did. 

“Good morning Pen, sleep well?”

Pen? Pen? He, and admittedly his sister, were the only ones to call her Pen. His brothers were related to her now and even then they only referred to her as Penelope. 

“Well enough,” she said, lifting her chin. “The dancing tired me out.”

“I missed my chance,” he replied, sticking his hand out to Colin. “This the fella you danced the siege with? Tommy’s father?”

“Both of their fathers as I’m sure you know,” Colin replied, begrudgingly shaking the man’s hand. “Colin Bridgerton.”

If Colin wasn’t so keen to get out of Rathnew he would have forgone this man’s help and built a fucking sprung cart himself. 

But Declan just nodded smugly and turned back to Penelope and Agatha, “You didn’t have to do all this lifting yourself Pen, you could have waited for me.”

But before Colin had a chance to respond. Anthony stepped forward and clutched Colin’s shoulder in a silent gesture.

“Good to meet you formally, Connolly. Myself and my brothers are here to escort Penelope and her children back to England.”

Declan just gave him a ‘hmph’ and turned back to the ladies, “I’ve brought a few extra blankets for the back, we don’t want you girls catching your death do we?”

“Very thoughtful,” Penelope said, smiling. 

Colin thought there was a chance he would grind his teeth down to a powder by the end of the day.

Thomas emerged from the house and grimaced as the bright sun hit him straight in the eyes.

Colin's heart ached, it looked as though he hadn’t had much sleep at all. 

“There you are Tommy,” Declan shouted. “You up for a bit of driving?”

Thomas’ entire face lit up. “You sure?”

“Course. I’ll need a man up front,” he replied, tossing him the reins as he clambered up next to him on the driver’s bench. “And you,” he turned to Agatha, “keep an eye on your mother, alright? Make sure she doesn’t go flying off the back.”

Agatha gave him a sharp salute, making Penelope roll her eyes, but she climbed into the cart all the same, settling beside Penelope with a theatrical sigh. Colin lingered for a moment, watching as the trio adjusted their seats; Penelope carefully pulling a blanket over Agatha’s knees, Thomas taking the reins like a boy who’d just been knighted. Declan just chucked and sat back into the bench, settling his broad frame with the ease of a man used to commanding horses, and children. His voice carried cheerfully over the crunch of the gravelly dirt as the cart wheels spun into motion.

From where Colin stood, they looked like something out of a Bruegel painting. A family portrait. One he wasn’t part of.

Behind them, Anthony and Benedict mounted their own horses alongside Colin, both of them still a bit worse for wear after the previous night’s indulgences. 

“Looks like we’ve been relegated to the escort detail,” Benedict sighed. “Ready?” 

Colin agreed, more than ready to get this day over with. “Absolutely,” he muttered, through gritted teeth. 

They set off soon after, the Bridgerton brothers on horseback flanking the cart. The morning air was crisp and carried the scent of turf and cut grass. As they passed through Rathnew, making their way to the road for Galway, bottles, glasses and some furniture lay scattered across the square from the night before. 

The road dipped and curved through hills and flatlands, past the remnants of old stone walls and the occasional church. 

As the morning wore on, Colin’s eyes remained fixed on the cart ahead of him. Agatha was slumped into the cart, tucked under her mother’s shoulder and buried under the many blankets Connolly had provided. Thomas was laughing at something he said, and even from his horse, Colin could see his hand’s moving more confidently on the reins. He watched as Penelope tucked the edge of the blanket even more tightly around her daughter's shoulders.

He hated how he had been so unaware, so removed from this world she had built. She had forged a whole life in his absence. One where she was the mother, protector, provider and where a man like Declan fucking Connolly could step in to fill the vacuum Colin had left. 

He tried to calm himself once more, reminding himself that in a matter of hours they would arrive in Galway city and this bastard would be returning the way he came. Good riddance.

Colin tried to distract himself by tuning in to his brother's conversation. 

“I’ll be glad to get back,” Anthony announced. “Remind me to collect some gifts for the children in Dublin. I’ve promised Charlotte as many ribbons as will fit in my suitcase, and the boys might like one of those drums the band was playing last night.”

Benedict agreed. “I miss my kids. Not the noise, mind you. But by the time I get back to My Cottage, it’ll be the longest I’ve gone without seeing them in years.”

Colin forced a smile. His kids were right in front of him. But there was a bridge, a distance he still had to cross that felt a mile wide. 

“And Kate,” Anthony added after a pause. “God, I miss her. I don’t think I’ve slept properly since we left.

Benedict smirked. “I’m not one for dramatics, but I swear if Sophie doesn’t let me up the stairs the moment I get home, I might faint from deprivation.” 

Colin, almost automatically, replied, “ You’re not one for dramatics?”

They both laughed, but Colin just continued to stare straight ahead. 

Galway City. Co. Galway, Ireland. October 15th 1833.

They arrived in Galway in the soft spill of the late afternoon. The salty air of the harbour tuning briny as they rode closer into the centre. The caw of seagulls rose above the din of the bustling city, the streets hummed with the music of a city in motion, the clatter of hooves, the shouts of street vendors and the rattle of carriages.

Galway cathedral rose like a sentinel in the centre of the town, the large domed building could have been mistaken for Rome in its grandeur. Congregants filtered out into its courtyard on the square, having just attended the last Mass of the day.

After returning their three horses to the stables they had collected them from, Colin and his brothers followed the cart on foot to the stagecoach office, which was firmly shut. 

“No departures on Sunday,” Penelope read in defeat. “The next service is tomorrow morning at seven o’clock." She turned to the men, "I’m sorry, it was stupid of me not to realise.”

“It’s not your fault Pen,” Colin said lovingly. “We lodged in that guesthouse across the square on our way to you. I am certain we can find rooms again.”

She followed where he was pointing and nodded, accepting the arrangement. 

Colin turned to Declan, finally feeling he was permitted to take charge. “Connolly, thank you very much for your assistance. If you’ll just open the back of the cart so we can retrieve the trunks we can be on our way. Good day to you.”

“Nah,” he replied. He looked Penelope up and down and waved his hand gallantly. “I’ll stay and see you on to the coach tomorrow. Besides, the horses will be too tired for the return journey.”

“You don’t-” Colin began.

“Yes, you should stay,” Penelope agreed in a cordial tone, cutting off Colin. “You’ve done us a good turn and you must be exhausted yourself.”

Fuck, fucking, fuck .

Colin felt his jaw click together and forced a nod. He resolved, albeit begrudgingly, to hold his tongue, it wouldn’t do for him to throw a jealous tantrum in front of his wife and children. 

Hours later, Colin thought he had endured the most frustrating meal of his life. He had enjoyed himself at first, answering Agatha's eager questions about her new uncles, aunts and cousins. But as the evening went on, each time Declan took it upon himself to refill her glass, every time he reached across her for some bread, Colin felt the familiar ache of anxious nausea bubbling in his gut. 

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would be gone. And if he played his cards right, Penelope need never set eyes on this bastard again without Colin's arm slid tightly around his wife’s waist and his ring fit snugly on her finger. 

Penelope, saint that she was, managed to bring the dinner to an end by sending the twins straight to bed, insisting they had not had enough sleep the night before and would need their strength for the journey ahead. They had brooked no argument, considering they had been falling asleep into their stew.

“I’ll check on them later,” Penelope said, turning to Colin, and it warmed his heart to see that she was keeping him a breast of her thought processes. 

After their meal, he found himself sitting in the same chair he had four days previous. The guesthouse pub was comfortable and inviting, but the atmosphere was not reflected in the attitude of some of its guests. The five adults found themselves packed around the hearth, glasses of warming whiskey in hand.

The grip on Colin’s glass was so tight, but even if it shattered he wouldn’t have noticed. He was too busy scowling at Declan. 

“D’ye remember when little Aggie got herself stuck in the old oak in your garden?” he said, gesturing his glass towards Penelope. “God above Pen, you came barrelling down my lane like the divil was nipping at your heels.” he turned his attention to Colin and his brothers, “She hammered on my door like she meant to knock it off the hinges.”

Penelope laughed, shaking her head, “I was not that dramatic.”

Declan glugged down his whiskey and signaled to the barkeep for another. “Oh, you were,” he insisted, clearly emboldened by the drink. “Your hair was half pinned up and you were barefoot, rantin’ and ravin’ ‘Declan! Declan! She’s gone up the tree and won’t come down.”

The roiling green monster of jealousy was clawing and scraping at Colin’s insides as he listened. Every laugh, every joint memory was a tally of his absence.

But Connolly just continued to laugh, not noticing the three sets of glaring eyes staring back at him. 

“Course, when I get there, the lass is only six feet off the ground. Didn’t even have to lift my arms to reach her.” 

Penelope rolled her eyes, but said nothing. Colin scowled, the thinly veiled comment on his wife stature would not get past him.

Was that the distinct taste of ground up wisdom teeth at the back of his mouth?

“And Thomas, good lad, used to follow me around the yard when I was feeding the horses. D’ya remember he tried to fix my stable gate with a shoelace and a spoon?”

“Yes I do,” Penelope sighed, “I was picking splinters out of his hands for days.”

Colin forced a smile, though his throat was tight. He felt each word like a jab in the gut, this man had been there for all the moments he had missed. And where was he? Rotting away in his musty house, gambling away his money in every den in Soho, or passing out in a brothel after drinking himself to unconsciousness.

Penelope had given him a chance , but what if his attempts to be a husband and father now would not make up for the past seventeen years? What if she arrived at Aubrey Hall and was faced with the perfectly fucking functional families all his siblings enjoyed, and he looked incompetent and hopeless next to them? 

She’d let him be the twins' father. She’d said as much. But what if she didn’t want them to be a family again?

Declan was midway through another story, something about the time Agatha had tried to investigate the inner workings of a beehive. 

This earned a grimace and shift in the chair from Anthony, who went on to say, “What about you, Connolly? A wife? Children?”. 

“Had a wife, Bríd.” He waved his hand as if brushing dust from his shoulder. “She passed near ten years ago now. Consumption, the doctor said. But I say it was the stubbornness.” He laughed, a burp rising up. 

Colin got the sense there had been no love lost between Mr. and Mrs. Connolly.

“Left me with three. A lass and two boys.” 

Penelope offered a soft murmur of apology, but he brushed her off, his voice growing louder, more erratic. “Ah was a long time ago now, and my girl raised the other two better than she ever could have anyway.”

Colin furrowed his brow. What kind of man would discuss his late wife in such a cold, apathetic manner?

Declan stood to fetch himself another glass, his steps were beginning to stagger now, just slightly, but enough to make Colin notice. He glanced at his own drink and was half-heartedly surprised to see he hadn’t touched a drop. Declan returned to the group with a sloppy grin and a full tumbler sloshing over the rim, he dropped back into his seat. Penelope pulled her cream shawl tighter around his shoulder and leaned away from his direction.

He raised his glass to her in an exaggerated flourish. “I’ll be sorry to see you go Penny…to old times!” 

She did not raise her glass in return. Her smile was strained now and her eyes were cast toward the floor. 

“Here tell you what,” he barked, clapping his hand on his thigh as though the idea had just occurred to him, “I missed my chance for a dance yesterday, let’s end the night properly?”

The room stilled, so quiet that anyone could have heard Colin’s heart beating. 

Penelope shook her head gently, a flicker of unease in her tone. “It’s late Declan. I’ve had enough of dancing for one weekend.”

“Ah c’mon,” he coaxed, taking a step towards her, his voice cajoling and bitter in equal measure. “After I drove ya all the way here?”

Before anyone had a chance to respond, he reached out and grabbed her by the arm to pull her to her feet. 

She gave a gasp of pain. “Declan, let go, you're hurting me.”

The crack in her voice snapped something inside Colin.

He was out of the chair in a second, “Get your bloody hands off her,” he growled, not recognising his own voice. 

Declan loosened his grip but did not yet release her, he turned that infuriating smirk plastered across his face. “Relax Bridgerton, it’s only a dance.”

Colin was about to wrestle Penelope out of his arms himself when his brothers squared up next to him.

“I believe my sister said no,” Anthony said coolly. 

Declan dropped her arm, and Penelope stepped back, her expression composed but tight.

Colin clamped his jaw, desperate not to lose whatever tenants of sanity he had left and frighten Penelope. 

His smirked curled nastily, “Right. Forgot I was outnumbered. Lucky you’ve got your brothers here Bridgerton. Can't you defend your wife yourself?”

“Leave,” Colin said. “While you still can.”

But Declan just laughed coldly and took another deep sip from his glass, he turned and looked him straight in the eye. 

“You think you’ve got it all sorted, don’t you? That she’s yours, just because you showed up here after nearly two decades. But I’ve been there. I’ve seen a wife without a husband and I’ve seen two young children crying for a father they never had.”

Colin took another step forward, fury radiating off him, his fists trembling at his sides. The entire pub was watching them now. 

“She’s doing this for her kids,” his voice dropped. His face so close now Colin could smell the whiskey on his breath, “But she’ll come back, she doesn’t want any part of you.”

Colin lunged, white hot rage blurring his vision. He was fit to clock this bastard straight in the jaw and send him crumpling to the ground. But Anthony and Benedict grabbed for him and held him back. 

“That’s enough!” The portly barkeep shouted from behind the counter, “He’s barred. Out. Now.”

Declan tossed back the last of his whiskey, then let the empty tumbler glass smash upon the floor, sending the shards scattering like ice. He didn’t even look back as several other patrons ushered him out into the night. 

Only when the door slammed behind him did Colin realise he was shaking. His heart was pounding against his ribs like it wanted out of his skin.

He turned to Penelope, and he knew the look of terror on his face was something he’d never forget. 

“Are you alright?” he asked hoarsely. He wanted to gather her up in his arms and press her face to his chest, onlookers be damned. She was his wife.

But as he stepped towards her, she stepped back, “I-I’ve never seen him like that,” she said softly, eyes cast once more to the floor. 

His heart broke in half once again, “Penelope, it wasn’t you-”

She cut him off, “I want to go to bed.”

Without looking at him, she turned on her heel, darted away and raced up the stairs out of sight. 

Chapter Text

Galway City. Co. Galway, Ireland. October 15th 1833.  

The silence that remained in the pub was deafening, the glass clinking, the shouts, the scratch of instruments had all come to a stop. Colin stood frozen, the fury he had felt mere seconds ago being overtaken by a slow, creeping surge of dread and guilt. He was still shaking, trembling with the effort of holding himself together. 

Anthony laid a hand on his shoulder tentatively. The rest of the pub slowly resumed its chatter, like the birds that return after a storm. 

“Let her go,” he said reassuringly. “For tonight at least.”

Benedict added, “Give her space, Col. You were defending her, she knows that. She’s just had a bad fright.”

But Colin couldn’t say anything, somehow he knew that that look , that terror scratched across her face, was meant for him as much as it was meant for Connolly. 

He didn’t follow her. He was too emotional. He would only make things worse. 

Useless. Inadequate.

Instead, he turned wordlessly and climbed the stairs to his room.

The hallway was quiet, dim. His steps felt heavy, as though with each one he might fall through the floorboards. When he reached his room, he slipped inside and shut the door behind him. He stood there for a long moment, staring out the window to the pitch black beyond, before he sank to the floor and buried his head in his hands.

Images of that man grabbing her, bruising her, flashed through his mind with endless repetition. 

The sound she’d made when he touched her. Her face, pale and stricken, like a rabbit caught in a snare.

That violent, drunken bastard had hurt his wife.

Despite the rage simmering in his gut, the guilt bubbled hotter still, Colin knew he was no better. He was more like Declan Connolly than he cared to admit. 

He wasn’t a violent drunk, but he was a drunk all the same. He had shunned away everyone, turned away from his family in favour of the bottle. He'd spent years feeling he couldn’t function without, completely dependent on liquor to numb the pain of a life without purpose, a life without love. 

But now, he had a chance, he had Penelope back, he had his children. And if he wanted them to be a proper family again, he would have to learn to function without a drink in his hand.

He stared at the mostly full glass of whiskey still sitting untouched on the side table, left from earlier. The amber liquid caught the firelight like a siren’s lure.

He crossed the room in three strides and tipped it out into the porcelain basin.

He let out a long, broken breath and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

No more .

He would stop, when he returned, he would toss out every bottle from the house himself. No more clubs, no more gambling, no more empty nights followed by vicious hangovers. He had a purpose, and he would fight to keep it. His children would look at him and see a real man, a real father.

Then came a hard knock on the door that forced Colin’s head to snap upwards.

He leapt across the room at once, hoping it was her.

It wasn’t.

Agatha stood in the doorway of his bedroom, in her night dress and dressing gown, her long red hair in two plaits down her back, eyes tired and uncertain. 

She’d heard the commotion downstairs. She must have heard her mother run and take refuge in her own room. 

She pointed vaguely toward the staircase, “What was all that shouting?”

Colin rubbed the back of his neck, ashamed he’d had a part in causing her concern, “Nothing for you to worry about. Just…someone who had too much to drink.”

She tilted her head and offered a look far too knowing for her age. “It was Declan wasn’t it?”

He didn’t answer, but he knew his silence confirmed it. She reminded him of Daphne in that moment, younger than him, but somehow knowing.

“Is he gone?” she asked. 

He nodded. 

She stepped further into the room, “I never liked him that much anyway.”

Colin blinked, caught off guard, “You didn’t?”

She shrugged. “He was nice when we were kids I suppose. But after Mammy turned down his proposal, he got a bit weird, like he was putting on some sort of show. At least it felt that way to me.”

This threw him for a loop completely, “He proposed? To your mother?”

“Yeah I suppose he assumed she was a widow. Or he didn’t care and just wanted to get close to her. I was only eight.”

Colin thought what little food he’d consumed that night might come back up. 

A beat passed, where she just observed his reaction. And Colin was about to ask more when, without warning, she said;

“Will you tell me what happened between you and Mammy now?”

Colin froze. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to tell her, he did. He wanted nothing more than to pull back the veil and tell them everything. To have an open, honest relationship with his children.

But he was ashamed too, ashamed of what they might think of him. If he opened that door, truly opened it, would they ever look at him the same way again?

They would, surely, take their mother’s side in all this. That was why he hoped at some point Penelope would agree to sit them down together, with him, and tell them everything. 

But now, Agatha’s face. Her eyes met his, unwavering. The quiet, steady, hunger for answers, and the surety in her eyes that she deserved those answers, undid him at last. 

“Yes,” he said, with finality. “I’ll tell you.”

She stepped into the room fully took a seat on the bed, he pulled out the old, puckered leather armchair across from her and sank into it with a shaky sigh. 

Agatha sat neatly, neater than he’d seen her at any point before, her hands folded in her lap. She looked so much like Penelope that it almost winded him. But there was something else there too, a curiosity that reminded him of Hyacinth, perhaps, and an Eloise-like certainty. 

Colin looked at her for a long moment before he spoke, “It’s a long story,” he said. “And I am not proud of how it ends. Or begins, really.”

She smiled with a patience that was all Francesca, “I’ve got all night.” 

“Alright well…your mother and I met when I was twelve and she was nine,” he started shakily. “Her and my sister were inseparable almost immediately. But I met her first,” he looked at his daughter pointedly then, as if to say don’t forget that. 

“She was shy. Quiet. But very clever, brilliant really. She somehow managed to be the funniest person in the room without ever raising her voice. Which,” he smiled, “was a skill my own family never seemed to master.” 

“And we were friends, for years before we started to feel more, before I started to feel more anyway,” he laughed, a feeling of nostalgia warming him. “As we grew up, she became my closest friend. We would promenade, we would gossip and joke in the corners of ballrooms. When I travelled, I wrote to her constantly. Her letters were the ones I was always most eager to read, because she had such a way with words and she made me feel at home even when I wasn’t.” 

Agatha smiled softly, silently encouraging him to continue. 

“It was completely improper, of course, for an unmarried gentleman and a young lady to be friends. And I should’ve asked for her hand the moment she debuted really, but I didn’t. I was stupid and blind, I had put her in a box, with ‘best friend’ scrawled across it, and I didn’t realise that I had felt something for her, something special, as long as I’d known her. I didn’t see her, not properly, until it was nearly too late, and once I did realise, well” he smiled, remembering the single most perfect kiss of his life, “it was as though the world opened up around me and I fell head over heels in love.”

Agatha’s nose scrunched up, cringing, and Colin decided to bypass some of the more romantic details. He digressed, “There was a time, after our betrothal, that I thought we were going to have the perfect life, the perfect marriage, the perfect house and children.”

“But that didn’t happen,” she interrupted, with a tone of finality in her voice. 

“No, it didn’t. Well-” he smiled assuredly. “The last part did.”

Agatha fell back into herself and smiled, giving him a look of haughty derision, when the door creaked open once more. 

His son stood in the opening, half-covered by shadow. 

Colin’s heart swelled. “Thomas, please-”, he gestured toward the bed. “Come in.”

Thomas stepped in with trepidation, and shot a suspicious look toward his sister, “What are you two talking about?” Though Colin could see that he already knew.

But Agatha just rolled her eyes at his affectation and pulled him down next to her, “Go on, Dad.”

Colin thought his heart might explode at her use of the term, but managed to go on, “As I was saying, your mother and I were friends before we were married, very good friends. I thought we were lucky, because we were entering our marriage knowing each other better than most do at the start. But what came next was-”

He paused, unsure how to word the next part, “Penelope, she…she had a secret,” he put carefully.

“Was it something bad?” Thomas asked, a childlike expression of worry spreading across his face.

“Nothing bad, nothing cruel, or criminal,” he was quick to reassure them. “It was a secret, and it was hers. Something she held by herself for a very long time. I think it gave her a sense of self, a sense of purpose in a society where women aren’t encouraged to have much of either.”

He hesitated, “I don’t want to tell you that part without her. It’s hers to explain and it wouldn’t be fair to speak on her behalf. But I will tell you what happened between us.”

He raised his head, looking up at the ceiling, “I found out about her secret just a few days before our wedding.”

Thomas’ brow furrowed slightly and Agatha leaned forward over her hands.

“I didn’t handle it well,” Colin swallowed convulsively, not meeting their eyes, “I was hurt, more than that, I was angry. I felt deceived. Because I thought we knew each other completely, and then all of a sudden, that was gone. I felt as though a stranger had taken the place of my fiancée.”

He rubbed a hand down his face, fearful of how they would react to what he was about to say, but determined to carry on all the same. “I told myself I was right to feel betrayed. I should have been open about my feelings, but I wasn’t. I was too afraid to give her more of me for fear I would get hurt again.”

A breath caught in his throat, “She…she asked me if I was going to call off the wedding. But I refused, and I let her believe I was only marrying her out of honour, but I was lying, I was marrying her because I still loved her.”

“After the wedding, it only got worse. I pulled away from her completely. I would spend hours away from the house, leaving her completely alone. And I convinced myself I was doing the right thing, that staying away from her was better, because if we fought, I knew I wouldn’t be able to control what I said.” 

Thomas looked at his feet, but continued to listen. Agatha’s brows lifted slightly but her face remained calm. 

“And Penelope tried, she tried to reach for me, but I only pulled away. I needed time to forgive her, but in my silence, I was punishing her.” He pushed forward, willing himself to be completely honest, “I knew what she was thinking, that I didn’t want the marriage, that I felt trapped, that I no longer loved her. And I made no effort to reassure her otherwise, because I wanted her to hurt as much as I was hurting.”

Thomas’ stared hard at the floorboards, his knuckles white as he gripped the quilt, “And that’s why she left?”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “I drove her away.” 

He would wait till Penelope was with them to say the rest; Whistledown, the Queen’s bounty, Cressida, all of it. But the truth was none of that truly mattered anyway, because he and Penelope could have worked through all that together. They could have come through it all if he hadn’t been so cold, and cruel, and spiteful in letting her believe he didn’t love her. It was his fault that she left.  

“I didn’t look for her,” Colin admitted. “My family begged me to. Anthony was ready to call in private detectives. My mother cried for days, she loved Penelope like a daughter. And my sister, Eloise, she didn’t look at me for years afterward.”

Agatha’s eyes had grown wide, absorbing all she was hearing, “Why didn’t you look for her?”

“Because I was a coward, Agatha,” he said simply and truthfully. “I was terrified, immobilized by the fear that I would find her, and she would have moved on without me. I thought that she didn’t love me anymore.”

Thomas’ voice came small and quiet, “She never told you about us.”

Colin looked at him, and saw that the pain that flickered in his son’s eyes was not defensive, it was honest, and raw. “No,” he admitted. “She didn’t. I didn’t know a thing about you till that letter arrived. But,” he gulped, “knowing what I know now. I believe she only kept silent to keep you safe, to protect you and give you a happy life. She didn’t believe that was possible if she’d stayed.”

Agatha shifted on the bed, pulling her knees up toward her chin, “She did give us a happy life.”

“I know that Agatha, and I…I can’t take back what I did,” he continued, his eyes prickling. “But I would give anything, anything to go back and change it.”

Thomas took a long shaky breath, finally looking away from the floor and up at his father, “I’m sorry I was cold with you before.” He said, his fingers fiddling with the edge of the quilt, “I was so overwhelmed when you arrived, all three of you. This job you want me to do, if I’m not able to-” he took another breath, cutting himself off. “I was worried about getting to know you, because I was afraid you might leave again.” 

Colin leaned forward and placed a hand on his son's shoulder, “When the news of you arrived Thomas, it felt as though I got my life back, by some miracle I had been given a second chance. I promise you, I am not going anywhere. I'll be right here, always. And I want to earn my place in your lives.”

He and Agatha both nodded, silently accepting this. 

“Mammy didn’t speak about you. Not much. We asked a few times, when we were little. And she just said you weren’t in our lives…because you weren’t. That was that. Like saying the sky was blue and grass was green.” Agatha said matter-of-factly. She paused, smoothing her hand over one of her plaits, “It sounds silly now. But that always seemed normal to me,” she looked up at him, knowingly. “I suppose she’s good at keeping her secrets.”

"I promise we will tell you together, you both deserve the truth," Colin replied.

Thomas’s voice was quieter, his tone more reflective. “I wrote to you once. I was eight.” He glanced at his sister, who gave a tiny nod. “Mammy didn’t say much when I gave it to her. I sorta knew she didn’t send it.”

Colin exhaled slowly, trying not to let the sting of guilt drown him. “I wish I had known. I would have…” He trailed off. He knew why they hadn’t tried harder to find him, hadn’t tried to write to him again, and it ate him up inside. 

They thought he didn’t want them. 

I would have come. I would have changed. I would have been better.  

“I’m sorry,” he said instead, steady but raw. “I’m sorry you had to wonder. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to answer.”

Agatha glanced sideways at Thomas, then back at Colin. “We knew your name,” she said after a beat. “Even if Mammy wouldn’t talk about you, she said your name sometimes. In her sleep.”

Colin didn’t speak. It felt as though his heart had stopped pumping blood. His hands gripped the arms of the chair as though the truth might knock him backward. 

That even in the deepest corners of her mind, when she wasn’t guarding herself or her children, Penelope had still spoken his name. Reached for him in the dark. 

Maybe, maybe. It meant there was hope. 

“I don’t deserve your kindness,” he said honestly. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness.”

Thomas let out a small sound, something between a sigh and a huff, “It’s not about forgiveness really. It’s just…tackling what comes next.”

“Yeah,” Agatha agreed.

Colin blinked hard, astonished, “You’re both remarkable, you know that? You’re as brilliant as your mother.”

“You still love her,” Agatha smiled, not questioningly, but assuredly, and half-way teasing him too.

He swallowed, and nodded. “Yes,” he said. “In more ways than I can even express.”

She scrunched up her nose again, “Don’t worry, I won’t ask you to.”

Colin snorted a laugh, genuine and bright. The events of the hours previous almost forgotten. Almost.

A peaceful silence fell over them. The fire the chambermaids had lit burnt low in the hearth, the shouts and laughter of the pub goers downstairs long since ceased. 

Agatha yawned, quick and sheepish. 

Colin smiled, for this moment, feeling every bit their father, “You both should go to bed.”

She slid off the bed and smoothed out her long nightdress, Thomas joined her, stretching his arms high to the ceiling and letting out a much more substantial yawn.

As they made their way out the door, Thomas murmured his goodnight. Agatha watched her brother make his way across the hallway, and paused, clutching the brass handle. “It’s tricky, you know? If Mammy had stayed, we would have known you.” 

She smiled, then placed a look of mock horror on her face, “But we also would have been English. ”

Chapter Text

Buncrana Cottage. Rathnew, Co. Mayo. Ireland. January 17th 1816.

The high walls of the baroque bed chamber seemed to close in on her with each heaving breath, shadows reached like skeletal hands across the cobwebbed ceiling. 

Penelope lay in the master bedroom of what once had been a grand estate, the velvet curtains were heavy with dust and the air was stagnant from months of shut windows. Grime clung to the plaster ceiling flowers, half the furniture remained covered by thick muslin sheets, and the damask wallpaper cracked and peeled in the corners.

She had not the strength to prepare for this moment. The urge to nest, to prepare her home for the arrival of a baby had never come for her. 

She should've had another couple of weeks at least. But the pain had come too soon, too strong, too early, battering at her body with relentless force.

Bríd Connolly, her neighbor and the only acquaintance she’d managed to make in months of isolation, kneeled next to the bed, her face pale and drawn. She’d come running when Penelope’s cries pierced the night, and she’d sent for the convent sisters.

Now, the nuns flapped like bats around the bed, their black habits stark against the faded drapes. Their voices were sharp and clipped, rattling off prayers between commands.

Penelope’s fingers dug into the sheets, sweat pouring off her forehead. She screamed as another contraction hit, her breath ragged and raw. 

Her mind reeled, she felt incoherent, dazed, near demented with the pain. 

“Colin—” she gasped, frenzied and babbling. Her voice shredded with panic, with longing, “it hurts—it hurts!”

“Let her wail,” one muttered, her mouth pinched, eyes hard. “The pain is penance for her sin.”

Penelope gripped the thin mattress, her knuckles white, sweat soaking her nightdress. Her hair clung to her forehead, tangled and damp. Another contraction gripped her, sharp and searing, forcing a cry from her lips that bordered on a scream.

“Did you spread your legs for him girl?” a sister barked, cold as ice. “Did you let him put his hands on you? Did you enjoy your sin? ”

She felt a little girl again, too young, too juvenile for responsibility such as this. Isolated in her own home, nobody could hear her here. Nobody would listen to her. 

“I’m married!” she choked out. “I’m his wife, he should be here! ”

Another loomed over her, the lines of her face carved in stone, etched with suspicion and disbelief, “Married or not,” she said, her taunting and cruel. “He’s not here. He’s not coming. You must do this alone.”

Alone . How could she be so alone? The man she’d trusted, the man who’d given her his name, he should have been here and he wasn’t.

She had no one to blame. She’d brought this on herself. 

Penelope howled, the ache so deep it felt like it might split her in two. “Colin!” She cried once more, heaving breaths between her sobs. “Colin!”

The next contraction ripped through her, white-hot and blinding. Penelope screamed, her eyes rolling back, her legs trembling with the effort.

“Push, girl,” another nun barked. “Push or the child will die.”

Another wave of pain crushed her chest, sent lightning bolts down her spine. She felt her body give way, felt something warm and wet between her legs.

A wail split the air.

“It’s a boy,” Bríd cried, her hands trembling.

A red, furious infant was pressed to Penelope’s chest almost immediately. His cries were cracked, urgent, as though he were already afraid. Penelope held him tight, tears spilling down her cheeks. 

She took him in, his fearful, screwed up expression. His beet red face contrasted by his white-blonde hair.

Beautiful.

But before she could breathe, the pain returned, sharper, more jagged than before. She clutched her son tight to her and let out an ear-piercing wail.

The nuns’ eyes widened around her like five, great, enormous crows. Peering down as though she was a worm ready to be devoured.

“Another,” one hissed. “Jesus, she’s having another.”

“Please,” Penelope moaned, clutching her son. “Help me.”

She felt it then, a foot, twisting, forcing its way into the world before its time.

“It’s feet first.” One of the nuns barked, alerting the development in panic to the others, “We must send for the doctor. The baby’s the wrong way round. Its breech!” 

“Get it turned,” another ordered.

Hands, too many, pressed down on her stomach, rough and bruising. Blood soaked the sheets, the sharp, metallic scent filling the air like iron and sweat.

Penelope’s scream split the ceiling. “Colin!” she wailed, her voice hoarse and raw. “Colin—please—”

“He’s not here!” the nun snapped, pressing down harder. “He’s not coming! Push, girl. Push if you want this baby to live.”

She pushed. God, she pushed until her head spun and stars danced behind her eyelids. Her teeth grinded in her mouth, her nails cut into her palms.

The baby’s feet emerged first, tiny and blue, slick with blood. 

But then, she stilled, and the pain felt as though Penelope was being torn in half.

“Her shoulders-,” Penelope whispered, her voice croaky and broken.

“Shoulders are stuck,” one nun snapped, her voice a blade of panic. “Pull-”

She felt Bríd’s cold, clammy hands take her son away from her. She couldn’t grab him back as her arms had turned to lead. Her vision blurred and the room became a hellish blur of black habits, white faces, and crimson sheets.

“Help her!” Bríd wailed, tears running down her cheeks. “She’s dying!” 

“Then she dies,” the nun spat, sweat beading her brow as she worked. “It's in God’s hands now. Pray for her soul.”

Penelope grasped at the sheets, she called for anyone to listen to her “Don’t let her put my baby in the ground! It's cold in there, it's dark!” she wailed. She felt like her body was being torn apart, as the nuns wrenched the tiny limbs from her body.

Penelope’s world narrowed to the screaming baby in the cot and the one trapped inside her.

“Colin,” she sobbed. “Colin, please…”

She wanted him here. He wouldn’t let them touch her like this, he wouldn’t have let this happen. He was supposed to love her.

The nuns wrestled with her daughter, one pulling, another pressing down. Penelope thought she might die from the pain.

A sudden, sickening pop and the other slipped free, her screaming, cracked baby cry clear as day, piercing the moment. 

“A girl,” Bríd whispered, her hands trembling as she lifted the baby away.

Her brother’s cries faltered, his voice joining his sister’s in a thin, broken harmony of newborn fear.

Penelope saw her only for a second, a dark, squalling shape, as the blackness began to creep into her vision.

Blood. So much blood. It pooled on the sheets, soaked her nightdress, ran down the sides of the bed in a crimson tide. 

Penelope felt her head loll back against the pillows, her lips pale and cracked. She was so thirsty, she longed for water. 

She tried to lift her arms to reach for her children, but her strength was gone.

“Take care of my babies,” she whispered, voice barely a thread. 

Her eyes fluttered closed.

And the darkness took her.

Galway City. Co. Galway, Ireland. October 16th 1833.

Dawn had not yet risen when, for the first time in years, Colin awoke with a sense of ease in his chest. It wasn’t perfect, not by any means, but the telling, the confessions, the look on his children’s faces as they’d listened to him, had untangled a knot he hadn’t known was there.

He lay there in the narrow guesthouse bed, staring at the cracked plaster ceiling, and let that quiet contentment wash over him. He’d done something right, at least. It was a small step, but a step nonetheless.

They didn’t hate him. He told them and they didn’t hate him for it. 

But then his thoughts turned to Penelope. The memory of her face the night before, stricken and pale with fright, tugged at his heart and made him sick with guilt once more. 

They were leaving soon, bound for Dublin and then to England. He would not have a chance to speak to her alone after they left, and he couldn’t let her go without at least trying to reach out to her.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and rubbed his face with both hands. He scratched at his itchy stubble in contemplation. 

Colin couldn’t blame her for running last night. How many times must she be betrayed by a man she had once called her friend? She had every right to be angry with him, to shut him out after all he’d done, or failed to do. But he had to try.

Nothing had changed, he hoped. His resolve remained the same. 

He pulled on his boots, shrugged into his jacket, and quietly stepped into the hallway. 

Moonlight still streamed in through a single narrow window, painting the worn wood in grey luminescence. As he passed by Penelope’s door, he heard voices, low, muffled, but familiar.

He paused. Penelope and Agatha. They were talking about the fight last night, his stomach curled with dread. 

He could see their skirts through the crack in the door, mother and daughter sat across from one another. 

“…Declan will be on the road by now,” Penelope was saying, her voice tight with exhaustion. “Good riddance. I am so relieved you two were in bed when it all happened.”

Agatha snorted softly, “I’m glad he’s gone. You deserve better.”

Colin felt a surge of pride for his daughter’s loyalty, but he forced himself to stay quiet, to listen.

“I know,” Penelope said, resigned. “I am sorry if he ever made you uncomfortable darling.”

“Not uncomfortable exactly,” Agatha replied, smug tone in her voice. “I just would see him putting on a show for you like some demented peacock and it was sort of exhausting to watch, embarrassing really.”

“He never pushed after I refused his hand, not in any real way,” she sighed. “I suppose meeting your father set him off.”

Agatha laughed, “I like him.”

Colin’s heart lifted, smiling despite himself. He felt giddy. His daughter liked him. 

She spoke again, her tone shifting, “And I’m excited to see London. Well, I’d be excited to see anywhere really as long as it's not in Connacht.”

Penelope spoke again, and Colin could see Penelope taking her daughter’s hand in hers through the crack in the door. “Agatha,” she said solemnly, “I know you are excited to go to England, but please try not to get your hopes up.” She took a breath, “Colin’s family are wonderful, I trust that they will welcome you and Thomas with open arms. But there’s everything else, London society is different to Rathnew.”

“I guessed, Mam,” Colin could sense her rolling her eyes in response.

“No, you see…you’re a young girl. In London, you’ll be a debutante. You won’t be allowed to speak as freely as you do at home. You can’t just ask a young man to dance, you are not even permitted to speak to them unless you’ve been formally introduced.” 

“Mam, I’m sure-”, she replied through gritted teeth, her irritation growing at having her excitement cut off.

“No Aggie, you’re not sure. You’ve never been there. You need to listen to me,” she said with gentle authority. “I love your confidence, my darling, and I wish I had it at your age, but in polite society you can’t just say what you think. No woman can.”

There was a pause, then Agatha’s voice grew hesitant and small. “Mammy… Dad told us about what happened between you two last night. About why you left. He didn’t tell us everything, he said there was more he wanted you to tell us yourself, that you had a secret.”

Colin’s heart seized in his chest. He pressed himself against the wall, his breath caught between guilt and hope.

“He said he thinks you did what you did because it gave you a purpose, where women should not have any.”

Penelope’s breath hitched, “What did he say?”

“Just that,” Agatha said softly. “He didn’t say what you did. But he told us that he made terrible mistakes. That he was angry and hurt and didn’t know how to forgive you. But that he loved you, even then. That he still does.”

His stomach swooped, he closed his eyes in agony. He wished she hadn’t said that, he needed time. Silence stretched in the small room. Colin’s heart raced as he imagined Penelope’s face, pale and uncertain.

Finally, Penelope spoke. “And what do you think of him now?

Agatha was quiet for a moment. “I think he’s trying, Mammy. And I think he’s sorry, and I don’t like that he thinks this was all his fault.”

Another silence. A deep breath.

“Why did you never tell him about us?”

“I-, darling…that is a very complicated story.”

Colin heard the scrape of a chair as Agatha’s voice trembled with a quick rise to frustration and confusion. “I am so tired of hearing that! Will you stop keeping fucking secrets Mam!”

“We will tell you, when the time is right,” Penelope said, but her tone remained unsure. 

“For fuck’s sake! Tommy’s a baron and he didn’t even know! And he’s terrified. ”

He knew he shouldn’t be listening, he knew how wrong this was, but he couldn’t wrench himself away from the door.

“You never told us about our own father, you let us believe he didn’t want us.”

Penelope’s breath hitched, her voice suddenly small, “I never said he didn’t want you.”

Agatha’s voice cracked, but her tone sharpened. “No, but you let us think it . You let us think he was just… just gone because he didn’t care! You let us fill in the blanks ourselves.”

“Agatha-”

“Lying by omission is still lying, no matter what you tell yourself! Did you know how many nights I wondered why he wasn’t there, why he didn’t write, why he didn’t even try?”

Colin’s heart ached, it seemed his daughter hadn’t been entirely honest with him the night before. 

She’d been sparing his feelings. Hiding how she really felt between a thick layer of good humor and nonchalance. 

Penelope’s voice wavered. “Agatha, I was trying to protect you—”

“Protect us from what? ” Agatha demanded, her voice rising. “He told us you did something. Something bad enough to ruin your marriage, something bad enough you had to flee everything you knew. He said you left to keep us safe.” 

She paused, taking in one long, shaky breath and through gritted teeth, she said, “Is that true?”

“Yes, it’s true,” she said solemnly, chastised. Her voice on the edge of tears now too, “It wasn’t an easy decision. But I had no other choice.”

Colin could see Penelope stand and reach for her child. Her voice cracked like glass, “I didn’t want you to feel rejected. I thought if I loved you enough for the both of us, we could make it through. I never wanted you to hate him.”

Agatha sniffed away her tears,  “But we did! I did!” Her voice trembled, and Colin could tell she was trying to keep from breaking down into full, hyperventilating sobs, “We thought he just…he just…didn’t want us.”

Fuck. My babies. Fuck.

Thomas and his letter, Aggie and her sleepless nights. 

His resilient, darling children. Who clearly felt they had to parent him and Penelope instead of the other way around. 

Penelope’s voice fell to a fragile whisper. “I never wanted that for you. I wanted to spare you from pain, not cause it. But I see now that I only made it worse. I am so, so, sorry Agatha.”

Colin could see her shake her head, her tone pleading and broken, “You must believe me when I tell you that I truly believed I could never return, that that life was over for me. I did it to protect you.” 

Agatha let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, sharp and broken. “Well when you do finally decide to lift the last veil mother ….I had better fucking agree with you.”

A beat of silence stretched between them, taut with years of unspoken pain. Colin did not wish to step on Penelope’s toes, she was the one who’d been their sole guardian for seventeen years. 

He prayed she would not try and stay quiet, because he would have to step in otherwise. The twins deserved the whole story, they needed the truth if they had any hope of becoming a family again. Maybe then they would understand.

If Penelope truly wished to keep this from them, she was wrong. 

Through the crack in the door, he watched his wife reach for her daughter's hand once more, finally managing to calm her down,  “ Please, my darling. I hate it when we fight. I only did what I did because I wanted you to be safe. I love you more than anything in the world.”

“Do you…?” She hesitated, her breath catching. “Do you love him?”

Colin felt his own breath catch. Adrenaline shot through his bloodstream. His fingernails almost carved themselves into the worn wood. 

“The truth, Mammy,” she felt inclined to say. 

Penelope exhaled shakily, “I… I don’t know, Agatha. I want to. God knows I want to. But after everything, I’m not sure if I can trust him again. I’m not sure if I can trust myself.”

He slumped his head softly against the door in defeat. Colin felt the words like a blade to the chest, but he didn’t move. He had no right to interrupt. 

“We were so young when we married, and when I left, I had to force myself to move forward, for you two. I have spent nearly twenty years believing there was nothing between us. I am just not sure we are meant to be together anymore.”

Agatha’s voice came again, small but determined. “But maybe you could try.”

Penelope let out a soft, pained laugh. “I will try,” she promised. “For you.”

“No Mam, you have to try for you. ”

Colin pressed a hand to the wall, small sparks of hope igniting in his belly once more. How did one seventeen year old get to be so wise?

Love had always been a complicated thing for Penelope, Colin knew it was something she found hard to trust. She barely registered when people complimented her, or flirted with her, that or she plain didn’t believe it. 

Clearly Agatha could see that too. 

He thought of her wretched family, how they never truly appreciated her. How she was left to feel so isolated, so invisible in her own home. How nobody truly cared for her, how she had to raise herself. 

He still remembered her tearful, apprehensive voice , the first time he had told her he loved her. 

Are you sure?

It killed him, he wanted to bash through the door and drop to his knees. He wanted to confess once more, to tell her that not a day had passed in seventeen years where he had thought of her, had not dreamt of her, had not cried for her.

But Colin knew he couldn’t just tell her. Words were not enough, not ever enough. 

He’d told her he was her friend, and yet he berated her in front of a gaggle of suitors.

He’d told her he would always stand up for her, and yet he could not defend her when she needed him most. 

He’d told her he loved her, and yet he drove her away. 

He was resolved to wait. Even if it took years. She had every right to be unsure. But he would wait, and he would fight, every day, to earn her trust again. 

Sober up. Be a husband. Be a father. Be a real man. Even if he got nothing in return. 

He waited another few moments, and gave a soft knock on the door, trying to appear as though he’d just walked up to her bedroom. 

“Come in,” came Penelope’s soft reply. 

He pushed open the old oak door and stepped into the small bedroom, identical to his own. The sunrise was just beginning to split through the trees, casting the room in glorious shades of pinks and orange. Near camouflaging the two women in front of him.

“Good morning,” he nodded to his wife and daughter. “I just wanted to check if you were alright before we left.”

Agatha gave him a smiley, yet suspicious look and he knew that she was aware he’d heard it all. 

His clever, clever, intuitive girl. 

She was on his side, he only wished there did not have to be any.

“I’ll wake up Tommy,” she muttered awkwardly as she stepped out of the room. 

Penelope subtly wiped away the last of her tears before turning to him. “I am alright. Thank you for defending me last night.”

I will always stand up for you…because I love you. 

“You don’t need to thank me,” he said softly. The air in the room was awkward, stagnant and he prayed that she hadn’t discerned he’d been eavesdropping too. 

She must not have, because she ignored the elephant in the room. 

“I’ve never seen him as bad as that, though I suppose I’ve never been in that sort of situation with him, you know, away from the village.”

She paused, “I didn’t like how he spoke about Bríd last night…she was one of my closest friends, and I was very sad when she died.”

She looked up at him, her eyes unfolding a precious truth, “Bríd was there when the twins were born. The birth was very difficult, and I slept for days afterward. When I woke, she was there, cradling my babies to her chest. It transpired that she had taken care of them alone, for almost a week.”

I should have been there. 

A sickening weight settled in his chest, heavy and unyielding. It was like someone had dropped an anchor in his stomach.

She had had a traumatic, near deadly birth and he hadn’t been there. 

“I should have been there,” Colin said, taking a step closer to her and reaching for her hand. 

“It's not your fault Colin,” she shook her head, hands trembling in his. She blinked back more tears, “I kept my pregnancy from you.”

He took her in, her sweet doll face, near untouched by age. Her piles of bright copper curls. Her plush, pink lips. He took a moment and just stared into her big, beautiful eyes. 

There was no point in repeating themselves. He didn’t need to say anything, she knew;

They had made a mess of things together. 

He took a breath, and just stroked her palm, taking in the smoothness of her peachy skin. He wanted to pull her to him, to wrap his arms around her. But somehow that seemed impermissible in the cold light of day. 

Then, she spoke, her voice clear and assured, “Colin, we need to tell them about Whistledown.”

Chapter Text

Galway City. Co. Galway, Ireland. October 16th 1833. 

“Yes we do,” he replied, relieved they were on the same page. He really did not wish to be at odds with Penelope about anything, least of all how they intended to approach raising their children. 

Not that they needed much more raising , he thought sadly. At nearly eighteen, looming obstructions such as university and…his stomach roiled…marriage, would take them away from him as soon as they’d arrived. 

“Before we reach London,” she said. “At Aubrey Hall, perhaps, your family should know too.”

“You want to tell them?” Colin asked, amazed. He honestly could not say how that was going to go. 

Although of all of their family, it was himself and Eloise who had been affected by Whistledown the most, it wasn’t as though the rest of them had been any great fan of the gossip monger. 

But of course, they’d read her paper, they’d all devoured it every morning along with their breakfast. He’d even been told once that his mother, upon finding a tearful Hyacinth, had thoroughly scolded her when she realised her daughter had been crying over Whistledown’s recent disappearance, and not Penelope’s. 

Unfair really, because his youngest sister had shed plenty of tears for Penelope too. 

At the family gatherings that he had managed to drag himself to over years, any mention of Whistledown had Colin snap his head in the speaker's direction, as though Penelope would be sitting right there before him. 

He’d even gone to her printer once, the same place where he’d uncovered her secret, prepared to pay him any amount for information on where she’d gone. But he stopped, dead in his tracks outside the small shop front, too frightened to go in. He watched the portly man totter about through the crosshatched windows, and that all too familiar image of Penelope, happy and settled somewhere else crept into his mind once again. He’d turned back, slinked home, and spent the next few days with naught but whiskey and her tearstained letters for company. 

Eventually the mentions had lingered though, as if nobody even remembered that she had existed. Whistledown.

Everyone had remembered Penelope existed, her memory had shrouded every interaction he’d had with his family since she’d fled. 

“I won’t ask Thomas and Agatha to keep my secrets” She said resolutely, “And…I have regretted keeping silent for a very long time. Not Whistledown exactly, but lying about it, to everyone, most of all to you,” she paused, rolling her lip between her teeth. “But I dread to think what the twins will think of me.”

“Penelope, they’ll be proud of you.”

“As you were?” she asked, the barest hint of irritation in her voice. 

“I was angry at first, I felt betrayed.”

She nodded knowingly, but said nothing.

“But when the anger faded, all that was left was pride. You were so strong, Pen, so clever. You still are.”

She looked up at him, deeply into his eyes. She was so heart stoppingly beautiful. So gorgeous it made him want to cry. 

He was standing close enough to her that he could see straight down the neckline of her dress. A simple gold chain drawing a tantalizing line down into the valley of her cleavage. 

Mouthwatering.

Before she could respond, they were interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. Anthony’s voice called through, authoritative but apologetic. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But we really must go if we’re to secure spots on the 7 O’Clock coach.”

He looked past her out to the sunny courtyard square opposite, cursing his brother’s timing, “We should go. Let me get your trunk.”

The journey from Galway to Dublin had taken four days, four days of cramped quarters and stifling conversation, where every bump in the road threatened to frustrate and exhaust him further. He was just now realising how much of a toll this entire journey had taken on him. 

Colin found himself wedged between Anthony and Benedict, their knees jammed together, their boots muddy from the frequent stops in damp little towns that seemed to exist solely to give the horses a rest. The air was thick with the smell of wet wool and horse piss, a pungent reminder that they were all at the mercy of the elements, and of each other.

Penelope sat opposite, flanked by Agatha and Thomas, but the press of strangers, chatty traders, a fussy clergyman and a wailing infant made any meaningful conversation impossible. There was no privacy to be had.

The twins had begun to bicker with each other by the end of the first day. A stop in Athlone had almost turned to fisticuffs between the pair. They were behaving more like seven year olds than seventeen year olds. 

Penelope had tried to explain that it was because they’d never really left the west, and thus had not been confined to a carriage so long. Colin would hear nothing of it though, he had seen much worse with his own siblings, even as grown adults. 

Though he dreaded to think what his children would do to each other if they found themselves on opposite sides in Pall Mall, however. 

Even Anthony, usually a source of steady strength, seemed worn thin by the days on the road. Benedict’s attempts at light conversation fell flat under the weight of their exhaustion. Every time the coach jolted over a rut or a stone, Colin felt his patience fray at the edges. His body ached, he could feel the knots in his shoulders and neck, an endlessly slow and tedious reminder that at nine and thirty, he was not as spry as he used to be. 

However, at some point on the rocky road between Kinnead and Maynooth, Penelope had fallen asleep on his shoulder, and it made the entire taxing journey worth the effort. 

Dublin loomed in the distance, a promise of relief. 

And yet, they’d spent only 12 hours in the city, arriving late to an inn on Saint Stephen’s Green, and rising relatively early for the first sailing to Southampton. He’d asked Penelope if she would like to stay a few days to recover from the journey, but she was resolute in powering ahead. 

“I just want to get this over with,” she’d said. But her tone left him unsure if she meant the journey to England or this journey, with him. 

Colin and his brothers had indeed managed to make the quick walk to Grafton Street before breakfast where they’d secured some gifts and souvenirs for their family. 

It seemed strange and oddly tactless to be ending such a momentous adventure the same way you might end a summer crossing to the South of France, but he found he didn’t have the wherewithal to express that opinion. His silence, he supposed, could serve as a thank you to his brothers for accompanying him. 

PS Dunbrody. Irish Sea. October 21st 1833. 

The sea air was sharp and cold, carrying with it a tang of salt and briny air. Dublin’s grey, grimy port had become a dark silhouette against the horizon. The city’s many church spires punctuated the grey clouds like a pin cushion. 

The caw of seagulls wished them goodbye as the Packet Ship Dunbrody made its way out of Dublin port. 

Colin had stood at the rail of the crowded boat for the past twenty minutes, observing his wife and daughter, fingers itching to help. 

Penelope sat with Agatha a few feet in front of him, holding her child’s head against her shoulder, one hand soothing her tangled hair. She’d gone green as moss the moment the boat pitched, her eyes half-lidded and her lips drawn tight. Every lurch of the ship’s bow made her groan and wretch.

“Just breathe, darling,” Penelope whispered, her voice calm despite the rolling deck. “Keep your eyes on the horizon. That helps.”

But Agatha just shook her head into Penelope’s embrace, clearly too ill to sit up. A particularly rough wave hit the starboard side, sending froth and foam spraying against them. She let out a panicked wail and dug her head further into her mothers shoulder. Penelope just continued to stroke her hair and back, whispering to her soothingly. 

She looked up at Colin, “She’s frightened of the water. Always has been.”

He kneeled down next to Agatha and stroked her hair alongside Pen. “It’s alright Aggie, I promise this is more normal than you’d think.”

But she just shook her head in agony, tears beginning to fall from her eyes. The boat lurched once more, and she grasped quickly for Colin’s hands, her fingernails biting so hard they nearly broke the skin.

“Shh,” Penelope cooed. “Listen to your father, he has crossed seas much rougher than this, and he came out unscathed. There's no reason to be afraid.” Her voice was soft, but it held a firm conviction that warmed his heart. Colin felt a surge of pride at his wife using him as an example to learn from. 

He wished he could take on the nausea and fear for her. He longed to hold his daughter close and keep her safe from harm. Nonetheless, he couldn’t help but feel a small spark of delight and reassurance that his all too knowing, sly, independent Agatha still needed the comfort of her parents, of him.

He cast his eyes across the ship as she began to calm. Unlike their crossing to Ireland, which had been relatively quiet, this ship was heaving.  

It seemed that the journey to England was much more popular than the journey from. The deck teemed with passengers, families huddled under blankets, children’s faces streaked with tears or snot. Elderly ladies clutching rosary beads to their chests, softly murmuring prayers for a safe voyage. 

Thomas stood next to him, quiet and contemplative as he sailed away from the only home he’d ever known. His own hair, just a bit longer than Colin’s, whipping about his face in the wind.

“Did ya see the bags of meal being loaded onto the ship when we embarked?” he said out of nowhere, turning to his father and uncles. 

Colin nodded, remembering he had also seen that when they had dropped anchor in Dublin the week before. 

“The Corn Laws,” he said pointedly. And Colin realised that his son had been analysing what he saw before him since he’d boarded the ship. “Irish farmers are forced to sell their grain to the English at well below what they can afford, to make up for the ban on American imports. The whole village was up in arms about it last year. Four different families were forced to abandon their farm and leave.” 

Anthony’s expression tightened as he listened to his nephew. “I never knew it was that bad,” he admitted, shame flickering in his eyes. “At Parliament, the Lords laud the Corn Laws as a triumph for the agricultural class.”

“The English agricultural class maybe,” he responded assuredly. The most assured Colin had seen him really. 

He followed his son's eyes as he gestured to the crowd around them. 

Emigrants, every one of them. 

“None of them will return to Ireland,” Thomas said, in a tone so certain it brooked no rebuttal. “They’re leaving to find work, for a better life. Half the lads I went to school with have already left for London, or Liverpool, or New York. There was nothing for them at home.”

“What do they do when they get there?” Colin asked, gesturing for him to take a seat on the wooden bench beside the railing. 

“They work in service mostly, as hall boys and footmen to families like yours,” he snapped, perhaps not realising how biting his tone was. 

Colin blinked in surprise, and was about to attempt some sort of apology on behalf of his entire family when he spoke again.  

“Sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean it like that,” he braced his elbows on his knees and leaned forward. “I know it's what’s normal for you. I just can’t get my head round the idea of being waited on hand and foot. By people I might have known.”

What could he say to that? 

That he was sorry? That he hardly ever bothered to pick up a newspaper and read it? That he had no idea how to help?

That, as a third son it had never been expected for him to pay attention to politics and he had just…accepted that? 

It was shameful. 

As he looked around at the shuddering families, closed in on themselves, huddling into each other for solace. Some of them without shoes to wear or coats to shield themselves from the cold.

This wasn’t politics, it was basic human decency. 

“We’ve always treated our staff very well,” Colin landed on awkwardly, painfully aware of the cringeworthy way he’d said it. And of the privilege radiating from him. 

He wouldn’t be surprised if Thomas found he couldn’t bridge the distance between him and his father. Maybe it was hopeless.

He smiled then, hoping he could break the tension. Taking a risk, he nudged his son by the elbow and said, “Benedict even married one of them.” 

“What?” Thomas said in amused surprise, turning to his uncle. 

“Sophie Baek, now Bridgerton,” Benedict confirmed, with an unwaveringly proud smile on his face. “She worked as ladies’ maid at my mother’s home.”

Thomas considered this, and spoke again, “Was always told your type hardly saw servants as people.” He grinned, “Maybe you’re not all bad.”

Hours later, and the conditions had fared no better. Agatha had initially insisted she would feel worse below decks and refused to move, her boots stuck firmly to the ground. But eventually, Colin convinced her to retire to her cabin and try to sleep through the worst of it. Her face was a ghostly pale, dark purple bags scooped under her eyes, heavy with exhaustion and illness. She cast her father a withering glance when he kissed her hair and promised her the sea would calm soon. 

She clearly didn’t believe him, but she slowly rose nonetheless, and allowed her parents to guide her to the small cabin bedchamber.

Thomas remained on deck, leaning against the railing with an effortless posture that he seemed to be enjoying. Laughing alongside Anthony and Benedict, it seemed that his confidence had begun to grow since their fateful chat at the guesthouse in Galway. When his son had listened to Colin’s side of the story and decided to lower the protective walls around him.

“She’s gone soft.” Thomas said upon his father’s re-emergence on deck. “Clearly no sailor. But I’m taking to it, don't you think?” 

“I do,” Colin said, brimming with pride. “You’ll have your sea legs in no time.” 

“Perhaps you can take a grand tour across Europe in a year or two,” he proposed giddily, unable to stop himself. “We could plan it together.”

He remembered planning his first tour to Greece in 1813. Chastised and humiliated over his failed engagement, he had dearly wished his own father was there with him as he poured over the maps and ship routes, his copy of A Brief History of Greece , desperate to get as far away from London as he could.  

He would ensure Thomas would not feel the same. 

His son looked at the three men suspiciously, “Will I not be too busy with this barony business?” 

Benedict leaned in, placed his elbow on his shoulder and pointed to Colin, “Lucky you’ve got a father so eager to gain your affection that he’d happily take care of all of that for you.” 

Colin scowled at his brother, for sticking his fat, and also bony, nose into other people’s business. Clearly Ben had taken to the drink in the hour or so he’d been below deck. 

He couldn’t deny that he was absolutely right, though. 

“We will sort out the estate’s issues together, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t enjoy a tour, or whatever else, before you settle into the role,” Colin said reassuringly. 

He hoped he could ease his son's uncertainty about the entire idea. He still had this unrelenting worry that at any point, his son, his daughter or his wife might just pick up and say, ‘I’ve had enough of this, I’ve had enough of you. I’d like to go home.’  

And they’d leave, and he’d go back to how he was before. 

Barely half a person. 

Anthony, ever the kill joy chimed in, “Of course, there will be ceremonies you need to attend, and certain tasks you will want to be available for during the harvest season. But don’t worry, all of us will be here to help you. My son is learning the job too, you’ll be thick as thieves in no time.”

Thomas cast his eye over the ship once more, the passengers that could afford cabins had retired to them by now. But many remained above decks, only in possession of enough coin to secure the crossing and nothing else. They curled into themselves to avoid the cold, they sipped on flasks of whiskey, some even stood to piss right off the side of the boat. 

“What can I do to help them?”

“Well,” Anthony said, unsure. “I’d need to brush up on my knowledge of the Irish Question…But generally speaking if you want a law passed, or removed, you need bodies. You’d need to rally support. I should introduce you to Mr. O’Connell, or Lord Enniskillen.”

"You have real life experience, Thomas," Colin said. "That's more than the majority of Lords in the house."

“Good,” Thomas said. “If I have to do this, I’m going to do it properly.”

A spark of joy electrified in Colin, his son, by some miracle, seemed determined to embrace his new role. That meant, at least, that he wanted to stay. 

Perhaps Agatha had got to him, she seemed the persuasive type if her conversations with Penelope were anything to go on. 

Colin turned away from the sea as another wave from the port side sent a spray of seawater over them, he saw Penelope’s little red head bobbing up the stairs and onto the deck. Her cloak pulled tightly around her against the salt-flavoured wind. Her hair was pulled back, but a few rogue curls bounced against her face nonetheless. She stopped beside him and her son, stroking her hand up and down Thomas’ arm. 

“Did you stay with her till she drifted off?” he asked softly. 

Penelope rolled her eyes and laughed despite herself, “She’s seventeen, not two Colin.” 

Colin looked at the ground, unwillingly reminded that he’d not known Agatha at two. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, immediately recognising his shift in demeanour. “Yes, she fell asleep. I took a bucket from the hallway in case she’s sick, but it feels calmer below deck.”

“That’s alright, Pen.”

She turned her attention to her son once more, “You should get to bed too, Mister.”

Thomas shot her a glib smile, “I think you mean milord. ”

A simple joke shouldn’t have filled Colin’s soul with glimmering light, but it did. 

His children were funny. Born storytellers, like most Irish he’d met. That or some dangerous combination of his wife’s sparkling wit and his own, albeit sometimes put-on, charm. 

“Mmm,” Penelope said. “Bed, and watch not to wake your sister.”

Thomas bent to give his mother a kiss on the cheek, wished the men good night and strolled below deck. 

Thankfully, his brothers seemed to recognise the opportunity to give husband and wife a moment alone. “Drink?” Benedict asked. 

Colin cleared his throat, “No thanks.”

His brother raised his eyebrow but said nothing, then left to catch up with Anthony.

“I told you all Thomas needed was time. He’s opening up to you now.”

“I’m so happy. I…I love them Pen.”

I love you. 

“I love them too,” she said, as though Colin had told her that a million times. She stared out at the setting sun. “Thank you for speaking with them the other night. Thank you for being honest, or…nearly honest anyway.”

“Agatha wanted to know, and, well I couldn’t not tell her,” he said honestly. 

“Yes, and like I said, we will tell them…about Whistledown, Cressida, all of it. As soon as we find the right time.”

He trusted her on that. He trusted her to know when would be the right time too. 

He couldn’t help but watch her once again. He loved when she stood in the bask of a sunset, all golden and pink. Like an angel stood before him. 

He’d take her to Greece, to Italy, anywhere, he’d watch her walk into the light of a thousand sunsets if he could. 

“What are you staring at?” she asked, interrupting his thoughts. 

“Nothing, it’s just…your so beautiful Pen. As beautiful as the day I last saw you.”

“Stop,” she whined. “Please.” There was mirth in her tone, but she didn’t believe him. 

Had he not told her that yet? Over a week in her company and he hadn’t spoken the words that had been sitting on his tongue every moment since she’d opened her front door to him?

“I mean it,” he said, softly gripping her elbow. “Everytime I look at you, it's like you steal the air from my lungs.”

“Oh,” she said looking at the ground. “Fine, but just…don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” he asked, taking a step closer.

“Like…like…I don’t know, but it’s not polite to stare.”

“And yet,” he replied, unable to cease the teasing conversation, “I can’t seem to help myself.”

“I went too long without looking at you,” he continued, leaning his body closer toward her still. “So I could care less about politeness.”

“I see,” she said, tilting her own head up toward his. 

The moment teetered, delicate as a spinning top slowing down. 

Her lips, her perfect fucking lips, puckered just slightly. He dipped his head towards hers in turn. 

Only to be hit, square in the mouth by Penelope’s head. 

She’d headbutted him. 

Not her fault, of course. The blame could be attributed to a violent lurch of the ship. 

“Bloody waves,” he muttered, half in apology and half in frustration as Penelope rubbed the spot where his front teeth had knocked against her head. 

She giggled and pointed to something beyond where he stood. “If it wasn’t the waves, it’d be your brother,” she sighed. 

As if on cue, Benedict’s now entirely drunken voice floated up from somewhere further down the deck. “Colin! Penelope! There’s a brandy cask here that refuses to open itself. We require your assistance!”

“Come on brother! Sister! Join us!” Anthony chimed in, their unspoken promise to give him and Penelope time alone entirely abandoned.

Penelope pulled back from him and pushed her free curls behind her ears, “I suppose we better help them before they fall overboard.”

Colin grinned, relieved she wasn’t upset with him. “I suppose we must,” he agreed, tucking one final curl behind her ear and offering his arm.

Chapter Text

PS Dunbrody. Irish Sea. October 21st 1833. 

It had taken the men about ten minutes of wrestling with the barrel to finally pry it open. An endeavour chronicled by grunts, curses and a loud, victorious laugh from Benedict. When at last the cork gave a satisfying ‘pop’, a cheer rang out among the group that had gathered on deck. 

They found themselves sat in a circle on deck with a few other passengers who could not resist the lure of free liquor. Old wooden crates, piled up bags of meal and salt-stained benches served as makeshift seats. Colin couldn’t say where his brother had sourced the cask, but he wasn’t going to ask.

He did not partake of course, instead he slyly tipped the stuff overboard when nobody was looking. It also had the added benefit of allowing his arm to slide across Penelope’s shoulder, in a casual, nonchalant manner. His brothers hadn’t noticed him waste the good brandy, but they had noticed his sly move on Penelope, earning him two pairs of raised eyebrows. 

The removal of Penelope’s hood allowed a light breeze to tease the curls at her nape. He was transfixed by how they resembled a flame against fresh parchment. The scent of her hair, rose oil, was intoxicating. And he was glad he hadn’t taken a drink, because if he had, the ensuing tipsiness would have had him burying his nose in her coiffure, not a thought for the company that surrounded them. 

The water itself had mostly calmed, save for the occasional rogue wave that sent a shower of seawater over the hull of the ship. The sun was continuing its slow, graceful descent over the horizon. The clouds were painted in glorious shades of pink, lavender and orange, lending the scene a hazy glow. Their shadows lengthened over the cedar planks, swaying and dancing with the movement of the ship. 

The Irish passengers, roughly clothed in their faded wool and wrapped in their threadbare blankets, were a weary but friendly lot. Their faces were unmistakably lined with hardship, eyes sunken by work and worry, yet they carried an irrepressible spirit, a spark. Though their situation was grim, their optimism shined through. They seemed to relish the chance for company, for warmth and the simplicity of conversation over a shared drink. 

Penelope, who once might have shrunk back from raucous company, laughed and joked alongside them, blooming before his very eyes. She sipped on her own mug of brandy, the spicy beverage causing the most delightful pink flush to travel from her cheeks down to her neck and breasts. She’d sip, giggle, sip, and giggle once more.  

She turned to her brothers-in-law, emboldened, “You must tell me about your wives! How is Lady Bridgerton?”

“You must call her Kate, sister, I assure you she will not accept anything else,” Anthony replied with a smirk. 

“Oh alright, Anthony ,” she countered with her own smirk. “How is Kate?”

“A force of nature, as ever, ” he confirmed. “I miss her terribly. And she misses you , she told me when I left to not even think about coming back without you.”

Penelope looked away with a shy grin, unable to accept the compliment, “And your wife Benedict, Sophie is it not?”

“Yes. Soph, she’s wonderful. The best thing that ever happened to me. We’re living in Wiltshire now. Quieter than London but perfect for our children,” Benedict said as he leaned to fill his mug once more.

“I can understand the benefits of that,” she agreed happily. “You both have four children each, yes?”

“Yes,” Anthony confirmed. “Edmund, Miles, Charlotte and Mary. Ben has three boys and a girl, Charles, William, Alexander and Violet.”

It warmed Colin’s heart to see her letting her guard down. She seemed to be getting more comfortable with being integrated back into his family. Happy curiosity radiated off her, as though she was any aunt, asking after her nieces and nephews. 

It was where she belonged, she had always been a Bridgerton really. Even before he gave her his name. 

“The twins will adore them.”

“Ours won’t be too English for their tastes?” Benedict replied cheekily. 

Penelope leaned in sweetly, so the others would not hear them, “That’s the thing about the Irish. They disdain the English as a group, but individual English they don’t mind so much.”

Penelope leaned back into Colin’s shoulder and whispered to him, almost conspiratorially. “I haven’t drunk like this in, well....ever I suppose. I’ve always had the children to watch out for.” 

She poked him in the stomach, flashing her perfect smile, “But now that you’re here, I have help.”

He hummed in agreement, “You deserve it Pen.” He flirtily tilted the cup back up towards her lips once more, “Have some fun.”

“Some fun,” she whispered into her mug. 

The laughter and stories continued to be passed amongst the group. They traded tales of their lives, their plans and their hopes for the future. And Colin was enjoying himself immensely. 

The past two decades of his life had been so shrouded by his grief for Penelope, that he hardly had room to grieve the man he had been before she left. 

The other parts of him, the man who adored to travel and meet new people. The man who poured over maps and history books. The man who recorded each day of his travels in his trusty journal. Now as she sat safely in his arms, it dawned on him how much he had missed this. The embrace of other cultures, the company of strangers and the camaraderie that bloomed from the joint vulnerability of being away from home. 

Colin thought when they touched dry land he might start writing in his journal once again. The only thing he had bothered to write in those many years alone, spare necessary correspondence to family and staff, were hundreds of unsent letters to his wife. 

Some spent days half-finished, some rested under his pillow, some spent weeks on his desk, only needing her address to finish them. 

But in the end, they all turned to ash in the fire. 

It was pathetic really, but every time Dunwoody had presented his correspondence on that embossed, silver tray. His eyes had searched for Pen’s delightfully loopy script, and every time it wasn’t there, he felt that sting, fresh as it had ever been. Fresh as those first few weeks of his second tour, when it had truly started to dawn on him that she wasn’t going to write him back. 

He itched to take his pen to paper. To chronicle the journey he had just undertaken, to record forever the impact it had made on his life. 

To record his musings on the world around him once again.

The laughter died down, only to be replaced by a hush that fell over the group as one of the passengers, an older man with a long, cotton white beard that tangled in the buttons of his jacket, lifted his cup and began to hum a tune. Slowly, the others joined in, voices weaving together in a harmony which danced on the salty night air, mingling expertly with the soft crash of the waves. 

He could not understand the words, but apparently his wife could. Her eyes widened in delight, and she began to sing too. 

He had never heard her sing before. Her voice, clear and sweet, wove seamlessly in with the others. 

Beautiful.

The only time he’d ever sung as a group was hymns, perhaps the occasional Christmas Carol. He felt so out of place, so very English. 

This was not a performance. She, them, none of this was for attention, or to please an audience. It felt ancient, and enduring. They clung to the tune like it kept them grounded. Like the dance in Rathnew’s square. Like the stories his children had told him. 

Perhaps the Irish delighted in music, in dance, and song and storytelling, because it cost them nothing. 

The Irish had a talent, to make something beautiful out of thin air. That dance, that Céilí, he reminded himself, required not the elegant ball gowns or the French champagne, the five piece orchestra or the hired help which London society insisted upon. 

No, they dragged out their own furniture, played out a tune on calfskin drums and made their own fun. They crafted their own happiness out of nothing. 

Nothing, because his people had taken it from them. 

He’d been awed and delighted by other cultures and customs in his youth, of course, but this felt deeper. 

These were his children’s people. His children’s culture. 

Ireland. Irish. 

Soft droplets of misty rain pulled him from his hypnosis. The lantern light glowed softly, a guttering flame illuminating them all. The song came to a sweet end with a gentle murmur of voices and laughter, and claps on the back. The small group raised their cups and toasted sláinte to their shared memories and their futures to come. And then, one by one, began to drift away, seeking shelter from the damp night. 

His brothers downed the last of their drinks and rose alongside Colin and Penelope. They bid each other good night and made their own way below deck. 

He watched as Benedict slung his arm ‘round his elder brother’s shoulders in a gesture of brotherly love. A slow sadness that he had spent so long without that stung at the back of his eyes. 

Penelope looked up at him, eyes impossibly bright in the darkness, her lips curved into a small, shy smile, “Will you walk me to my cabin?”

“Of course,” he said, and together they picked their way across the now slick deck. He caught her as she slipped slightly, and he was unsure if it was from the slippery surface or the brandy, nevertheless he guided her below. 

The twin’s cabin adjoined hers, she quickly poked her head in and smiled. 

“They both sleep like the dead,” she whispered upon closing the door softly. “I wanted to wake them, they love that song. But they both need the rest.”

“Did they teach it to you?” 

“Yes,” Pen smiled. “The song is called Transa na dTonnta . It’s about returning to Ireland after years away,” she looked back up towards the deck, no doubt thinking of those forced to find sleep in the rain. “It’s a prayer, I suppose.”

Did she pray for that too?  

Was this journey no more than an inconvenient interlude to her ongoing life? Embarked on for her children’s sake and not for hers?

He longed to ask her, but her swaying and tipsy giggles meant he wouldn’t get a straight answer out of her anyway. He wouldn’t force a serious conversation on her tonight, not when she looked so happy and carefree. 

He pushed open the door to her own cabin and she made her way inside. When he stayed at the entrance to the threshold she turned to look at him. 

“I…I might need help with my dress.”

Oh God. 

“I’m usually fine,” she said, blushing furiously. “But I’m too…”

Drunk. She was too drunk.

Colin stepped inside her cabin, closing the door gently behind him. The small room smelled of salt and worn wood, and a hint of a tallow candle she’d lit earlier. There was barely enough space for the pair of them. The room held nothing but a small twin bed, a stool and somewhat surprisingly, a porcelain chamberpot. The material thereof, was most likely the difference between first and second class travel. 

She bent to light the candle once more.

Stop bending over, Penelope. I beg of you.

She turned to face him, and the brandy, or the moment, had turned her eyes dark and languid. Her irises expanded so that hardly any of the crystal blue remained. 

She removed her cloak and placed it on the bed next to her.

“Turn around Pen,” he murmured. 

She flashed him a flirty smile and obeyed, gathering up her escaped curls with one hand and exposing the row of tiny, mother of pearl-like buttons that lined the back of her dress. 

A dress, he was realising. She had worn before. 

A turquoise blue, with blue-white embroidery that crept deliciously up her neckline. Wrapping her like a sweet waterlily. But it was the back that he recognised. The way the small buttons traced the most elegant curve down her spine. 

He had undone these buttons before. 

“Did you wear this for me?” he asked before he was unable to stop himself. 

“No,” she mumbled into her chin.

The silken dress was not made for travelling. He smirked, she was teasing him. 

She was torturing him. His hands, so steady the last time he had done this, now trembled at the bit. The tiny, delicate buttons yielded to his touch, one by one exposing the more of her creamy skin. 

God, she was beautiful. Every inch of her was temptation itself. 

He fought to keep his breathing even, to keep his hands from shaking as he worked his way down. 

The dress parted softly under his fingers, and fell in a heap at her feet, revealing the delicate ties of her stays beneath. He reached for them, gently coercing the knots to fall away. He felt her breathe more deeply, her lungs now able to take in more air. 

Had he been able, he would have tilted his head down to the nape of her neck and pressed a soft wet kiss to the curls that tantalized him so. 

He was growing hard, and, God, he wanted to shift his hips into the warm give of her arse. He wanted to bend her over, to fuck her without preamble. 

He was a brute. 

But he could not. Not only because she was drunk, it went without saying that he would never, and had never taken an inebriated woman. 

But because, he couldn’t lie with her, couldn’t make sweet love to her unless he knew she would be his forever. The idea that they could be one, only to be torn apart once again, was unbearable. 

He stopped at her linen chemise. So soft and touchable. He longed to run his fingers down the fabric. But he forced himself to stop. He reached to grasp her plush dressing gown from the hook next to him.

But she turned to him once more, and he was met with another test to his resolve. 

The soft candlelight behind her illuminated her silhouette through the fabric. 

He could see everything. Every last dip and curve. 

That tight, squeezable waist which flared most decadently into her perfectly grabbable hips. Her glorious thighs, oh how he wished to spread them and press his nose into the rosy wonderland betwixt. 

And her tits, Christ above, her tits. Bigger now than they had been, but perfect nonetheless. His cock ached to see how her lovely sweet nipples tented the fabric. He had to grit his teeth to stop himself from sliding his arm around her waist, pressing her to him and sucking one of the perfect nubs into his mouth. 

His eyes roamed her body as his hand stalled, fisted in the fabric of her dressing gown. He met her eyes once more, and to his astonishment, her eyes seemed to have been surveying his entirely clothed body as he had done her near naked one. 

He pulled the dressing gown off the hook and held it open for her. Sliding it on to her delicate shoulders as though he was a husband who had done this a million times before. 

She tied herself into it with a neat bow. 

“I should go,” he forced himself to say. “Sleep… sleep well, Penelope.”

“Don’t leave,” she whispered.

Oh God. 

He shut his eyes tightly, “Penelope,” he groaned. “I can’t”.

“Please,” Lord she begged so prettily. “I don’t want you to go.”

They both knew what she meant. Neither of them had to say it. 

God above he wanted her. 

“Penelope,” he said, lowering her to the cabin bed. “I can’t.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but he knew what she was going to say. “You are too drunk, darling. But it isn’t just that.”

“It isn’t?” she asked as he took a seat on the stool across from her. 

He had better just say it. 

“I can’t touch you. Not like this. I want you, so badly Pen. You have no idea how much,” he took in a shaky breath, bearing the truth to her. “But I can’t be with you unless I know you will stay with me. Forever.” 

She swallowed, her eyes wide and shimmering, “I am sure,” she whispered. “I am.” 

He let out a low, pained sound. He had waited so long to hear that. 

“You might feel that way tonight,” he said gently, “But it’s the brandy talking. This…this is all very new.” He couldn’t begrudge the soft stroke of her hand, “We both need time to process everything. It can’t happen like this.”

“When it does, if it does, I won’t be able to let you go again.”

She let out a trembling sigh, and she folded herself back onto the thin pillow, conceding defeat, “I hate it when you’re right.”

His lips twitched into a smile despite himself. Silence fell between them, weighted and thick with longing. 

Their steady breaths matched the pull of the waves and it was as though they each allowed time to just look at one another. For what felt like hours. 

“Colin…did you…with anyone else, while I was gone?”

He stiffened. A stone settled in his stomach. He hoped, like a coward, that she wouldn’t ever ask him this. 

But the truth , he knew as well as he knew anything, was what they needed to move forward. 

And he wanted to move forward. 

He cleared his throat, and dropped his eyes to the wooden floor. “I…” he ran his hand through his hair, the guilt bubbling up his throat like acid. “Yes,” he whispered hoarsely. “I…did.”

Her face however, remained unchanged. “How many?”

“Not many,” he said quickly. 

And it was the truth.

It had taken him a very long time to even consider it. He once had been so certain he would never so much as look at another woman again. Not once he had fathomed what true connection, true love, had felt like. 

But as months had turned to years, and he had gone so long without human connection, eventually he had given in to his baser urges. 

He was a man after all, he was a person. A lady of the night was the easiest way he could be touched, be held, be caressed, without it truly meaning anything, without worsening his emotions save the inescapable guilt. 

He gave in, and joined his old collection of rakish friends, Fife, Staunton, Wilding, on their debauched pursuits, on their sick conquests. 

All of them married, all of them adulterers, all of them fathers . 

A brothel, a whorehouse, and in truth he came out feeling guiltier than he had upon entry. He left that night thinking he would never return. 

But, like the sick fuck he was, every few months he would find himself back there. Drunk enough so that he would hardly remember what he did the next day. 

“It was only occasionally,” he scrambled to assure Penelope. “I just…it had been so long and I needed-” 

“You needed?” her tone wasn’t accusatory or angry, she wasn’t asking him out of upset, or disappointment. She was asking him because she wanted him to open up to her.

She cared about him. 

He lifted his eyes to hers, now glassy with unshed tears, “Just to feel like a man again. To be…touched. To feel something.”

She said nothing, just continued the rhythmic stroking of his hand. 

“It didn’t really work though.”

“I understand what you mean,” she said reassuringly. 

A slow, cold dread seemed to creep up his spine as he registered what she meant, “Did you ever?” he asked in turn. 

He braced himself, preparing for impact. 

“Once,” she replied. 

He didn’t need to ask. But he did anyway. 

“Connolly?”

She nodded. 

Fuck.

“It was a stupid mistake. I was feeling terribly lonely one night and he just…came to me. I felt so guilty afterward. You…of course, and Bríd too.”

He was going to cast up his accounts right into his lap. 

“I didn’t really like it. But when he proposed to me the next day, I told him I couldn’t because I was still married.”

Damn right she was still married. 

“That was true of course, but I also refused him partly because,” she smiled. “It was really bad.” 

He couldn’t reply. He wasn’t angry with her. He wasn’t even really angry with Connolly. 

How could he be? When he’d done the same and worse. 

He didn’t want to keep asking her about it though. Surely she would be merciful and spare him the details. 

“Are you angry with me?” she asked with an anxious look on her face. 

“No,” he was quick to reassure her. “Are you angry with me?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

“He kissed like an angry snake.”

He snorted. He couldn’t help himself. God bless her for breaking the tension. 

He looked at her, she was slowly sobering up, but the rosy hue of her skin and the indulgent grin on her face suggested she wasn’t quite all the way there yet. 

“I never kissed them. I never would let them. I haven’t kissed anyone since you.”

“Oh,” she said, looking genuinely surprised. She really hadn’t expected that, had she?

“I never thought I’d kiss anyone ever again.”

Her plump bottom lip trembled as her hand ceased stroking his. She grasped him tightly, and rose once again. 

She met his eyes so sweet and uncertain, “Would…would you kiss me now?”

Oh God, again. 

Knots of arousal tied themselves in his belly once more. 

She was a vixen. A siren. A goddess. She was a cruel mistress, because she knew he could not refuse her that. 

“I would,” he said breathlessly. But he made no attempt to lean toward her. 

He was sure. He was sure he was going to kiss her on that deck and he was certain he was going to kiss her now. 

She smirked, “Surely I am sober enough for that?”

He said nothing more. The air grew hot and heavy. His breath was ragged, the slow sway of the ship seemed to drag them toward each other, a rhythmic pulsing that matched the beat of their hearts. 

She was radiant in the candlelight. 

Drawn by familiar instinct, he lifted his hand to cup her cheek, his thumb gently stroking the softness, somehow impossibly more delicate than the skin on her hand. 

He leaned in, his breath mingling with hers. 

And softly, their lips met. 

Glorious. 

Not rushed, not urgent, but slow and deep. A kiss that carried the weight of years of longing. 

It wasn't unsure. It wasn’t exploration. It wasn’t a learning experience. Not like their first time.

He knew these lips. He knew her. He was home. 

Her arms came around his neck and he groaned at the contact. She wrapped her arms round him like she never wanted to let go. He softly caressed the linen cloaked skin of her back, she was so warm and inviting. She was such sweet, sweet torture. 

He knew he would go no further, but he revelled in the touch. His tongue dipped and traced as he savoured her sweet taste, brandy and sugar. 

When they finally pulled away, they both gasped for much needed air. He looked deeply into her eyes, placed his forehead to hers. 

And smiled. Laughed, laughter that turned into such sweet giggles. So precious, as though untouched by the weight of what they had done to each other, untouched by the time spent apart. 

One touch of her lips and he felt himself being slowly cobbled back into the man he had once been. 

He grasped her hand once more, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

I love you.

Chapter Text

PS Dunbrody, Port of Southampton. October 22nd 1833.

Some fortuitous tailwinds found the Packet Ship Dunbrody on approach to Southampton Port early the next morning. Colin was woken rather abruptly to the sound of his daughter’s fists battering down his cabin door. Agatha had seemingly risen feeling much better as she had nearly enough energy to tear down the door and plenty to shout at him that the ship was near to docking and that she would like to get the bloody fuck off this boat. 

He assured her through the door that they would be up and off as quick as possible which seemed to placate her as she returned to her cabin. Colin had barely lifted his head from the pillow before his memories came flooding back. 

He kissed her. 

She asked him to kiss her and he did. 

Not for the first time.

Fucking perfect. 

His body still remembered the shape of her, the taste of her breath mingled with his. Her lips, savoury of liquor and sea-salt, but still somehow sweet, a lovely sugary taste that simply must have come from her. He could still feel the curve of her spine under his palms. That little gasping sound she’d made when his hand had found the edge of her hip. The way that instinct had guided her to exactly what he needed as she wrapped her soft arms round his neck. How she clutched at his hair, not quite pulling him close, but anchoring him from floating away. 

The scent of her still clung to his skin, he pressed his shirt to his nose, and he could swear he could smell it clear as day. 

That fucking rose oil, god. Intoxicating. 

He groaned into his shirt as he felt his cock grow hard beneath his sheets. He was dressed in only his loose fitting nightshirt despite the cold, and the friction of the worn linen sheets against his sensitive tip was rousing him even more. He cast his eyes out the porthole next to him. Experience told him they were about fifteen minutes from actually docking. His bag remained packed, so he only really had to dress himself before he’d be ready to leave. 

And fuck , the shock and emotional turmoil of his reunion with Penelope had kept him distracted enough to have not touched himself in weeks. 

He bit his lip. He had time, did he not?

And he could smell his wife’s rose oil on his shirt. He knew that bottle of scent, a small pink glass vial which had rested on her vanity. He remembers seeing her dab it on her neck one day in that first month of their marriage, when he had been watching her through the crack in the door which separated their bedroom and the study.

Christ, he would like to drench her in it. He could see it now, he would pour little droplets from that pink bottle down her neck and he would watch in awe as the small golden beads travelled down her chest and into the valley between her breasts. 

He would be courteous, of course, and assist her in massaging the sweet elixir all over her naked tits. God, he could imagine the feel of them, heavy and full, spilling out of his hands, her tight little nipples pushing against his palms. He had had to physically restrain himself from reaching for them last night as they poked through her near translucent night dress.

He could take it no longer, in one swift, jagged movement he wrenched the linen sheets from his body and took hold of his full erection. He hissed in pleasure as he smeared the leaking droplets of precum over himself, wishing he had some of that rose oil now, so that he could use it to enable his endeavour. 

If she was here though, he surely would not need to, as he would push her to her knees and slide his cock between her heavy, oily tits. 

“Yesss,” he moaned as he grew harder at the thought. His fist wrapped tightly around his cock as he began to stroke himself in earnest. 

He could see it in his mind's eye. His dick buried between her breasts, big and hard enough so that the tip would slide forth and hit her in the face, smearing her cheeks with his precum. His cock twitched at the image of her big blue eyes looking up at him, so beautiful, but so filthy as his cock poked her in the face again and again. She would be so good for him. Surely she would aid his pleasure by sticking out her sweet tongue and licking as she would be so eager to taste him. 

He was debauched, he was sick. He didn’t just want to make sweet love to her. He wanted to claim her, to use her, she was his wife.  

“Oh fuck,” he whispered as his hips grinded up to match the rhythm of his hand. “Fuck, fuck, Pen.”

Would she be aroused herself? As he slid himself between her lovely mounds? Would she wait patiently as he took his pleasure with her? God, the thought was getting him close, her pretty little pussy dripping between her legs as she knelt on the floor before him. 

His hand was flying over his cock now, that repeated stroking motion bringing him so close to the brink. He could feel his balls tightening as the Penelope of his imagination licked at his tip and begged sweetly for his cum. 

“Cum for me Colin,” she’d moan, desperate for him.

Fuck yeah , he’d give it to her. He’d give her what she needs. 

A frankly fucking filthy image of her face and tits splattered with his cum was what brought him over the edge at last. “Ah, ah fuck Penelope!” He moaned too loudly as he spurted into his fist, continuing to stroke as he rode through the aftershocks of pleasure.

He took deep, heaving breaths as laid back on the pillows and allowed himself a moment of respite. Fuck, orgasms were so much better when he didn’t have dark and hopeless thoughts flooding into his mind as soon as he reached his peak. 

She’s not here. You’ll never see her again. 

No. 

There is hope. She kissed you. She’s coming back to you. 

If this was how good taking himself in hand felt now, imagine what it would be like to be with her fully, to finally fuck her like he wanted to so desperately. 

Christ, he was insatiable. He could feel arousal swirling in his belly again at the  thought. 

But no, he forced himself to resist the temptation as he wrenched himself out of the small cabin bed. The ship swayed slightly as he reached for his clothes and hurriedly dressed. 

They should be able to source some decent horses in Southampton without too much effort. If they were swift, they could reach Aubrey Hall by nightfall. He had spoken to Penelope about it on their approach to Dublin, about whether she would want to head for London first, and then decamp to Kent. Colin had imagined that she would like to rest a few days before reuniting with the entire Bridgerton clan. The twins, Aggie especially, were keen to see London. It was not the high season, but he could still show them some of the sites.

In truth, Colin wanted to take them home. To Bedford Square. He trusted that Dunwoody would have most of the changes he asked for completed by now. 

But Penelope was resolute. And it was that, the mention of Bedford Square, that made her adamant to head to Aubrey Hall straight from the boat. 

“I can’t keep your mother waiting any longer,” she’d said. “I’m sure she’s going mad with worry.”

But Colin knew his wife, and he’d seen the way the light in her eyes dimmed, seen how she’d tensed up just at the mention of that house. He should have foreseen that, of course it would be hard for her to return there. 

That house was so cold, and dark, and dead. 

He should have told her he would get her a new house, if she wanted. He should have told her he was happy to live in Rathnew, for that was her and his children’s home. 

But he didn’t want to frighten her, didn’t want to push her before she was ready. 

He sat up straighter as something occurred to him. With Thomas holding the barony, really it was Featherington House where they should be living. Had Penelope stayed, it would have been where they’d raised their children. 

His heart ached at the thought, his little family, across the square from Anthony and Kate, a stone’s throw from Daphne and Simon. Number 5 was only a five minute walk from Grosvenor Square. Penelope, queening it over a household she’d never felt comfortable in. 

He would make enquiries about the Featherington estate as soon as they reached Kent, he would need to enlist his brother’s help, perhaps Simon’s too, in order to get everything up to scratch. Colin was happy to throw money at any problem which needed solving, he just hoped that was enough.

As he pulled on his boots and straightened his jacket, he made his way above deck where the twins were waiting for him. Agatha was still green as moss, but she seemed to be powering through it. He knew seasickness, and he knew that once you could make out dry land, you usually felt much better. 

“Mammy is just coming,” she said. “She’s in a worse mood than me this morning. And she looked like hell.”

“What did you give her?” Thomas asked laughing, “She never has more than a small glass of whiskey.” 

Fuck. Colin thought, he fucked it. He kissed her and he fucked it. She was in a bad mood because of what had happened last night. Christ, he could feel the bile of guilt stinging his windpipe as he tried to speak. but the mist seemed to thicken into a heavier rain as his brothers made their way up the small staircase onto the deck. Both of them looked worse for wear themselves, Benedict looked particularly rough, his face a sort of ashen grey, his skin nearly matched the shade of his travelling coat. 

“How are you brother?”, Colin asked as they approached. Benedict pulled out a useless, but practiced excuse as if Colin hadn’t been sat with him as he downed glass after glass of brandy. It was an interesting reversal, as usually it was Colin who would claim his hangovers were something like ‘a splitting headache’, or ‘just a cold coming on’. 

“He might be in need of the last rites,” Anthony answered for him as it seemed Benedict had lost the capacity to speak without casting up his accounts. “You on the other hand brother seem perfectly well”, Anthony cast his eyes to the twins, who were by now entertaining themselves by pointing out the sites the Southampton coastline had to offer. He dropped his voice low, grasped him by the shoulder and said, “I saw you didn’t take a drop last night. Good on you. I’m proud of you Colin.” 

His heart swelled with pride, it seemed his efforts to better himself were working. 

He didn’t have much time to dwell on the sensation however, as he spotted Penelope bobbing up the staircase. One hand clutched tightly around the rail, the other shielding her eyes from the rising sun. Her travelling cloak was drawn tight around her to shield herself from the rain. His heart began to race. Her hair was pinned back too severely for comfort, and a definite pallor clung to her cheeks. Her nose was pink. Her eyes were squinting. And she looked, as his daughter had phrased it, like hell.

Still, she was the most beautiful woman on Earth to him. 

He approached slowly, heart hammering so hard he could feel it echo in his teeth. The memory of the night before was etched into his bones, the feel of her lips, her voice low and breathless asking him to kiss her. 

It had been perfect. 

Which was why, naturally, he was now spiralling.

Maybe she’d regretted it. Maybe she’d been so drunk that it hadn’t meant anything at all. Or, God help him, maybe he’d misinterpreted the situation, and he’d forced himself on her like a brute. 

She didn’t turn at first when he came up beside her, just sighed heavily and winced at the light, one arm cradling her stomach like she might be physically ill at any moment.

Colin cleared his throat gently, his throat dry with nervous anticipation. “Good morning, Pen.”

I’ll see you in the morning.

She groaned and looked up at him. “If you are too cheerful, I swear to God, I will shove you overboard.” But that little smirk that graced her lips, the teasing tone in her voice and the glint of mirth in his eyes was a balm to his nerves. He grinned, more relieved than he wanted to admit. 

She didn’t regret it, not one bit. 

As it turned out, they needn’t have worried about sourcing a hackney or some decent horses.

The moment the gangplank thudded onto the quay and Colin set foot on solid ground, a liveried footman appeared, broad-shouldered and windswept, his tie wig near falling off his head. Dressed in a lilac-blue coat with the Bridgerton crest embroidered subtly into the collar, he stepped forward and doffed his hat. Colin recognised the man, a footman from his mother’s house, but he couldn’t say he remembered his name. 

“Geoffrey,” Anthony said as he approached. “Has my mother sent you?”

“Indeed Lord Bridgerton,” he confirmed. “Her ladyship sent me to escort you directly to Aubrey Hall.”

Ah, another of those strange instances where his mother had anticipated every one of his needs. He looked behind the footman, she’d sent their largest carriage, and four horses. Norfolk trotters, known for their power and speed. 

Had there been an argument over whether to return to London for a few days before reuniting with his mother, this gesture would have meant the end of it. 

“Lady Bridgerton has also written to Mr. and Mrs. Bridgerton,” he coughed, “and to Lord Featherington as well.”

Colin rounded, along with everyone else, on his son, but it took Agatha elbowing him in the ribs for Thomas to realise Lord Featherington meant him. 

“Oh,” his son said, a bit startled as he reached for the small wax-sealed letter. 

Colin reached for his own letter and began to read. 

My darling son,

I hardly know where to begin. 

When your letter arrived, I sat for several minutes just staring at your handwriting. I could not bring myself to open it straight away. I was afraid, I think. Afraid that you had gone to Ireland and not found what you were looking for. I had spent the days after you left in a black mist, terrified that this would not go well for you. 

But it did. Oh, my darling boy, it did.

You found them. You found him. Your son.

You cannot imagine the sound I made when I read that he is safe and healthy. Or perhaps you can, you've always known how I weep. Thomas. The name suits him. Of course it does. And my darling, you say he looks like you! He must be a very handsome young man, as you were at that age, as you still are now. 

Colin, my heart has been aching for you for so long and I have missed you so, my darling. I have watched you drift like a ghost through these past years. Present, but never really there. But even when you were lost in the darkness, you found the strength to rise every morning, you kept on, pained as you were, because you are strong.

The lightness in your tone when you wrote to me of your family. It reminded me of how you used to write from Greece, waxing poetic about some ancient ruin or picturesque beach. Such eager giddiness I thought I would never see in you again. Travelling, exploring, I once thought it was your purpose. But I was wrong. 

Penelope is your purpose. 

You have found her again. You have found your child. You wrote of how well Penelope has cared for him, how strong and good and clever he is. I am not surprised. She was always stronger than any of us gave her credit for. That she kept him safe all these years that she raised him well, on her own is no small thing. It is a miracle, and she must be exhausted from it. 

Words cannot express how relieved I am that they are safe.

I am so very proud of you. I always have been. I know it took courage to go. To face her again. To face what you may find. I know it is not easy to reopen an old wound, not even when it is the only way to heal it.

But now that you have, don’t stop.

Whatever happens next, whatever your future looks like, I beg you to keep going. Fight for it, Colin. Fight for them. Not with speeches or grand gestures, though heaven knows you do love a flourish, but with the daily, quiet proof that you are someone they can lean on. That Penelope can trust you again. That your son can look at you with pride in his heart.

I confess, you remind me more of your dear Papa more than any of my children. This is how I know that you have it in yourself to rise to the challenge. You were born to be a father my darling, and now you have the chance. 

You must be brave, Colin. Be the man she hoped you would be, the man you were always meant to be. Be the man that you are. 

I cannot wait to see you again. I cannot wait to meet my grandson. And I pray that you might return not just with your family, but on your way to healing for yourself too.

I love you more than anything my dear.

With all my love,

Mama

P.S. I have gathered the family at Aubrey Hall, but I have not told them why. Kate, Sophie and Eloise are the only ones who know. We were joining there anyway, for Eloise’s birthday last week. When I received your letter, I insisted they stay longer. I hope I made the right choice, my darling.

P.P.S. Whatever this ‘surprise’ is which you and your brothers have alluded to in your letters, please be cautious when you reveal it. I don’t think my heart can take much more turmoil. 

Colin had to blink back tears as he read his mother’s letter, stained with her own tears. It had been so very long since he’d felt as though he was a person that anyone would be proud of. 

Had he ever felt it really? Perhaps only in that blissful period of his engagement before he’d found out about Whistledown. When he’d felt as though his entire life was on track. He’d found Penelope, and everything else had fallen into place. 

How quickly things can fall apart. 

But now as his mother put it, he had a chance. And he knew, as well as she that he would not waste it. 

Colin turned to Penelope, who was reading her own letter. It looked to be about as long as his. When Penelope had taken it from the footman's hand, Colin could feel the nervous anxiety radiating off her. But now, as her eyes made her way down the text, she seemed to have relaxed. In fact, the tension seemed to be rolling off her shoulders. She blinked tears from her eyes as she carefully folded the letter and placed it in her reticule, clearly not ready to divulge what the letter had said. 

That was alright, she would tell him when the time was right. 

“She says she’s excited to meet me,” Thomas said in awe, he didn’t look up at Colin, just kept fiddling with the edges of the letter, “She said I’m part of the family. Even if I don’t feel like it yet.”

“She seems like a nice lady.” Agatha responded softly as she craned her neck over her brother’s shoulder, reading the letter herrself. 

Colin watched as Agatha read his mother’s words, she seemed struck, somehow. Colin had gleaned without asking that they had never known Portia Featherington, and even if they had, she wasn’t exactly a model for grandmotherly love. 

Penelope, wonderful mother that she was, could not provide what the Bridgertons could. A large, happy family, with enough cousins and uncles and aunts to form an army regiment. 

“Still sure you want to remain a surprise?” Colin asked gently, sensing that his daughter was mourning the loss of her own letter. Though in truth, a day’s ride from Kent, there wasn’t much they could do about it now. 

But Agatha just steeled herself and smiled, “I’m sure. I didn’t get to see your face when you realised you had twins, so it's only fair I get to witness somebody’s shock.”

“Or you just like being the centre of attention,” Thomas said, rolling his eyes. 

Anthony stepped back into the fray as the rain grew heavier, “Our trunks our loaded, we should make our way into the carriage.”

The rain had not let up.

Fat droplets streaked across the windows of the carriage, obscuring the green blur of hedgerows and fields as they rumbled deeper into the countryside. Inside, the warmth of wool coats and shared body heat did its best to keep the chill at bay, though the windows steamed quickly with breath and laughter.

Colin sat between Penelope and Benedict, facing Anthony and the twins. Agatha, for all her complaints of illness earlier, had perked up now that the conversation had turned to stories of Colin and his family’s childhoods. Each twin was leaning  in, eager to learn more, despite the reluctant smile tugging at Thomas’ mouth.

“He fell off the roof?” Agatha asked, “Trying to see what exactly?”

“A hot air balloon,” Benedict replied, laughing as he recounted stories of their particularly accident prone younger brother. “Broke his wrist, was in a sling for weeks.” 

“You’ll like Aubrey Hall, I should think,” Anthony chimed in. “The grounds are a lot like Buncrana Cottage.”

Penelope smiled, “Visiting Kent was always my favourite part of the summer. It’s such a beautiful place.”

“What would you do there ?” Thomas asked, now visibly interested. 

Colin shared a conspiratorial glance with his brothers. “We got up to such mischief, we once tried to build a dam in the stream behind the west orchard. Nearly flooded the stables.”

“Or, there was the time Eloise put ink in Colin’s hair,” Benedict laughed. “It got everywhere, Mama’s velvet sofa never recovered”

“Or when Anthony hid every piano stool in the house so Franny couldn’t wake him when she decided to practice her scales at dawn.”

Agatha was laughing so hard her shoulders shook, and even Thomas had started to grin, his face softening in a way that made something sharp and tender twist in Colin’s chest.

“That’s a good one,” Thomas laughed. “I should have thought to hide Aggie’s fiddle. She spent hours screeching away at that thing till she gave up.”

“And we buried Daphne’s dolls in the flowerbeds for reasons I no longer recall,” Anthony added.

“She wept for a week,” Benedict said. “Father destroyed the entire Hyacinth shrub trying to find them.”

“Did he die?” Agatha asked suddenly, her voice curious but gentle. “Your father?” Her demeanour suddenly childlike and unsure.

Colin felt his breath hitch.

“Yes,” he said. “He died when I was twelve. Benedict was sixteen and…Anthony had just turned eighteen.”

There was a pause. Even the clatter of hooves on wet stone seemed to soften. Colin remembered how difficult his father’s death was on all of them, particularly Anthony. 

But in the dark gloom of Penelope’s departure, Colin had hardly the room to grieve his father in the slow, dull, way he had done before. It had been replaced by the sharp, stabbing loss of his wife. Now that she was here beside him, the grief for his father seemed to surge in his chest, fresh once again. 

He would never know Thomas and Agatha, he had never known any of his grandchildren. He hadn’t even known Hyacinth, his youngest daughter.

“He was stung by a bee,” Colin continued. “It happened so fast. He collapsed in the garden and never woke up.”

Agatha’s brow furrowed. “That’s awful.”

“It was,” Anthony said quietly. “Still is, some days.”

A small silence followed, not awkward, but full.

Then Penelope’s hand found Colin’s.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t look at him. But her fingers curled around his, warm and sure, and it was that gesture, small, steady, immediate, that nearly undid him. Grief had worn so many masks over the years. He had forgotten how powerful comfort could be when it came from the love of your life.

He squeezed her hand back, and held it, and Colin smiled as a small, but profound realisation struck him. 

His father had known Penelope. The only one of his children’s spouses he had met. 

Outside, the rain had slowed to a whisper, mist clinging low over the fields. The moon was hidden, but the carriage lanterns cast a soft glow over the tree-lined drive as they approached the final bend.

Then, at last, the gravel. Benedict used the sleeve of his jacket to wipe the condensation from the windows as the familiar, grand façade of Aubrey Hall came into view. The crunch of wheels shifted beneath them. The Grecian portico was illuminated by lanterns, their flickering flames dancing against the stone.

It was nearly ten o’clock, the sky was pitch black, but every single one of them was there.

Violet stood at the front, wrapped in a shawl, back straight, chin trembling with emotion she made no effort to hide. Beside her was everyone, his five remaining siblings and their partners, the whole clan gathered despite the hour and the rain. Even Francesca, who had rusticated herself up in the Highlands had come down. Their faces were tired but alight, expectant.

And in the windows just beyond, faces were pressed eagerly to the glass, wide-eyed nieces and nephews straining to catch a glimpse of the carriage.

Agatha gasped.

Thomas sat very still.

Penelope leaned forward, as if bracing herself.

“Here we go,” Benedict groaned.

Colin could not move for a long moment. He could only watch, heart hammering in his chest, as his family, all of them, waited for him.

For them.

Chapter Text

Bedford Square. London. January 17th 1816. 

The soft knock on Colin’s bedroom roused him from his slumber. Though in truth, it had been a rather restless night. He had spent the last few hours in that hazy space between being asleep and being awake, where you have not the strength to move your body but you still have the capacity to form conscious thoughts. 

Dark, hopeless, unrelenting thoughts. 

He wiped the drool from his mouth as he snappily called out to Dunwoody, “What is it?” Judging by the sun streaming through the crack in the curtains, it couldn't be long past midday. 

“It’s Lord Bridgerton, sir,” he coughed. “He is waiting for you in the drawing room.” 

For fuck sake, his brother had a talent for calling on him when his hangovers were at their worst. His head was splitting, his tongue felt like sandpaper and he had heartburn which felt like his chest was on fire. He was not in the mood for Anthony’s lording it over him today. 

Colin winced as he lifted his head from the pillow. He hadn’t cut his hair in months, and it seemed that the much longer strands had found themselves caught in the tiny silken buttons of Penelope’s day dress. He had taken to sleeping with it a few weeks after she departed, one of the only personal mementos she had left in her haste. He would lie in bed with it and smell her scent until that exquisite rosy fragrance moved him to either cry or touch himself. 

Either way it would end in tears. 

“Tell him I’ll be downstairs shortly,” Colin replied to his butler. 

He didn’t bother to change his nightshirt, he sniffed it, deemed it somewhat acceptable, and tucked it into his navy britches. He afforded the Viscount some deference as he donned one of his patterned waistcoats. Flowers or birds or something, he didn’t really care. 

What did it matter what he looked like anymore? He didn’t have anyone he cared to impress.

“Colin,” his brother said as he made his way into the near untouched drawing room. 

That room was hardly ever used these days. It was a woman’s space after all. The drawing room was feminine, or at least that’s what Daphne had told him. 

And he had no woman, so why should he bother stepping foot in there?

“You smell like a public house,” he said briskly as he leaned in to give him a grasp of the shoulder. “I will wait here while you wash, and then we are going out.”

Colin groaned, “Ant, I don’t think-.”

“It's been six weeks Colin, six weeks and you have not seen him.”

He looked to the floor in shame, he knew that. Six weeks and he had not paid a call on Anthony and Kate and their new born son, Edmund. 

“We left you be at first, we gave you Christmas, we gave you New Years, we even gave you Epiphany! Because we knew how difficult this time would be for you. This should have been your first Christmas with your new wife and-”

Colin squeezed his eyes shut in anguish, “Anthony, stop. I’ll go to see the baby, just please, stop talking” he begged.  

Colin turned and raced up the stairs, trying to fight back the tears that now threatened to encroach. He could hear the distinct sound of water sloshing against the inside of his porcelain bathtub, clearly his brother had already instructed Dunwoody to run a bath for him. 

The news of Will Mondrich wrestling Colin out of his club and into a hired hack the night before must have already reached the Viscount’s ears. 

As he watched his butler exit the washroom and bow his head in deference, Colin made first for the bottle of whiskey still left on his bedside table, he took it with him and climbed into the tub, not a care for how the searing hot water stung his skin. He slid down so that the water reached his chin, lifted the bottle to his lips, and drank. Rather sloppily done, as the brown liquid poured halfway into his mouth, and halfway into the bathwater. 

He cared not that now he would probably exit the bath smelling as much of whiskey as he had when he got in, because all he could think about was a thoroughly traitorous image that had popped into his head at his brother’s words. 

Penelope. His Pen. Dressed in some lovely red concoction to match the festive season. Or green, that glimmery emerald colour that seemed to ignite her from within. Penelope, singing carols with Eloise whilst Francesca played the piano. Penelope, sneaking Colin an extra slice of Yule Log because she knows how much he loves it. 

This should have been your first Christmas with your new wife. 

He had hardly noticed that Christmas had come and gone. It used to be his favourite holiday, now the thought made him want to die. 

But Colin, like the lazy sod he was, did not try to die, but just continued to pour the whiskey into his half opened mouth as he watched the liquid dilute the bath.

The fire illuminated the drawing room of Bridgerton house in a warm embrace that seemed to cocoon the little family in peace and contentment. Kate glowed with new motherhood, and Anthony looked more at ease than Colin had ever seen him. His mother, the perfect grandmama, floated around the three of them like some sort of guardian angel. 

He hovered near the doorway, awkward and hunched, like he didn’t belong there. 

He didn’t of course. This was so obviously his brother’s house now, so much so that it no longer felt like the place he had grown up. 

It took his sister in law beckoning him forward with an understanding smile which gave Colin the push to make his way across the threshold.

Baby Edmund was tiny and perfect, with a head of jet black hair, a tiny button nose, and big, brown blinking eyes. He seemed a clever little chap, eyes wide, mouth parted as though he was trying to join the conversation, but just didn’t know how. 

Funny how one could relate to a baby. 

“Would you like to hold your Godson?” Kate asked gently. 

Colin’s mouth fell open in awe. “Godson? But…but…you already had the Christening.”

He didn’t bother to go to the baptism, of course he didn’t. 

It was held at St. James’, the same church where he had been married six months earlier. Now, he wouldn’t go near the place, he even instructed his hacks to bypass Jermyn Street and Piccadilly whenever he would find himself heading for White’s, just so he could avoid the sight of it. 

“We only needed one Godparent present,” his brother explained.

“And Edwina was there,” Kate said soothingly. 

Colin knew they hadn’t bestowed this honour because he was the best choice, they had done it because they pitied him. He chose not to disturb the peace by voicing that thought however. 

Slowly, Kate passed the little bundle into Colin’s arms. He was heavy, heavier than he had expected, but so tiny and precious nonetheless. 

“Be gentle,” his mother calmly said as she grasped his knee.

The baby blinked up at him, unfocused, peaceful, as though he found nothing to be scared of when held by this new stranger. 

He loved babies, he supposed now he would never have one of his own. It wasn't in the cards for him. Never would be. 

And then a thought came, unbidden and cruel:

What if Penelope had fallen pregnant?

No no no no. It was absurd. Painful. Impossible. 

Except. It was possible. He’d made sure of that. 

Stop. Stop.

He used all of his mental capacity to shut down the thought before it was able to take root. 

She couldn’t be, because if she was, she would have come back to him. And she hadn’t written. Hadn’t sent word. That was the truth he had to keep hold of, because the alternative was worse. 

He was shaking.

“Your turn,” he said hoarsely as he passed baby Edmund back to his brother. 

Anthony nodded as he took back his son. Colin rose as soon as the baby left his arms. 

His brother had it all, a purpose, a wife, a child. 

He had nothing. 

And he’d made sure of that. 

“Thank you for letting me meet him,” he said as he turned on his heel, and made his way down the grand staircase and out the door. 

Colin spent the rest of day in White’s, drinking alone in a secluded corner of the club, watching in agony as a young Lord of his acquaintance celebrated just a few tables over. 

The young Lord’s wife had just given birth. 

Twins , no less.

Some people have all the luck.

Bedford Square, London. July 6th 1816. 

One year. 

It had been one year since Penelope left. 

Colin sat in the calfskin leather armchair of his study. Sipping away at, not scotch whiskey this time, as was his favourite tipple, but Irish. A strike at the distillery where Dunwoody usually ordered his crates from meant that the whiskey he preferred was in short supply. 

Apparently the supplier had assured his butler this was another excellent bottle. He sipped at it, it wasn’t bad. Not his favourite, but it wasn’t bad. 

Honestly Colin didn’t really care as long as it got him drunk enough to put him to sleep. 

To carry him to the only place where he could see Penelope. And what he wouldn’t give for a glimpse of her face again. 

The familiar creek of the door opening startled Colin so that the liquid sloshed out of the heavy-bottomed crystal glass and onto his hands. 

“I let myself in,” his brother announced. “I still have a key.”

That’s right, Benedict still had a key. Anthony had at one point given his brother this property to use as his London bachelor’s lodgings, a long time ago now, before Daphne had debuted. But Benedict had never really used it, preferring to rent out a top floor set at Albany. Where he had insisted, the glass dome in the roof afforded him excellent light with which to paint.  

His brother stepped in and took a seat in the opposite armchair, which also faced the fire. Despite the fact it was far too hot on this July evening to actually have one lit, the habit of sitting across from the fireplace still endured.

A moment or so passed before Benedict seemed to realise his brother was not going to offer him a drink, and poured one himself. Colin just shifted in his seat, he knew he was being impolite, but he just couldn’t find the strength to lift his arms from the chair. 

“Mother tried to call on you today,” Benedict said matter-of-factly. “You turned her away.” 

“I was there,” Colin said, continuing to look at the fire. 

“She wants you to move back into Bridgerton House, Col,” he continued. His brother scanned his eyes over his form, “She thinks you’re getting worse.”

Maybe he was. Though he didn’t see how that was possible. 

Sadness and grief had somehow shifted into something darker in the past few months. Angry, frustrated thoughts seemed to flood his mind at a moment's notice. Sometimes, when Dunwoody brought in his breakfast he thought about tossing the tray back into the loyal man’s face. Sometimes, he thought about just walking up to a perfect stranger in the street and pushing them into the road. 

Sometimes, he just wanted someone, anyone to let his anger out at. He wanted someone to take the blame that wasn’t him. 

“I brought something for you,” Benedict said, interrupting his sour thoughts. He pulled out a bundle from his coat pocket and placed it on the table. It was a little package wrapped in muslin cloth. 

“Unless it's a new liver, I’m not interested,” Colin said, eying the package as though it might explode. 

But his brother just laughed and passed it to him. As Colin deftly untied the string that held it together, Benedict continued to speak. 

“I tried to paint her from memory, but I confess it is not perfect.”

The final piece of cloth fell into his lap to reveal a tiny framed miniature. 

Penelope. 

Her face stared back at him, soft and content. Her curls loose, lips parted as though she was about to speak to him. The likeness was so painfully accurate that for a moment Colin forgot how to breathe. 

She was beautiful.  

“Thank you,” he whispered quietly.

“I thought you might like it. I don’t know what I can do to pull you out of this, Colin. But I can paint, and I thought having her with you might make things a little easier.”

The sound Colin made was something between a laugh and a sob. Wet, and ragged. He clutched the arm of the chair so hard that his nails cut little half moons into the soft leather. 

“She left me,” he said, emotion pouring forth. “She’s not coming back.” 

Benedict stared at his brother and took in a single, heavy breath, “Colin, I know we’ve said this before, but you could look for her. You have her name, a marriage certificate, you know her family. It wouldn’t take long for a private investigator to-”

“I can’t Ben,” Colin pleaded with his brother to understand, “She made her choice. If I find her…and…and she’s happy with someone else, I won’t be able to-”

“Okay, okay Colin,” he said, relenting. “I won’t bring it up again.” 

A beat of silence passed which seemed to stretch on for hours, the men continued to sip on their whiskey and stare at the empty fireplace until Benedict was moved to speak again. 

“I’ve been looking for someone,” he said quietly. “Ever since the masquerade ball Mama held. There was this woman…God, Col, she was so beautiful, even though I only saw half her face. I didn’t even get her name! But I know…I just know she’s meant to be mine. I’ve been to every damned ball since, hoping to see her again. But she hasn’t come, and it's been months. The pain of it brother, it's too much to bear. So…I…I understand what you’re going through.” 

Had he heard that correctly?

Colin lifted his head slowly, still clutching the miniature. “You understand what I’m going through?....You’re really comparing this to that?”

He met a woman once and he’s in pain?

“I’m saying I can understand-”

“No, you can’t.” His voice was cold as ice now. 

Colin knew he was quick to anger these days, and Benedict’s words scratched at his heart in a way that made him want to scream. “You’ve always been fanciful,” he snapped, “but I didn’t realise you’d grown completely delusional.”

Benedict didn’t bite.

“You saw her once, Ben. Once. In a mask. For what, an hour?”

His brother held his ground, but his jaw tensed.

“You’re chasing a fantasy in a gown. I married Penelope. I knew her. She was my best friend. You don’t know anything about this girl.”

“I knew enough to want her,” Benedict said, returning his tone now. “At least it didn’t take me a decade to see what was staring me in the face!”

Bastard. 

“You think you're some tragic romantic,” Colin spat back, “You fancy yourself in love, but you're just a bored second son who’s spent his whole life painting pretty fucking lies. This one just happened to wear a mask.”

Pretty fucking lies. That’s what his miniature was. Because Penelope was not here with him, and it didn’t help Colin to think that. In a way, he wished he had the capacity for delusion that his brother seemed to be displaying. 

Still, the tiny likeness would have to be wrestled out of his cold dead hands before anyone took it from him. 

“The woman I’m looking for didn’t leave because I never had the chance to take her for granted. Say what you want brother, but I didn’t drive my love away. Penelope clearly thought she’d be better off alone than with you. ”

Colin surged to his feet, the glass in his left hand rattling violently as he slammed it down.

“Get out.”

Benedict didn’t move right away. He just looked at him, not angry now, but fatigued. Something between them had snapped, and his brother had no interest in mending it tonight.

“Keep the miniature,” he said, standing slowly. “It’s the closest thing you’ll ever get to having her back anyway.”

He left without another word.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Colin didn’t sit back down. He just stood there, fists clenched, chest heaving, staring at the fire that hadn’t been lit in months.

The silence roared, and he shakily poured himself another drink.

Aubrey Hall, Kent. December 26th 1828. 

The room hadn’t changed. Not in over two decades. 

Colin stood near the window, whiskey in hand, surrounded by the mementos of his former life. The walls were still lined a golden yellow, Penelope yellow. Toy swords leaned against a bookcase filled with atlases, in the corner stood a battered looking rocking horse with one glass eye. About ten jars of different coloured marbles sat upon the mantle. A large plaster globe stood proudly on his desk, alongside his seashell collection, acquired over years from annual trips to Margate and Minster-On-Sea. 

Maps covered the walls, yellowed and fraying at the corners, framed as if they were art. Marked up and drawn upon as Colin had devised and re-devised what route he would take when he was finally allowed the privilege of a Grand European Tour.

It had once been Colin’s greatest ambition to travel the world. But now, he can’t really remember why. In truth, over the years he’d thought once or twice to set sail again, enticed by the possibility that just maybe he could gad about Europe as he used to, pretending he wasn’t in love with Penelope as much now as he was then. 

But he hardly stayed sober long enough to plan a route or make enquiries. 

And anyway, the whiskey in Britain was more to his taste than the ouzo in Greece, or the red wine in Italy. 

There was a soft knock, and the quiet creek of a door opening. 

“I thought I’d find you here,” said his sister, stepping inside. 

“How good of the Duchess to pay me a visit,” he said, smiling softly at her.

She was holding something, some kind of book or encyclopaedia.  

“I haven’t been in this room in Gosh….” she took a breath as she looked around the large, candlelit room. “I’m not sure how long.”

Every other of his siblings' childhood bedrooms had been converted to nurseries, or bedrooms for Violet Bridgerton’s frankly exceptional number of grandchildren, what was it now? Nineteen? Twenty?

But Colin’s had stayed still, untouched, a mausoleum. He had no children that could sleep there when they visited their grandmother or when their family came together for birthdays or anniversaries. No shelves to be cleared so that their own books or games or dolls could take the place of Colin’s things. No wallpaper to be replaced with their favourite colour. No need to repair the old rocking horse so it could be used again. 

And there never would be. 

Daphne looked entirely composed in her midnight blue gown. Her hair immaculately pinned, tiara affixed. A bastion of calm and serenity despite the chaos that whirled around her. 

Duchess. Matriarch. Pillar of society. A woman who knew her place in the world. 

“Nostalgic, are you?” Colin asked. 

She didn’t answer, instead she crossed the room to his desk, where she used her palm to spin the globe, coating her velvet gloves in dust. 

“Miles asked about you last night.”

Colin turned his head slightly. “Did he?”

“He wanted to know why Uncle Colin never joined in the parlour games.”

Colin exhaled through his nose. “He’s straightforward, just like his father. What did you tell him?”

“That you were afraid of being trampled by children when Charades got too competitive. Which, to be fair, isn’t entirely inaccurate.”

A silence passed between them. Daphne wandered to the edge of the bed, sat on the corner cushion and folded her hands in her lap.

“I wanted to speak to you before the others started pestering you about resolutions and the like.”

He arched an eyebrow. “And what am I resolving to do this year? Smile more at supper?”

“Annul your marriage.”

Colin stilled.

The fire in the hearth flickered softly, casting shadows over the old maps. A thick flurry of snow howled and danced outside the windows.

“You’re not serious.”

“I am.” She handed him the book in her hands. A volume of legal text. 

Burn’s Ecclesiastical Law. She’d even gone and dogeared some of the pages. 

Colin turned to her now, slowly. “You’ve really thought this through?”

“Completely,” she said. “You’re five and thirty Colin. You’ve wasted thirteen years of your life on someone who’s not here. Someone who, I’m sorry to say, will never come back.”

He flinched. His jaw tightened. His sister knew right where to stick her sword. 

He narrowed his eyes at her, “So the solution is to erase her?”

“No,” Daphne said calmly. “The solution is to give yourself a chance at something else. Something good. Something real.”

He took a long sip of his drink.

“Penelope was real.”

“Yes she was. She is ,” Daphne said, softening. “You know I adored her. And I know that you love her still, I believe that with my whole heart. But what are you now, Colin? You’re a… a…ghost. You haunt this house every few years, drink in corners, and let your nieces and nephews grow up not knowing the man who used to make everyone laugh.”

Colin looked down at his glass, then over at his childhood desk. There was still a brass compass sitting atop it. He’d used to pretend he was an explorer. Though a compass could do nothing to point him in the right direction now. 

“I don’t want another wife,” he whispered softly.

“Then don’t take one now,” Daphne said. “But allow for the possibility. Stop living in a waiting room, mourning a life that stopped being yours over a decade ago. Please Colin.”

He chuckled bitterly, the notion was so preposterous he did not know what to do besides laugh, “You think I could just marry someone else?”

“Yes,” she said plainly, undeterred by his reaction. “And you could have children. A family. Something of your own.”

He turned to her then, eyes bloodshot but sharp. “A second-rate life with a woman I don’t want?”

“No,” she said, calm as ever. “A different life. Not less. Just… different.”

“I’m still married to her.”

“You can change that.”

“I don’t want to.”

Daphne leaned back, something flickering in her expression, disappointment, perhaps, or pity.

“Then you’ll spend every Christmas like this,” she said softly. “Watching your nieces and nephews unwrap their presents and pretending you don’t wish you could watch your own children do the same.”

She was wrong, he’d been forced to attend Christmas this year, but usually he managed to weasel his way out of it. 

“I don’t want another wife,” he said again, strongly now. 

She stood.

“If it were me,” she said at the door, “if Simon were gone and someone offered me a second chance, not to replace him, but to have something again, I’d take it.”

He held back a scoff. Of course Daph would tell herself that, but she didn’t understand. 

She looked around the room, her gaze lingering on the tiny wooden ship that still sat on the high shelf.

“You used to dream so loudly, Colin. I’d hate to think that this is the life you ended up building.”

She left without waiting for a reply.

Colin stood for a long time in the silence. He brushed his thumb over the rim of his glass and stared out the window, where the snow was continuing to fall in soft, endless drifts.

“Don’t worry Pen,” he said softly to himself. “There’s nobody else, not for me.”

He picked up the thick book, ran his finger down the spine, and tossed it into the fire.

Bedford Square, London. September 5th 1818. 

Colin had been making his way down the stairs and into his study at half past eleven on the cloudy Saturday morning when he was startled so badly that he missed a step and fell to his arse at the bottom of the staircase. 

Someone was absolutely hammering his door down. 

“Colin!” she screeched. “Colin, are you in there?”

Kate?

He rose with a groan and a now significant pain in his right hip as Dunwoody came up from the servant’s corridor behind him. 

Colin waved the butler away and undid the latch himself. 

“Is she here?” Kate asked as soon as the door swung open, craning her neck over Colin’s broad shoulders. 

No she’s not. You know she’s not. 

Christ, he’d only been awake ten minutes and he’d already been forced to re-acknowledge his shame and grief. 

In fact he’d only risen this early because he’d run out of bedroom whiskey, so he was forced to settle for study whiskey.

Two years and the pain had not dulled, not one bit. 

“Who?” Colin asked, his mouth recognising the urgency in his Kate’s tone before his brain did. 

“Eloise. She disappeared last night,” she replied in panic as she pushed herself into the foyer.

“What on earth do you mean? Disappeared where ?”

“We don’t know!” Kate whined, “Your mother returned to Number 5 after Daphne’s ball late last night and she was nowhere to be found!”

Eloise? She can’t have just run away. Nausea and panic started to swirl in his gut. He may not have spoken a word to her in two years, but she was still his sister and he still loved her to distraction. 

“Everyone is out looking for her. We thought she might have come here.”

Here? Of course not. El could hardly stand to look at him let alone step foot in his house. She despised him for what he did. It had broken her completely. And he was a terrible excuse for a brother, because even now, in the flurry of panic and despair over his sister’s disappearance? Absconsion? Kidnapping? 

All he could think about was the possibility that she might have gone to Penelope. 

As he and Kate scoured London on horseback, his thoughts began to spiral. The idea dug its claws in fast. It was ludicrous, irrational, born of desperation, but once the thought took hold, he couldn’t wrench it loose.

Eloise was clever, too clever really, she was stubborn, relentless and fiercely loyal. There was a good chance she’d figured out where Pen went, could have pieced it together. And if she had, why wouldn’t she go to her? Eloise was not held back by the crippling fear that Pen had fallen in love with someone else. 

In fact she’d probably be happy for her. 

And Eloise had spent the time since Pen left curled into herself. She had always disdained society, always wished to break free, to escape. But in the past two years, it had only grown worse. She’d hidden away in her new bedroom at number five, seeing no one, speaking to no one, his mother had told him she would hear her talking to herself all day. 

It didn’t surprise Colin in the least that she would want to run away. 

He did. 

Eloise just had much more courage than he ever had. 

Maybe she had found her. Maybe she’d gone to live with Pen, to live their lives as spinsters like they had once planned to do. It would be so like them, those two stubborn, contrary women, to build something without him. 

And it would serve him right.

After two days of panicked tears, prayers, a desperate chase on horseback, and the complete battering of an innocent man, Eloise was found alive. 

And perfectly well. 

And not with Penelope. 

He had met him once before, Sir Philip Crane. Marina’s widower. Penelope’s cousin-in-law. 

And now it seemed, Eloise’s fiancé. 

He was a decent chap, in truth, and Colin had disabused Anthony’s worries by assuring him of that fact. Singular passions to be sure, but Eloise seemed to admire a man of purpose. He had wealth, and a decent set up here in Gloucestershire. Eloise, once rather disturbed by young children, seemed enamoured by little four year old Amanda and Oliver. 

None of that really mattered though, because she would have to marry him. 

That’s what happens when you run away from home to stay with a man alone and unchaperoned. If she returned to London, her reputation would have been in tatters. Hyacinth, the only remaining Miss Bridgerton, would suffer the consequences for her actions. Not only her, but Belinda and baby Caroline too. 

Any woman connected to Eloise in fact. Lucky for her there was no more Whistledown. 

But she should marry him really, not because of all that rot, but because she seemed happier now than she’d been in years. Calmer. Her thoughts didn’t seem to run a mile a minute like they used to. 

Eloise might not know it yet. But she was in love with Philip Crane. 

He hoped, somewhere inside, that this man would make her happy. That love could draw her back into the light. 

Because he loved his sister, and because he needed to assuage some of his guilt.

“Brother,” she said upon their return to My Cottage that evening. “Can I speak to you?” 

She pulled him aside into what looked to be their new sister-in-laws writing room. It was cluttered but orderly, an oddly visceral depiction of the couple Colin imagined Benedict and Sophie must be. The candle his sister lit caused soft golden light to spill across the desk and floor, illuminating the neatly piled papers and, presumably, hastily drawn sketches his brother had created. 

Colin stood stiffly, hands in the pockets of his travelling coat. He didn’t know what to say. 

It was the first time she’d addressed him in years. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said curtly. “But I didn’t run away because of her.”

Was she a bloody mind reader or was his desperation just that obvious?

He looked up, and she continued to speak. 

“I wrote to Sir Philip,” she continued, “Because I read Marina’s obituary in The Times last year. I sent him a letter of condolence. Because, I suppose…well I thought there was a chance that he might know something of Penelope. I know that she and her cousin weren’t exactly best friends-.”

Understatement. 

“But maybe Marina had spoken of Pen? Maybe they’d written to each other at some point?”

Colin blinked. His sister really was clever, because such a thing had never occurred to him. 

“It was incredibly tactless of me I know,” she breathed. “But Sir Philip wrote back, in fact he sent me this lovely pressed flower, Colin I-”

She stalled, and Colin could see in her eyes that she’d just remembered how angry she was with him. 

“Anyway. We continued to write to each other. All the time, for over a year. I ran away because he asked if I would be interested in marrying him,” she breathed, “And I have been…terribly lonely.” 

She was trying to be stoic, but the trembling in her voice betrayed her. He hung his head in shame. 

“He knew nothing of Pen, of course.”

Colin looked to the floor, he felt so guilty. He should have been more worried about his sister than the miniscule chance that he would find any information about Penelope. Nevertheless, the pain of that tiny flame of hope in his heart blown out once again, was unbearable.

“I have been so angry with you Colin,” she breathed, the adrenaline of the day seemingly dripping out of her with every word. “I know Penelope would have hated that.”

She’s not dead. 

“But you’re not the only one to blame Colin.”

He snapped his head up, the words were like a balm to his soul. Like he’d spent months in the desert and he had finally been given water. 

“Her sisters, society. Her mother! You were awful to her, that is true ,” she said, refusing to tear her eyes from his. “But I was no better when I found out her secret. We both said terrible things, neither of us saw her for what she was.” 

Colin’s mouth opened, then closed. It must have been terrible for Pen, her purpose, her talent, what she had built, precious and entirely hers.

To have her best friend, and her fiancé to react so badly, with such malice, it must have crushed her. 

“I…I don’t think you and I can ever be what we were again, not without Penelope.” 

He took a deep, heaving breath. He could form no argument against her. When Penelope left, she’d taken so much with her. 

His happiness, his purpose, his sister. 

“And it will be different, with me married,” she insisted. 

He shut his eyes, the surety of that crushed him, “I am so, so sorry Eloise,” he said shakily. 

She nodded once. A small gesture. A beginning, maybe.

"I kept all of her columns. They're in my bedroom at Number 5, you should take them."

They didn’t hug. They didn’t cry.

But it was hopeful. Hope that something better could bloom between them. Eventually. 

Whether or not that would actually come to pass was anyone’s guess. 

But Colin was resolved to try.

Kilmartin Castle, Argyll, Scotland. March 21st 1820. 

The funeral of John Stirling, 5th Earl of Kilmartin was the first family gathering since Penelope left that Colin had not tried to duck out of. 

The journey had been long, and arduous, and cold as the carriage rattled its way up over days, from smoggy, crowded London to the grand, serene expanses of the highlands. The heather-covered hills rolled on forever, soft and purple and ancient, their peaks capped in lingering frost. Brisk winds swept through the glens, shaking the skeletal trees and scattering the snowdrops that had just begun to bloom along the hedgerows.

Colin was exhausted. But he could grit his teeth and get through it, for Francesca. 

Though John had died in London, Michaela had insisted, despite her shock and heartbreak, that he be buried in Scotland. That her cousin would be laid to rest with a Church of Scotland service. That his tenants and colleagues and friends had a chance to attend. That his mother and her mother would not be forced to leave their highland residence at such a time. 

That John could go home. 

For a man that liked to keep himself to himself, it seemed all of Scotland had turned up to Kilmartin’s parish church that day. 

A funeral in Spring was a sad contradiction, particularly for someone so young. The bright green hills and brisk but sunny weather seemed to taunt them as the vicar recited his gospel and psalm. Nature so lush, green and cruelly alive that it made a mockery of the coffin of dead wood and the chopped flowers which lay before them. 

It was a beautiful service, truly, and Francesca was the perfect Countess, far too young to be a dowager, at only two and twenty. She was graceful yet indomitable as she sat in the foremost pew. The picture of motherhood, a single mother alone. Like some of the statues he’d seen in Italy and France, veiled and solemn with the babe clutched to her chest, Colin thought she resembled the Madonna. 

The reception at Kilmartin Castle had lasted for hours. So unlike the English style of mourning, where the atmosphere was shrouded in black as much as the people were. There were fiddles and laments and old songs sung with shaking voices, every now and again someone would cry, but no one would apologise for it. Children, too young to understand the situation, ran around in endless circles, chasing each other till they fell to the floor in a heap of giggles. 

It was not austere, nor really very grand. The Scottish traded stories of their departed loved ones over food, music, and many, many, glasses of whiskey. 

The beverage on offer suited Colin, but the social obligations and the crowded drawing room did not. 

He had grown so unaccustomed to crowded spaces and endless conversation. It was making him itch and sweat so badly that he longed to pull off his cravat and boots. 

He had to get out, for just a minute. Just to breathe. 

He had been assigned a bedroom, as was customary, but he didn’t know where it was yet. The castle was so vast and old he was sure he’d encounter hidden treasure before he’d encounter the bachelor’s corridor. Surely if he looked around there would be some unpopulated library or study where he could sit and have a quiet drink to himself. 

As he made his way down the corridor, the music and chatter fading with every step, he spotted a bookshelf through a crack in the large, oaken doors halfway down the hall. 

Success. 

As his hand grasped the brass doorknob and he stepped to push the door open, he heard something. 

Sobbing, Franny sobbing. Heaving, endless sobs. Louder really, then Colin had ever heard her.

“Shhh, there, there….my darling girl. My brave, brave darling girl,” his mother, comforting his sister as they sat in the corner of the old library. 

He could see their black silk skirts, and their hands clasped together, his sister's chestnut hair as her head burrowed into her mother’s shoulder. 

“How could he just leave?” she wept to her, “What am I supposed to do now?”

As he listened to Franny’s laboured breathing and her sobs started to subside, he wanted to push through the doors and join his mother in comforting her. 

Be the supportive brother he longed to be. 

He could see her pull back slightly, her face was a ghostly pale, her cheeks were soaked. And she managed to speak without pouring tears. 

“I’m scared, Mama,” she whispered, barely audible enough for him. “I’m scared I won’t be able to move on.”

He took in a heaving breath, Franny was strong. She would move past this, eventually. He had every faith in her. But he couldn’t help her, because he didn’t know how. 

“I’m scared I’ll end up like Colin.”

He reeled back like she’d slapped him. 

“I’m so frightened that I’ll never come back from this…never find my way out of this…this mist,” she continued. “That I’ll turn to stone. That I’ll lock myself in my house and drink until I can’t feel it anymore.” Her voice was pleading, “I can’t be trapped in perpetual mourning like he is Mama.” 

He knew, he supposed, that he was an object of pity in his family. But he’d never had it put to him so plainly. 

He could hear it in her voice, Francesca was terrified of ending up like him. 

When he’d heard the news of John’s death, his first thought broke through his drunken stupor clear as day. 

History had repeated itself. 

Francesca, just like her mother had been left a young widow. 

It was awful, so cruel to even think it. But Colin knew how they both felt. He felt sometimes that he was as good as any widow, grieving his wife as they did their husbands. 

He didn’t dare speak it aloud though. 

Because John Stirling could never come back, and Edmund Bridgerton could never come back. 

Penelope Bridgerton could. It was just that she wouldn’t. 

And he had made sure of that.

Any rational person would tell Colin that he was an insensitive prick, because Penelope wasn’t dead, she was alive and well, just, somewhere else. 

Violet exhaled slowly, and he held his breath as he watched his mother stroke his sister's arms, “Darling, you are not Colin.”

He knew his mother would never say such a thing if she knew he could hear her, but it felt like a stabbing betrayal all the same. 

He was naught but a husk, a sad cautionary tale. His mother knew that as well as anyone else. 

“You won’t be trapped…because you are strong, stronger than you know,” she paused, as though letting the words settle into Francesca’s skin. “And most importantly of all, my darling. You will move past this because you have something to fight for. You will be strong, for your son .”

There it was, the thing he’d never have. His mother had always said it was her children that had pulled her through the grief of losing her husband. Her babies that had finally brought her back to the world of the living. 

What might they have looked like? If he’d been blessed so?

He thought of a girl, small and angelic, a pile of ginger curls upon her head. 

He thought of a boy, lanky and awkward, freckled with a knowing toothy grin. 

Colin didn’t have them, he had no one, nothing to fight for. 

Not anymore.

A Large Oak Tree, St. James’ Square, London. July 7th 1827. 

He had a splitting headache. His mouth was dry, his back hurt, he was sweating and the sun was burning his eyes. The air was far too fresh for his liking. The scent of the trees and grass much too rousing for a man who preferred sleep more than anything else. The house before them was big, but not enormous. It stood proudly at the centre of the north side of the square, red-brick and symmetrical. 

“This is not, you realise, how I intended to spend my Saturday morning.” Colin grumbled as he sat cross-legged in a grand oak tree in St. James’ Square. 

“Yes I know,” Gregory grumbled, not tearing his eyes from the leftmost window on the second story of the townhouse that stood before him, “Apologies if I interrupted your hungover brooding.”

“I wouldn’t be hungover if I’d stayed home,” he retorted, fiddling aimlessly with an acorn that hung off the branch next to him. “There is a simple remedy to that. If I continue to drink, there can be no after-effects."

Twelve years. 

The night before had marked twelve years since his wife had left him. 

And Colin had celebrated by spending the evening like he’d always done. In a heap on his bed, whiskey in hand, surrounded by the scraps he had of her. 

A pale blue, flower-embroidered day dress. 

Forty-six handwritten letters.

A miniature. 

A wedding veil.

The entire collection of Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers.

He’d spent the evening reciting her letters like prayers. He felt a madman, talking to himself, having imagined conversations with her as though she sat next to him. 

But on the anniversary of her leaving, the wedding anniversary, and the tortuous double-whammy of the anniversary of their meeting falling just two days before her birthday, it was the only thing that seemed to help. 

He hadn’t slept a wink, not really. The dawn had shone through the gap in his velvet curtains by the time he had decided to curl up next to his Penelope collection and fall asleep. 

An hour or so, maybe two, before Gregory had come to his door. 

Panting, sweaty, jittery, more on edge than Colin had ever seen him. 

It was a girl. It must be. 

His brother had told him everything, including the fact that he’d compromised her. 

It was love. It had to be. 

Colin had always had more sensitivity to that sort of thing, more forethought. He had known really, when all his siblings had fallen in love, and he’d been told he’d taken after his mother in this regard. 

And now here he was, Gregory, the only one of his brothers and sisters who had not yet found someone. 

Of relationships he shared with each of his siblings, Gregory’s was the most easy going. The least complicated. 

Possibly because he was younger, and unlike his sisters he did not possess that womanly talent for mothering him, regardless of age. 

Possibly because he was so much younger, that Colin never felt they could be compared against each other. 

Possibly because he didn’t feel like his brother pitied him. He’d been a child when Penelope left, and away at Eton, had mostly been shielded from the worst of Colin’s spiral. Gregory never looked at him with haunted disappointment in his eyes. 

Most likely because Gregory was uncommonly lucky that he’d never been in love. 

Until now. 

What did he say they were waiting for? Some kind of signal? 

They’d been up there an hour or more by now, and Gregory was convinced she was coming. 

The wedding was due to begin in twenty minutes or so. Perhaps that boded well, if this girl, this Lady Lucinda, had intended to go through with the wedding, she’d surely have left by now. 

The ceremony, Gregory had said, was to take place at least a half-hour away by carriage, at least when you took into account the hearse-like pace brides usually took to the church, slow and steady, so that everyone would have the chance to look at the young lady in her finery.

It was to be held at St. George’s in Hanover Square, not the church home to the closest steeple he could see. No, that was the Wren-designed masterpiece of St. James’ Piccadilly, a structure Colin had become accustomed to not looking at. 

The church where he’d been married. 

He kept his eyes fixated on the mews at the side of the house instead. 

“A carriage,” Colin said suddenly. “A carriage is being brought round.” Painted white, open and festooned in pink and cream flowers. Drawn by four white, feather adorned horses. 

The front door opened, servants and family spilled out, cheering and laughing. 

Colin watched his brother’s eyes widen in horror as it dawned on him that nothing was amiss, that she was going to go through with it. 

She stepped forth, his love. Glowing bright in her satin wedding gown. 

“No,” his brother whispered, all he could manage to say. “No.”

The young girl climbed into the carriage, smiling and waving. A picture of loveliness. 

His heart went out to him, all he wanted to do was get out of this tree and tear his brother away from the scene.

“I’m sorry,” Colin whispered as he watched them drive away.

And he was. 

“It doesn’t make sense,” he shook his head to himself as he made his way down. Colin followed deftly so that he did not lose his footing. 

Gregory shot his head towards the corner that the carriage had made its way round, his eyes were wide and alert, his breathing had become jagged. 

“I have to go,” he said, the panic in his voice growing louder. “I have to go to her. I have to tell her.”

Colin launched his arm out and grabbed his brother by the wrist. “No.”

It was instinct more than anything, one of the rare instances where Colin found himself needing to defend and protect. 

Gregory, his baby brother, who was about to get his heart broken into a million pieces by a woman who had made her choice. 

“Let me go!” Gregory growled, as he tried to wrench himself free, but Colin kept a tight grip. 

Colin was grasping. “Do you even know her?” he pleaded in an attempt to get him to see sense.

Gregory looked him dead in the eyes. “As you knew Penelope?”

Fuck. It was like having an anvil dropped in your stomach.

“Would you have stopped? If it were her? Wouldn’t you have chased after Pen?” Gregory continued to shout as he wrestled with his brother’s grip. 

A carriage. A desperate chase. It was hauntingly familiar.

Would he have? If he’d known what he knew now? If he’d known that he’d spend the rest of his days heartbroken. If he’d been told then, that he’d be naught but a write off, doomed to spend his days pining after a woman he’d never seen again. 

Would he have chased after that carriage? 

Would he have crashed the Queen’s ball?

Would he have stopped her from marrying Debling?

Yes. 

Despite the pain, despite the torment, despite the gnawing, desperate loneliness. He’d have done it over and over again. 

He wished it were different, how he’d wished she’d stayed. 

But he’d told her he loved her, he’d known she loved him too. Even if it was fleeting. 

And as he stared back into his brother’s eyes, he knew Gregory deserved that chance too. 

Don’t end up like me. 

So he loosened his grip. 

“Go,” he whispered. 

And like a whippet out of a trap, his brother took off in pursuit of his love. 

Of his Penelope.

Bedford Square, London. October 3rd 1825.

The gardens of Colin’s townhouse were not much to look at. Dunwoody tried his best, but he was a butler, not a gardener, and the hundreds of fallen leaves from the sycamore and ash trees from Mrs. Newham’s garden next door made the task all that more difficult. 

They littered the patio and grass, they clogged the small fountain and they turned to a slippery mulch when it rained. 

Colin didn’t care, and nor it seemed did the newly minted Mrs. St. Clair who sat next to him. 

“What is that smell?” she asked, enticed. “It’s making me ravenous.”

That smell was his neighbour's cook, Mrs. O’Reilly’s, famous lamb stew. She was a kindly lady, with a jovial nature, sweet grandmotherly smile and a strong Irish accent. Colin would see her through the window of his neighbours kitchen when he would leave his own house through the side gate. 

Colin knew she took pity on him, but she seemed to express that emotion by dropping over pots of stew and packages of soda bread and scones to Dunwoody every other week. His own chef was satisfactory, but Mrs. O’Reilly seemed to cook with love that you could taste with every bite. It was an excellent hangover cure, so Colin enjoyed when her fare would end up on his table. 

“Lucky for us, I brought cake.” Hyacinth announced with a grin. She leaned down to collect a painted metal tin from the canvas bag that lay at her feet, and opened it to reveal a perfectly iced cake, scattered with candied walnuts. 

He smiled and took a slice. 

His sister choked a little as she swallowed down her first bite, “It’s meant to be a walnut sponge, but I think it's more brandy than walnut.”

“You won’t hear me complaining,” he mused. 

“Of course I won’t,” she laughed. “You’re practically pickled.”

Hyacinth was the only one, after Penelope left, who visited him regularly. Everyone else seemed to have their own priorities, parenthood, estate management, university and the like. But Hyacinth, stuck in a waiting room until she married, had continued to call on him almost every week. 

She brought him cake, or muffins or biscuits. She brought him as many snippets of family news as she thought he could handle. She brought him company, with no pressure or obligations, and a lightness that Colin found he could not get anywhere else. 

He feared that would change when she married, after all, couples tended to move towards each other when they wed, lower the portcullis, pull up the drawbridge so that all the lowly singletons could see is their backs. 

But Hyacinth had not changed. Not one bit. 

“You’re glowing,” he complimented her. “I can see the honeymoon did you some good.” 

“Yes,” she sighed. “Sicily was extraordinary.” 

“Sicily,” Colin repeated. “That’s where I wanted to take her.” 

Hyacinth tilted her head, “Penelope?”

He nodded, eyes drifting towards the bare rose trellis along the back garden wall. “It was the initial stop when I took my first tour, a natural stopping point on the way to Greece. I wrote to her of its beauty, of the Valley of the Temples, of the Ziza Palace and the markets of Palermo,” he sighed, mourning the loss of a honeymoon he would never have. “She wrote back saying how jealous she was, how she wished to see it one day. I wanted to make that wish come true.”

“That’s lovely,” she said. 

It was strange, with anyone else, even the mention of Penelope upset him. All he could feel was shame and reproach. Hyacinth pitied him, of course, even more so now that she was married. She brought him cake because she didn’t want to see him on a diet of whiskey. She brought him news of the family because she knew Colin didn’t want to be cut off completely. She brought him lightness because she knew that's what he needed.

But for some odd reason, her sunshine demeanour and mischievous smile, her youth , perhaps, made him want to share his thoughts with her, as though he were just a schoolboy with a crush on the girl across the square. 

Maybe it was because Hyacinth’s relationship with Penelope was so uncomplicated, her understanding over her so unmarked by secrets and heartbreak that the perception of her rubbed off on him too. It made him want to talk about her, to share memories. And that, he felt, was very important. 

Because he couldn’t bear the thought that he might forget her. 

It was a small but necessary reprieve from the depression and sadness he usually felt himself swimming in. Even just for a little while. Even just for the length of her visit. 

“She wrote to me too,” she said quietly. “Not as much as to you, I imagine, for I was a terrible correspondent. But she would write me silly little letters, stories from her family home, the antics of the village or something her Mama had done. I never got letters from anyone as a girl, everyone I knew was in the same house. But Pen writing to me always made me feel included.” 

“She loved to write,” Colin smiled. 

“She’d always let me win at chess too,” his sister continued. “When she’d stay with us in Kent. I thought I was terribly clever, beating her every time, but I realise now she was just being kind.” 

“She did that with Eloise too,” Colin laughed. “Although I don’t think anyone ever told her.”

“I remember she used to eat the cucumber and carrots off my plate so Mama would not force it on me.”

“She was horrific at Pall Mall,” he grinned. “I used to trek into the mud patch to collect her lost balls.”

Hyacinth paused and looked up at him, “You always loved her, you know. Even from when we were children.”

He grimaced, his stomach sinking. 

He had. From the day he laid eyes on her. 

He’d once criticised his brother for falling in love on sight. He’d called Benedict delusional, for falling for a person he didn’t even know. 

But in truth, the very same thing had happened to Colin. 

He just didn’t realise. He hadn’t the self-knowledge to see it. 

All that time, wasted.

“I should have proposed the moment she debuted,” Colin admitted. “All that time, wasted. She suffered the pain of unrequited love when in truth I felt just the same.” 

“It wasn’t wasted time,” his sister countered. “You were her friend. You made her happy.” 

“I hope wherever she is, that she’s happy,” she sighed.

His sister had an odd talent for making things seem so simple, even when they weren’t.

She cast her eye into the setting sun that shone before them, as though she was trying to scan the sky for an angel. The garden had been cast a bright orange in the late-afternoon sun, hazy and blurred. A soft breeze shook the trees over the wall, casting another flurry of dried leaves to cascade down to the lush grass. 

He watched in silence as his sister brushed a cake crumb from her lilac day dress, she gracefully placed her teacup on the wrought-iron table next to her and sat back, absorbing the glow of the day. 

“She’d be rather cross with you, you know.”

He drew his eyes to hers, he knew she was cross with him, that’s why she left of course. In fact, cross was an understatement. 

But Colin suspected that wasn’t quite what his sister was getting at, “For what?”

“For forgetting how brilliant you are. You are a very good man, Colin Bridgerton.” 

He fiddled with his wedding ring and smiled faintly. It didn’t feel true.

But for just a moment, under the rustling trees and fading sun, it felt a little less like a lie.

Chapter Text

Aubrey Hall, Kent. England. October 22nd 1833. 

Colin kept a tight grip on Penelope’s hand as the carriage wheels came to a stop. It had been a number of years since he’d last been here. He had felt so detached from the place, he supposed it was a symptom of feeling detached from his own childhood. But now as they approached, his wife and children next to him, all he could feel was a nervous, but profound sense of homecoming.

And there they were, his family, he could just make out their silhouettes, blurred by mist and shadow. 

Why had his mother arranged this like the convening of a royal court? 

“What do you want me to say?” he whispered to Penelope. “I didn’t think she’d have them all assembled, waiting up for us.”

She gripped his hand tighter, but did not look at him. “Tell them the truth.” 

Anthony took it upon himself to step out first, followed by Benedict. The open door let the cool October air into the confined space, brisk and biting, and Colin realised just how very stifling it had been in there. 

There was a flurry of movement as Kate and Sophie ran up to embrace their husbands. Kate let out a rather un-viscountess-like squawk as she wrapped her arms round Anthony’s neck, whilst Sophie pecked dozens of kisses across Benedict’s face. A wave of familial noise crested around them. Laughter, chatter, greetings. Meanwhile, Colin could feel his mother’s eyes barrelling at him through the foggy glass.

He braced himself, and looked to his own little family. 

“Are you ready?” 

Penelope, Thomas and Agatha responded in three cautious nods. 

He nodded his response in turn, opened the carriage door, and stepped out. He did not let go of his wife, and Penelope's hand stayed gripped tightly in his as she followed him.

A collective gasp rang out from the group, and before Colin could even turn his eyes away from the carriage step, before he had even a second to take in the scene before him. He was pushed squarely out of the way by his sister. 

Eloise had rushed straight past him and into the embrace of his wife’s arms. 

“I have missed you so much Pen.” She sobbed, nearly unintelligibly. “I am so, so sorry- ” She couldn’t finish. Her voice broke entirely as she clung her arms around her oldest friend, burying her face in her shoulder. Nearly knocked clean over by the force of his sister’s embrace, Penelope seemed completely taken aback. 

Colin watched as she squeezed her eyes together in relief, “It's alright, it’s alright.” Pen whispered into Eloise’s chestnut hair, patting and stroking her back over the soft lilac muslin dress. “I’m sorry too.”

The moment was messy and awkward, but entirely cathartic. And exactly, Colin had thought, what Penelope needed right then. 

A beat passed as he cast his eyes up at the bedroom windows, the faces of little children that should have gone to bed hours ago fogging up the glass. As he turned once more to his family, his breathing stilled as he took them in, their faces, all of them, eyes-wide and mouths open. Some were hopeful, but most pitiful as they usually were. 

His brothers and sisters, the audience , the politburo , staring at him, evaluating him as though he were an actor who had forgotten his lines. 

Christ. He had to do this. How on Earth was he going to do this?

Penelope squeezed his hand once more. 

“Family.” He called to get their attention, though he hadn’t really needed to, they all seemed to be holding their breath already, waiting for him to speak. “I’d like to make some introductions.”

Be strong. Be on top of this. For them.

He cast his head back towards the carriage door as Thomas stepped out and stepped slowly forward to join them. 

“My son,” he announced with pride, a smile breaking across his face. “Thomas.”

Another, somehow louder and more shocked, simultaneous gasp emanated from his family. His mother had just stepped forward to embrace them when she clocked Agatha clambering out of the carriage, slow and careful as to not to trip over her woollen skirts. 

Colin stepped back, smirking conspiratorially with her as he assisted her down. 

“And my daughter,” he grinned to them all. “Agatha.”

“Oh!” His mother gasped, hands flying to her mouth. Her eyes darted from Colin, to Thomas, to Agatha, to Penelope and back again, a sort of delighted confusion painted across her face. 

“We’re twins,” Agatha spoke nervously. “I know we don’t look it.”

“Twins!” Violet cried, tears spilling forth from her eyes, she rushed forth to embrace them, her arms wrapping around them both, shawl hanging off her shoulders. Full and woolen and white in the moonlight, as though she were a swan pulling her fledglings to her chest. 

His mother cupped Thomas’ face in her hands, like with Colin, she was at least a foot shorter than him. “Oh you are so handsome! You're just like your father!” She cooed. “And how tall you are! And you my dear, what a surprise this is!” she cried, turning to Agatha. “The most beautiful girl! Your hair is exquisite! And so like Penelope!” 

His mother turned around to face her family once more, her face, the gentle, demure tears now becoming a snotty mess across her visage, “Twins!” She cried once more, bobbing, near jumping up and down in place as though she were a little girl who’d just been given a handful of sweets. 

She careened to Penelope, so full of energy, and embraced her too, “My darling girl,” she whispered, tight, and desperate and weepy, like any mother who had not set eyes on her daughter in two decades. “Thank you.”

Colin watched the scene with such pride and joy in his heart. He wrapped his arm round Penelope’s waist, and she made no attempt to stop him. 

“What..what on earth is going on?” Colin could hear his youngest sister say, confused and excited from behind his ear. Other confused quips came from behind him, from Gregory and Lucy, from Franny and Michaela. 

But he found he could not tear his eyes from the scene before him. It was joyful and celebratory, sparks of happiness seemed to light up in his stomach. 

Until, “You have children? Colin?” Daphne asked not looking at him, but directly at Penelope.

Her tone was not unkind, to be fair, but yet, she looked completely dumbfounded, utterly blindsided by the scene before her. The Duchess’ question seemed to befall silence over the scene, an instinctive grace she had grown into which commanded quiet over all of them. 

Perhaps it was because she outranked every last one of them.

Colin could see Penelope’s eyes sink to the ground, but Eloise, still stuck like glue to her side, whispered, loud enough for all of them to hear. “They’re so beautiful, Pen.”

He swallowed convulsively, “I do,” he said proudly, as proudly and as confident as he could manage. “And I am honoured to be their father.”

It seemed to put his sister in her place somewhat, as she gave a small nod and stepped back. Barely noticeable, as the rest of his sisters and brothers paced forward to join them. Gregory grabbed both of his shoulders and gripped. Philip and Simon both paced forward to shake his hand. 

Violet turned around to face the rest of her family as she took hold of Thomas and Agatha’s hands. 

“Let’s get out of the drizzle everyone.” She said with the same gentle command that had once ushered them inside from tree-climbing and snowball fights, the same motherly love that had healed them of scraped knees and broken hearts.

The house swelled as the last of the coats were shaken off and hung to dry. Rain still clattered lightly against the windows. The scent of the coal fires seemed to wash over Colin, inviting him in further to the embrace of his home. His children walked beside him through the grand double doors, mouths wide open and eyes cast to the ceiling as though they’d just walked into the Sistine Chapel. 

Introductions were made with the twins, re-introductions with Penelope, teary hugs and cheek kisses, and shy handshakes. Hyacinth was ecstatic, introducing her husband and lamenting to him that she wished she could wake up their children to show them off. Lucy and Sophie embraced her wholeheartedly, as kind and as friendly as his sisters-in-law always had been.

Thomas stood rigid and uncomfortable in the ornate drawing room, he'd had his shoulder gripped and hand shaken enough times that Colin thought his whole arm might pop clean off with the next one. Agatha was faring better, she’d called beautiful just about forty different ways by the time she’d sat down, mostly by his mother.

“I’m glad to put a face to the name,” his brother-in-law, Philip, had said, glancing at Eloise. “It’s been Penelope this and Penelope that our entire marriage.”

“Your cousins will adore you,” Kate had assured Thomas and Agatha, beaming at them. “The older ones are away at school and university, but they’ll be back in a few weeks.”

“I do hope you’re all fond of chaos,” Francesca said mildly, her gaze flicking between them. “Because that’s rather our family specialty.”

It looked as though tea had been laid for fifty in the drawing room. Steaming pots of breakfast tea and chai, little sandwiches cut into delicate triangles, spiced buns, shortbread, and a towering dish of lemon cake. 

Colin piled up his plate and sat on the right end of the couch, Agatha, Thomas and Penelope then on the other side. He had gathered the food with the intention of sharing with them, but Colin was surprised to see that his daughter had piled up about as much food as he had, the same choice of sandwich, same selection of jam. She’d inherited her tastes from him, anyway. 

Some family members sat on the sofa opposite him, some flanked on armchairs and dining room chairs beside and behind him. 

Why on earth was he so nervous? It was only his family. 

“Isn’t somebody going to explain?” Daphne asked, looking pretty exasperated as though she couldn’t quite believe she was the first one asking this.

Colin grimaced at her tone, Daphne, even years after Penelope left, had been the only one who kept harping on about what had happened. She hadn’t let it die. She had never gone quiet and complacent like the rest of them eventually had. 

Every time he saw her she would give him the same advice. 

You need to move on Colin.

You deserve better than this, Colin.

Annul your marriage, Colin.

A year younger than him in reality, but his sister had always seemed older, as girls always did, he supposed.

He knew she’d always said these things out of love for him, and not out of disdain for Penelope. But it was difficult to believe that right now, as she sat there looking so wary. 

Colin didn’t need her to mother him. He needed her support. 

But she’d only asked what everyone else was thinking.

And after what Penelope had said. 

Tell them the truth.

He told them everything , every last detail, from the letter arriving on his doorstep, to his son holding the title of Baron Featherington, the journey to Ireland, finding out he’d fathered twins and everything in between. 

He spoke of Ireland’s beauty, of how well Penelope had raised the children, how they had been safe and happy. He spoke of their humour, their cleverness, their bright intuition, and how lucky he was to have the chance to know them, to be their father.

His tone was final, and certain, and Colin didn’t quite know where all this confidence was coming from. Confidence, after all, had been an elusive feeling all his life, but he was glad of its sudden arrival now, because in that moment, he felt every bit the father he hoped he could be. 

He told them everything, everything except why Penelope had left in the first place. But it was simple to him. The twins did not know yet, and Colin wasn’t about to tell his family before his own children had a chance to hear and to process the reasons they hadn’t known their father. 

And by some miracle, the Bridgerton talent for nosiness and intrigue seemed to vanish the moment Colin started talking. The elephant in the room was impossible to ignore, but everybody seemed to be doing just that. 

Some miracle, or his family had just learned well enough over the years not to ask Colin about why Penelope had left. It wasn’t as if he’d given them an answer before after all. 

“What was it like growing up in Ireland?” Simon asked the twins as he shifted in his seat next to Daphne. 

“Quiet,” Thomas said softly. “Our town is only about two hundred people. But it’s nice, you know? It's a community, everybody knows each other-” Colin watched his son light up a bit as he continued to speak of his home. He’d been a bit uncomfortable the entire journey over, a bit uncomfortable since the day Colin had met him in fact, but kept a brave face, knowing this was something he couldn’t really get out of. Penelope had told him the night before they left Rathnew, that Thomas had always struggled with large groups, she was like him in that regard, shy and reserved. Colin felt a surge of pride for his teenage son as he spoke with contentment and certainty about his little village. 

Thomas might be shy, but he wasn’t one bit embarrassed about where he came from. 

“Hmm,” Agatha said slyly. “It’s a blessing and a curse though, you can’t get away with anything.” She giggled, rolling her eyes, “if you so much as go out without a scarf in the rain, the greengrocer has ratted on you to your mother before you get home.”

Penelope laughed at that, as did everyone else. Colin surveyed his wife up and down as she stroked Thomas' sleeve for comfort. She would have looked composed enough to most people, but the rapid rise and fall of her chest combined with her biting the inside of her cheek told him she was more on edge than she’d like to admit. 

“You did well, Colin.” Michaela interjected, “These two will fit right in.”

“ Penelope did well,” he countered, smiling at his wife in an attempt to ease her discomfort. 

“How was the journey?” Sophie asked sweetly, left hand so firmly clasped in both of Benedict’s that she struggled to balance her cup and saucer. “I’m relieved to see you all in one piece.”

“Long, it seemed never ending at times” Agatha replied with a mouthful of raspberry scone.

“We brothers managed it together,” Anthony said proudly as he pulled Kate closer to him on the plush velvet sofa. 

“I can’t believe you didn’t ask me to come,” Gregory grumbled. “I’m one of the brother’s too.” Colin thought he heard Eloise let out a little scoff from behind him at that, but he didn’t turn. 

“Your wife is seven months pregnant,” Anthony reminded him pointedly, as though his little brother was still a little boy, and not a father of three, soon to be four. Gregory huffed, pushed back against his chair and wrapped his arm around Lucy’s shoulder in response.

Then Hyacinth, never one to tiptoe around awkwardness, asked, “So what now? Will you all be moving into Colin’s house?”

The room quieted again. He adored his youngest sister, but Lady St. Clair had never had and probably never would have any sense of occasion. 

She’d always managed something like that, to say bring up exactly what everyone else was trying not to bring up.

What about the Duke?

What about Miss Edwina’s sister?

I thought it was quite a kindness that you did for Penelope last week. 

Penelope looked to Colin, then down at her teacup. His anxiety only increased as he could sense Penelope’s clear distress at his sister's question. 

“We’re still deciding,” she put carefully. “There’s a lot to consider.”

“Oh,” Hyacinth muttered, clearly chastised that she let her excitement get the better of her, “Right.”

“I don’t need to consider anything,” Agatha whispered to him under her breath. “I’m not getting on another boat again.”

Benedict cleared his throat awkwardly. “There’s time for all that. No need to sort everything tonight.”

“Exactly,” Violet said gently. “We should all get some sleep, it’s been rather an exhausting day.”

Just before the group began to rise, a footman approached quietly and reached for Thomas’s empty cup. “Shall I take that for you, my lord?”

Thomas blinked, startled. He handed the cup over slowly. The footman looked barely older than him, maybe the same age, and the lilt of his unnervingly similar accent was unmistakable.

A flush crept up Thomas’s neck as he mumbled a quiet, “Thank you.”

Colin noticed the shift. The sudden stiffness in his son’s shoulders. The unease.

It hit him like a punch to the gut, Thomas felt guilty. Uncomfortable. Served by someone who, by all appearances, could have been his schoolmate.

“Kate and I had rooms made up for each of you,” his mother said, approaching them as everyone stood and bid each other goodnight. 

She waited while Eloise gave Penelope one last tight and rather desperate hug, before speaking once again. 

“You’ve each a maid and a valet,” she said kindly, “They will show you to your rooms in the family wing.”

Both of the twins flinched awkwardly at this before bidding their grandmother a good night, but they allowed her to give each of them a soft kiss on the cheek before they finally left the room. Colin knew they probably couldn’t imagine anything worse than having their own servants, not after everything they’d told him. The last thing Colin wanted was for them to feel in any way unhappy here. He would speak to his mother, he knew that all she was doing was being as welcoming as possible. It wasn't her fault, it was just the way the English understood hospitality. 

“My dear, I’ve had a chamber made up for you too…unless,” Colin could see the wheels turning behind his mother’s eyes, letting her curiosity and concern get the better of her manners, “unless you two wish to retire together?” 

Penelope looked to the floor, once more, a little nervous tick she had always possessed, even as a girl. “Separate rooms will be fine, thank you Lady Bridgerton.”

Colin wished the ground would swallow him up. He knew sharing a bed was not going to happen, not yet anyway. But having it confirmed clearly to him was a bitter disappointment all the same.

She just smiled in return, clearly trying not to let her own disappointment show on her face.

“You must call me Mama my dear,” she said, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. She cupped Penelope’s face sweetly, “Two more grandchildren, I can’t thank you enough, my darling.”

The hall was lined with the tall candelabras, and it made Penelope look so exquisite, the flames danced upon her curls, turning auburn to molten gold. Her eyes were lovely, the perfect contrast to the pinky orange tones of her hair and skin. 

They loitered in the quiet hallway as everyone else had retreated to their bedchambers. As they stood there in the little curved alcove, he could almost be fooled that nothing had ever changed, Colin and Penelope, speaking with each other in hushed tones in the dark night, surreptitious and secret. 

Except if it had always been like this, he wouldn’t be bidding her good night, they’d have been heading to sleep in the same bed, to spend the night wrapped around each other whilst they dreamed of one another. 

“Thank you for speaking for me in there,” she said quietly. “You always know what to say when I don’t. I thought I would be more prepared by the time we arrived, but they were all just so…so…expectant,” she swallowed “I found myself near speechless.”

“You did so well, Pen,” he said, leaning against the marble pillar of the alcove. “If they were angry with you, you’d know it. Trust me.” 

She gave a quiet laugh, “I suppose you're right.” 

“It’s more than that though,” she tried to get out as she looked anywhere but at him. “They’re all so bloody perfect. I felt like a cracked dish next to polished silver. Happy couples in love, just so very…functional, I suppose.” 

He closed his eyes shut for just a second to process what she said. Happy couples in love. He’d been afraid of this, afraid she’d come to Aubrey Hall and see how perfect everyone was and how broken and inhibited he looked in comparison. 

He just didn’t think she’d compare herself against them too, because in his eyes, she was more perfect than any of them. 

He gripped her hand in a gesture that seemed to have become familiar again in the past weeks.

“We don’t owe them anything Pen. You, me and the children. This is our business. It’s our family. We decide what happens next.” 

She looked up at him with an expression he couldn’t quite decode. “You’re right I know,” she conceded softly. “I just wish I could feel that way.” 

He said nothing, he just wanted desperately to kiss her. To reassure her of his love, that a kiss would say all the things he could not. 

He stepped forward just an inch, but when he leaned down to give her a soft little peck, his lips found only her cheek. 

His gut squirmed with displeasure. He tried to make the move look intentional, but he didn’t think he was doing a good job of it. 

“Goodnight, Mr. Bridgerton,” she said sweetly, almost lovingly, so very different from the way she had said it the first time. 

A small mercy, at least. 

He watched her go, watched her glide like an angel towards her guest room. He couldn’t help how his hand thrummed against his heart as he watched his love walk away from him once more. All he could do was take his mother’s advice, to show her, every day, that she could trust him again. 

All was not lost. 

He just hoped and prayed that she wasn’t headed in the opposite direction. 

“Colin.” 

He stopped short at the voice from behind him. 

“Thomas?” he asked in return. 

What happened to dad? Or father? Had he called him that already? Or had it just been Agatha?

Colin took in the figure before him, he looked wary, suspicious even. He was barely an inch shorter than Colin, and he would wager he wasn’t quite done, that he would grow taller than him still. 

Squared up but controlled, he looked not a teenage boy, but a man. A man who clearly had something important on his mind. 

“I know how you feel about her,” his son said calmly. “And I know you mean well.” 

Colin’s heart rate had increased about three fold in the space of thirty seconds.

“Don’t hurt her.” 

What?

He felt like he was choking. “I won’t-,”

“Don’t hurt her again. ” 

Fuck.

“I know she seems strong, but she is more fragile than she looks,” his son continued, calm but assured. “If you hurt her, even once, even unintentionally-”

“If you make her cry.”

He felt ill. Surely Thomas knew that was the very last thing he would ever want?

“Make no mistake Colin, I will take my mother, and I will take Agatha. And I will make sure that you never see us again.” 

Chapter Text

Aubrey Hall, Kent. England. October 23rd 1833. 

Colin woke with a strangled gasp, the sound tearing from his throat in a painful, croaky wail. 

He’d spent that night plagued by nightmares. 

Swirling, terrorising images of his wife and children torn away. His sweet Pen turned away from him, shaking her head in teary sadness, once again disappointed, once again hurt. His children, looking upon him with disdain and disgust, ashamed, horrified at the man he’d become.

At the man he was. 

He screamed their names until his throat burned raw, but no one came. Only silence. Only a slow, choking descent into madness from which he could never crawl out.

No home, not anymore. He’d been given enough chances for one lifetime. 

I won’t hurt her. I won’t. 

He woke drenched in sweat, hot tears burning his retinas. 

His heart still thundered, even as the dream retreated. He sat up abruptly, rubbing his hands down his face, dragging his damp hair back from his brow. The fire in the hearth had long since gone cold. Pale, early morning light seeped in around the edges of the curtains, unwelcome and indifferent.

He sat up and groggily faced the window, the curtains had not been fully drawn, and he could see slivers of Aubrey Hall’s majestic grounds through the glass. The bright, crisp reality of where he was and what he had flooded back to him. 

It wasn’t real. They’re here. They’re here.  

But the weight of his son’s words the night before had settled deep in his chest.

I will make sure that you never see us again.

The truth of it was, he didn’t doubt Thomas for a second. Not only did he think his son had the resolve to cut him out of their life, he had the power to too. 

And yet, his heart ached for his son. 

He was just a boy. 

A boy who had been the man of the house since birth. What kind of responsibility has weighed on him all his life?

To protect and guard his mother and sister from all that may harm them. Including Colin. 

He couldn’t really blame Thomas for how he felt. 

He’d never had that kind of responsibility, that kind of pressure. He’d never had to take care of anyone save himself. 

Except, that wasn’t quite true. He had held that responsibility once, he’d been a fiancé. And oh how he had bungled that entirely. 

Don’t hurt her again.

He strained his eyes to get a bleary look at the pendulum clock mounted on the far wall. It was just shy of eight o’clock. 

He supposed one of the benefits of having night terrors is your mind might be more eager to pull you back to reality. 

Colin rose and gave himself a quick rinse with the water jug left for him. He dressed hastily, genuinely thankful that not only had his mother sent them a carriage at Southampton, but had arranged for a trunk of his clothes to be sent from London as well. It felt rather refreshing to not be dressed in the same two pairs of shirts and britches that he had taken to Ireland. 

The silence of the early hour was near deafening, but Aubrey Hall in the morning had always held an odd sort of peace. He remembered it from his childhood, a sort of tranquillity that had eluded him for years. But here in Kent, first thing in the morning, he could look out of his window and it was…serene. As if he were the only person left in the world. 

He rounded the corner on to the grand double staircase which led to the foyer. And there, stood in the mirror framed between them, was Thomas, fiddling with his necktie and awkwardly attempting to get his jacket to lie straight. His hands tugged his lapels with the same anxious energy Colin had seen in his own reflection a thousand times before.

“Cravat giving you trouble?” Colin asked softly as he approached behind him.

His son watched him approach in the reflection in the mirror, and for a moment Colin was stunned at how alike they appeared dressed almost the same in full jacket and waistcoat. 

“Not really. I've just never been so…starched.”

He offered the smallest, gentlest of smiles, “Comes with the territory, I’m afraid. You’ll get used to it.”

A moment passed as Thomas’ eyes flashed with something not quite discernible to Colin, but that made his heart pound nonetheless. 

“Would you…would you mind if we went for a walk?” he asked gently, praying he would not be soundly rejected.

His son hesitated for just a moment, “Alright.”

They remained in an oddly comfortable silence as they made their way out into the grounds behind Aubrey Hall, out past the manicured gardens and across the Pall Mall pitch. The sun was just coming up and the dried, copper coloured leaves drifted gracefully down around them with the light breeze as they descended a gently sloping hill which cast them nearly out of view of the house. 

Just talk to him. Tell him how you feel. 

“I don’t blame you for protecting your mother. In fact I’m grateful for it,” Colin started shakily as they finally came to a spot beside what in his childhood had been his most favourite tree. 

“Good,” Thomas breathed, not looking at him. “Because I meant what I said.” 

Fuck.

As soon as the words left his lips however, he softened slightly. He paced backward to press his back against the bark, sighed and looked intently back at Colin, “Try to see it from my perspective," he digressed. "I can remember since I was small, sneaking downstairs at night, sometimes Mammy would be crying in the living room, that or she’d wake in the morning and her eyes would be all...bloodshot and her cheeks would be streaky from the tears. I always knew, even without her needing to tell me, that she was crying for you.”

He paused to take in a stuttering breath, as though willing himself to control his emotions. “She’s so strong for me and Aggie all the time, but she’s so fragile at the same time. And now you’re here, and you say you love her and I just…”

“Agatha gave me such a bollocking for what I said last night, she told me that I need to give Mammy a chance to be happy,” he continued, looking him up and down. “And I suppose she’s right it's just, if things stay the same, if Mam stays alone…she can’t be hurt. She’ll be safe.” 

Colin swallowed hard. The lump in his throat had been building since him and Thomas started speaking, and now it threatened to choke him entirely.

“I want to give you the benefit of the doubt, and I want you in our lives” he continued. “But I can’t… I can’t bear to see Mam in pain. If it comes to that, I’m sorry but…I just won’t be able to give you another chance.”

“I know,” he said, his voice hoarse. “God, Thomas, I know.”

He looked down at his hands, gloved, useless things, and clenched them into fists. 

“It is the biggest regret of my life, how I treated Penelope. And…I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself for what I did. For not being there. For what I put her through. And you. And Agatha. I-” He broke off and shook his head. “I’ll live with it. Every day for the rest of my life.”

“Your mother was the best thing I ever had, and I let her slip away. If I could go back and undo every moment she cried alone, I would tear the world in half to make it so. And I promise you, I will never, ever be the reason she sheds another tear again, not if I can help it. I will spend the rest of my life trying to earn even a sliver of her trust back. Not because I expect it or because I think I deserve it. But because I am nothing without her. Her, you and your sister, this family is the only thing I want, the only thing I will ever want. ”

His jaw tensed as he willed himself to keep talking. “So if you need to watch me with suspicion, if you need to keep your guard up for her, I accept that. I welcome it. Because she’s worth protecting. And so are you.”

Thomas took in a long, heaving breath and Colin knew he was deciding what to make of his speech.

Finally, he spoke.

“Jesus" he breathed. "Okay Dad, I understand you. Just please, don’t hurt her. Ever again.”

Dad. Thank God.

Colin let out a breath, shaky and unsteady.

"I won't"

“You might not want to hear it Thomas, but I am so, so proud of you.” 

He scoffed, glancing aside, “I haven’t done anything to be proud of.” 

Colin’s heart tightened and he shook his head in awe and disbelief, “That’s where you’re wrong. You’re the man of that house, you’ve protected your mother and sister. I can see how much you love them, I can see how you have looked out for them all these years.”

He looked at him, looking every bit a Bridgerton. “You remind me so much of my own father, in fact.” 

Thomas blinked at him, “Really?”

“Yes,” Colin said with surety. “And Lord Edmund Bridgerton was the best man I ever knew.”

“Christ,” he replied, almost snorting with laughter, he slumped down onto the ground, his back against the grand oak tree behind him. Colin followed him down so that they both sat next to each other, facing out towards the lake that marked the southern border of the Bridgerton’s lands. 

He laughed once more, softer this time. “I was joking about it before but…it’s so much pressure, this Lord Featherington bollox. You all seem to think I’ll be fine, and I know I’ll have help but, I’m scared I’ll make a complete fool of myself.” 

“Do you want me to let you in on a secret?” Colin asked, smiling with relief that his son’s jovial mood seemed to have returned. 

“Go on then.” 

“Most titled men are complete fools.”

Thomas just raised his eyebrows at the ground in a gesture of sarcasm. 

“No really,” he continued in earnest. “They waste away their time hunting or gambling, and leave all their responsibilities up to hired stewards. Do you know how many Lords I have met that belong in a circus , not in Westminster?” 

“And yet,” he replied, picking up a rock and tossing it towards the lake. “They control the country.” 

“It’s a fucking joke,” Colin agreed. “And I’m ashamed to say that I never really questioned the system until I met you and your sister. You two have opened my eyes to the injustice of it all.” 

“The Lords have so much power in Ireland. They control everything. None of the tenants have any rights at all, I know too many innocent people, that were evicted…thrown out of their homes without any notice. And it's only getting worse! Those men are fucking cruel and I hate the idea that I’m one of them.”

Colin deftly placed his hand on his son’s shoulder, and squeezed. “You’re not one of them Thomas. You understand how to treat people. Me and my brothers, we say you’ll be fine because it’s true. It’s your inheritance, you’ll run the estate in the way you see fit. I’m not going to say it’ll be easy, but you can make a difference, and we’ll be right behind you, every step of the way.” 

Thomas stayed quiet, a peaceful silence as they looked out upon the sunrise reflecting the lake. 

He exhaled, the weight of his own words sinking in. “You know,” he added, after a pause, “When my father died, I was twelve. And suddenly I was expected to grow up. To be something more . To be a real man, and I didn’t know what that meant. But you, you’ve been carrying that weight since birth. You’ve already been that man, Thomas. Even when you shouldn’t have had to.”

Thomas blinked down at his knees. The wind stirred gently in the branches above them, the quiet a kind of understanding.

“Agatha says you need to give your mother a chance to be happy,” he said, exhaling and saying a silent prayer that the happiness she would find would be with him. “You deserve that chance too, to build a life on your own terms. I just want to give you the opportunity to do that, and I know your mother wants that as well.”

Thomas said nothing so he continued, smirking, “Agatha also said that you need to play the game if you want to win it. Sound advice I think.” 

His son smiled at the dry grass beneath him, grinning despite himself. “My sister has always been a lot more optimistic than I am. Agatha Bridgerton seems to just live her life on the assumption that everything is going to be fine,” he announced, casting his hand into the air. “The annoying thing is that she’s usually right.”

Colin couldn’t help the small spark of joy in his chest at his words, Agatha Bridgerton. He thought back to his conversation with Agatha at the céilí, how she told him about the situation in her village. His daughter was an optimist, but she was a realist too. They both were. His children had a remarkable down to earth nature that he supposed only an upbringing away from the privileges of ton could offer. 

Just as Colin was about to respond, he was interrupted by an almost comically loud grumble emanating from Thomas’ stomach. 

“Sorry,” he excused himself. “I actually only woke up this early because I was hungry, I didn’t eat anything last night.” 

“C’mon then,” Colin smiled, rising to his feet. “Let’s get some breakfast. I can’t promise it’ll be as good as what you’re used to making yourself but-” 

He cut him off, laughing. “I don’t care as long as it’s food.” 

As they were making their way back toward the house, a footman trotted down the granite steps to meet them. The same footman who had escorted them from Southampton.

George? Jeremy?

“Geoffrey,” he said as it came to him. “What can we do for you?” 

“His Lordship has requested your presence in his study at once sir.” 

Colin was about to respond that he was going to enjoy breakfast with his son first, thank you very much, and he would catch up with Anthony when he was ready. 

“Go on,” Thomas said. “Agatha has been watching us,” he said, pointing at the window. 

Colin cast his eyes up toward the bedchamber window he was pointing at in surprise, just to catch a flash of his daughter’s red hair as she turned away from the glass. 

“She’s so fuckin’ nosy. She won’t leave me alone until I’ve told her what we spoke about anyway.” 

Colin grinned as he made his way up the steps, breathing in the scent of the hyacinth bush next to them. 

“Put in a good word for me?” 

“I don’t need to with her,” he said, turning around in the direction of the breakfast room as Geoffrey pointed it out for him. “It’s me you need to convince.”

I will. I promise. 

Colin gave a toothy smile at his son's back as he turned in the opposite direction for the Viscount’s study. The relief washed over him in waves with each stride. 

It was the first real conversation he’d managed to have alone with his son. 

He wasn’t all the way there yet. But at least he was making some progress. 

As he paced the checkerboard-tiled hallway towards the study, he found himself glad Anthony had sent for him. He wanted to get on with the business of investigating the conditions of the Featherington estate, in fact, knowing his brother it was probably exactly what this meeting was about. 

Things with Thomas seemed shaky yet stable now, but Colin wasn’t about to give his son another excuse to disdain him.

He pushed open the grand mahogany door, only to see Penelope sat in a chair facing his brother’s desk. 

She looked exquisite, as she always did. Dressed for the morning in a simple blue day dress. 

A Bridgerton blue day dress. 

“Pen!” He said with surprise in his voice. “What are you doing here?” 

Penelope pushed the chair next to her out from under the desk so Colin could take a seat, “Your brother requested my presence.”

“Did…did you sleep well?” he asked with caution as he took a seat, the memory of his failed attempt at kissing her still fresh in his mind.

She smiled in a way that lit up her entire face, “I was sleeping well until your sister woke me at dawn.” 

He grinned, he didn’t need to ask which sister. 

“She snuck into my bedroom and woke me with a bundle full of pastries in her arms. We spent the morning well…just catching up I suppose. All these years I thought she’d never forgive me for leaving you. But she just said how much she missed me. It was a weight off my chest if I’m being honest. I was terrified the entire journey here that she’d reject me or turn me away.” 

“Eloise loves you Penelope, that could never change.” 

Just like me. 

“Apologies for keeping you waiting,” Anthony said as he made his way into the study. 

He settled into his chair in a rather business like manner. Colin could see that his brother was happy to have washed the journey off him, and perhaps a bit relieved to be back in the authoritative position he was used to. 

“I wanted to discuss the conditions of Thomas’ inheritance,” he said. “I was going to start with writing to my solicitor and some other contacts I have before having this conversation,” he said, clearing his throat, “But my wife suggested I speak to you first, Penelope.” 

Penelope raised her eyebrow at him in a rather amused manner, as though to say, your wife was right. 

She swallowed slowly and spoke, “You’ll know more than me, I expect Anthony. You both will.” He watched in sadness as her eyes glazed over and her voice grew soft, “I haven’t been in touch with any of my family in years.” 

Colin reached for her fingers and grasped them, absurdly happy that the simple gesture had become not only permissible, but mutual between the two of them. 

“I thought all this time that Prudence or Philippa would have presented my family with an heir, but you mentioned at Buncrana that my sisters never had any sons,” she continued looking at the pair of them.

“I don’t believe so, Pen, or at least I never heard a thing about it if they did,” Colin replied softly.

Anthony shook his head alongside his brother, “Nor did I.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking that my mother must have known about Thomas, because there is just no way she would have given up her title without a fight…I’m...I'm quite sure of that.” 

Colin blinked in surprise, “How would she have known?” 

And furthermore, how could she have known if he didn’t?  

Dread curled in his stomach at the notion.

“Any number of ways I suppose. The nuns that delivered the twins recorded his birth. He was enrolled at the village school, Saint Brendan’s, there would have been a record of that too.” 

“The evidence that you’d delivered a son was always there, Lady Featherington just had to look for it,” his brother nodded, agreeing with her.

Colin shut his eyes in agony, reminded once again of his cowardice in not looking for Penelope all those years. If he had just summoned the bravery years ago, he could have been a proper father to his children, a proper husband to Penelope.

Perhaps Portia had what he had always refused to do, and hired a private investigator. 

“It makes sense,” Penelope agreed. “She could have delivered the proof to the authorities, to the…the…”

“The Committee of the Privileges.” Anthony finished for her. 

“Right,” she nodded in thanks. “She could have delivered the proof of Thomas’ existence to the Committee of the Privileges, and they would have left her alone after that. As long as you didn’t know anything, Colin, she’d have been left in sole control of the estate, at least until Thomas turned eighteen. That would have suited her perfectly.” 

He felt nauseous, but “I’m not sure Pen,” he continued softly, “The last I heard she went to live with one of your sisters a couple of years ago.” 

“He’s right,” Anthony agreed. “Featherington House has been laying there empty for years.” 

“Isn’t that just further proof though?” Penelope countered. “If the estate had been left in abeyance, the title would’ve been passed to another family and someone else would have moved in. And anyway, the letter you received contained the twins’ birthday and our address, that information could only have come from their birth records. In fact that’s probably why your letter was delivered by special messenger. For all we know, they could have been writing to Featherington House for months about Thomas’s upcoming birthday and the handover, and only pushed to hand deliver it to Colin when they received no reply.” 

She paused, looking at the pair of them as though her revelation was completely obvious, “I can’t think of anyone else besides the Bridgertons who would have any reason to report Thomas’ existence to the Lords apart from my mother.”

Colin stared at his wife in awe, how he, how anyone in fact, hadn’t immediately guessed she was Whistledown the moment the first edition was delivered he would never know. Because she truly was the most intelligent person he had ever met. 

“What about Lady Danbury?” Anthony asked, “Agatha mentioned she gave you Buncrana cottage when you left England, in return for naming your daughter after her.” 

“Yes Aggie told me she told you,” she nodded softly. “But Lady Danbury swore she’d never tell a soul, I was in such a state when I left-” she stopped, cutting herself off. Then, her voice grew quiet. “I just don’t believe she would have betrayed me.”

Anthony stared at Penelope also, and Colin knew he was about to ask again what had happened to cause Penelope to leave in the first place. 

That frown of confusion, that open-mouthed look of blatant authority as though he deserved an answer solely because he was a Viscount. That look had become so familiar to Colin over the years, after all. How many times had Anthony badgered him for information before eventually he’d given up?

So, he gave his brother a gentle but certain kick under the desk table, which seemed to shut him up before he could speak

Mercifully, Penelope seemed not to notice, “I expect my mother moved in with one of my sister’s because she ran out of money. Not because of anything to do with the title. Thomas’ birth would have maintained her position as Dowager Baroness, but nothing else.”

She swallowed convulsively, and continued, “I’m sure you know Lord Bridgerton, that my family had been riddled with debts for years. My…well, my father had a terrible gambling habit for most of his life, and he left us in dire straits when he died. In fact for months until my cousin Jack arrived we lived off naught but boiled potatoes.” 

What?

“Pen…,” Colin said as he gripped his fingers harder in sadness. “Why did you never tell me that?” 

All those letters she sent him that year, and no mention of that? 

His thoughts turned to Whistledown. No mention of a lot of things, apparently.

“Mama never let us speak of it,” she said briskly, as though eager to get past the subject. “When Cousin Jack did arrive however, I thought things were fine at first but,…well as it transpired he was no better. He had no money, and spent the entire season scamming members of the ton for investments in counterfeit ruby mines.”

Anthony sat forward in his seat, “The ones in the Americas? Weren’t you planning to invest in those mines?” he said, eyeing up Colin. 

But Penelope just shifted forward and met her brother-in-law’s eye, “Colin stopped Cousin Jack, confronted him,” she supplied, her tone full of unmistakable pride. “It was why he fled London.” 

There are no gemstone mines in Georgia. 

“An inheritance from an old aunt kept us from floundering after that,” she continued. “But I suppose that money couldn’t have lasted forever.” 

Anthony furrowed his brow, “But she must have known it couldn’t all last forever, she must have known Thomas would turn eighteen at some point.”

Colin spoke without thinking, “Maybe she thought she’d be dead by then.” 

Anthony whipped his head towards him with a scowl that said, that is not how you speak to a lady. But Penelope just looked surprised, maybe even a smidgen amused by his words. 

Colin couldn’t find it in him to regret what he’d said though, because Portia Featherington was going to fucking wish she was dead by the time he was done with her. 

The idea that she’d sat comfortably, happily living for years off the knowledge that her daughter had borne his children and never said a single word about it to anyone made him want to punch his hand through a wall. 

He’d never felt the urge to duel a woman, but the image of her on the end of his pistol was oddly satisfying.

As Peneleope shifted in her seat and began to speak, a knock on the door interrupted them. The children’s portly purple silk-clad nanny whom Colin had never bothered to learn the name of poked her head through the door, pulling him firmly from his murderous thoughts.

“Apologies for disturbing you, Your Lordship, Mr. Bridgerton, Mrs. Bridgerton,” she said, nodding at each of them in turn. 

Colin couldn’t help but unconsciously stroke Penelope’s hand as the words Mrs. Bridgerton left the woman’s mouth. 

“The Viscountess is asking for you, Miss Mary scraped her knee in the garden and is rather upset. Her Ladyship thinks the presents you brought home with you might cheer her up?” she asked jovially. 

“Ah,” Anthony smiled wistfully, “Excuse me a moment, will you?”

“Of course,” he and Penelope replied in unison as he made his way out of the small study. 

Colin gripped and stroked up Penelope’s forearm in a gesture that he hoped might comfort her, despite his bubbling rage. 

“Penelope,” he said through gritted teeth. “There’s nothing for it. We need to speak with your mother as soon as possible.”

Maybe if Penelope was with him he’d have the resolve not to strangle his mother-in-law on sight.

She looked at the door, as though she was making sure it was firmly shut. 

“I was afraid you were going to say that,” she said, her tone of resigned suspicion turning quickly to dread.

“Why?” he asked, surprised by her shift in demeanour. 

“Mama found out about Whistledown. She’s the one who told me to leave, and to never come back.” 

Chapter Text

Featherington House, Grosvenor Square, London. England. July 10th 1815. 

Anthony had practically dragged him to the door. 

The morning’s rain had dissipated and the day brightened back into the sunshine-filled July days he was accustomed to. But the improved weather was of no comfort to him, the sun was beating down on his neck, and the stifling heat was making him sweat. He still smelled of damp rain and whiskey, but his brother was so livid with him that he hadn’t allowed him to return home and change. 

“You won’t come back out again,” he’d growled. “Are we to wait another four days to tell Lady Featherington her daughter has fled London?” 

The sun stung his eyes nearly worse than his own tears and the sharp metallic wraps of the knocker upon the door rattled his brain like a pebble in a jar. He hadn’t drunk anything in a few hours and he was slowly slipping into the worst hangover he had ever had. 

Varley let them in, stone faced but silent, she walked them toward the drawing room, each footstep more ominous than the last. 

She stood there in a multi-coloured beaded day dress, her coiffure done up with jewelled hair pins and feathers, looking vaguely like a ginger parrot. Flamboyant as she always was, her fashions were an almost comical contrast to her expression. 

The look on Portia Featherington’s face told him one thing for certain. 

She already knew. 

The wave of sickening guilt that crashed in his gut upon facing his mother in law could only have been overridden by the spark of hope that had ignited in his chest. 

Maybe she knew where Pen was. 

Their country estate? Staying with another relative perhaps?

The thoughts flew around his head like a swarm of bees. 

Why the fuck didn’t he know anything of her family? Had he not asked her these things? Where even was the Featherington estate? Surrey? Sussex?

“You're late,” she said, ice in her tone. 

Anthony stepped forward, apologetic but composed.

“Lady Featherington, I-” 

She cut him off with a hand held up to his face, in an appallingly insulting gesture to make to a Viscount, “I’m sure Mr. Bridgerton can speak for himself.” 

Colin tried to speak, but only a sort of pathetic choking sound escaped his throat. 

“No?” she asked, growing almost completely livid now. “I suppose not, since I had to be told my daughter has fled her marriage and absconded London for good, by her maid of all people!” She screeched. “And not her husband!” She continued her tirade, not pausing to take a breath. “I was left to hear of her disappearance from a servant , as though it were some common piece of gossip!.”

Colin blinked, that’s what she cared about? Etiquette?

His mouth was dry. The buzzing behind his eyes sharpened, and he felt the full weight of every hour he’d spent lying on his study floor, drunk and useless.

“I…I…don’t know where she went,” he rasped, finally finding his voice. “I still don’t.”

“Nor do I,” she breathed. 

Fuck. 

“I wouldn’t blame yourself, Mr. Bridgerton. She always was a selfish girl.” 

He flinched, “Don’t” he growled, “Don’t you dare call her that.” 

Portia’s lips curled into a sickening smirk. “Why not? She’s never been anything but selfish. Do you think I am surprised she’s gone?” 

Her tone took a turn from icy to venomous, “That girl never cared about anyone but herself. Not about me, not about her sisters, and certainly not about her station. Always in another world. Her head was stuck in a book. Above it all.” 

Colin’s fists clenched at his sides. He pushed past Anthony and paced forward so that he was face to face with his witch of a mother in law. 

How fucking dare she speak about his Pen like that? 

She knew nothing. 

“No wonder she was so fucking miserable here,” he spat. “You’re a cruel woman. A pathetic excuse for a mother. You never appreciated her.” 

Her laugh was dry and haughty, she cast her eyes up to the ceiling and scoffed, “And you did? I hesitate to remind you that she didn’t run from my house.” 

The truth hit him like she’d slapped him square across the face. 

She raised her head to meet him, lips pursed and tone dripping with smug triumph. “Barely a month married and she left you.” 

Shut up. Shut up. 

He wanted to clasp his hand over Lady Featherington’s mouth, if only it would stop her talking.  

He wanted the ground to swallow him up, he wanted to curl into a ball on the floor and cry, he wanted to bash his fists against the floor like a toddler and demand she bring her back.

“You want to accuse me of cruelty? I am not the one who treated her so badly that she chose to abandon everything. All your money, all you could provide for her, and she’d rather cast herself into the unknown than stay with you.”

Stop. Stop. 

Anthony’s voice broke out from behind him, “Lady Featherington, please, I can assure you that I will do ever-.”

“Don’t bother,” she replied with finality. “My daughter has made her choice. She’s better off gone.” She gave Colin one long, assessing stare, “And if she has any sense, she’ll find another man to take care of her.” 

Colin’s breath hitched, his stomach lurched. He thought he might be sick all over the sickeningly patterned green and pink Persian carpet. 

Had she left him for another man? Had she ever wanted him at all? 

An image of her wrapped in some mystery man’s arms flooded into his mind. Her lush body pressed up against someone else, wrapped and comforted in the warmth of someone who had not let her down. Her face content and peaceful, not blurred by a night’s worth of tears, not brittle with heartbreak as he’d last seen her. 

Happy and content with someone else. 

Loved by someone else. 

Was it Debling? Tears were forming in his eyes again, bile was rising in his throat. 

No. No. 

It wasn’t possible. 

But the seed was planted now, that sick, disgusting image. And he knew it would rot him from the inside out for the rest of his days.

“I have two other daughters,” she said coldly. “It is they who need my attention now. Penelope is not worth my time. Not anymore.” 

A spark of rage waved so quickly over Colin that before he knew it he’d lifted his hand to strike her. His vision was blurred, not from tears, but from fury. A primal, violent instinct that said she feels nothing for Penelope, but she’ll feel this. 

She flinched backward, nearly stumbling back into the fireplace, it was Anthony’s fist grasped in his brown travelling coat that stopped him from causing her any harm. 

“Colin!” he shouted, wrenching him back. 

“You’re a fucking bitch!” Colin hurled, “You’ll never see her again and you don’t even care!” 

Portia shook with rage but somehow managed to remain composed as she smoothed her dress and stepped toward him. 

“Leave, Mr. Bridgerton.” she snarled. “And don’t ever come back.” 

Aubrey Hall, Kent. England. October 23rd 1833. 

“Come with me.” 

He grabbed Penelope by the hand and pulled her out of Anthony’s study. The ceramic checkerboard tiles clicked beneath her heels as they paced toward his childhood bedroom. 

The soft light of the morning filtered through the windows and illuminated just how very dusty the room was. He could hear his youngest nieces and nephews playing in the nurseries next to him. But this room was dark, and had been left entirely untouched. 

A cold monument to his stagnation in life. 

“What do you mean she told you to leave?” 

She'd been lying to him. That day he came to Featherington House to tell her Pen was missing. 

“Colin, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up. It doesn’t matter now, I-.” 

He shoved off his jacket, fumbling with the buttons as he did so. He tugged at his cravat, digging his fingernails into the tight knot at his neck. He was too constricted, too tight, as though the rage was trying to physically push itself out of him in an effort to be expressed. 

He began to pace across the room in an effort to calm down. 

“Penelope,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “What do you mean?” 

She stalled for a moment, watching shoulders and torso as he shed his vestments. Her eyes slipped from him as she took in the space around her. Her pupils darted from the maps on the yellow patterned wallpaper to the toys and books on the shelves. 

Finally her crystal blue eyes, still so bright in the darkened room, found his. 

She took in a long, heavy breath, and spoke.

“Do you remember the day I left London?” 

How could he forget?

“The last time I ever saw you?” He replied, near deadpan as he tried to control his anger. “Yes I remember that day, Penelope.” 

And God, how he remembered it. Every second of it. 

How beautiful she’d looked that morning, wrapped in her sinful Bridgerton blue nightgown as though she’d walked out of one of his dreams, her hair loose and unbound the way he liked it. He remembered having to fidget with his fingers just to stop himself from reaching out to toy with one of her bouncy copper curls. 

“I told you my mother was coming to call on us. But you left to take breakfast in Bridgerton house instead.” 

He shut his eyes, ashamed. The memory was as fresh as ever. 

“No, you do not have to leave.” 

“I wish to.” 

“The night before I had been feeling rather nauseous, I thought it was anxiety, or the stress of our falling out but…” 

Fuck. He clamped his eyes closed further still, he knew what was coming. 

“But Rae told me the sickness I’d been feeling, plus the loss of my courses…it could only mean that I was with child.” 

“I,” she whispered tremblingly. “I wanted to tell you before Mama arrived, so we could tell her together. But you left before I could.” 

Fuck. She’d wanted to tell him, she was going to tell him. 

Everything, it all could have been different if he’d just fucking stayed. If he’d stuck by her instead of slinking off to his darkened study at Bridgerton House, where all he’d really done was sulk and take some sick pleasure in knowing she thought he was doing much worse. 

She bit back her tears and continued speaking, “A visitor arrived just after you left. I thought it was Mama, but it was Cressida.” 

“You know what happened next, the threats, the blackmail.” she said, as though the memory was too painful to repeat what she’d said in the garden of Buncrana Cottage. “But my mother walked in on me and Cressida, and she revealed everything to her. And Mama, she..she did not take it well.” 

He looked straight at her. 

“What did she say, Penelope?” 

“That I was selfish, that I had brought this on myself” 

“So…so your mother knew you had been blackmailed too?”

“Yes,” she whispered softly. 

“And she told you to leave.” 

“Yes.” 

He was going to kill her. 

“We leave today,” he growled, continuing to pace once more, his boots nearly wearing holes in the carpet. “I swear to God,” he snarled. “I will find her. I’ll drag her out of whatever comfortable little parlour she’s rotting in and make her answer for what she did to you. I’ll make her look me in the eye and explain how she could exile her own child. How she could cast you aside pregnant and alone, like you were nothing.” 

He wanted to tear the books from the book shelf, he wanted to punch a hole through the windowpane, he wanted to march back into Anthony’s study, fetch his father’s pistols and ride out on horseback right that moment. 

He was barely taking note of Penelope’s presence now, his vision was blurring at the edges, his head felt like it was going to explode. 

His voice cracked with rage, desperate and dangerous. “She doesn’t get to live in peace. Not after what she took from you. From me. From our children.”

It took her whispers, small and almost petrified, to drag him back into the room, “She didn’t want the scandal to come out, Colin, she…she wanted to protect my family, my sisters.” 

He whirled around on her at once, face beet red, eyes almost popping out of their sockets, “Penelope,” he implored her, shocked. “Are you fucking defending her?!” 

He was shaking now. 

“No, I!” She looked like a deer in a hunt, her eyes wide with alarm. She placed her hand upon the mantle, clutching the marble shelf to steady herself. Colin ceased his pacing and he could see in the darkened room that Penelope was shaking too. 

She looked as though her knees were about to buckle. 

His heart tore in two. Fuck. He hadn’t meant to frighten her. 

He paced forward gently and guided her to take a seat on the bed. 

She cleared her throat to speak and he tried to tune out the furious buzzing in his head and listen to his wife’s attempts to rationalise. 

“Mama said that she’d worked too hard, protecting us from scandal after scandal, the loss of our money, keeping our family afloat, just for me to sink us again. You saw how Cressida was treated when she impersonated me, Colin, and she was popular and beautiful and came from a good family…I…I would have been hung, drawn and quartered if the ton found out it was me. All of us, Mama, my sisters, their husbands, we would have been outcasts. She said it would be better for us all if I went away, where I,” she sniffed. “Where I couldn’t do any more harm.” 

“Pen, she...she took you from me.” he whispered, his heart breaking. He was swaying above her, and he felt as though his knees may buckle too. 

“She was disgusted by me. She told me I wasn’t her daughter anymore. She told me she never wished to lay eyes on me again. But Colin, she didn’t force me to go, at the end of the day, leaving was my choice.”

Her choice. Fuck. 

“Colin,” she started. “I couldn’t live in that house anymore. I couldn’t raise a child there, not the way things were ,” her voice started to waver and her breathing grew more laboured as she tried to explain it all to him again. “I stayed in that house alone, wondering if you’d come back to me. Praying that you would forgive me. I…I would watch you sleep on the settee, wishing I could crawl in next to you. It was like torture Colin.”

Tears were welling in his own eyes now. Because he used to do the same thing. He’d stolen the moments when she’d slept to crack the door open and just look at her, wishing he could allow himself to hold her close. 

But he couldn’t. 

“When Mama left after Cressida, I sat there and all I could think was that I was pregnant, I wasn't wanted, and I had nowhere left to go.” 

“I wanted you Pen.”

She just shook her head, not allowing herself to believe it

“I wanted you and I would have wanted our babies,” he whispered desperately, but it was no use. He had no defence, he knew how he’d made her feel then, as though she was an obligation, a duty which he could barely tolerate. 

She said nothing, she just dug her fists into the muslin cover on the bed and shook her head again. 

He could say it was Cressida’s threats, or her mother’s disownment that drove her away, which took her from him for all those years. 

But he already knew that wasn’t the case, and no amount of self-delusion would make it so. It was him. She believed he didn’t love her anymore and it was that which she couldn’t bear. 

His fault. His fault.

“Would you have stayed?” He asked quietly. “If I had stood by your side? If…despite my anger, if I had told you that I loved you still, even with Cressida, and your mother, and the Queen, and fucking all of it,” he breathed. “Would you have stayed?” 

He was a masochist, he didn’t know why he was asking, because he knew what she was going to say before she opened her mouth to speak. 

“Of course .”

It wasn’t anything he didn’t already know, but it felt like his heart was being ripped in two all over again. For the hundredth time, perhaps. 

She had told him once, in the bright golden days of their engagement, that she had fallen in love with him because he was kind. 

She’d flinched, she’d said, when her bonnet knocked him off his horse so that he was flat on his arse humiliated and coated in muck, she had expected him to treat her with ire and irritation. Expected that because it was what she was taught that she deserved. And she’d been surprised when he didn’t. So surprised that she’d fallen in love with him, then and there. 

Cressida, her own mother, all of fucking society, Penelope had learned to expect that behaviour. Penelope had learned to expect unkindness from the entire world. 

But Colin, Colin had betrayed her.

I would never dream of courting Penelope Featherington. 

And she was traumatised by it .

At her soft confirmation of his question, her breath hitched, her hands fell limply into her lap and fat wet tears began to spring from her eyes. 

The guilt and shame that had become a constant in his life seemed to weigh down on him more in that moment than it ever had before. 

Heavy, weeping sobs escaped her, not of panic and or the sensation of being entirely overwhelmed, but of a trauma, the kind which takes root for good, finally breaking free. 

Thomas’ words from that morning echoed in his ears. “ She’s so strong for me and Aggie all the time, but she’s so fragile at the same time.”

He sat down next to her and tugged her across to him, he pulled her lovely soft legs over her lap, so that she was cradled in his arms, he rested her head on his chest so that she could cry against him. He hadn’t been this close, this entwined with her, not for years, not even when they’d shared their kiss on the ship. 

He soothed her as her tears soaked through his nightshirt as he let her cry into his shoulder, stroking her back and kissing her hair. Slowly, her sobs turned to whimpers as she pulled her head from his neck. 

“I’m sorry,” she croaked. “I’m so sorry.” 

“Shhh Pen,” he whispered. “You don’t need to be sorry.”

“But I am , Colin,” she continued. “All of this. It started and ended with me. Fucking Whistledown. I took so much from you, your children, your family, your sister. I…I…just couldn’t see a way out of it at the time. I didn’t think we could get past it. If I stayed, we were trapped, both of us I…I-”

“I fucked everything up!” she sobbed into him. “My own mother couldn’t even bear to look at me. I don’t know if I can face her again, Colin. I-”

He clutched her a bit tighter at that. Held her closer. He wanted to whisper in her ear how much he loved her, but he couldn’t find the words. The fear of rejection even as he cradled her to him was still too strong to contend with at that moment. 

He kept his arms wrapped around her until her breathing softened, until her fists uncurled, until her body untensed entirely. 

He couldn’t change what he’d done. But anything he could try to make better for her, anything on Earth, he would .

Starting with Portia Featherington.

“Penelope,” he said softly, trying to approach the subject gently. “We need to confront her.” 

“Colin…”

“I’m not talking about revenge,” he clarified gently. “I’m talking about accountability. She doesn’t get to rewrite what happened. We need to make her face up to what she’s done. If not for us, then for Thomas. If she is in control of the estate, then we need to do everything in our power to take it back from her.”

He gripped her hand tight, still keeping her flush against him. “I am going to do right by him, Pen, by both of them.” 

She stared at him, unmoving. Her stunning blue eyes seemed to worm their way into his very soul. Her breath was shallow. Her cheeks still wet with tears.

“I love how you love them,” she whispered. 

And then she kissed him. 

Colin thought his heart was going to burst out of his chest. 

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t shy. She pushed forward and wrapped her lovely arms around his neck. She kissed him thoroughly, deeply. 

She slid her achingly soft thigh across him so that she was sat in his lap, straddling him. 

God. Fuck.

He could barely think. Barely breathe. Gone was the rage, the guilt, the heartbreak. All that surrounded him, all he could make sense of, was her.  

He fisted his hands in the fabric at her waist and pulled her closer against him, he groaned into her mouth as her perfect full arse grinded down against his now growing erection. The warmth of her body seeping through his linen shirt, the smell of her hair, her nails scratching against his neck and shoulders sent shivers down his spine. 

Her breasts were pressed so warm up against him. His hands itched to cup them, to feel the weight of them under his fingertips. He wanted to follow the path her golden chain made down into her cleavage with his tongue. 

Her lips moved with urgency, with memory, with need. The years they had lost seemed to condense into every brush of her mouth against his. Colin felt her sigh into him, felt her tremble, and it undid him. 

She wanted him. Dear God, she wanted him. 

He cradled her face, his thumbs grazing her cheeks, and kissed her again and again, slower this time, deeper. He wanted to savour her while he could. 

Reverent. Perfect. 

Her fingers gripped his shoulders as she rocked slightly into him, her breath hitching when his mouth trailed down her jaw to the pulse thrumming just beneath her ear.

“God, Pen…” he whispered hoarsely, lips brushing the delicate shell of her ear. 

He was supposed to be resisting her. He was supposed to be showing her he was a man of honour. He was supposed to make her trust him again. She was vulnerable for fuck sake, not five minutes ago she’d been weeping in his arms. And here he was, unable to control himself and giving in to his basest desires once again. 

He could feel himself pulsing with need. Christ, he wanted to hitch up her dress and sit her down upon his cock, bury himself to the hilt and let her bounce and fucking grind and take her pleasure with him. 

He couldn’t fuck her. He wouldn’t fuck her. But God, he could have her like this, squirming against his cock for just a minute at least. 

He slid his hands down from her waist to her hips, the lovely swell of them somehow making him harder in his britches. He pushed and pulled her in his lap, silently encouraging her to rut against him. She took instruction very well, the perfect little student that she was, as she shuddered and moaned and seductively grinded herself into him. 

Her hands raked through his hair, tugging gently as his lips returned to hers, and she kissed him back with a hunger that had him gasping. He could feel every line of her body, every dip and curve through the maddeningly thin barrier of fabric.

And it was just kissing. Just touching. Just hands and mouths and the quiet gasp of want shared between two people who needed each other desperately. 

His head spun, he let out a little whimpered curse in her ear as she worked her hips in a particularly delicious motion upon his cock. 

Fuck, he might cum in his trousers like a green boy. 

“My darling,” he whispered in her ear. “My Pen.” 

The look in her eyes as he whispered that in her ear. His secret nickname for her. The one he’d held in his heart forever, since before he knew he loved her. When she was just his Pen, his very best friend. 

Not just Pen. My Pen. 

His. Always his. 

Her eyes shone bright with so much longing. “My Pen,” he whispered once more as he delivered kisses upon her lovely flush cheeks. 

He didn’t think it was possible for him to fall any deeper in love with her, but in that moment, he did. Heaven help him, he did. 

They were so lost in each other they didn’t hear the door creak open.

As he pushed his lips up to hers again, he was startled right out of his skin. 

“Oh, good Jesus,” came a voice from the door. 

Oh no. Dear God no.

“Agatha!” Penelope shrieked.

Colin jerked back like he’d been shot. Penelope practically levitated off his lap. He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks as the blood fucking raced away from his cock and into his face.

Agatha Bridgerton did not look impressed. 

“What..what are you doing here?” Penelope scrambled as she smoothed down the fabric of her dress. 

“I could ask you the same thing.” She countered, matching her mothers tone. “Your mother,” she said pointing directly at Colin. “Told me I might find yous in here. We’ve been waiting for you for a fuckin hour or more!” 

“I...I…,” he choked. He looked at Penelope in desperation, because what the fuck was he supposed to say?

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she laughed, unable to stop herself. “I thought you’d be talking, not attempting to repopulate the Earth.”

“Agatha!” Her mother snapped again. “Please, Aggie, go. I’ll follow you downstairs in a moment.” 

But she just stepped further into the room, and all Colin wanted to do was wrap himself up in the muslin tarp cover on the bed and hide himself from her forever. 

“I wish yous would just make your minds up,” she said exhaustively as she cast her arms toward the ceiling. “Are you together? Are you not? ” 

“I-, Agatha,” her mother scrambled. 

“You are so lucky Thomas didn’t see this,” she said, pointedly raising her eyebrows at Colin. “He’d hit the fucking roof.”

She cast an imploring look over at him, and Colin knew that she was right. 

“Agatha, please,” Penelope practically begged. “I’ll see you downstairs.”

“Fine,” she drawled, giving in. But as she stepped back out of the room, she called back, “I might be a few minutes, first I need to find the kitchens so I can boil my eyeballs.”

Chapter Text

Aubrey Hall, Kent. England. October 23rd 1833. 

“Oh God,” Colin groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I’ve scandalised my child.”

“You shouldn’t be worried that she’s scandalised,” Penelope said, still beet red and breathless as she smoothed her hair and straightened her crooked bodice. She took a seat next to him as she pushed her dainty stockinged feet into the satin shoes which had fallen off during their exploits. 

“You should be more concerned that she’s going to tease us about this for weeks .”

Colin let out a miserable noise and slumped sideways until his head rested against her shoulder. 

At this new angle, he took note of his reflection in the dusty mirror across from them, he looked drunk, and thoroughly swollen from her kisses. 

He used his free hand to smooth his hair and jacket so that he could return downstairs looking something somewhat resembling a gentleman. 

He cast his eye at the clock, it was nearing noon. How long had he and Penelope been in here exactly? It was strange, time had an odd way of melting away when he was with her, he felt as though he could spend hours in her presence and he wouldn’t notice. 

“In fact,” Penelope added, voice gentler now, “that’s something I’ve been worrying about.”

That made Colin lift his head. He turned to face her fully, frowning. “What do you mean?”

“Agatha is so confident,” Penelope said with a soft exhale, part pride, part apprehension. “Outspoken and unafraid. Nothing… nothing fazes her.”

Except boats. Colin thought, but he elected not to mention that.

“She’s everything I wished I could be when I was a girl, and I am so very proud of her for it, but…”

“But?” he prompted, even though he had a sinking feeling he already knew.

Penelope’s voice lowered. “But I wonder if she’ll be alright in London. Society can be so cruel, Colin. She’ll be a debutante, the humor and wit that makes her so charming at home might not serve her well once she’s put in front of the ton .”

Colin swallowed. She had a point, as much as he would want to encourage Agatha to be exactly who she is and not hide from anyone, society could be cruel. 

“Thomas will know to keep his opinions to himself,” Penelope went on. “Even though he’s shy, he still has more of a sense of… occasion, I suppose. He won’t risk making things worse for himself. And frankly,” she added with a dry scoff, “He’s male. And an eligible suitor now.”

A debutante. An eligible suitor. Colin felt himself deflate further at that. 

He had scarcely known he was their father for a few weeks and now his children were nearing their next stage in life, ready to fly the nest, and he had no power to stop it. He didn’t think either of them were particularly interested in courting, that he knew of, he reminded himself grimly. But like it or not, they were at the age where the world would deem them so. 

Penelope was right, of course. Thomas would be introduced to society as Lord Featherington, and as a Bridgerton to boot. Indeed, he’d be the only unwed, yet titled Bridgerton. He’d probably be considered a serious catch, quite possibly the catch of the season. 

Colin wondered if they would even care about his background at all, probably not, as long as the matchmaking mama’s understood that the Bridgerton coiffeurs and connections would make some young debutante into a very comfortable and influential Baroness. 

In any case, Thomas had four years at university and another few years travelling at least to look forward to before he even needed to think about taking a wife. 

Although he held back a small smirk, and thought off handedly that on the other hand, Thomas taking after his father and marrying young would be one way to knock the current Lady Featherington off her pedestal. 

He sighed, but with Agatha, it was different. Women in his world were taught that marriage is the best thing they can ever look forward to, that a wife is all they can aspire to be. He thought of how his sisters had been prepared to come out, the dance lessons, the conversational tips, the endless trips to the modiste. 

How Daphne and Hyacinth had embraced it, how Franny had accepted it with a sort of passive apathy and how Eloise had rejected the concept entirely. 

He said a silent prayer that Agatha would resemble her Aunt Eloise the most. 

But it hadn’t mattered in the end, because his sisters had all ended up the same thing, a wife. 

In the eyes of the society, his daughter would only really be deemed a success if she married her very first season, and Agatha was so young , it felt impossible. 

His own father was not alive when his sisters came of age, so he can’t have known how he would have reacted to it. Colin imagined that he himself might end up an even worse version of Anthony when Daphne was in her first season, treating every last suitor with extreme scrutiny, if not outright hostility. 

Indeed he’d have no hesitation in challenging anyone to a duel if it came to it, Colin was a decent shot after all. 

His brother had been bad enough with his sisters, but Colin knew it would be even worse when it came to your own child. Anthony and Benedict’s daughters were still just girls, so they hadn’t faced any of this yet. 

He would be the first one of his brothers with a daughter on the marriage mart, and he had no idea how to proceed.

He wondered how Philip felt, or Simon. Belinda was just eighteen and last he heard, well on the way to a proposal from some Earl or Viscount or other. 

How did Penelope feel? Was she ready for it? And for God sake, were all fathers supposed to just accept this? To watch their daughters be paraded out on display like a roast turkey at a buffet? Colin knew that men of the ton tended to pick their wives based on a combination of largest dowry and prettiest face, which was nausea-inducing enough on its own. 

But even if Agatha came to him one day and told him she had fallen in love, and the man was decent and stable? Would he be able to let her go then? He didn’t think so. 

He knew he only felt this way because he’d had so little time with Agatha, but as far as Colin was concerned, he could be walking her down the aisle at fifty years of age and he’d still struggle to be parted from her. 

He watched as Pen’s eyes traced the swirling pattern on the rug. He reached out, almost unconsciously, and took her hand in his. It was warm and solid in his grasp, just like she always was. He hated that she had to carry these worries, but he loved, God, he loved , that she trusted him enough now to say them out loud.

They were becoming a team, him and his wife.

“It will be okay, Pen,” he assured her. “We have time.” 

“But Agatha,” Penelope sighed, almost pleadingly. “She speaks without thinking. She’s clever and quick. In Rathnew she’s so popular, and she’s used to that. I just worry we will be at a ball or a party or some such, and she’ll say the wrong thing to the wrong person and they’ll make fun of her. Or worse.”

Something grim churned in Colin’s chest. He hadn’t thought of that, the glittering rooms full of sly smiles and sharper tongues, the women who saw any girl with a trace of audacity as competition and, fuck, the men who saw confidence as an invitation.

He was a decent shot after all. 

“When I was catching up with Eloise this morning,” Penelope continued, “she mentioned how hectic it was having her own daughter presented. How her Amanda struggled at first, and all I could think was… I’ve done nothing to prepare her.” 

She shook her head, “I should have done more. I think,” she sniffed, trying to hold back more tears, “I think because I believed I could never re-enter this world, I raised them, particularly Aggie, as differently as possible from how I’d been raised. I didn’t want her to worry about being good marriage material, about suitors or watercolours or her bloody waistline, I-”

That admission landed like a blow. Another reason to despise his mother-in-law.

“You’ve done such a wonderful job Pen,” he was quick to reassure her. “And you did it alone. They’re happy and healthy. And they’re both so clever and good. That’s all that matters. I am so proud of them, I’m so proud of you .”

She kept his babies safe, and oh, how he adored her for it. 

I should have done more. He gazed at her in complete awe, how could she possibly think that, when he had done nothing?  

But maybe that’s what it meant to be a parent, the constant gnawing feeling that you haven’t done enough. 

He’d been so focused on rebuilding what had been broken between himself and his family that he hadn’t looked far enough ahead. He hadn’t thought about what entering society would mean for two children who had grown up in a different world entirely.

But it wasn’t too late.

“She has us now, they both do,” Colin said, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “And Agatha is clever, she will listen to you if she thinks it’s in her best interest.” 

Penelope let out a shaky laugh, more exhale than amusement. “No,” she hummed  thoughtfully, “she’s the kind of girl who needs to make her own mistakes.” 

Colin shifted on the bed. He could understand what Penelope meant, but “I still say she’s not stupid. We just need to be honest with her. I think she will understand if we give her the credit to do so.”

Penelope looked up at him, eyes shining. “You sound like a father.”

His heart burst, for a second he thought she might kiss him again. “I am a father,” Colin replied smiling. “I just took a while getting there.”

They’d missed breakfast, of course, in fact it was nearing time for luncheon. The smell wafted down the corridor as they made their way to the dining room, it made his stomach feel rather cavernous all of a sudden. 

Kate had started serving Indian dishes as part of the regular rotation of menus almost as soon as she returned from her honeymoon, both at Aubrey Hall and Bridgerton House. Colin remembered that it took the staff a bit of time to get it right, but that once they did, she became renowned for the food served at her home, with most people insisting they would never miss a dinner at the home of Viscountess Bridgerton. 

And he hadn’t realised it, but he was fucking starving. 

He’d been a lot hungrier lately, he’d noticed. In fact he was putting on weight. It was clear that temperance did wonders for one’s appetite. Too many times he’d rejected Dunwoody’s offer of dinner or supper, eager to get as drunk as possible so that he would pass out and fall into dreamland with his wife. 

He hadn’t starved himself exactly, it was just that eating meant it took him longer to get drunk, and a lot of the time reaching for the bottle was easier than reaching for a fork. 

As they made their way into the dining room, Thomas was sat at the end of the table chatting with Kate and Anthony. Agatha traipsed in behind them, and Colin wondered for a moment if she was serious about attempting to boil her eyeballs. 

“Where did you two disappear off to?” Anthony called across to them as they entered the room. 

“You don’t wanna know,” he heard Agatha murmur dryly under her breath. 

“Nowhere,” Colin replied, pretty obviously evading the question. “Just got fed up  waiting for you.” 

Anthony shrugged and looked back at his wife, and Colin was relieved to see that his brother had indeed most likely spent a decent amount of time attempting to cheer his daughter up after her fall. 

“Is Miss Mary alright?” Penelope asked in an attempt to change the subject. 

“She’s fine,” Kate said, “One look at the doll Anthony bought her in Dublin and all was forgotten.” 

“I think she prefers the drum,” her husband countered. “Apologies if you’re all woken at the crack of dawn tomorrow morning.” 

“Sounds like my entire childhood,” Thomas laughed. “I’m well used to it,” he said, shooting a pointed look at his sister. 

“Just cause you couldn’t tell a note if it hit you in the face,” Agatha returned. “It’s called a bodhran, and I can show her if you’d like.” 

Kate smiled and Anthony nodded his agreement, insisting that his daughter needed to put all her energy somewhere. But Thomas gave a pointed look to his father as he approached and said, “My sister thinks she’s a modern day Mozart, but a bodhran is just about the simplest instrument you can play.” 

“I should like to hear it,” Colin smiled weakly as he took his seat next to them. 

Their placated smiles showed that at the very least, neither of the twins were upset with him. 

The footmen removed the sterling silver cloches from the assorted platters on the dining room’s sideboard as the rest of the family slowly filtered into the dining room. Colin and twins were sat at the end of the table with Kate, Anthony and his mother, whilst Eloise and Penelope sat across from them. Eloise had practically snatched Pen straight out of his arms the moment she entered the dining room.

“Don’t you have your own husband?” he’d wanted to shout. 

Further down the table sat the rest of the family. It was odd, unless they had guests outside of the family, dinner was really the only formal meal taken at Aubrey Hall. 

Breakfast, luncheon and tea was usually served à la Française, with the family taking what they wished from the buffet on offer and eating wherever they pleased, if not in the dining room, then out on the large patio at the back of the house, or in the warm comfort of the drawing room. 

With the arrival of Penelope and the twins however, it seemed every last member of his family was going to stay firmly seated at the table. The Aubrey Hall dining room had seen decades of Bridgerton chatter, and this luncheon was no different. 

“There will be some local soirees in the area as we come into the festive season,” his mother mused to the group as she bounced baby Hermione on her knee. “You must come to the modiste with us, Agatha. Charlotte and Penny would adore that would they not?” She said, directing her question and Kate, and then Eloise. 

“They would,” Eloise smiled as she turned from conversation with Penelope. 

Colin smiled to see how his sister and wife had seemed to slip right back into the close bond they’d always shared. He wished it was as easy for him, but despite his annoyance at her snatching her from him, he silently thanked his sister for making Penelope’s transition back into their family an easier one. 

“You would look lovely in some jewel tones,” Sophie said sweetly. “A green or purple I should think.” 

“Belinda and Amanda are off visiting friends,” his mother chimed in. “But I am sure they can show you their dresses when they return so you can see what you like.” 

Agatha grinned, as she stabbed a cherry tomato with her fork, “I’d love that. Thank you.” But then she turned her head to Colin and whispered slowly under her breath, “A modiste is a dress maker, correct?”

He chuckled, enjoying this habit of conspiratorial muttering which she so obviously inherited from her mother, “Correct.”

“Hmm,” she mused while chewing on her salad. “ Say that then.” 

“So,” Daphne began as she gracefully cut into a curried lamb chop. “What was your home like in Ireland?” 

Colin grimaced as he actually saw Penelope tense in her chair, clearly she was not oblivious to his sister’s tone the night before. He sent her an apologetic look and cursed himself for not taking advantage of their time in his bedroom to discuss them taking a united front to any scrutiny . 

Not that their time in his childhood bedroom had been wasted, exactly. 

“Um, it was a nice house.” Agatha began, “We had a big garden with a stream at the back and we had chickens too.” 

“How lovely,” his sister mused. “And did you enjoy Ireland, Colin?” Daphne asked sweetly, her voice just a little too tight.

He couldn’t say he was surprised at her directness. Her tone dripped in the same way it did every other time she had given him unsolicited advice. 

“Yes I did,” he replied firmly, not so firmly that anyone else at the table would really notice it, but firmly enough that his sister might get the point. 

He thought, when he went to bed the night before, that he must have been misinterpreting her tone at tea, he had been exhausted after all. But now he wasn’t so sure. He knew that Daphne only wanted the best for him and he knew how much she cared for him, but really, things were different now. 

He knew Daph would probably feel differently about the situation if she had the full story, but he wasn’t going to unfold before he or Penelope was ready, just for his sister’s benefit. 

She had a right to the truth of course, they all did, but that didn’t mean she had a say in how he ran his life. 

He made a mental note that he would find a good moment alone with her and tell her to mind her own business in the future. 

“It’s certainly a humble place,” Penelope replied slowly. “But it was very peaceful.” 

“Not always,” Thomas smiled wickedly. 

His mother had obviously picked up on more than the rest of them, as she was quick to break the tension. “We’ll need to find a proper dancing master for you two before the season commences,” she said. 

“Barely a day here and the torture begins.” Benedict grinned as he topped up his wife’s glass with lemonade, “Good luck.”

“A dancing master?” Agatha asked, confused. 

“Indeed,” his mother replied, smiling proudly. “The waltz, the quadrille. You will have plentiful opportunity. I am certain your dance card will be full of names, my dear.”

“Of course it will,” Hyacinth grinned at her from further down the table, clearly put out at not managing to clinch a seat where the action was. “She’s a Bridgerton after all.” 

Colin felt uneasy at the prospect, he hadn’t been to a Mayfair ball in some time, but if the suitors Agatha’s age behaved anything like the rakes had when he’d been young, he didn’t want her anywhere near it. 

“You would have loved to attend the country dance in Rathnew, Mother.” Anthony chimed in. “I’ve never seen anything so lively.” 

“Ah there you go,” Kate smiled. “They’re experts already!” 

“I am,” Agatha said, elbowing her brother next to her. “He’s got two left feet.” 

Thomas took the jab well, saying nothing as his mouth was full of pakora, instead he elected to elbow his sister right back. 

Colin smiled, when he thought of how shy Thomas had been when he’d first met them, shrugging into his breakfast, it was as though he was looking at a different person. His son was definitely the kind of individual who took time to unfold, but once they did, you were rewarded for the effort. 

Just like his Mama. 

“I’d expect nothing less.” Violet smiled at Agatha, as she attempted to feed Hermione some stewed apple. “All my granddaughters are swift learners, and of course Penelope, you were a lovely dancer too!” 

“When I had the opportunity,” Penelope smiled from behind Eloise, as his sister was currently craning across the table to snatch a bread roll off her husband’s plate. Philip didn’t notice however, as he was currently embroiled in conversation with Franny and Michaela. 

She was a lovely dancer.

He remembered that in his youth a night was did not feel complete unless he’d shared a dance with Penelope. The rare occasions he did not find her and thought she’d left without saying goodbye, (although in hindsight he had realised she must have been out delivering her column), he would return home with a strange sense of melancholy burning in his chest, and it would only make him more determined to clinch her first dance the next time. 

How he hadn’t realised he was in love with her, he would never know. 

He smiled at his wife wistfully, how beautiful she looked as the midday sun filtered through the tall windows and illuminated her from behind. Each copper curl so bouncy and full, combined with the colour of her locks, it all made her look as though she was aflame.

“Mammy’s a great dancer.” Agatha said, agreeing with her grandmother. 

“She is”, Thomas agreed. “You should have seen how everyone was watching them when they danced The Siege at the Céilí.”

Colin’s heart lifted, although Thomas was wary about his parent’s relationship, it seemed he would not miss an opportunity to show his mother support. 

“You danced together?” Daphne asked, surprised. Colin was about to shoot her a quick retort, as he did not like the incredulous look on her face.

Yes I danced with my wife, what of it?

But his mother cut in with a much more diplomatic response. “How lovely,” she cooed. 

Anthony leaned back in his chair and glanced toward the windows where the sunlight streamed in, casting long golden strips across the carpet.

“Well, we’d be fools not to take advantage of the weather,” he announced in that commanding, ‘Viscount’ voice, he and Benedict liked to mock. “Pall Mall tomorrow, I say. The lawn’s just about dried out enough for it.”

There were various murmurs of agreement, and Anthony generously gave the group a brief explanation of what Pall Mall actually was, entirely for the benefit of the twins of course. 

“Sounds a bit like hurling,” Thomas grinned. “I’m sure we can give it a shot.” 

But before the conversation could pick up speed, Gregory, cheerful and completely oblivious, grinned and shouted loudly from further down the table.

“Think you’ll actually join in this time, Colin?” he announced casually, pulling a sad face. “Or will you watch from the window as usual with a whiskey decanter and that thousand-yard stare you’ve been perfecting?”

Silence.

It was a hard silence, cold. 

There it was. The truth, spilled bare on the linen like red wine.

Fuck.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. He just tried to keep his eyes on the remaining sliver of roast pheasant on his plate, one knuckle gone white from how tightly he gripped his fork. Because, if he broke free of his current trance, he might actually cry . 

That, or lob his plate at his brother’s head, and he didn’t want to risk hitting a mortified-looking Lucy who, despite her evidently poor choice of husband, he actually rather liked. 

He felt ill. It was all out in the open now. 

He hadn’t meant to hide his drinking from Penelope, not really. He had intended to tell her. After all, he wanted nothing but honesty between them. 

But God, not like this. Not with the silence and the shame so thick he could barely breathe.

He wanted to tell her how bad it had been for him. He wanted to tell her that he had never really recovered from her leaving. He wanted to tell her that he’d lived the past seventeen years as a shut-in. It was just, she already felt so guilty, she had wept in his arms this morning for God sake, and Colin was determined not to make this transition any harder for her. 

He was determined not to give her another reason to go away again. 

Fuck, he’d been trying had he not? He’d stopped drinking, in fact he hardly taken a sip since he arrived at Buncrana. 

Gregory hadn’t even said very much, not really. But the awkward silence and the clattering of forks certainly did. He was sickeningly aware of how the twins shifted awkwardly in their seats and how Penelope’s ice-blue eyes were boring into his skull. He couldn’t look at her. Not right now. He didn’t trust himself not to unravel if he did. 

Christ, he was pathetic. 

Kate, ever the tactician, and he could safely say, his favourite sister-in-law now, cleared her throat lightly and rose from her chair with smooth grace.

“Well,” she said with a bright smile, brushing her napkin down her skirts, “now that we’re all sufficiently stuffed, how about a walk? I’d like to show Agatha and Thomas the gardens before the sun sets.”

He could make out in his peripheral vision how Pen slowly tucked a curl behind her ear as this new information sank in. But under the table, her stockinged foot found his ankle, and slowly, gently, she ran it up his calf in a soothing motion, soft and wordless.

God, he loved her. 

It was Michaela who picked up on Kate’s cue, she leaned over toward the twins. “Yes, you haven’t seen the lake, have you? It’s just past the orchard. Lovely this time of year.”

Chairs scraped as people began to rise, the moment pushed aside but not forgotten.

Colin's thoughts lingered on the luncheon as he sat on the small grassy slope that faced out towards the lake. 

The sun was shining directly into his eyes as Colin watched his family mill about the edge of the large lake. The scene was almost dreamlike, Kate and the twins were skimming stones with the youngest children, showing them how to get precisely the right angle. He could hear his mother singing to baby Hermione whilst little Isabella attempted to join in. Some of the couples were walking slowly across the edge of the water, arm in arm with each other. 

Graceful sloping willow trees framed the edge of the scene, as though they were the thick velvet curtains you would find framing a stage. 

He watched as Gregory casually tossed a ball to his son and daughter for them to catch, and Colin couldn’t hide the vengeful smirk that formed on his lips when four year old Richard lobbed it directly at his head. He wished Gregory hadn’t said what he said, but Colin supposed it was going to come out eventually. 

“Are you alright?” Penelope asked, her voice barely above a whisper as she lowered herself beside him.

Colin moved to stop her, reaching for his jacket with the instinct to protect, to offer her something, anything. But she waved him off, settling into the grass without hesitation, as if no silken dress in the world could matter more than simply sitting beside him.

“I’m alright,” he said at last, though it wasn’t really the truth.

But already, the ache in his chest had softened, just by having her next to him.

If they'd been together all this time, he thought, if life had not carved such a wide and ruthless gulf between them, he might have used this opportunity to take her upstairs, to take advantage of the quiet house because the memory of their morning together was still very fresh in his mind. But for now, he was content to just sit with her. Her shoulder against his, the hum of the garden around them, the sound of their children’s laughter carried on the breeze. It was enough to make his heart ache.

“I didn’t find it easy either, Colin,” she said, her voice fragile but clear. “My pregnancy… it was the darkest time of my life. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I was so lonely, Colin.”

His gaze dropped to the rippling water. Shame curled like smoke in his lungs.

“But you’re so strong, Pen,” he murmured, not daring to meet her eyes. “You must think me pathetic.”

“No,” she said, firmly, as her hand found his and squeezed. “Never.”

She guided his chin gently toward her, imploring him to see her, really see her.

“You misunderstand me,” she said softly. “I had the twins. And they saved me. They needed me so much... and I clung to that. To them. If I hadn’t had them with me, I wouldn’t have survived.”

She rested her head against his shoulder then, and something inside him cracked wide open. The simple weight of her felt like a blessing. 

Oh, how he had dreamed of this, of sitting with his wife at his family home while he watched his children playing with their cousins. Mere weeks ago, something as simple and as comforting as this could have only come from his wildest fantasies. 

But yet, here they were. Reality. 

“You had no distractions, and yet, you were strong, Colin,” she whispered. “You are still. And I don’t wish for you to be ashamed of yourself anymore. You’re a wonderful father. I see it, and they see it.”

He closed his eyes, trying to hold himself together, even as her words undid him. Colin thought he might cry from the sheer tenderness of the moment.

“Your mother said something in her letter,” she added after a pause, her fingers still twined in his. “She said, if we want happiness in the future, we must make peace with the past.”

She looked out ahead of her, where the sun cast glittering orange ripples across the lake.

“I think she was right.”

And in that moment, with her head on his shoulder and their children’s laughter in his ear, he let himself believe that the past might finally stay where it belonged.

Chapter Text

Buncrana Cottage, Rathnew, Co. Mayo. Ireland. March 2nd 1833. 

She had always been jealous of her mother’s hair. 

Silky, voluminous and bouncy, and so unique.

It bounced a little higher, caught the light a little better and shimmered a little brighter, like the sun shone specifically for her. 

She watched that hair dance slightly in the gentle breeze as Penelope sat out on the granite steps of the kitchen garden, dressed her green frock faded pale with age, and wrapped snugly in her favourite woollen shawl. 

She watched her stare out into the garden’s tangle of wild hedges and budding spring blooms. And Agatha knew that whenever her mother looked like this, no amount of calling her name or vying for her attention could snap her out of her trance. 

She was spellbound. 

She sat out on that step for a couple of minutes every evening, just to catch that last little bit of sun, even if the sun wasn’t really there. 

It was a ritual, almost as if she didn’t have a choice. 

No cup of tea, no book to read or letter to write. She just sat there, her head tilted up toward the sky, soaking in every last drop of sun before it inevitably disappeared beyond the trees. 

Then she would trot back inside, entirely herself again, ready to make dinner, or clean up the kitchen, or give her children gentle kisses on the forehead. 

As if she hadn’t just been somewhere very far away.

She would be inclined to think her mother was wishing she was somewhere warmer, where the days were longer and the sunshine was abundant. 

That was if Mammy had ever expressed any desire to leave Buncrana. 

Which she never had. 

“It must be his birthday,” Agatha murmured.

“Whose?” Thomas said, looking up, a thumb marking his place in his well-loved book.

“Colin Bridgerton’s,” she replied, without looking at him. 

She listened with a sort of expectant apathy as her brother’s voice turned brittle, “What makes you think that?” 

They hardly ever spoke about him, not since they were children, really. 

Colin Bridgerton, the man they knew must be their father, was an unfinished sentence in their house. A subject so danced around that eventually they had stopped trying. 

He wasn’t there and that was that, and whilst her brother’s disappointment in not having a father had turned to resentment, Agatha’s had just mellowed into a sort of passive curiosity, not forgiveness exactly, but a kind of wondering ache that came and went like the weather. 

She’d forget about him for weeks and months on end, too caught up with friends and chores and whatever novel she was currently reading to give a thought to a man she’d never met. But then something would trigger it, her mother awaking with a tearstained face, an empty seat at their small kitchen table, or a man dancing with his little daughter in Rathnew’s town square, and she’d be reminded that she was fatherless once again. 

She’d invented him a hundred times over, many different versions had passed through her mind, but none of them seemed to stick.

Sometimes he was strict, sometimes he was funny, sometimes he was just some older version of Thomas. 

But he was always someone who wanted them. 

But she knew that he didn’t want them. And that was that. 

Thomas had said it so many times, any time that she found herself voicing an opinion really. 

“Don’t upset her please,” he’d beg. “He’s not here. It’s not worth it is it?”. 

She hated to see Mammy upset as much as he did, but really, she wasn’t made of porcelain, she wasn’t going to break. 

“She’s extra quiet this year,” she said now, voice low, watching that copper head silhouetted against the dusk. “And last year. And the year before that.”

He let out a sort of vaguely disbelieving grunt, as if to say her conversation could not possibly be as interesting as a book he’d read ten times already. 

She hated when he did that. 

“No really,” Aggie insisted, “I checked my diary. She’s silent as a grave on this date every year.” 

“You don’t know that’s the reason Ags, just leave her be,” he sighed as he finished the rest of his tea and made his way out of the kitchen.

Agatha did leave her be, but she stayed there, silent in the shadows, fingertips absently tracing splinters in the old oak table, watching her mother flanked by the peeling door frame. The garden had gone from gold, to grey, to almost pitch black as the sun slipped beneath the horizon.

But her mother didn’t move.

She remained on the step, still as stone, her shawl clutched tight around her shoulders, staring into nothing. Clearly oblivious she was being watched. 

Until she started to cry. 

For God's sake.  

She really hated when her mother cried. She hated how it sounded, tight and heavy. She hated that she only cried alone, so that she and Tommy wouldn’t hear it. She hated that that didn’t really work, that she always knew she’d been crying anyway, and that it always made her feel guilty. 

She hated that she didn’t know how to get her to stop. 

She hesitated for a moment, then stood, the wooden floor cool beneath her bare feet as she stepped softly to the door. It gave a screeching creak when leaned against it, a sound that seemed too loud for the hush of the evening.

“Mammy?” she said, her voice barely more than a breath.

Her mother startled slightly, as if waking from a dream, and turned toward her with red-rimmed eyes and a too-quick smile.

She hated that smile too. Too artificial. 

“It’s getting cold,” she said gently. “You should come inside.”

For a moment, Penelope didn’t speak. Just looked at her as if she were seeing her properly for the first time all day.

Then she nodded, and as she rose, she rested a hand briefly on her shoulder for support, a silent thank you as she stepped through the door.

Agatha closed it behind them, the latch clicking into place like the end of a verse.

Aubrey Hall, Kent. England. October 26th 1833. 

She wasn’t sure why she was such an early riser. 

Perhaps it was because at Buncrana, her bedroom curtains had never quite shut all the way. One of the rings was caught on the end of the rail, which meant that a long strip of light would stretch across her pillow every morning and rouse her from her sleep. 

She supposed her mother’s height had made it impossible to fix when she was little. And by the time she and Tommy, well mostly Tommy, were tall enough to reach it, she’d grown too used to the light to want it gone.

So accustomed had she become to waking with the sun that the pitch darkness of her bedroom at Aubrey Hall felt disorienting. The curtains here were velvet, thick and lush, and they kept the light out entirely. Leaving the morning smothered before it even began.

She hummed to herself as she rose and reached in the darkness for that curtain so she could push it back and allow some light in, maybe that was why they all required maids and valets to come in and rouse them every morning. 

In fact it must have been pretty early, because the blue light of dawn was barely upon her and, Eliza had not come into the room yet. 

She was glad of that, because she found the wake up calls incredibly awkward. 

Maybe if she dressed now, she could make her way into the garden and avoid the encounter entirely. 

Agatha did like to think of herself as a sociable person, really. She definitely wasn’t shy, and she had always been able to carry a conversation with anyone. 

But, now that they were here, surrounded by Colin’s family, and they were as lovely and as welcoming as he’d said, all warmth and love and endless polished kindness, the shine of novelty was fading. The excitement and the anxiety was starting to wear off. 

The days full of tours, dinners and games had finally worn her out. All she wanted was some time to herself. 

She slipped into her navy blue skirt and waistcoat set, wrapped herself in her warmest shawl, laced her boots without bothering to fasten them fully and tiptoed her way outside. Her hair was messy and unkempt, as it usually was, but if she attempted to brush it now she’d be there all morning. 

The house was still, too still really, the kind of quiet where every step boomed, and every floorboard creaked louder than it ought. Even her own breath felt like an intrusion. 

She grimaced as the glass door to the terrace made an awful scraping sound, scratching against the tiles in the foyer. 

She thought to sit out here for a while, there were some wrought-iron chairs and wooden benches, presumably for taking tea outside when the weather was fine. And the view was extraordinary, all rolling hills and expansive forest. It was almost laughable to think that her uncle had compared Buncrana to here, because these grounds looked like something out of Gainsborough painting. 

Out of the corner of her eye, however, she spotted a scullery maid making up a fire through the drawing room window, and she elected to make her way down the terrace steps out of sight. 

Agatha wandered around the back of the house, there was a small herb and vegetable garden tucked in behind the west wing, the plots and pots were almost empty, given it was nearing November. 

But she could still make out a vegetable patch when she saw one, with it’s drying vines and supportive wooden trellis. 

She cast her eye up at the walls, the windows were too high up and the angle was too steep. Good, she wouldn’t be spotted here. 

She didn’t think she would be reprimanded for being here, exactly, but she still didn’t feel entitled to gallivant around the house as though it were her own. 

The metal bench was freezing beneath her, but at least she had somewhere to sit. 

Birdsong started to rise up out of the quiet as the sun crept over the horizon, the garden was coated in silver mist. It clung to the air, wrapped around the hedgerows, and dressed the remaining flowers like lace. Her breath was visible as she took in deep gulps of the crisp, refreshing air. 

She’d always preferred winter to summer, ever since she was a girl. She’d always preferred being too cold to being too hot.

Winter had always been described as an unwelcoming, almost distant time. Desolate, as though it was something to be endured rather than embraced. 

“Spring is just around the corner,” people would say. “No winter lasts forever.” 

But to her, it had always been when people came together, there was a cosiness there, and if there was endurance, it only meant that people relied on each other. 

If she was going to be a bit less philosophical though, it was probably because her birthday was in January, so she’d always had that to look forward to after Christmas, and of course, nothing was better craic than an Irish Christmas.  

The music, the parties, the way the village managed to do away with their worries and concerns for a few days at least. 

She was going to miss it this year, and that thought settled somewhere low and heavy in her chest. Although, if she’d told her father she wanted to return to Ireland for December, that she missed her home, he’d probably pack their bags and leave today, no questions asked. 

Colin loved them both so much, so much that she didn’t know what to do with it all. He looked at his family like they’d hung stars in the sky, like they were something precious that had been lost and found. He loved her so fiercely that it scared her, the responsibility felt heavy in her hands, like trying to carry something precious and fragile, and she couldn’t put it down. 

She’d spent her whole life believing he didn’t want her. That when her mother had told him she was pregnant he’d turned away. It wasn’t uncommon. There were other children in Rathnew whose fathers weren't in the picture.

But the way he’d looked at her, voice cracking, eyes burning with grief, and said, “I never knew. Not until recently. I never knew you existed.”

He hadn’t known. All this time he had no idea. She had never told him. 

The look on his face then, the desperation and the heartbreak, it made her stomach twist with shame. Of all the scenarios she’d ever imagined, that had never occurred to her.

She loved her mother, she really did, so Agatha prayed that the secret she’d been keeping from them, the reason she’d left, was understandable enough, was forgivable enough, that it wouldn’t sit between them for the rest of their lives.

“ I truly believed I could never return.”

She wanted her parents back together, because she wanted her mother to be happy. Agatha could already see that the ever-present slump in her mother’s shoulders and the bags under her eyes had all but disappeared since Colin had come back into their life. It was obvious to anyone with eyes that they were better together than apart. 

But a small part of her was relieved, because if he would stay and care for her, it meant that she wouldn’t have to. Which was good, because Agatha had never known how to make her mother feel better. 

Melancholy had always been a part of Penelope. 

Lost love was bound to make anybody melancholy. 

Agatha had never been a very comforting person, tears and heartbreak made her feel awkward and helpless, she was the type to use humour to lighten the mood, even when it was the exact wrong thing to do. 

She didn’t know what to say to sadness except to try to laugh through it, even her own. She’d never been any good at tenderness.

So when Colin had begged their forgiveness, when he’d told them he’d do right by them, when he’d said in all ways except words that he loved her and her brother, when it was supposed to be her heart cracking open, Agatha had done the only thing she knew how, she’d made him feel better. 

She’d spared his feelings. 

Even if she wasn’t sure how to make sense of her own. 

It was easier that way. 

“Oh! Apologies for disturbing you Miss Bridgerton!”

She was startled so badly by the voice behind her that she let out a small scream. 

She turned around, it was that footman, the Irish one that had taken their tea cups the first night they arrived. 

He quickly dipped his head into a bow, “Forgive me,” he gasped. “I didn’t think anyone else would be out here.” 

He was young, probably not much older than her, with ash brown hair and light eyes. His waistcoat was unbuttoned, collar slightly askew, and he had a cigarette tucked between his fingers. 

She blinked, then smiled faintly, trying to put him at ease, “It’s grand, I’m not really supposed to be out here anyway.” 

He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, “Neither am I, I’ve a few minutes before kitchen call, thought I’d use the opportunity,” he said, waving the lit cigarette. 

“Can I have one?” 

He blinked in surprise, “You smoke?” 

“Don’t tell anyone,” she replied. 

He stepped towards her, and rather surprisingly, took a seat on the other end of the bench. He fumbled in his jacket for his case, and drew out another, offering it to her. She took it between her fingers, and he struck the match against the wall behind them, shielding the flame with his hand as she leaned in to light it. Their eyes met in the glow for the briefest moment before she exhaled her first breath. 

“I like the accent,” she said to him.

He stifled a surprised laugh. “Cheers, Cork yeah, Skibbereen.” 

Agatha exhaled, the smoke curling warm in her lungs. “We’re from Rathnew, in Mayo.” 

“I know,” he grinned, “It’s all the staff have been talking about.” 

Agatha blinked, momentarily stunned. 

“Talking about us?” 

He gave a sheepish shrug, taking another drag. “’Course, whole house is buzzing. Half the girls are convinced you're going to marry a Duke within a fortnight.”

Christ. That was all she needed. 

Agatha let out a rather unladylike snort, “Fuck off.”

“It’s true,” he teased, flicking ash to the gravel, “seems to me you’re the most interesting thing to happen to this place in ages.”

She scoffed, not really knowing what to say to that compliment, “How long have you been here?” 

“About a year,” he replied, “I left Skibbereen to support my Mam and Dad, but I was only three months here and they were evicted.” 

Agatha’s chest went tight, she glanced at him, but he was focused on the curling plume of smoke rising from his fingertips, as if what he said wasn’t heart breaking at all. 

She might have guessed though, people disappeared from her town all the time, the way leaves fell from a tree, suddenly and without ceremony. One day a house would be full of laughter and life, smoke rising from the chimney as it always had, and then the next, shuttered and cold, the door hanging open to no one.

“And you stayed?” she asked.

He nodded again. “There wasn’t the fare for all of us, I’ve younger sisters too, and someone had to keep sending money. I figured I’d work here, save what I could, and follow them later.”

Shame rose within her as she looked at him. She had two countries, two homes, and an enormous family vying for space in her heart. And still she felt displaced. It struck her suddenly as indulgent, to mourn what she hadn’t had, when others had lost everything they did.

“What’s your name?” she asked softly. 

He blinked, surprised. Then his mouth quirked into a smile. “Connor McLaughlin.”

“Connor,” she repeated. “I’m Agatha.” 

He smiled. “I know.”

She rolled her eyes. “Right. Because I’m all the staff have been talking about.”

“Not just you,” he teased. “Your brother too. He’s causing a bit of a stir among the chambermaids. There's an ongoing debate about whether or not he’s more handsome than Master Edmund.”

“Blegh,” she groaned as she took one last drag and stubbed the cigarette into a patch of damp earth. “They’ll figure out he’s rotten soon enough,” she laughed, mocking a gagging wretch. 

A bell rang somewhere inside the house, and it suddenly occurred to her that she must have been sitting in the kitchen garden. 

Connor straightened slightly, flicking what was left of his cigarette into the gravel. “That’s me,” he said with a small wince. “If I’m late again, Mr. Humboldt will have my head.”

Agatha smirked. “He seems terrifying.”

“He is,” he said gravely, and they both smiled.

He stood and dusted off his hands, pausing just a moment before stepping back.

“I’ll see you soon, Miss Bridgerton,” he said, voice low but clear.

She nodded, fingers brushing the hem of her shawl. “You too, Mr. McLaughlin.”

And then he was gone, boots crunching lightly over the gravel path, and shutting the door behind him, the faint scent of smoke left behind. 

Later they had gathered in the drawing room for tea, it was nearing sundown and the drawing room was soaked in the golden hue of late afternoon, the kind of honeyed light that made everyone before her look softer and gentler, as though time had slowed to let the day settle before surrendering to night. 

The squealing laughter of children chasing each other around the house was the only thing to interrupt the hazy peace of the moment. 

Agatha was exhausted after a day of games, walks and chatter, she was curled in an armchair near the window, knees tucked under her skirt, terribly unladylike. She had never been one to sit neatly, and Mammy had scolded her for it often enough. But no one in the room seemed to notice or if they did, they didn’t know her well enough to be in a position to reprimand her. 

Across the room, Thomas was deep in conversation with her father and uncles. He looked more at ease with each passing day, nodding thoughtfully as he listened to them explain something, land boundaries or crop yields or something. His posture was relaxed but attentive as he sat turned away from her. 

For some reason, it made her ache. 

They used to share everything, the tasks, the chores, the responsibilities. Their home in Rathnew had run on quiet cooperation, where everyone did their part and no one’s work was more important than another’s. And now, without warning, Thomas had been handed something vast and serious. A future. A legacy. A purpose.  

It wasn’t as though she envied him, Lord knows she wouldn't know where to start with account ledgers and land management, but she still couldn’t help but feel pushed out, somehow, as though she was on the outside looking in. There was no job waiting for her, no obvious place to fit.

Maybe she should marry a Duke.

Her gaze drifted to her mother, who sat a few chairs away, laughing over her teacup with her aunts and Lady Bridgerton. Her face was brighter, her laugh warmer than it had been in years. Agatha smiled at the sight.

Mammy had always been liked in Rathnew, the villagers respected and admired her. But she hadn’t been terribly close with anyone, not since Auntie Bríd died. Here, surrounded by her sisters-in-law, she looked at ease too, like a proper English lady, she looked like she belonged.  

Then, suddenly, a small voice piped up from the floor.

“Uncle Colin! Auntie Penelope! Will you play dolls with me?”

Agatha blinked.

It was Isabella, Hyacinth’s little girl, all of four years old, clutching a scraggly-haired doll to her chest with both arms. Her cheeks were pink from running and her petticoat was crooked, but she beamed with the force of someone absolutely certain of being loved.

“Izzy wants to share her dolls, Colin!” Hyacinth announced in mock astonishment, “That’s akin to a Knighthood in our house.”

Colin blinked too, caught off guard, then chuckled, “Play dolls? Are you sure you wouldn’t rather ask someone who knows what they’re doing?”

“Nope,” Izzy said firmly, tugging on his hand. “I want you.”

And he folded like paper.

“Right then,” he murmured, clearing his throat and shaking her hand gently. “Dolls it is.”

Penelope smiled at her husband and dropped to the carpet beside them without hesitation, smoothing her skirt beneath her knees as she reached for a tiny porcelain figure. Izzy let out a squeal of delight and began dictating a complex storyline involving a tea party for princesses and a fairy godmother.

Her father took to his assignment with great solemnity, he held the doll aloft, inspecting her with a furrowed brow and thoughtful hum, before announcing in an extravagant voice, “I daresay, your highness, this tea is far too weak.” 

Grand and effective, not a care for what his entire family thought as they looked upon him, he continued, “This simply will not do, you know how I feel about chamomile!” 

“Would an Earl Grey do, or perhaps a fine jasmine?” her mother continued, attempting to match her husband's acting skills. 

Izzy shrieked with laughter, collapsing sideways against Colin’s chest as she tried to keep her grip on the dolls. He caught her without thinking, arm curling instinctively around her back, his cheek pressed briefly to her crown.

Her breath caught, and Agatha felt something split open inside her.

Her breath hitched, shallow and sharp. Behind her eyes, a younger version of herself flickered into being, wild-haired, wide-eyed, clutching her own favourite doll, waiting for a father who never came. 

She could see it all so vividly, her tiny fingers reaching up for hands that were never there. A bedtime story never told. A dance never offered. A lap never sat on. 

She had never had it. Not the gentleness. Not the play. Not the easy affection.

And now it was here. So unburdened. Right there on the rug before her, her parents playing dolls and sipping pretend tea, wrapped in sunlight and laughter like it had always been this way. 

Like it had always been this simple. 

If it was that fucking simple, why couldn’t she have had it too?

She stared as though at a scene from a play, perfect and impossible and heartbreakingly out of reach.

Everything she had missed.

And it broke her heart. 

Her throat seized up, a tight knot formed behind her ribs. Her chest felt hollow, the tears came hot, immediate, stinging at her waterline before she could blink them away, and she had just barely turned her head when -

“Agatha?” Her mother’s voice cut softly across the room, gentle but tinged with concern. 

She looked up, and every face in the room turned to meet her own, all of their faces mirroring Penelope’s. 

For fuck sake, including that footman from earlier. 

All the emotion she’d been trying to shove down inside her, all the memories, all the longing she’d tried to deny, it all just bubbled to the surface. 

A gasping sob escaped her and fat wet tears flooded from her eyes, before she could even form another thought she rose and fled from the room. 

Fuck. Shit. She never cried. Not ever. 

She didn’t want to be seen, not like this. She didn’t want any of their comfort or concern. 

As her boots clacked against the tiled floor, she could hear her father’s concerned cry behind her, “Agatha? Agatha!”

And her brother’s firm assurance that he would follow instead of Colin. 

Through the doorway, and up the grand staircase two at a time, all she could think was that she had to get away. 

The heavy door to her bedroom slammed shut behind her, she leaned against it as she sucked in deep, heavy breaths, unsure if it was the running or the sobbing which was rendering her so desperate for oxygen. 

She could have been pressed up against that door for one minute or twenty as she tried to calm herself down, but the tears just kept coming , even when Thomas pushed himself into the room and pulled her into a tight embrace. 

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “I didn’t mean to cause such a scene.” 

“It’s okay,” he said softly as he eventually let her go, “nobody will mind.” 

They won’t mind, she thought, but she’ll probably endure concerned looks and gentle, ' are you well?'s , for the next few days. 

“It’s hard to see him like that,” Thomas said knowingly. “It shouldn’t have been like this. He should have been there, taken responsibility.” 

Her head jerked up.

Thomas went on, the words tumbling out, less comfort and more tirade as he began to pace, “He was supposed to be our father, he was supposed to be there for all of it, for us, for Mammy. I know it’s hard to think he can just waltz into the family now, but I talked to him Aggie and I do think he’s try-” 

“No,” she cut him off sharply, her voice splintering as she wiped the tears from her eyes. 

He blinked at her in surprise. 

“I don’t blame him,” she confirmed simply. “I blame her .” 

“Mammy?” Tommy questioned, looking very confused. 

“Of course Mammy!” She nearly growled, sadness now turning to anger, “she didn’t tell him about us!” 

“He didn’t know, Tommy,” she went on, her voice breaking again. “He didn’t even know we existed until a few months ago. And the moment he did, he came. He came for us.”

Thomas’ fists clenched, and his voice rose to match her own, “You want to blame Mam for this? You heard what he said! He made their marriage a living hell! She had no choice but to leave!” 

“But she…she let us believe he didn’t want us!” 

Fuck. She was not going to cry again. 

“I love her,” she added, her voice growing smaller. “God, I love her. But I keep looking at them, at how they are now, and I don’t understand how she ever thought he wouldn’t have wanted us. I don’t understand how she thought we’d be better off without him.”

Thomas said nothing, clearly not having any rebuttal to her point, so she continued through gritted teeth, “This fucking secret of hers…I don’t see what could be bad enough to let her children grow up without a father.” 

She tried to remind herself what she’d been told, that her mother had truly believed leaving would protect them. 

“When you do finally decide to lift the last veil mother….I had better fucking agree with you.”

Her own words rang like a bell in her mind, she didn’t like resenting her mother, she didn’t like resenting anyone, holding grudges made her feel angry and on edge. It was just, her mother had always kept things to herself, leaving her and Thomas to fill in the blanks, and she was so fucking tired of it.

No more. 

Her brother looked at her from across the room, jaw clenched and shoulders tight, “You think I haven’t wondered what her secret is? You think I haven’t tried to piece it together?” 

“But that’s just it, isn’t it? We don’t know. We don’t know anything because she’s never told us the truth. She never trusted us with it.”

His whole body slumped, and she thought for a moment he would concede defeat, but his next words were cut off by the sounds of footsteps outside the door. 

Slow. Careful. Someone was hesitating.

Then the door creaked open.

Colin stepped inside first, followed closely by Penelope, her hands wringing nervously in front of her, face pale.

Before either of them could speak, Agatha stood and turned to face her mother.

Enough is enough. 

Her voice was steady and commanding despite her desperation to keep the tears at bay.

“We’ve waited too long,” she said. “Tell us why you left.”

Chapter Text

Aubrey Hall, Kent. England. October 26th 1833.

“I…I…” Penelope gasped as she looked back at Agatha. 

All of a sudden the room felt stiflingly hot. 

The look in her daughter's eyes was murderous. She’d never seen her like that before. She’d seen her upset, she’d seen her enraged. But the look behind Agatha’s eyes was tinged with a kind of hurt and pain that was never there before. 

And it broke her heart that she’d been the one to cause it. 

“Aggie never cries,” she’d whispered to Colin as they hurried up the stairs after their children. 

But Penelope didn’t blame her, she’d felt it too, as soon as Colin had pressed his cheek to his giggling niece, it became painfully clear how much they’d missed. What a wonderful father he would have been. What a father they’d missed out on. 

But seventeen years she’d spent believing he didn’t want her, that he’d never have been happy with her. Staying would have meant ruination for all of them, for everyone she’d ever cared about. She’d walked away with the acceptance that the life she could provide alone was better than what they could provide together. She’d fled London believing she would never return, and that belief had cemented itself within her, had sunk inside her and made a home there. 

And as the years had gone by, the joyous, loving memories of Colin had become blurred and vague, fractured by the painful ones that had succeeded them. 

Eventually she did not know how much of their love was really there, and how much she had just imagined. 

She'd steeled herself, forced herself to move on, to keep moving forward, for them. 

She had spent seventeen years trying to protect them from this, from her mistakes. 

But love was more than protection, it was truth too.

And she owed them the truth. 

Agatha was standing, rigid and pale, her tearstained face streaked but set with something that looked awfully like defiance. Thomas was at her side, silent but tense with wary concern, as if he was bracing for impact.

“We should probably sit down,” Colin said as he attempted to steady her shaky form. He guided her to the plush, pink silk settee as the twins sat opposite her on the bed. 

Their height, and the twins' elevation on the tall bed made her feel as though she was cowering before them, as if the only valid response was to crawl into a ball and cry.

But she didn’t move, in fact she sat so rigid on the edge of the chaise that she feared it may buck in protest if she attempted to relax into it. 

She knew she had to tell them. She was going to tell them. But it wasn’t as if anyone had taken her secret very well before. 

“I wish never to see or speak to you again.” 

“I will never forgive you.” 

“Leave, Penelope. Don’t ever come back.” 

This was different, they were her children. She could live without everyone else, she had lived without everyone else. 

But Thomas and Agatha, if they turned on her, if they cast her aside now, if they didn’t love her anymore because of this, she wouldn’t survive it. 

There would be nothing left to live for. 

But as she looked at her children’s faces, she was met with the overwhelming sense that she was no longer looking at children, but adults. Adults who could handle the truth. 

It was as though they’d aged a lifetime in the past month alone. 

“You don’t know who I am,” she said at last, voice barely above a whisper. “Not really. And that’s my fault. I’ve kept something from you. For years.”

Neither of them spoke. The anticipation was palpable.

“I’m… I used to be someone else. In secret.”

Thomas’s brow creased, panic spread across his face like wildfire, “Who?” 

The words came out in a rush. “I was the writer of an anonymous gossip column.” 

Agatha gave her a disbelieving look, and her voice positively dripped with derision, “What?”

“It was called Lady Whilstledown’s Society Papers,” she continued. And it occurred to Penelope then that she’d never actually said the column’s full name out loud before. “It was printed in London. Weekly. It was gossip, mostly. Commentary on society events and such.” 

They said nothing, just looked at her with confounded faces. She supposed that they wouldn’t have much to say at first, after all, it wasn’t as though they grew up in a place where secrets and intrigue lurked around dark corners like vermin. 

It wasn’t as though they’d had to deal with the humiliation of being written about, like Colin had, like Eloise and her mother had. 

Like she had, too.

“I was very young when it started, barely your age. I was very unhappy growing up,” she sniffed, trying not to grow too emotional. “You haven’t met my family, but they weren’t the easiest people to live with,” she spoke softly, and she felt Colin’s breathing grow heavier as she spoke. 

“My parents were rather disappointed I was another girl, as they wanted an heir, and my sisters, well, they were twins like you two,” she said, gesturing at them, despite the fact they already knew this about their aunts. “They played with each other and always left me out of the loop. So I…I suppose, in my childhood I always used reading as an escape. I coped with my unhappiness by daydreaming constantly, by disappearing into other worlds, and as I grew older I began writing, creating those worlds for myself.” 

“Oh Mam,” Thomas said gently, his eyes growing soft.

Agatha still looked just as stone faced, which was entirely unnerving, for a girl who usually laughed about everything. Colin took hold of her hand and gave it a tight squeeze, shifting closer to her in a gesture of support. 

“I was made to enter society a year early, alongside my sisters. I had none of the traits which were desired in a debutante. I wasn’t pretty, I was not fashionably slender,” she felt Colin shift even closer to her at that. 

She swallowed, trying to get the words out quickly so that they would not get the better of her, “I knew that I would struggle on the marriage mart, and I was terrified of it. I began writing Whistledown as a way to have control over my emotions, to get my feelings out about how a ball or society event went. It was my father’s solicitor who found my writings and encouraged me to publish, I had no idea it would be such a fast success.” 

“But,” Thomas interrupted. “Why did you have to keep it a secret?”

“You said it was because she was a woman,” Agatha pointed out, cocking her eyebrow pointedly at Colin. 

He shifted before attempting to respond, but Penelope knew she would have to put the next part gently. 

It wasn’t because she was a woman. At least it wasn’t just because she was a woman. 

“That’s true Agatha, women of our background certainly aren’t encouraged to think for themselves,” she gulped. “But it was more than that. The column was scornful and judgemental of society. I used my wit to cut people, to examine them, and I enjoyed it.”

Thomas looked at her with wide, watery eyes. “That doesn’t sound like you.”

“I know it doesn’t,” Penelope said. “But it was. It is . I wrote with a mask on, but that didn’t make it any less me. Like I said, I had no idea that the column would be such an immediate success, it all snowballed so quickly that I didn’t stop to think who might be hurt, I didn’t want to. I had influence now, I had control . For the first time in my life, I felt important.”

It was at that moment she realised just how much she had in common with her mother. 

She knew it would be difficult for them to relate, particularly Agatha, who came from a place where she was so well liked. Where everyone listened when she spoke. She didn’t know what it felt like to be invisible.

As for Thomas, he was shy, but he wasn’t unpopular , and besides, her son was far too kind-hearted to ever even consider doing what she had done.

“You see…,” she stole a glance at her husband, who looked just as guilty as she did at that moment. “I didn’t understand my own power, I exposed secrets, ruinous secrets. And I didn’t acknowledge the risks I was taking with my own safety, my reputation, and the reputation of my family. In fact I fancied myself brave for doing so, I thought I was too clever to be caught.”

“But you were caught,” Thomas said, not tearing his eyes from Colin’s. “You caught her.” 

The look in her son’s eyes was discerning. She knew that he wasn’t ready to trust Colin entirely yet, that it was easier for her son to place the blame on him than on her, which was wrong. 

She wasn’t infallible. She knew that.

Colin opened his mouth to respond, but she cut him off. She wasn’t going to let him answer for her mistakes. 

“He did,” she said. “But there was more to the story than that, Colin’s reaction was not the only reason I left.” 

They both leaned forward in anticipation. 

“Penelope,” Colin leaned towards her and murmured softly. “Are you sure? You know you would have stayed if it hadn’t been for me. ” 

Her daughter jumped up at Colin’s question, startling them both, “Oi!” Agatha’s eyes darted between the pair of them, finger pointed accusingly. “You tell us all of it. You promised. ”

Fuck. Okay.

“I was blackmailed, Agatha” she said sadly. 

Her daughter took a step back, eyes wide, and sat herself back down on the bed. 

“ What? ” she breathed. 

“By who?” Thomas croaked. 

Penelope was about to say that the identity of her blackmailer did not matter, that it had been too long to worry about that. But really, she found that she could not speak the name Cressida Cowper without it tasting like ash on her tongue, indeed too often she couldn’t even think about that day without bursting into tears. 

But Agatha’s face…she wasn’t going to tolerate a single detail being left out.

It wasn’t the first time her daughter had reminded her of Eloise.

“Her name was Cressida Cowper. We came out together, the same age, and we were in competition in the marriage mart. She…she always behaved quite badly toward me. She could never resist the chance to torment me.”

God, re-living those memories was so visceral, they felt so real, how Cressida had begged young suitors to dance with Penelope, how she’d feign concern to a group of partygoers over Penelope’s appearance. 

“It’s just not healthful to weigh more than ten stone at our age.” 

Fuck, she tried to remind herself that it was 1833, not 1813. And she was here, in a bedroom with her husband and her children , not cowering in the corner of a ballroom, trying to hide from Cressida Cowper.

She forced herself to keep it together, to not give in to her emotions. She had spent seventeen years pushing down the tears in front of them, to will the tears away so that they would not feel responsible for the pain and trauma of everything she'd gone through. 

But it had been the hardest when the twins had done something that reminded her of him. 

When she saw Agatha writing in her diary with the same crease in her brow Colin would get when he wrote, when Thomas tapped his knee impatiently while listening, the same restless rhythm Colin had kept during long dinners or dull sermons. 

“All bullies have their favourite victim,” Colin said gently towards the children, which brought her back to the room. His voice was tinged with the fatherly authority he was growing into everyday since he’d met them. He rubbed her back while spoke, and Penelope had the overwhelming urge to bury her head into his chest so he could protect her from all harm, from a ghost of Cressida that wasn’t even there. 

“I know,” Thomas said suddenly. He cocked his head towards his sister, “I’m hers.”

Agatha snorted her outrage, hopping on to her knees so she could shove him off of the bed. Penelope caught his eyes and smiled, silently thanking him for breaking the tension. 

He was so very like his father. 

But her daughter’s lapse in concentration and sudden burst of mirth ceased the second she rounded back on Penelope, “Go on.” 

So, she kept talking. 

“Well you see, eventually my actions were catching up with me. Your father,” she turned to Colin apologetically. “Had just proposed, but I hadn’t told him my identity yet. I wanted to,” she assured all three of them in no uncertain terms. “I knew that we couldn’t build a marriage based on lies, but I was so terrified of his reaction that I kept putting it off. I told myself that I was waiting for the right time, but in truth I was frightened that everything would fall apart.” 

“Mammy,” Agatha said softly then, “it fell apart anyway.”

Fuck, the pain in her daughters eyes was palpable, real, and Penelope knew the only thing she could offer was honestly. If she kept anything from her again, any minute detail, their relationship would not recover. It would sit between them forever. 

“I know,” she responded quickly, stealing herself. “But I need you to understand, things went from bad to worse then, the Queen had issued a bounty on my head. Five thousand pounds to whoever unmasked Whistledown.” 

Thomas and Agatha’s eyes bugged out. 

Thomas’ hands curled into the sheets, “The Queen? Of England? ” 

Agatha’s eyes narrowed mutinously, “You were that much of a threat ?”

“I was reckless ,” Penelope countered, thinking about how she would probably combust from panic if either of her children attempted such a thing as she did. 

She’d been stupid , and cocky . She’d fucked around and she'd found out.

“I goaded Queen Charlotte, I mocked her. I refuted her authority and questioned her judgements, when it came to common gossip anyway. The adrenaline made me rash, and I relished the notion that the entire ton hung on my whim instead of hers.” 

“Mocking English royalty," Agatha smirked. “I can’t criticise you for that.” 

A glimmer of home sparked in Penelope’s heart at that, that maybe there was a possibility that Colin would be right. That they would be proud of her. 

She could see Colin unable to hide his own smirk in the corner of her eye, but she continued. “Cressida thought that she could claim the Queen’s money if she unveiled herself as Lady Whistledown.”

“Christ this is like a flippin’ Radcliffe novel,” Thomas said, eyebrows raised to the ceiling.

She couldn’t help the small scoff that escaped her, how she’d ever thought her life would end up dull, she would never know.

“If I knew what I know now, I never would have contradicted her. I would have let her be me, I would have let her take the blame.” 

“The credit!” Agatha butt in. 

She breathed a sigh of relief. Penelope knew her daughter, sometimes she thought she knew her better than she knew herself, and Agatha was proud of her. Even if she wasn’t ready to admit it yet. 

“The credit,” she repeated, smiling softly. “I just couldn’t let her take the credit for the one thing that I...”

Fuck, all of a sudden her voice started to crack again, and pressure began to build behind her eyes. She prayed she could keep it together. “The one thing that I could to and say, that was mine, I did that.” 

“When did you find out?” Thomas asked Colin. 

“I followed her carriage to the printers that night, when she delivered the column that would expose Miss Cowper,” he leaned forward, refusing to loosen the grip on her hand, but his tone softened and grew quiet, “You already know how badly I reacted.” 

The twins nodded in unison, Thomas’ eyes narrowed toward him, clearly electing to hold his counsel. 

“Cressida did not take the slight well, her actions and my denouncement of her lies had ruined her in the eyes of society. Her reputation was in tatters, no man would have her after that. So I suppose she must have grown desperate and…vengeful, because she managed to uncover my identity.” 

It was as though the entire house was holding its breath, the chatter of family and servants downstairs seemed to fall away as she continued to speak.

“It was about a month after we married, about a month after your father uncovered the truth. The morning she came to the house to confront me, it was…”

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. 

“It was the day I found out I was with child.” 

Agatha took a long, deep breath, and Thomas gripped his fists even further into the sheets, the way he always did when he was upset. 

“Cressida demanded ten thousand pounds to keep silent, and I…I couldn’t give it to her. Me and your father,” she turned to Colin as she said it and took in her own deep breath. 

She didn’t want to make this any worse for him, she didn’t want to make him harder for the children to trust, but at the same time, he knew as well as she did that they deserved to know the whole story. 

And honestly, now that she’d started, she didn’t want to stop. It felt like a knot was slowly untying in her chest, allowing her to finally breathe properly. 

“Things were not good between us. Every day the hope that we could come back together was falling away,” she squeezed Colin’s hand herself this time, to silently let him know that she wasn’t angry anymore. “I was at my wits end, I was so… so sick with stress and anxiety. I could barely eat, barely sleep, and if I did I was plagued by night terrors. It couldn’t go on any longer.”

She levelled a stare at the pair of them. “I was pregnant, and suddenly I was not only responsible for my own happiness, but for yours too. I thought if I ran, I could protect you…not only from living under the shadow of blackmail, or if Cressida did talk , from ostracization, isolation and a life of ruin and scandal.”

“But but…” Agatha protested, “But the truth never came out, did it? This Cressida lady never told anyone, why?”

Colin stiffened beside her, and Penelope sighed, her daughter voicing a question that had plagued her own mind for weeks, “I can’t answer that Agatha, I don’t know what happened to her. But I left believing she would tell everyone, she said she had proof, proof that would have cleared her own name, that would have secured her the money from the Queen,” she looked them in the eye, and tried to get the point across. “I thought the scandal would be all over London by the time I’d reached Southampton, and I had made too many enemies by then. I affronted almost the entire ton at one point or another. Colin’s family and my own family included. I had nowhere else to go, so I left.” 

“Your family,” Thomas questioned, “if things were so bad with him ,” he said, making a dismissive and entirely rude gesture toward Colin, which normally Penelope would have reprimanded him for. “Why didn’t you just go back home?” 

“Because it was my mother who told me to leave.” And God, she could feel how Colin grew rigid beside her at those words, his jaw clicked, his shoulders grew tense, his neck flexed in a way that made her want to free him from his cravat. 

“She did?” Agatha asked, “Your own mother?” 

“Yes, your grandmother. She walked in on me and Cressida. She was angry, she was disgusted, she said she never wanted to see me again, but she didn’t…she didn’t force me to leave. Lord knows that I did not often heed her orders,” she said, shaking her head, almost amused at the thought. “But she said that she had fought too hard, for too long to claw our family out of ruin time and time again, that she had done it all to protect us, to keep us safe. And all of a sudden, because I knew then that I would be a mother myself, I understood her. I knew I had to keep you two safe too ,” she smiled weakly at them, “before I even knew there were two of you.” 

The twins looked at each other in a manner that Penelope had become so accustomed to over the years, so calculating, as if they were silently deciding whether to accept this or not. 

It was almost as though they had telepathic powers.

“I pray you’ll both know it one day,” she continued. “It is truly bewildering how quickly your children’s happiness becomes the only thing that matters.”

“I can see why you left,” Thomas said, not an agreement, exactly, just a solemn conclusion. He turned to Agatha, as though expecting her to voice that same conclusion.

“But I…” she protested. “You still didn’t tell him about us Mammy!” 

“She didn’t have a fucking choice Agatha!” Thomas interjected before she could speak.

She sighed, keeping the truth from Colin had been as much to protect their own heart as it had been to protect theirs. 

She been terrified of finding that he’d remarried, an image of him, arms wrapped around some beautiful, faceless woman had plagued her darkest nightmares for years. 

She wouldn’t have borne the rejection, for herself or for her children. 

“Do you…do you have other children then?”

“No, no of course not.”

She still remembered the relief she’d felt at those words, the way he’d choked on his tea, as though such a notion was inconceivable. 

It was like an age-old weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

“Don’t blame her please,” Colin pleaded with his daughter in her stead. “I made our home unbearable. I was so angry, so cold I…” his voice grew croaky too, and Penelope knew he was as close to tears as she was. 

“Cressida, your grandmother, the Queen,” Colin continued softly. “None of that matters, we could have worked it out together if I had just been a better man. If I hadn’t made your mother think I didn’t love her anymore. If I hadn’t made her believe that your upbringing would be as cold and as distant as I was.”

“No, they were my choices,” she felt compelled to say then, if only to convince Colin that he was not entirely to blame. “It all started and ended with me. But you two were innocents , if I ran, I could make the best of things. I could raise you in a place where you wouldn’t be responsible for my mistakes, for my actions. ”

“You are both to blame,” her daughter said finally, but she wasn’t angry, in fact it looked as though that truth made her breathe a little easier. 

There was a silence then, quiet, but cathartic, the sun had almost set and there was little light left in the room. But somehow, het children's eyes glowed bright in the darkness. 

They were so beautiful. And so grown up. 

Colin slid his arm around her back and squeezed her elbow, his other hand still clasped in hers, “I hope that you can both be proud of Penelope. Not every decision was a wise one, but your mother was brilliant. A genius really.” 

Penelope couldn’t help the way butterflies exploded in her stomach at that, God, she felt a girl again, melting at his every kind word. “She had all of society wrapped around her finger, every week they would clamber for the next issue.”

It felt so good. She’d never received praise for her writing, not like this. 

“Can we read it?” Agatha said curiously, the pain in her voice finally fading.

Penelope blanched for a moment, “I’m sorry?” 

“Your column, can we read it?” she repeated insistently, and Thomas was beside her nodding his head in agreement. 

“I’m afraid to say I have no copies,” she said softly. “I burnt the ones I did have and it’s been so long I-”

“I have them,” Colin interjected. “The entire collection.” 

She snapped her head to his in an instant, why would he have them? 

Colin wasn’t exactly an enthusiast of Whistledown when he didn’t know her identity, and when he did, well, she imagined he’d probably torn up any copy he came across. 

He turned to her and explained, looking at her as though she was the only person in the room, “Eloise gave them to me when she was married. She thought that I should have them, I used to…I used to read them before I went to sleep. It helped me feel closer to you, Pen.” 

“Oh,” she whispered. It was all she could say, because it felt as though her heart had leapt into her throat. 

Fuck, she loved him. 

She always had. Looking into his eyes now, so earnest and sweet, she knew that as much as she had tried to convince herself otherwise, she had never really escaped her feelings for him.

She could have stared into his eyes forever, but she was snapped out of her stupor by a rather obviously loud and uncomfortable cough from Thomas. 

Colin gave a chastised smile, “I only have one issue with me, the rest are in my home in Bloomsbury, but I can fetch it for you now.” 

As Colin left the room, she noticed that the entire bedroom was now engulfed in darkness. The twins were reduced to a silhouetted shape, their breathing slow, but they said nothing, their heads turned to the door their father had exited through. 

Without prior thought, Penelope instinctively reached into the left side cabinet of the vanity next to her and felt around, it had been where the matches were kept when she’d stayed at Aubrey Hall, and all of a sudden she realised that it had been this very bedroom that she’d been given every time she’d stayed as a girl. 

Knowing Violet Bridgerton however, that definitely wasn’t a coincidence. 

She rose to light the candles on the mantle, finally engulfing the room in a soft, amber light. 

“This was my bedroom when I stayed her, Agatha,” trying to break back into normal, easy conversation with her children. 

It felt as though no conversation with either of them had been normal since Colin made his way through the door at Buncrana. 

“It’s nice,” she nodded softly. “It’s just very different Ma, I have to try to be up and dressed before that maid they gave me comes in. I barely know her, why would anyone want to be woken up by someone they barely know?” 

Thomas let out a bark of a laugh next to her, “Fuck sake yeah, luckily my fellas Irish, I told him not to bother, he was happy enough to have the extra time for a smoke.” 

She held back a relieved laugh, how quickly they became normal, whiny teenagers again.

She was about to say that they shouldn’t be ungrateful for the help the Ladies Bridgerton had provided, when Agatha interjected, clearly without thinking:

“Connor, you mean?” 

Penelope’s head snapped up, a knot formed in her stomach. She should have known something like this would happen, the familiarity in her daughter’s voice was unmistakable. 

Fuck, a footman. 

It wasn't as though she could reprimand her, she would sound the worst kind of prejudiced and elitist snob if she tried, and in a kinder world she wouldn’t want to either. 

But Agatha didn’t understand, this was England, this was Aubrey Hall for God sake. 

It was exactly the kind of thing she’d been trying to warn Colin about, Agatha could be a flirt , and sometimes her daughter just had no sense of self-preservation. 

A trait, she had to admit, she had undoubtedly inherited from her mother. 

But she couldn’t blame Colin for only wanting to see the best in them. 

She had just opened her mouth to, ever-so-gently, enquire further about this boy, when Colin entered the room. His cravat slightly loosened, and his face blotchy and blushed. 

She would hold her counsel for now.

“Did you run? ” Agatha asked him, her ever-present mirth now restored. 

Colin grinned, “I didn’t want my family to stop and question me. Well, I didn’t want my mother to stop and question me.” 

He leaned over to hand them what looked like a very well worn copy, in fact it was nearly falling apart. 

“Be gentle,” he said sweetly. “It’s probably worth hundreds.” 

Agatha held the paper with a gentleness Penelope had only seen when she tended to their chickens as a little girl, cradling the hens and chicks as though they were made of porcelain. 

Penelope looked at them expectantly, now that she had gotten past the initial fear that her children would react as badly as everyone else had, a small, rather vain part of her wanted to know what they would think of her work.

“Ní fheicim le do fuckin ’ gruaige,” Thomas quipped annoyingly to his sister as he shoved her masses curly hair out of the way. 

At Colin’s raised eyebrow, she turned to him and whispered, “No verdict yet, he’s just telling her to move her hair.”

He smiled so brightly at her then, and rather conspiratorially, as the twins were enraptured with what they were reading, stole a quick kiss from her lips. 

Fuck. Lovely.

The first kiss he’d initiated, or successfully initiated anyway, she felt her heart beat like a drum and her lips tingle even after they separated. A sweet serene smile plastered on his face.

God, he was so handsome, so gorgeous . She truly didn’t believe there was anyone on Earth as magnetically good looking as Colin when he was smiling.

They had so much to work out, so much pain and hurt to get past, but Lord how she wanted to get past it, how she just wanted to skip to the good part. 

Colin gripped her hand once more and turned back to the twins, “It’s the first column your mother ever published, and actually it’s my favourite.”

“You must be a fan of alliteration then,” Agatha said cheekily, eyebrows raised as she continued to scan the paper.

“Its very good, it’s the day you were presented, right Mammy?” Thomas asked curiously. 

“1813, yes, ” she confirmed. “And my sisters, and your aunt Daphne too.” 

“A diamond of the first water,” Agatha murmured softly, still refusing to tear her eyes from the page. “Fuckin hell Mam you didn’t spare yourself either,” she said suddenly. 

“Well,” she chuckled softly. “I wasn’t a very successful debutante. It would have been suspicious if I was the only one who hadn’t been insulted.” 

It was then that a soft knock on the door interrupted the newfound peace in the bedroom. Slowly, Lady Bridgerton opened the door and poked her head in, her face etched with motherly concern, her eyes focused directly on her granddaughter. 

“Dinner will be served soon,” she said softly, clearly not wishing to insert herself into the conversation, which Penelope was extremely grateful for. 

She knew she’d have to tell the family at some point, she wasn’t going to force the twins to keep her secrets, but how and when that happened really had to be Colin’s decision. 

“We decided not to change tonight, it’s been too…” she caught herself. “Well, it’s been a tiring day, please, come down when you’re ready.”

“We can go now,” Agatha said hopping up, the copy still open in her hands. “I’m starving.” 

Penelope’s heart lifted to see how her mother-in-law brightened at Agatha’s tone, to see just how much Violet Bridgerton already adored her new grandchildren. 

Colin smiled brightly and ushered Thomas and his mother out of the room, he stalled at the door to see if she would follow him, but she waved him away, she wanted to hang back a moment with her daughter. 

Agatha stepped across the room and placed the delicate paper in the vanity drawer which held the matches.

“Thank you for telling me the truth, I don’t really know what to think but, thank you for telling me,” she said softly, without looking at her. 

“Thank you for listening, my darling.” 

But Agatha stalled for a moment, and Penelope had the unnerving sense that she wasn’t quite done with her. 

She gestured slowly toward the vanity drawer and levelled her eyes to hers. 

“Your column, what you wrote about.” 

“Yes?” she questioned softly, steeling herself against whatever might come next. 

“This world,” she said, her voice low. “All of you, you....people. You have so much money. So much opportunity, and yet, you live by these rules, none of you can actually do anything.” 

“I…Agatha,” she sighed. How was she supposed to explain this?

"You had all the talent and yet you had to keep it a secret."

"Darling-"

“I’m not sure I want to live like that.”

She looked down at the open drawer once more, then back at Penelope with something fierce in her eyes.

“I’m not sure I can .”

Chapter Text

White’s Gentleman’s Club. St James’, London. England. August 12th 1833. 

“Get a move on Eddie!” shouted Auggie from the doorway to White’s, as his cousin clambered out of the hired hack across the street. 

Ollie had to laugh as he too waved for his younger cousin to hurry up, “Will you relax Augs? It’s not as if they’ll restrict your entry.” 

“Its not us I’m worried about,” he sniggered as Eddie finally crossed the road. “You can practically smell the innocence off this one!” He teased, gripping him by the shoulder, “we need to make haste to change that!”. 

Edmund rolled his eyes but said nothing, adjusting his cravat for the fifth time since they’d left the house. 

His father, the indomitable Viscount Bridgerton, had all but ordained a first drink at White’s as a rite of passage. It was meant to be formal, memorable, respectable. Something his uncle had surely planned to partake in with his son first. 

So of course, himself and Auggie, Edmund’s elders by two years, had decided to do it their own way.

“Lord Clyvedon,” the butler stuttered as he rushed to greet them, in a manner that left Ollie unsure if his cousin had been here before or if the heir to the Dukedom of Hastings was just that well known. “Welcome, can…can we get you a table?” 

“Indeed,” his cousin said, as the man took his coat, doing his best impression of a lekking peacock. “My cousins,” he said, introducing them to the butler, “Mr. Oliver Crane and Mr. Edmund Bridgerton.” 

The butler’s eyes widened, clearly at the mention of Eddie’s surname and not his own, the man turned his eyes back to Auggie in awe, “Will the Duke…or the Viscount be joining us tonight?” 

“Just us, I’m afraid,” he winked. “Sorry to disappoint.” 

At only five months apart, himself and Auggie had been thick as thieves since the day they’d met. They’d spent summers together at their maternal family’s home, using their status as the eldest to lord over the rest of the grandchildren. They’d taken the same classes at Eton, played on the same polo team together, and now they both attended Oxford University.

He’d like to think this was at the dismay of his twin sister, Amanda, as before his new mother had come into their life, she’d been his sole companion. But she’d clung to August’s younger sister like a life raft, clearly delighted to befriend a girl her own age, and they too quickly became the best of friends. 

Eddie was two years younger than them, and as children two years seemed like a gaping chasm too large to cross so that he may be included in their little group. But he was the next eldest boy, and as they’d grown up, age grew less important and they’d become a trio of sorts. 

The air inside White’s was thick with cigar smoke and French cologne. Men lounged about in wax jackets, puffing smoke like dragons and sipping on only the finest imported spirits. 

Honestly, if you’d asked Ollie, he’d have said he preferred the local pub in Tetbury, the village beside his home. He enjoyed when he and his father would trek down the narrow, gravelled path to the village after a long day working in the greenhouse, and enjoy a quiet beer there together. 

A good thing that he preferred his country life to London really, as he’d inherit the family estate one day. 

On the other hand, he thought as he spied a rather pretty woman making eyes at him across the room, London did have its charms. 

“Brandy for us, please.” Auggie said, snapping him back to the conversation, “And for the child, something sweet. Or with a sugared rim.” 

“Don’t,” Edmund growled.

“He’ll have what we’re having,” Ollie added, flopping into his chair. 

“You lot act like I’ve never had a drink before,” Eddie said, rolling his shoulders back and craning his neck. “I’ve been drunk. Once.” 

“Once?” Auggie snorted. “Once isn’t drinking. Once is vomiting into a potted fern and knocking over Grandmama’s favourite Chinese vase.” 

“Which is exactly what he did,” Ollie added, raising his freshly arrived glass to Edmund in toast. “Vomit is an excellent fertilizer, I’m sure the fern is thriving.” 

Edmund reddened considerably, “That was years ago!”

“It was Easter!” Auggie countered, still laughing with his hand clutched to his gut. 

“Ah you’ll catch up,” Ollie said, more kindly. “You just need to learn,” he smiled, encouraging him to drink some. 

His cousin grimaced as he took a sip. “So tell me,” he said, clearly eager to change the subject. “What’s Oxford really like?” 

Edmund was due to join them at the university in a month’s time, and whilst they had told him all about it already, he clearly knew that he had been given an upstanding, sanitised testimony. Given that their parents, aunts and grandmother had been in the room at the time.

Auggie exhaled dramatically, as though the question could not possibly be answered with words alone, “It’s full of rules, men who love cricket more than anything, and professors who think their own handwriting is scripture.”

Ollie smirked, “You’ll like it. But you’ll have to be careful, the older students like to play tricks on the freshers, especially the ones with famous last names.”

He leaned in toward his cousin then, as though imparting a state secret. “You should have seen this one” he smirked, cocking his head towards Auggie, “In our first year, they told him the Dean expected all the titled students to recite Latin verse at breakfast. He stood up in the middle of the dining hall and got halfway through Virgil before realising no one else was doing it.”

Edmund choked on his drink, “you fatwit,” he grinned, wiping the brandy dribble from his chin.

“And,” Auggie added, wagging his finger, “you must never, under any circumstances, fall into bed with the daughter of a professor. Unless you enjoy Ancient Greek lessons as pillow talk.”

“That’s oddly specific,” Ollie murmured.

Auggie waved him off. “Long story.”

“And the betting pools,” Ollie added. “You wouldn’t believe the things people bet on. How long into a Polo match someone is concussed. How long until a fresher proposes to a barmaid.” He clasped a hand round his shoulder and nodded, “You just have to learn when to ignore what anyone in authority tells you, Eddie, and you’ll be alright.” 

It was funny, Eddie sometimes felt like a little brother to him, despite the fact they weren’t even blood related.

Edmund looked overwhelmed and entirely enchanted. “I can’t wait.”

For a few minutes they just sat there, ribbing and laughing, soaking up the few blessed hours they had away from their families, revelling in the fact that they’d all but snuck Edmund out of the house. 

Ollie couldn’t imagine they’d be reprimanded for it, but it still felt scandalous and delinquent all the same. 

Auggie’s voice dipped into a mischievous drawl. “I spy a ballerina. Possibly two.”

Oliver followed his gaze to the far side of the club, where a small cluster of women were gathered laughing, lounging, drinking. Opera singers, dancers, courtesans maybe. Beautiful women, dressed to the nines in silks and satins, leaning over the chairs with their dangerously low necklines. 

It wasn’t a brothel, and they weren’t ladies of the night, it was all technically respectable. But really, it was impossible to tell in places like this, and no one really wanted to.

“Right,” Edmund said under his breath. “Do we…talk to them?”

“You stand nearby,” Auggie said, affecting a bored tone. “You make a joke. You laugh at their jokes. You pretend you’re older than your father and more charming than Byron.”

“If you get stuck,” Ollie offered, “you can ask her opinion on Byron. Everyone has one.”

“And if she doesn’t?” Edmund asked.

Auggie grinned. “Then she’s here for the champagne, not the conversation.”

But just as Edmund began nervously smoothing down his hair, Oliver saw it. A man slumped in a low armchair at the edge of the room, half-shadowed by a pillar. His head lolled slightly as a buxom redheaded woman leaned in close, her fingers tracing the lapel of his coat with practiced intimacy.

His stomach sank. For God's sake . 

“…Oh no,” Auggie whispered. 

Eddie turned, followed his gaze. “Is that?”

“Yes,” Ollie confirmed.

It was their Uncle Colin. He looked utterly ruined, his cravat hung loose, his eyes were glassy and unfocused. The woman giggled and pressed her bosom into his shoulder, whispering something into his ear. 

He didn’t look too interested though, in fact he looked too drunk to even notice the woman atop him. 

“That’s…” Edmund trailed off.

“Pathetic,” Auggie finished for him, more softly than Oliver would have expected.

Colin was like the black sheep in their family. His mother did not like to talk about him, she grew quiet and distant whenever the subject came up, which was scary for his usually sunny and outgoing Mama. 

Edmund looked uneasy. “Should we…do something? He doesn’t look like he’ll make it home on his own.” 

“That’s Lord Fife there with him,” Auggie muttered. “Father detests him.” 

“We should take him back with us,” Ollie argued. 

His uncle looked to be very, very deep in his cups. Fife and some other cronies were egging him on, laughing at him as the woman squirmed in his lap. 

“At the very least,” he continued, looking to his cousins, “it will take the focus off of us when Auntie Kate realises where we took you.” 

They made their way toward the far corner, past marble tables and leather armchairs, until the low din of conversation gave way to the high-pitched laugh of the redhead now draped in Colin’s lap. 

Lord Fife, old and snake faced, looked up with vague amusement as the boys approached. His gaze flicked over them, and he frowned, recognition stirring at the back of his eyes. 

“You lot lost?” he said, tipping his glass lazily, “Children aren’t usually let in past dusk.”

“We’re not lost,” Ollie said flatly. He couldn’t help but sneer at the man, his ruddy, pompous face was practically begging for a fist. 

Auggie stepped in. “We’re here for him,” he said, nodding toward their uncle. 

Colin squinted up at them, blinking as though trying to puzzle them out through a fog. “What…” he slurred. “What are you…doing here?”

The closer they got, the more unkempt he appeared. There were sweat stains at his collar, his cheeks were blotchy with drink and he looked like he hadn’t shaved in a month. 

The redhead gave an indulgent sigh, still twirling a curl around her finger as though this interruption had disturbed something.

“You’re much too drunk, Uncle Colin,” Edmund said quietly.

“I’m not…” Colin started, then cut himself off with a hiccup. “Not very.”

Fife chuckled, leaning back in his chair with all the lazy confidence of a man who’d never been told to shut the fuck up . “These your little nephews, Bridgerton? Come to rescue you? Christ. What would your mother say?”

Colin shook his head slightly. “Go away,” he mumbled, waving at the boys as if they were gnats. “Just…let me be.”

He wasn’t close to Uncle Colin. He was his mother’s brother, yes, but whenever he’d seen him at Bridgerton gatherings, the man had always kept to the corners, quiet, distant. He would greet them politely, pat his head maybe, then disappear with a drink in hand.

“I think you should come with us,” Ollie said, more gently now. “We’ll take you home.”

Colin blinked again. “Home?” he echoed, confused as he cuddled the woman closer to his body. “But… Penelope-”

Fife snorted and turned to the other laughing men beside him, “He is too drunk, thinks she’s his wife!” He leaned over and grabbed the poor lady by the meat of her thigh, “you always did like the fat ones, eh Bridgerton?” 

That’s when Colin’s expression crumpled. His whole face collapsed in on itself, his mouth pouted out and with no warning at all, he leaned forward and vomited all over the Persian rug at his feet.

The woman shrieked and leapt back, cursing as her skirt caught some of the spray. Fife recoiled with a disgusted laugh, shaking his head and muttering something about lightweight cowards.

And then, as the room shifted in awkward, uncomfortable silence, Colin began to cry.

Not loud wails. Worse, those quiet, miserable sobs that shake the shoulders and squeeze the heart.

“Alright,” Auggie said quickly. “Get him up.”

Between the three of them, they managed to wrestle their uncle to his feet. He was pliable and heavy, swaying between them with glassy eyes and slurred apologies. The redhead had already vanished. 

Fife watched them go, grinning behind his glass, “Do give your fathers my best!” 

They carried him down the stairs, through the stifled gasps and curious glances, and out into the street where the hackney was still waiting.

Colin collapsed inside, head lolling onto Ollie’s shoulder like a child. The cab rattled into motion.

And then, just as they turned the corner from St. James’, Colin shifted.

He didn’t look up. Just mumbled, barely above a whisper.

“Please don’t tell anyone.”

Ollie stared straight ahead.

“I won’t,” he said softly.

Aubrey Hall, Kent. England. October 26th 1833.

The relief was monumental , Colin thought as he took his seat in the upholstered armchair by the fire. 

His children had finally been told why Penelope left, and they seemed like they understood why. Thomas certainly, though Agatha might take some convincing.

He was proud of Penelope, he saw the fright in her eyes as Agatha confronted her. In that moment it occurred to Colin that nobody had ever taken her secret well, surely she’d be petrified. But she didn’t try to cover up the story with half-truths or circumspect speech, she was honest with them about the kind of person she was. 

She was honest with them about her regrets. 

Colin could only pray that in time, they would come to forgive them both, come to trust that whilst he and Penelope could not change the past, they would both do anything to ensure they had a happy future, and that the four of them could finally move on, together. 

Be a proper family.

Aggie seemed solemn but sated as he watched her make her own way into the drawing room and took a seat on the sofa opposite him. It was unnerving. At first it was Thomas who seemed uncomfortable with his presence, shrugging his shoulders and responding to him with aloof, one-word answers, and Agatha who was much more open and inviting. 

Now it was like they had…swapped. The past few days she’d grown quiet, not cold or distant exactly, just a bit more reserved, as if she’d run out of energy. 

He would think it was just that she was angry with her mother for not yet telling her the full story, he’d heard how she confronted her in Penelope’s bedchamber at the guesthouse in Galway. Colin could see that she was not a person who appreciated secrets, but as she sat there before him, her lovely eyes fixated on the fire, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something else bothering her too. 

He sighed as he stared down at his feet, and he prayed that she wasn’t disappointed in this, in him. 

She had practically inhaled each course at dinner though, which was a good sign. Penelope had mentioned that she went off her food when she was in a bad mood. 

“I received some interesting missives in the evening post,” his mother piped up from the other end of the sofa as she threaded a needle through her embroidery hoop, her voice commanding quiet over all of them. 

Some of the family had gathered in the drawing room after dinner, whilst some, the ones who had been tired out by multiple small children or a day hiking the grounds, had preferred an early night. 

It left a smaller group of them, those who were eager for the balm that a soothing cup of tea or stiff brandy could provide, still up, gathered around the drawing room’s ornate fireplace. 

“First off, we have been invited to a soiree at the home of Lord and Lady Macclesfield this coming Friday…and I would like for us all to attend.” 

“Mama,” Benedict groaned exasperatedly as he kissed his wife goodnight. “Some of us have homes to return to.” 

“I never have all of you together,” she countered pointedly, sending a direct look toward Colin. “It usually takes me weeks of scheming to gather even half of you under the same roof at the same time. We shall attend, and then I will give you leave to return to your homes.” 

It was extraordinary, Colin thought, Violet Bridgerton’s children still obeyed her word as though they were little boys and girls. He’d been feeling over the last few weeks that he could never hope to live up to his father as a parent, but it was his mother who was the real expert. 

Colin shifted his gaze to Penelope, who was perched between Violet and Agatha. He didn’t know what to say to the invitation really, was she ready to re-enter society? He had told her at Buncrana that they wouldn’t have to yet, as it was the off season, but in truth, he’d forgotten of the myriad of soiree’s and parties that were held at country homes as the festive season approached. It had been so long since he’d participated in such, after all.

“Of course Lady Bridgerton,” Penelope agreed wearily. His mother beamed and grasped Penelope’s hand, nearly knocking over his wife’s cup in the process. 

Clearly it was Penelope’s agreement his mother had been looking for, as opposed to anyone else’s.

His wife smiled back at her, and it was a sight that warmed Colin through to the bones. 

A ball. He knew there was no getting out of it, like it or not, his children would need to start attending social events at some point, to take their place in society. But he still couldn’t help but feel nervous about the prospect.

Thomas and Agatha were legitimate. The entire ton had seen him and Penelope marry, and Thomas looked so like him that there could be no question of the twins' paternity, so in that regard, they had nothing to worry about. 

Their accents would most likely cause some comment, but his mother had a way of smoothing over such things. 

Besides, it wasn’t as though they had to worry about Lady Whistledown airing their dirty laundry anymore. 

If there was scandal at their sudden arrival, it would have to do with him and Penelope, the fact she had left him and that he had not been present for their entire childhood. 

Colin took little notice about what was said about him, outside of the fact that he was the only Bridgerton who was in any way miserable, but it would hardly escape people’s notice that he’d spent the past seventeen years rotting away in brothels or gambling hells. 

But it wasn’t exactly unusual was it? Outside of the Bridgertons, with their familial closeness and string of love matches, it was perfectly normal for a father to have little to no involvement in childrearing. Indeed many fathers of his class spent their time entertaining themselves exactly as Colin had, despite the fact they had a wife and children at home. 

Indeed, it wasn’t unexpected for a child to be raised by nannies and nurses, outside of London, in the nursery of a family’s country estate, and only introduced to society when they reached the appropriate age. Which, at seventeen, Thomas and Agatha were. 

His own words rattled around in his brain as he tried to discern what Pen thought of his mother’s plans. 

The last thing he would do is attempt to hide his children away. 

“Then we tell them the truth. Or enough of it that they understand we’re not ashamed of what we are. Of what we made.”

He sighed, at least the Macclesfield’s were decent people, Colin had attended Eton with the Earl, and whilst he was once a bit of a rake, he was now a rather scholarly sort, devoted to his wife and children. 

He supposed if there was any event to launch his family into society, he could have done worse. 

Plus, Agatha seemed to have brightened at her grandmother’s announcement, and that was enough alone to convince him attendance was a good idea. 

His daughter did love to dance, he mused as he thought of the Céilí in Rathnew, perhaps she was missing it. 

“The timing is fortuitous,” his mother continued. “Because my remaining grandchildren will have arrived by then.” 

His siblings all perked up in surprise, but his mother continued undeterred, “I wrote to them all the night Colin returned with his family, their education is of course important, but they should be home.”  

“Mama,” Anthony sighed from the other end of the room, attempting to clarify that his mother was not a higher moral being for writing to her grandchildren first, “It's not as if we don’t want our own children home! Myself and Kate simply wished to let the twins settle in before they met all their cousins.”

“ We ,” Kate smirked pointedly, “wished to defer to Colin and Penelope,” she said, smiling at them both, a clear mark of respect for both of them as parents. 

“Indeed,” Benedict agreed next to Anthony. “They can be quite rambunctious. If you think the younger ones are bad, you haven’t seen anything yet!”

The twins looked at each other and then at the group. In truth, they looked a bit overwhelmed. 

“Will they like us?”

Colin smiled at them reassuredly, perhaps having some companions their own age would perk them up a bit, particularly Agatha. His daughter was a bit of a social butterfly. Colin imagined with all the work Thomas had been doing with himself and his brothers, the preparations he’d been making to take over the barony, Agatha would feel a bit left out. 

The grandchildren that were here were all under the age of eleven, she probably felt a bit isolated. Colin could do everything in his power to make her happy here, but he couldn’t be a substitute for having friends.

But he still felt like he was grasping, searching in the dark for what was bothering his daughter the most, and he was struck once again by how little they knew about her, about them both. 

“The girls attend Miss Moss’ School for Exceptional Young Ladies,” she grinned proudly. “And the younger boys are at Eton College. I've written to the Head Master and Mistress, who have agreed to give them a week’s leave from school. The older boys study at Oxford, they will return together as well.”

Oh fuck.

He hadn’t thought of that. 

In fact in the wake of all that had happened he’d completely forgotten about the embarrassment he’d made of himself the last time he’d seen Auggie, Oliver and Edmund. 

What kind of man would let himself sink so low? When he should have been an example of an upstanding gentleman for his nephews, instead he’d been found slurring and pathetic, crying and vomiting. 

A caricature of the man he’d once been. 

He barely remembered what had happened, or what they’d said to him, but the shocked, disgusted faces of his three nephews swam before him clear as day. 

Thank God the boys had their own fathers to look up to. He cast his eyes sideways to Thomas, sat next to him in the twin armchair. Christ, he had no father growing up and he’s still grown up to be honourable and principled and good. He shuddered to think what the twins would think of him if they got wind of this particular anecdote.

Colin dragged a hand through his hair, his chest tightening. What if Thomas looked at him the way Edmund had, like he was something broken and sad? What if Agatha heard of it and decided he wasn’t worth the trouble?

Christ, he’d been trying to move forward. But who was he kidding? His whole family knew the type of man he’d been. There was no escaping it. 

But he was here. He was sober. He was listening. He was showing up. Like Penelope said, the only thing he could do is move forward. He wasn’t in a position to let shame hold him back any longer. 

“I cannot wait for you to meet them,” his mother said to the twins excitedly. 

“How many are coming?” Thomas asked tentatively as he sipped on his mug of tea. 

Colin couldn’t help but bark a laugh at how the twins' eyes widened when his mother started counting on her fingers. 

“Caroline, Charlotte and Penny are at Miss Moss’s,” she said, grinning as the twins' eyes continued to widen. “We have six at Eton; Miles, Charlie, William, Alexander, David and Johnny. Of course, Auggie, Oliver and Edmund are at University, indeed they may have already departed for Kent. I will send a carriage for Belinda and Amanda, they’re staying with school friends over in Sussex.”

“So fourteen?” Thomas said slowly as he cast his eyes to the group for confirmation. 

“On top of the army of children that are already here?” Agatha asked, cracking a joke with the group, “I thought it was the Irish that were supposed to have big families?”

Something warm bloomed in Colin’s chest as he saw his daughter smiling and laughing again, when she’d started to cry earlier that evening, the way her face had crumpled up and her shoulders had slumped, he felt as though his chest had been hollowed out with a blunt knife. 

It’s true what they say about being a parent, it’s like wearing your heart on the outside of your body. 

“The girls will adore you Agatha, the younger ones will copy your every move, mark my words,” Kate said assuredly as her laughs subsided.

“Especially Charlotte,” Anthony agreed. 

“She’s always been a natural leader,” Penelope said proudly as she tucked a lock of hair out of Agatha’s eyes. 

“Trust me, Lady Bridgerton, you don’t want them listening to her,” Thomas smirked pointedly at his sister, who responded by sticking her tongue out at him. Dreadfully ill-bread for a young lady, but Colin wouldn’t ask her to change for all the tea in China. 

Who wanted a simpering, poised debutante for a daughter anyway?

“Our eldest is closest in age to you two,” Anthony said, “Any questions you have about University, Thomas ,” he said proudly, “you can ask him.” 

Colin couldn’t help but notice the way Thomas nodded softly and stared back into his cup. “Sounds like we’ll be busy?” he murmured to Colin, as though looking to him for confirmation.

“You most certainly will,” Colin confirmed, but in truth he felt shame squirm in his gut. He barely knew a thing about his nieces and nephews, for some of them, he could count on one hand the number of times he’d had a conversation longer than a few moments. He couldn’t tell with any certainty if the twins would get on with their cousins, but he supposed if his siblings assured them they would, he’d have to take their word for it. 

As the conversation began to swell again, Penelope grinned at him from behind her cup, and like cool water poured over hot coals, his racing thoughts settled again. 

The next morning, the butler announced at breakfast that his elder nephews had sent word they would arrive this afternoon. Colin supposed it made sense that they would arrive the soonest, as they did not need permission from their head teacher to leave, or require a chaperone to escort them everywhere. 

The house was buzzing with excitement. Each set of parents were grinning from ear to ear. The younger children were nearly vibrating with eagerness, pulling at sleeves and tugging skirts, berating every passing adult with endless “Are they here yet?”s . Even the young maids were flushed with anticipation, giggling and whispering behind their hands as they bustled between rooms. It hadn’t escaped Colin’s notice how the twins nervously hung about near the windows all day, sat in the bay windowsill with a book or scratching away in a journal. 

Eventually, just as the amber light of sunset started to creep into the morning room, they could hear the familiar clip-clop of horses hooves and the clatter of a carriage wheel against the gravel pathway. 

The entire family gathered in the foyer, little children were squirming out of their parents grasp in an attempt to break free and run up to the door. 

He felt Penelope beside him before she even touched him. Her presence was a comfort, the way her fingers brushed her hand, anchoring him, the way her smiles were a balm to his soul. Behind her, Thomas stood ramrod straight, his expression unreadable, while Agatha fidgeted with the end of her sleeve, bouncing on the balls of her feet, clearly unable to stand still for more than a minute at a time. 

The heavy front door opened with a creak.

“Lord Clyvedon, Mr. Oliver Crane, and Mr. Edmund Bridgerton,” the butler announced with entirely unnecessary gravitas.

Colin swallowed.

Auggie strode in first, looking the very image of Simon. He had barely opened his mouth before Daphne careened forward and enveloped him in a very Violet-Bridgerton-like hug. Colin felt bad for the poor boy, half-choked by his mother so she could hold him tighter. Simon broke them apart only to tug his son into his own embrace. 

He greeted the group as Oliver and Edmund followed them, tugging off their mucky boots at the entrance before they looked up. The young men could hardly get a word in before Kate and Anthony, Eloise and Philip and the younger children made their own charge forward.

“Ah you’re all here!” Oliver called out amongst the din, “I’ve been wondering what this urgent summons was about.” 

“You’ve missed plenty. ” Anthony said, moving out of the hug with his own son and gripping his nephew's hand. 

“Indeed,” Colin caught Philip whispering to his son, “I’m not even sure I’ve caught up myself.”

Colin gripped Penelope’s hand tighter as Oliver’s eyes locked directly on to his. 

“Please don’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t.”

He could only pray he would stick to his word, so that he may spare his blushes. 

The other two though, he was not so sure about. 

“Uncle Colin!” Auggie grinned, striding forward, hand extended as the chatter died down. “You’re looking well.”

Was he?

Colin shook his hand, aware of how stiff he felt in his own skin, “You’re too kind.”

“Shouldn’t we…make the introductions?” Kate asked, eager to break the awkward silence.

He cleared his throat and turned slightly toward Penelope. His voice caught just once, but he pushed through.

“Of course,” he replied, steeling himself. “I’d like to introduce my wife, ” he said. “Penelope Bridgerton.”

Penelope stepped forward with quiet dignity, dipping into the smallest of curtsies. The boys blinked in unison.

“And these,” Colin continued quickly, his chest tightening with a mix of pride and dread, “are our children. Thomas and Agatha.”

A silence stretched, long and taut.

Thomas offered a polite nod, back straight like a soldier. Agatha gave a sarcastic curtsy in an attempt to emulate her mother. Her eyes were sharp beneath her lashes, surveying the three men with amused suspicion.

“Your children?” Edmund repeated, eyes wide with something that wasn’t scorn, but wonder. “I didn’t know you had…that is I…” he turned to the twins, scrambling for footing and trying to remember his propriety. “It’s…it’s really very nice to meet you.”

Auggie let out a low whistle, stepping forward with all the practiced grace of a Duke to be, “Well now. This makes things more interesting,” he smiled lazily and bowed his head to Penelope, “Mrs. Bridgerton, a delight.” 

His nephew's eyes lingered just a second too long on Penelope’s figure, in such a way that made Colin want to snatch his tiny wife so that he could hide her behind his back.

“Thomas is the new Lord Featherington,” his mother said with utmost pride as she paced gracefully over to them. 

“The new Lord Featherington?” Edmund asked, confusion painted across his face. 

“Is he indeed?” Oliver said, smiling brightly, his excitement at this new development clearly overtaking the awkwardness of seeing his uncle again. 

Auggie took Thomas’ hand and gripped it tight, “Featherington! Excellent to meet you.” 

“Oh, um Thomas is fine,” he said a bit wearily, wincing slightly at the strength of his cousin's grip. 

“He actually prefers Tommy,” Agatha smirked, nudging him in the ribs, knowing full well how much he did not prefer Tommy.

“Ah…so this is why you went to Ireland,” Oliver smiled knowingly, nodding at Anthony and Benedict, who gave their own nods in return. His nephew had undoubtedly clocked his new cousins’ accents. 

Agatha arched her brow in scepticism, as though she was just waiting for him to make some comment about their being Irish, so she could clap back at him. 

But something about her expression seemed to amuse instead of intimidate Oliver, who took her hand, kissed it with a theatrical flourish, and said, “Tell me Miss Agatha, do you like Byron?” 

Chapter Text

Aubrey Hall, Kent. England. November 1st 1833. 

He hadn’t been to a ball in some time, and he’d thought that this was down to his own refusal and stubbornness. He had managed to weasel out of them all, even the important ones, after all. His nieces coming out, his mother’s 60th Birthday Masquerade, and Hyacinth’s engagement ball to name a few. But he realised now that whilst his family had needled him and cajoled him into attending family affairs, they’d never tried to get him to attend anything public. 

Because they knew he’d make an utter fool of them.

Colin could swear a sweat rash was going to form at his neck. The stiff, high-necked collar of gentleman’s evening wear never suited him, but it was made altogether worse as he, Thomas and the rest of the men waited for the women to descend the stairs. 

The candles in the glittering crystal chandelier above them cast dazzling spots of light across the expansive space, as though someone had embedded the room in diamonds. The sun had set at this point, and the garden outside was so pitch black, that their reflections in the glass doors and windowpanes made it look like the room was much more populated than it was. The checkerboard pattern of the tile made the group of men, dressed as they were in their black evening wear, look as though they were one half of a chess set.

Thomas was bouncing on the balls of his feet next to him, continuously pushing back his hair and adjusting his waistcoat. The other men were a bit more relaxed, sipping on a brandy or lounging about on the foyer’s twin loveseats. 

“It will be Hyacinth holding them up,” Gareth said to the group. “She pulls out every gown she owns before a party.” 

“As does Mama,” Auggie groaned into his glass.

“As does Sophie,” Benedict smiled wistfully, “She never believes me when I say she looks exquisite in every last one.” 

Simon smiled, “I wouldn’t be surprised if everyone is just trying to break up some spat between Belinda and Amanda, at the Fawcett ball last June they nearly came to blows over…” he craned his neck, “What was it Philip?” 

“A pair of shoes,” Oliver answered for his father. “They weren’t fighting over one pair, they were fighting because they were both wearing the same pair, lilac satin or something.” 

“Indeed,” Philip said in an exhaustive tone, pouring his son a drink. “Eloise finally stepped in and swapped with our daughter to keep everyone happy. Came home with blistered toes.” 

“I disagree gents,” Anthony smiled, “It’ll be the young girls, Kate used to be pleasingly quick at readying herself to go out. But this past year Charlotte has slowed her down, every move the maids make, she knows better.”

“Why that tiara Amma? Would you not wear the green this time Amma? I don’t like diamond stars, Amma!” Edmund chimed in, doing, from what Colin could tell, a nearly flawless impression of Charlotte Bridgerton. 

Gregory sighed heavily as he fiddled with his cufflinks, “I reckon it’s Mama fretting over Lucy. I wish she would heed both our advice and stay home, she’s too far along now I think. But her brother and Hermione wrote to say they were attending and she won’t be deterred.” 

“Hmm,” Anthony said, clearly agreeing with his brother’s sentiment, “I know our hosts won’t mind, but just you make sure she stays seated the entire night.” 

Gregory gave a rather withering look, as if to say she’s my wife, Anthony, that Colin smiled to think it was a look he could now completely relate to. 

But Thomas leaned in and whispered to him, “It’ll be Agatha’s hair, she screams blue murder whenever Mammy tries to style it for her.” 

Colin nodded in agreement, his daughter's hair was stunning, wild and untameable in a way that perfectly reflected her personality, but manageable? Probably not. 

He turned his head to the stairs once more, concentrating to see if he could hear Penelope’s voice, but all that travelled down was a continuous stream of giggly female chatter. He hoped she was alright, she’d seemed in good form the past few days. They’d not seen much of each other, distracted by arrivals of more grandchildren and the scrambled preparations for tonight's events, dance lessons and endless trips to the village dressmaker. 

Even still he couldn’t shake the feeling that she was a little bit nervous, of course that was mostly for Thomas and Agatha. But, the other day he’d caught her examining herself in the breakfast room mirror, pushing her skin back as though to eliminate the tiny wrinkles that had formed at her eyes, she was worried about her own appearance too. 

It broke his heart. 

He wished that he could race up the stairs now and go and check on her, to take her in his arms and tell her that everything would be alright, that she could come in a burlap sack and she’d be the most beautiful woman in the room. But what was occurring upstairs was so sacred and so exclusively female, that he found he could not bring himself to do so.

Anthony addressed Thomas from the semi-circle around them the men had formed, “It’s not a formal occasion, so we need not enter in terms of rank, but it might be nice if you escort your sister Thomas.”

At Thomas’ confused look, Colin smiled, “You just offer her your arm, lead her inside, and don’t let her trip on her skirts as you descend the stairs.” 

He snorted, “Do you think she’ll let me?” 

“An unmarried lady cannot enter the fray on her own,” Anthony said. “They should not be left alone.” 

“It’s your duty to protect her from unfavourable suitors!” Auggie announced theatrically, mocking his uncle “You must be utterly vigilant,” he grinned. 

“Nonsense,” Colin said next to him. “Myself and your mother will keep an eye. You just focus on having fun.”

“And try to enjoy yourself,” Benedict smiled generously. 

Colin noticed that while the banter in the foyer was light, Thomas was quietly being pulled into a baptism by fire. 

“First thing to watch for,” Ollie said cheerfully, “are the matchmaking mamas. ”

“Indeed,” Auggie agreed. “It’s like trying to dodge raindrops in a thunderstorm.” 

“Don’t mind them,” Colin grinned, “They’re only teasing you.” 

“No,” Thomas said curiously. “What do you mean?” 

“You’re fresh meat, Featherington! You’re an eligible suitor. ” Auggie grinned wickedly. “The women will be all over you!” 

“ Never waltz unless you’re courting,” Oliver added, wagging his glass for emphasis. “Most ladies require permission to do so.” 

“Don’t dance twice with the same lady,” Edmund put in. “I made that mistake at my first ball,” he said under his breath so his father wouldn’t hear. “Lord Lowestoft’s daughter. It was a mess. ” 

“Unless you’re actually ready to propose, in which case good luck, ” Philip grinned.

“Bring back memories brother?” Benedict said in a low whisper to Colin, nudging him in the ribs in a clear reference to his first, disastrous betrothal. 

Not that his second wasn’t disastrous in its own way. 

Anthony shook his head at his son and nephews, “Colin’s right, they are only teasing.” However he raised a finger in contemplation. “But if you do wish to engage in a dance or two tonight,” he grinned. “Approach politely, but don’t hover. Nothing puts a girl off faster than a man lurking like a footman waiting for his tip.”

Colin couldn’t help but feel a surge of shame. He shifted indignantly. He knew the rules of propriety. He knew how he was supposed to behave. But it was embarrassing, Thomas’ uncles were, if unintentionally, imparting advice because they felt Colin couldn’t. 

They were probably right.

“And if she’s already on another gentleman’s arm,” Philip said, “Find someone else. You’ll cause less trouble that way.”

“Never leave a lady on the floor before the music stops,” Benedict added, hand gripping Colin’s shoulder. “Even if she’s shattered three of your toes in the first eight bars.”

Thomas’s eyes darted from face to face, as though trying to memorise every law being laid down. Colin recognised the look, he’d felt much the same when he was his son’s age, and if he were honest, he could use the reminder himself.

Finally, he took pity. “And if it all becomes too much for you,” Colin said softly, “there’s always the sanctuary of the smoking room.”

“If you’ve concluded imparting your wisdom Gents,” a commanding voice shouted from the stairs. “The ladies are ready to make their departure.” 

Michaela stepped down, striking and statuesque in her deep burgundy gown. She rather reminded him of Lady Danbury. 

Colin waited with bated breath as the rest of the ladies made their way out of the upstairs corridor. 

Penelope in an evening gown. Penelope in an evening gown. 

Agatha followed Michaela, arm in arm with her cousins. 

She looked just lovely. 

His daughter was splendid in a gown of deep green silk, the skirts overlaid with a gauzy golden sheen that caught the candlelight and shimmered with every step. The bodice was embroidered with delicate sprays of gold thread, echoing the gilded pins tucked into her hair. Her thick curls, so often wild and ungovernable, had been coaxed into an elegant arrangement atop her head, the tendrils threaded through with tiny golden leaves and flowers that glinted like treasure whenever she moved. Against the rich green of her dress, her hair glowed like polished copper, and Colin felt a curious swell of pride, not just at her beauty, but at the confidence with which she carried it. 

She looked every inch the daughter of Penelope Featherington… and of him.

“Is all that gold so people can spot you from across the county?” Thomas said teasingly from behind Colin. 

“They won’t be able to see me from behind your top-hat,” Agatha snapped back, quick as a flash. 

Then, Penelope emerged from the corridor, her arm lightly resting on Violet’s, the two of them speaking in low, contented tones. But Colin barely registered his mother’s smile. His gaze was fixed on the woman beside her, his wife. 

Colin stepped forward, and for a moment the hum of conversation in the foyer dulled to nothing.

Midnight blue silk clung to her in all the right places, the soft folds glimmering under the chandelier’s light like the deepest part of a clear night sky. The gown’s neckline was just modest enough to satisfy propriety, yet left the distinct, maddening impression of a secret meant only for him. Her hair, that glorious sunset colour, had been swept into an elegant half bun, the style studded with tiny diamond pins in the shape of stars that caught the light with every subtle turn of her head.

God, she looked sinful. Sinful, and fucking sensual in a way that made a man forget the press of family around him, forget his collar biting at his throat, forget entirely where he stood. 

He’d seen her in every state a woman could be, windswept and laughing, flushed from dancing, rumpled and warm in his arms, but there was something about her in evening dress, transformed and yet wholly herself, that made his chest ache.

“Pen…” he breathed to himself.

He forced himself to swallow, to school his expression into something that wouldn’t give the entire room cause to tease him. But it was no use; Penelope’s eyes found his across the crowd, and her lips curved in a smile that told him she knew exactly what she was doing to him.

“You look so, so beautiful,” Colin said in awe. “I know I don’t say it enough but I just…wow Pen.” 

She blushed a tinge, but maintained her teasing smile, “Your mother gifted me the pins.” 

He glanced up at her hair for just a moment, then dropped his gaze once more. He leaned in close to her, unable to resist the opportunity, “The pins are not what have captured my attention, darling. ”

She blushed furiously then, it spread from her cheeks down to her bountiful décolletage and Colin felt a torturous stirring that made him want to sweep her away and run back up the stairs. 

“We should make haste,” his mother called over the din. “I shouldn’t like to be late with so many of us in tow.” 

“You can blame me for that,” Agatha said pointedly at her mother as the twins re-joined their parents in the walk down to the awaiting carriages. “She nearly tore my scalp clean off.” 

“It was worth it Aggie,” Penelope said exasperatedly, “Your hair is lovely up like this.” 

“I agree,” Colin said, realising his failure at not telling his daughter how lovely she looked. “You look splendid, my dear. So grown up.” 

“Aye,” she grinned. “I know.”

Macclesfield Manor, Kent. England. November 1st 1833. 

The entrance hall of Macclesfield Manor was awash with the glitter of candles and the scent of too many hothouse blooms. A long table stood against the wall, neatly laid with rows of cream-coloured cards tied with silk ribbons. Agatha stopped short before it, frowning.

“What are these?” she asked curiously, picking one up by its ribbon.

Colin, shrugging out of his overcoat for the awaiting footman, glanced at her over his shoulder. “Dance cards.”

“They list the evening’s dances,” Penelope added, adjusting her daughter’s gloves. “A gentleman will sign his name when he claims a dance from you,” she explained, neatly tying the silk ribbon to her wrist. 

Agatha’s brows rose as she lifted her wrist up to examine it. “I’m not a cow. I don’t need to be tagged. ”

"We'll call you Taggie," Thomas said, snorting slightly at her irritation.

Colin choked back a laugh. Penelope pressed her lips together in the way she did when she was trying very hard not to smile.

“It’s not branding,” she said patiently. “It’s just….organisation, dear. You cannot accept more than one partner for the same dance, and it’s considered dreadfully bad form to forget whom you’ve promised. Furthermore you are not permitted to refuse a dance unless you are otherwise unoccupied.”

“You’re telling me you’d forget who asked you for a dance?” Agatha exclaimed.

A beat held for a moment, an awkward moment as Agatha realised how she sounded.

“I never had the chance,” Penelope said solemnly, as if trying not to show how the memory stung. “I only ever received one signature.” 

Colin frowned. 

Had he never signed her dance card? He must have done, they’d danced so often, at almost every ball. He strained his memory for a moment, but nothing came. 

The signature she’d received must have been Debling’s, he thought, grimacing. 

Just as the Bridgerton group were beginning to enter the grand ballroom, and as Penelope and the twins weren’t looking, he snagged one of the cards from the table. 

"His Grace, the Duke of Hastings, and Her Grace, the Duchess of Hastings," the Macclesfield butler boomed the ornate doorway. 

He hoped Lady Macclesfield had had the forethought to provide some spares.

“Thomas,” Penelope murmured kindly, “If you can, ask a few young ladies for a dance this evening? Perhaps some who have not yet had the chance.”

Thomas frowned. “Mammy, I don’t know how to-”

“It doesn’t have to be perfect, love. A little kindness goes much further than a flawless step.”

"The Earl Clyvedon, and Lady Belinda Basset."

“Christ it’s hot in here,” Agatha said, attempting to fan herself with the tiny bit of cardboard at her wrist.

Colin huffed, agreeing with his daughter. “If Lady Macclesfield has any mercy for her guests she’ll have the terrace doors wide open.” 

"The Dowager Countess of Kilmartin and Miss Michaela Stirling."

They entered arm in arm, not a care for how anyone perceived them. Colin felt a burst of pride for his sister and Michaela. 

He’d known, of course, they all did, about the nature of their relationship. And to Colin it was a monstrous shame that they must stay quiet about the love they shared. But the family recognised the necessity to keep their relationship a secret, so they did, and thus they were both permitted to live in peace. 

Michaela, however, would not be deterred from escorting his sister into a ballroom, to skirt the bounds of propriety, risk rumour and scandal for the sake of showing support for his sister.

If Michaela could be brave for Franny, Colin thought, if they could show courage despite all that they risked, then he really had no excuse. 

Be strong for them. 

“The Honourable Mr. Edmund Bridgerton and the Viscountess Bridgerton."

His mother shuffled back toward them in the line for a moment. 

“Agatha, darling,” she said warmly. “Be sure to save a dance for each of your cousins tonight. I don’t want them to spend the evening hiding in the smoking room.” She turned her head back, “Alright, alright I’m coming Anthony dear-” 

"The Viscount Bridgerton and the Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton.”

From just ahead, Benedict leaned toward Sophie. “If your card fills too quickly, you can always save a dance for me.”

“You are my husband,” she said dryly. “I suppose I must.”

Colin smiled, he had every intention of claiming every dance Penelope would allow him tonight. 

“The Baron and Baroness St. Clair.”

Technically, Thomas and Agatha should have entered here, between the St. Clairs and the Cranes, as an unmarried Baron and his sister. But mercifully nobody suggested they enter, for the first time at least, ahead of their parents. 

“Sir Philip and Lady Eloise Crane.” 

“Mr. Oliver Crane and Miss Amanda Crane.” 

“Any other requests before we face the firing squad?” Thomas asked sarcastically at his mother. 

“Mr. Gregory Bridgerton and Lady Lucinda Bridgerton.” 

“Just smile, my darling,” Penelope said gently. 

“Don’t let anyone tell you what you are,” Colin said quickly, feeling the need to be serious for a moment. “Remember where you come from, you understand more than anyone in there combined. ”

“Mr. and Mrs. Benedict Bridgerton.”

And then it was their turn. His little family. They’d reached the decorated archway, and Colin breathed a sigh of relief that the ballroom was so packed now that nobody was paying attention to the new arrivals. 

He handed the typeset calling cards to the portly butler. His mother really had thought of everything.

He could have sworn the portly man’s eyes flickered for a moment, and Colin wondered how much she had divulged in the letter to Lady Macclesfield when she accepted their invitation. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Colin Bridgerton.” 

A few heads turned as they stepped beneath the archway, the light from the ballroom spilling over them in a golden wash. Colin caught the flicker of a whisper at the edge of the crowd, a glance here, a lifted brow there, but nothing lingered.

It struck him, with a faint sense of dislocation, how many faces he did not recognise. Once, he’d known everyone worth knowing in a room like this. But it was not as if society had changed, it was that he had been gone from it too long.

The all familiar sense of feeling incredibly uncomfortable in his own skin flared within him again.

“The Baron Featherington and Miss Agatha Bridgerton.” 

He tightened his arm around Penelope’s hand where it rested on his sleeve, drawing a quiet steadiness from her presence. If there were whispers, he could weather them. The truth was, the sea of unfamiliar faces suited him just fine.

He would not worry about how uncomfortable he felt. All that mattered was that his family made it through unscathed.

The lemonade had hardly touched Colin’s lips when some scrote of a boy approached Agatha. 

“Mr. Jenkins,” his mother said from beyond their foursome, clearly recognising that Colin nor Penelope could provide introductions for their children. “How do you do?” 

“I was hoping,” he sniffed, in a rather nasal, pompous voice. “To share a dance with the lovely Miss Bridgerton.” 

Colin observed his daughter, who was rather obviously trying not to sneer. He was about to make excuses for her, as was his right as her father, but-. 

“Of course, Sir. ” Agatha choked out. She held out her dance card for him to sign, but the music had already begun to swell, and the little bastard took his daughter by the arm, without preamble and led her to the floor. 

A quadrille at least, thank God. A waltz meant he would have had to make a scene. 

Thomas was attempting to control his laughter as Agatha’s toes were trodden on with each twist and turn. The boy was charging her about as though she might take flight if he let go. 

She probably would.

Penelope was shaking her head in awe, “How is it the young lads in Rathnew have more grace than these…these boys!” She was almost as put out as Colin was, and Auggie and Oliver snorting in the corner, imitating Mr. Jenkins’ dance moves were certainly proving her point.

As the music began to slow to a stop, Colin spied Agatha thanking the boy for the dance and she practically leaped like a hare back across the ballroom. 

“You didn’t have to do that Aggie,” Colin said softly when she arrived. “Let me fetch you another lemonade.” 

His daughter looked aghast, “What do you mean?! You,” she exclaimed, pointing at Penelope. “Said I had to dance with everyone that asked!” 

“I’m sorry my darling,” Penelope said, unable to hide her smile. “You are not permitted to refuse, but myself and your father can.” 

“Perhaps you should devise a signal,” Thomas said, sipping on his own drink. 

“Perhaps you two should refuse until further notice,” she said, accepting the lemonade. “Unless he is very good looking,” she smirked, shrugging.

“Noted my dear,” Penelope grinned, embracing her so that she might kiss her hair, clearly relieved that Agatha had survived the encounter with her sense of humour intact. 

“Aggie!” His nieces said in unison as they approached across the room, dressed in two rather similar shades of pink. “Come with us, we will point out all the notable suitors.”

Colin wanted to object to his daughter having anything to do with notable suitors, but Penelope’s grin and enthusiastic nod silenced him. He knew that his wife’s reaction was because she was pleased Agatha was getting on with her cousins, but it still made him want to wretch all the same. 

“Auntie Penelope,” Amanda addressed his wife, “Mama is looking for you, she says that Uncle Colin had the carriage ride with you, so she gets the first sets of the ball.” 

“Duty calls,” Penelope sighed wearily. She gave a small wink to Colin that nearly made his heart stop in his chest, “I’ll keep an eye on our daughter, don’t fret.”

Our daughter. The words still made him giddy. 

Colin was hardly graced a moment to discreetly watch the spectacular view of his wife walking away, before Thomas was thankfully distracted by his nephews. 

“Come on Featherington,” Auggie announced proudly. “Billiards I think.”

“Go on,” Colin said, smiling. “Don’t stay too long, you still owe a couple of wallflowers a dance.” 

Thomas grinned in response and followed after his cousins. 

Colin’s lemonade had still remained undrunk when his mother appeared at his elbow, moving with the stealth and precision of a general advancing on a battlefield.

“You’re doing well,” Violet said softly, her eyes scanning the crowd. “I’ve been watching you.”

Colin blinked. “Watching me?”

“As a father,” she clarified, tilting her head toward where Agatha stood with her cousins, animated and laughing. “You’ve grown into the role beautifully. You guard them, yes, but you also let them breathe. That is not an easy balance to strike.”

He felt an unfamiliar warmth rise in his chest, one part pride, one part the childlike instinct to earn her approval. “Thank you, Mother.”

She nodded once, but her gaze stayed fixed on the dancers for a moment longer. Then, almost casually, she said, “I saw what Agatha had in her hand,” she breathed, without looking at him. “In her bedroom the other day, after you two went to comfort her.” 

Fuck .

Colin’s head snapped around so fast it made his collar bite into his neck. Panic surged, hot and acidic, up his throat. “Mama I-”

She cut him off, her voice low but unyielding. “Just tell me if I am right.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He swallowed hard. “You’re right.”

There was a pause long enough for the strains of the quadrille to fill the space between them.

“Are you angry, Mama?”

Violet drew in a breath, her eyes finally finding Penelope across the room. The younger woman was smiling at something Eloise said, her hand resting lightly on her daughter’s forearm who stood next to her.

“I am devastated,” she said at last. “That her identity tore you apart. But you are my son, and I have known Penelope since she was in leading strings, she's as good as my own. I know your hearts. I trust there was more to the story than that."

She fixed him with a resolute stare, "So no , I am not angry.”

Relief came like a burst dam, until she turned back to him, her lips curving in a slow, knowing smile.

“In fact,” she said, “I am rather impressed.”

“Mama,” he breathed, bowled over by her grace. “Thank you.”

She said nothing, just gripped his forearm in a gesture of unwavering motherly support.

“Please don’t say anything yet,” he said softly, remembering himself. “Pen wants to tell the family, but we’ve only just told the twins. It’s not…it’s not an easy thing for her to talk about.” 

“I won’t push,” she nodded understandably. “But Colin," she said thoughtfully. "Just think of Franny and Michaela’s relationship. Of Sophie’s true parentage. You need not fret, we have kept secrets for our loved ones before.”

She cast him an almost stern look then, “Penelope is a Bridgerton, and Bridgertons do not abandon one of their own.” 

Colin smiled at her, he was still so relieved at his mother’s grace and understanding. 

But in truth it wasn’t that simple, Whistledown had insulted almost every member of his family at one point or another. 

He just prayed the rest of them had the capacity for forgiveness his mother possesses. 

“Take some air my dear,” she said, stroking his cheek. “The panic is visible on your face. You're as red as a beet! Take the night air, then share a dance or two with your wife and daughter.”

He decided to heed her advice and adjourned to the terrace, but his tongue was so dry that he went against etiquette and took his glass outside. 

Colin leaned against the cool stone balustrade, drawing deep breaths until the tightness in his chest eased.

The night air was crisp, carrying with it the faint scent of wood smoke from the chimneys. The stars glittered in the sky, so unlike what you could see in London. He tipped back his lemonade in long gulps, the chilled sweetness doing little to wash away the taste of bile at the back of his throat.

Through the glass doors, the ballroom gleamed, golden light spilling over polished floors and the ladies’ silks and jewels. 

There she was. Penelope. Laughing with Eloise, her shoulders loose, her eyes crinkling with mirth. The diamond pins in her hair caught every turn of her head, as though they had been set there to taunt him. 

He longed to pull them free, loosening her hair so that it would cascade down her shoulders. 

Perhaps in front of a mirror again.

She looked…happy. Genuinely, unguardedly happy.

He gripped the rim of the glass tighter. If he told her now that his mother knew, even with her blessing, the knowledge would pull at her perfect smile, subdue her into a mess of anxiety and panic. 

And God, he just didn’t want to see that tonight. 

But the alternative…keeping it from her. That would be worse. Lies were rot. They spread through a marriage if you let them, hollowing it out from the inside. If he wanted them to last, he should tell her. 

He steeled himself. He would tell her.

Just as he gulped down the rest of his drink to make his way back inside, a low voice drifted from the garden below the terrace, drawing his attention. A small knot of men, not much younger than himself, clustered near the shadows where the light from the ballroom barely reached.

“The Bridgerton chit, what do you think?”

“Not bad. I didn’t think a daughter of theirs would be out for some years, but there you go. Lost count of how many of them there are.”

A snort. “Do you think they’ll triple-dowry her?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, she’s that new Baron’s sister, isn’t she? He’ll have to provide something. Her father will too, whichever Bridgerton brother that is, it doesn’t matter, they’re all rich as Croesus. And perhaps the Viscount as well. Jenkins says she’s Irish. Some allowances will have to be made for that accent at least.”

A pause. A laugh rang out, sharp and mean. “Her chest wouldn’t be enough for that, eh, Whitby?”

The words slammed into him like a physical blow. For a heartbeat, his mind went white-hot. The crystal glass bit into his palm, his pulse thundering in his ears. His vision narrowed until all he could see was the easy smirk on the nearest man’s face.

It would be so very simple to take the steps down into the garden, cross the few feet between them, and put his fist through that fellow’s crooked teeth. Or better yet, call him out properly, settle it with steel and blood and the satisfaction of seeing him beg for mercy. 

Colin was halfway to moving when a familiar voice sliced through his fury.

“Colin.” 

“What?!” he shouted, his voice snapping through his own furious thoughts. 

“Well, you look ready to kill someone,” Daphne said dryly, appearing at his shoulder.

Daphne tilted her head, studying him with the kind of unflinching, sisterly gaze that made him feel about twelve. 

“I wanted to see how you are,” she said finally. “You’ve been… off with me since you returned.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, as opposed to genuinely wounded. “I mean worse than you usually are.”

Normally, he might have dodged with some charming nonsense, or at least softened his tone for her sake. But the image of Whitby’s smug face was still painted behind his eyes, and the anger hadn’t burned itself out yet. 

His voice came out low, flat, and far less restrained than it should have been. “As you’ve been off with Penelope?”

Daphne’s brows shot up, though her mouth stayed a cool, composed line. “That’s not the same.”

“Isn’t it?” He took a step closer, the night air sharp in his lungs.

Daphne didn’t flinch under his glare. “I am only trying to protect you, Colin, to be on your side. She left, Col-”

“Yes, yes,” he snapped, sharper than he meant to, but the words she left triggered him in a way he didn’t quite understand. “I know she left . And you wanted me to annul my marriage.”

Her eyes flickered, hurt flashing behind them. “What else could I say, Colin? I wanted you to have a chance at a future, to have children.”

“She came back,” he snapped again. “We are working to come back together, and in case it escaped your notice, I have two children.”

“Yes,” she bit, her voice dropped low matching his own biting hiss, “and you never got the chance to-”

Fucking this again. What did she expect him to do? Cast them out on the street?

“You don’t know the full story,” he cut in with finality, his voice taut with the effort to keep it quiet. “I’m not saying you don’t deserve to know, sister. But I need you to trust me that there is more to it than you think.”

That seemed to chastise her somewhat, her face fell as though she might cry, and Colin felt an utter cad for letting his anger get the better of him. He knew that Daphne only wanted the best for him, but he couldn’t condone her personal feelings affecting the treatment of his wife. 

She took her own steadying breath. Her hands grabbed at the fabric of her stomach. 

He’d forgotten she was with child again. Fuck.

He stepped closer now, lowering his tone even further. “I’m sorry Daph, I didn’t mean to snap. We will tell you, I promise we intend to. But in the meantime, I ask that you afford my wife the respect she deserves. And I ask,” he took a steadying breath. “That you trust me to know my own mind.”

Her gaze locked with his, eyes blazing but something softening in the set of her mouth. At last, she nodded. “Okay, Colin. I trust you.”

The door from the ballroom opened a bit further, and Penelope stepped out, concerned knitting her brow as she glanced between them. “Everything all right? I saw you through the window…”

“Yes, of course,” Daphne said at once, her tone smoothing into polite brightness. “Just getting some much needed air.”

She stepped forward, taking Penelope’s hand warmly between both of hers. “You look exquisite, Penelope,” she said with genuine kindness. “I have missed you.”

And before either of them could respond, she released her and slipped back into the ballroom.

“Well,” Penelope smiled lovingly at him, “That was-”

“Come with me,” he said. 

He cast a quick glance back into the ballroom and was relieved to see Thomas and Agatha chatting animatedly with their cousins and grandmother. 

He could slip into the garden for a few minutes and tell her everything, his mother’s reveal, and what those cunts had said about his daughter. 

They could decide what to do together.

He was slightly relieved the men were gone now, because he didn’t fancy Penelope’s chances if she had to hold him back. 

He pulled her by the fabric of her sleeve, and just as they rounded the corner of the terrace steps.

They saw a woman, absolutely sucking the face off of some poor bloke, shrouded by the shadow of the stone pillars. 

Penelope let out a shocked gasp.

Philippa Featherington.

Chapter Text

Macclesfield Manor, Kent. England. November 1st 1833.

The garden had fallen quiet, save for the muffled strains of music drifting from the ballroom above. Laughter, the scrape of violins, and the thud of dancers’ feet on polished wood were just out of reach. Down here, in the lantern-lit shadows, the air was damp and earthy, heavy with the scent of rosebushes planted neatly in their beds. 

Philippa Featherington, Philippa Finch, he reminded himself, and her husband practically leapt apart from each other at the sound of Penelope’s gasp. 

She, like Penelope, seemed to have aged gracefully, but her attire was still very much embedded in the Featherington style of looking like they had dipped themselves in glue and marched through a field of wild flowers, or a butterfly garden, or perhaps a zoo. The bright fabric of her gown shimmered even in the dim garden light, defiant against the shadows.

“Pen…Penelope?” she asked, surprise and awe painted across her face. Her voice cracked as if the name had not been said by her lips in years, and now it tumbled out, raw and unguarded.

Penelope, on the other hand, looked as though someone had thrown a bucket of ice water over her head. 

Her breath caught sharply. Her lips parted but no sound emerged until she managed, in a half-broken whisper, 

“Pip?” 

“Oh!” Her sister gasped as she pounced forward and pulled his wife into a tight, and rather desperate hug. 

Her husband, he scrambled to remember his first name, hovered at her side, gawky in his posture, his sandy hair already thinning. He looked dazed and confused, probably as much as Colin did. 

The urgency to speak to Penelope about his mother, the anger at Daphne and those men, it all fell away in seconds, replaced by a cold surge of dread. His stomach dropped, his pulse thundered in his ears.

Was her mother here?

He strained his memory for a moment, she hadn’t been in the ballroom, or on the terrace, and it wasn’t as if she was hard to miss. But had he really been paying attention, so much had occurred in the past hour that he couldn’t say for sure. He longed to run back up now and check, to scan the glittering room until he was sure. The very thought of leaving the twins alone in the same air as that witch , made him physically ill. But he could not leave Penelope, not when she was still wrapped in her sister’s arms, trembling with the weight of it all.

“Oh Pen! Oh, I have missed you!” Philippa sobbed into her sister’s shoulder. It was just like outside Aubrey Hall, when Penelope and Eloise had been reunited. A similar desperation, a similar clinging. He had never thought of Penelope as particularly close to her sisters during their youth. His impression had always been one of distance, of rivalry, of sharp, shrill voices pecking at her confidence until nothing remained. 

But now, seeing how the sisters clutched each other, needy and desperate. Maybe Penelope had been more loved than she ever believed herself to be. Maybe they had all failed in showing her that. 

He stepped forward, extending a hand to the man, if only to see if he had his name correct, “Finch.”

“Bridgerton,” he answered slowly, as though waking from a dream.

“I’ve…I’ve missed you too Philippa,” his wife said slowly. Colin attempted to catch her eye for the moment, thinking she’d have them wide open, but they were shut, and her cheeks were wet with tears. 

“Where have you been? ” she hiccupped, tears pouring forth from her squeezed-shut eyes. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

As the two ladies finally broke apart, Colin could see that Penelope was rather taken aback by all this, it was the same stunned face she’d made when his mother had insisted Penelope call her Mama. 

“I’ve been in Ireland,” she breathed, her voice small and fragile. “County Mayo.” 

“Ireland…When did you come back?” She continued.

“A few weeks ago,” she answered, almost automatically. 

But then, Colin watched in awe as she rolled her shoulders back, faced up to her sister and said, “I came back so our son could take his rightful place as Lord Featherington.” 

His heart nearly burst. Pride and love swelled until it was almost unbearable. She truly was coming back to him.

“Oh!” She squeaked, wiping her nose rather ungracefully on her lime green opera-length glove. “It’s true then. You did have a boy.” 

And there it was, Penelope was right. Portia knew, they all did.

Fuck.

“Twins,” Penelope said assuredly. “I have a daughter too.” 

“Congratulations,” Finch said, still looking a bit dazed.

He did not wish to interrupt the peaceful reunion of Penelope and her sister, the first of her family she’d encountered in seventeen years, but he could take it no longer. 

“It was Lady Featherington wasn’t it?” Colin cut in sharply, his voice snapped like a whip, effectively pulling any lightness there was in the air. “Do you know why Penelope left?” he demanded, unable to hold back. “Do you know what she did to her?”

“Colin-,” said Penelope, her eyes wide and imploring. She cast her eyes about the space surrounding them, clearly anxious one of them was about to mention Whistledown, as they were both unsure how much the couple that stood before them actually knew.

But Philippa just looked at Colin dead in the face, she was stern, but there was heartbreak behind her eyes, “Mama said it was because of you. ” 

And so it was.

Fuck, again.

“She’d rather cast herself into the unknown than stay with you.”

Colin shut his eyes tight. The buzzing in his ears made his head feel heavy, and anger pounded in his temples like a bad migraine. It wasn’t surprising that Portia Featherington would keep her own part in her daughter’s departure a secret; she'd done so from him, after all. “But she…she knew about Thomas didn’t she?” he insisted. “She used the proof of his birth, of our children’s existence to keep your family intact. Without a word to me, their father , about any of it?” 

Finch stepped forward, eyes blazing, clearly put out by the manner in which Colin addressed his wife. The air between the two men crackled, dangerous. But before tempers could truly flare, Penelope’s hand pressed firmly to Colin’s waistcoat, steady and grounding. But it was Penelope, and her hand splayed across his waistcoat, which managed to calm his tirade before both their tempers truly flared.

“Colin, please. ” She implored him, “it is not their fault.” 

“No”, Philippa interjected. “He’s right. You see, Mr. Bridgerton, it was terribly difficult.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper, low and desperate, “Mama was desperate, if we could not provide an heir, she would lose everything. And after you departed, Penelope, things only got worse.” 

Colin felt Penelope’s fingertips press harder into him, but he stayed still. The word departed rang through him with a sour echo; it did not account for the truth of it, and yet it was the word the world used.

She looked at her sister, eyes wide, imploring her to understand. “During the pregnancy she was certain one of us would have a boy. But when we didn’t…,” Finch slid his arm round his wife’s waist in a gesture of support at her words, she leaned back into him slightly, so practiced and smooth. 

Philippa’s mouth trembled as she went on, her voice barely above a whisper. “Mama, she grew…persistent…obsessive. She gave us no time to recover from childbirth. Every time we sat down to dinner, she would remind us that our family’s future was on our shoulders. It was relentless Pen, we were not wives anymore, but vessels. She counted our cycles with tally marks on a ledger. She sent apothecaries, midwives, even witchdoctors with their tonics and charms, and made us swallow them in front of her whether we wanted to or not. We were ordered to eat oysters and liver for weeks on end, and when I complained of exhaustion, Mama told me that if I was strong enough to care for my daughter, then I was strong enough to do my duty in the marriage bed.”

Philippa swallowed, her eyes glistening now with fresh tears.

“She would send notes every morning, asking if there was any ‘progress.’ She spoke of our sons as though they were already alive, waiting for us to bring them forth, and when we failed her, when month after month nothing happened, she got worse, sort of…unhinged. She said our family’s place in society hung by a thread and that it was our fault . That every day without a Featherington heir was a nail in our coffin.”

Her fingers twisted in her gloves, wringing them tight.

“I eventually did manage to conceive again, but…”

“Darling,” Finch murmured, stroking her back. The motion was slow, steady, the way one might soothe a frightened animal. “You need not speak of this if you do not wish to.” 

They had the undeniable look of a couple who supported each other entirely. It made Colin’s eyes sting with jealousy. Here before him stood a man who had stuck by his wife.

“No,” she insisted. “It's alright, dear.” She continued shakily, “I did fall pregnant again, but I…I lost the baby…about five months along.” 

“Oh Pip, I’m so so sorry,” Penelope said tearily. 

Her husband tightened the arm at Philippa’s waist and kissed her forehead. “And it was a boy,” he said. “Percy.”

Silence pooled. Somewhere above, a burst of laughter leaked from the ballroom and then cut off as the orchestra shifted to a slower, more decorous piece. Life went on, heedless.

“I am…I am so sorry, Mrs. Finch,” Colin said too. 

Philippa Finch was not the dim-witted, vapid girl he remembered.

Guilt scraped his throat as he spoke, guilt for the ways he had simplified these women in his mind. 

Whenever he envisioned Penelope’s family, he had thought of them as a trio of nasty, bitchy women whose only purpose was to make his wife’s life a misery. It had always been easier to think of them as villains. Easier to perhaps not think of them at all. But he was wrong. Portia Featherington, it seemed, had made all of her children suffer in their own way.

Colin’s stomach turned. He could see her cool smile now just as the last time he had seen her, he could hear the false pity as she framed cruelty as care. 

Philippa steeled herself and smiled softly, “Albion and I are happy with our Philomena. It’s just right, us three.” 

Albion Finch . The name slotted neatly where it should have been earlier. 

“When it became clear I could not conceive again,” she continued resignedly. “When Prudence did not either…Mama turned her hopes elsewhere.”

“She went looking for Penelope,” Colin interjected, so sure he knew what was coming.

Philippa nodded, “You were her last chance, Pen.” 

“Don’t ask me how she did it,” she continued, directly at Colin. “Because I do not know. But one day, her meddling, her needling…it all just stopped. All she said was, "Penelope has done what you could not.”

Colin wanted to shout that he didn’t care how bad things were. She didn’t have to keep her discoveries secret, she only did so to maintain her grip on power.

Philippa looked to the ground, and spoke in a soft, solemn tone. “I thought it meant you might come back. But you did not want to.” 

“It wasn’t because of you,” Penelope sighed, “It is just…a very long story, Pip.”

“Not tonight then.” She said understandingly, grasping her sister by the hand. “Your children, are they here?” 

He wanted to interject here, to urge her to keep talking, to find out more about their mother, so that it may be easier for him to enact his useless but relentless desires for revenge. 

But the look on Penelope’s face, the relief that she would not have to recount her painful story tonight silenced him for the moment. He agreed with her really, it was not their fault. Their own story, to lose a child like that was unthinkable. They too had been through enough at the hands of Portia Featherington. 

“Yes,” Penelope replied. “Is your daughter?” 

Philippa brightened at once, her grief receding to make room for pride, “Indeed. She practically banished us from the ballroom the moment we arrived.”

And then, from above all four of their heads, as though summoned by the mention, leaning so far over the terrace wall it made Colin’s stomach lurch with fear, was Agatha, bleating like a sheep with a wide smile on her face, “Ma! Ma! Ma! Come see Tommy!” 

Colin stepped closer to his wife, “Let us make the introductions.” 

“ Another cousin?!” Agatha said blankly as her parents and the new aunt and uncle she had just been introduced to recounted their reunion under the terrace. 

The ballroom seemed somehow hotter than when he had left it. Beyond the doors the night air had been cool and damp; here, the candles tightened the room with a stifling heat, but the dark wooden floor gleamed like a frozen pond, reflecting all the lights above it.

“Agatha!” Penelope said aghast, embarrassed by her daughter's abruptness. 

Philippa did not seem to notice, however, she just smiled, cupped her niece’s cheek and said, “You are so like Penelope as a girl, you know. You have her eyes! I was always so jealous of your mother’s eyes.” 

Agatha nodded her thanks, eyeing her mother. His daughter, like himself, wore her emotions on her face, and she was clearly thinking that Penelope’s testimony of her sister’s character did not precisely line up with the woman she saw before her.

Albion craned his neck as he looked into the ballroom for his daughter. “Philomena is dancing my love.” 

“She is? ” Replied his wife, clearly astonished. “With who?”

“I am sure I have never seen him,” said Finch, his gaze still following one of the couples as they weaved around the ballroom, but Colin could not tell which one. 

Agatha followed Finch’s eyes and grinned, turning back to the group, “It’s Tommy.”

From their vantage point just inside the doors, Colin caught sight of the pair as the dancers shifted in time with the music. Thomas stood tall and straight, his hand steady at the small of what must be Philomena Finch’s back, his steps were careful, almost reverent. Thomas’ face was solemn but not unhappy, rather, it held the calm concentration of a young man determined not to stumble. For a flash, Colin saw himself at seventeen, labouring under the instruction of their dancing master, counting under his breath while Daphne hissed, one-two-three,   one-two-three, oh do stop looking at your feet, Colin .

“Our son,” Colin beamed proudly. 

A swell of pride rose in Colin’s chest, his son had clearly taken his mother’s advice to heart. Despite the fact that it was clear Thomas had not entirely mastered the steps, he was showing such courage in taking to the floor anyway. 

The young girl looked rather like her father, tall, though not as tall as her partner, with pale skin and sandy brown curls. She was dressed just as mawkishly as her mother, in a dress that looked as though a ribbon shop exploded. She seemed rather shy too, concentrating on her feet as Thomas was on his. 

“He’s terribly handsome,” Philippa said to Penelope, “and well connected of course.” She spoke in a manner that reminded him of all the matchmaking mamas he’d encountered in his bachelorhood. 

“They’re cousins, ” said Penelope.

“Oh of course,” she brushed off. “Of course, Pen, but he is a Bridgerton, as are you! Surely you could introduce Philomena to the young Lord Clyvedon, or perhaps to the Viscount’s son?”

Agatha had to hide a snort behind her lemonade glass. To be honest Colin wished that it was acceptable for men to carry fans, it always seemed a convenient way to hide one’s emotions, something he had never been skilled at. He would have to accept, albeit reluctantly, that this was his future, dodging matchmaking mamas and opportune suitors until his children were off the marriage mart. 

“They’re all very young. Let us leave all that for now,” Penelope sighed, and something told Colin that her brother-in-law agreed with her, his nodding along to her suggestion seemed to signify that Finch, like Colin, was reluctant to lose his only daughter to the bounds of marriage. His brother in law’s jaw softened in relief as they made eye contact. Fathers, it turned out, spoke a common language that required no translation: not yet. 

As the final notes of the set faded, Thomas escorted Philomena back to her parents with the same solemn care he’d shown on the dance floor. The girl’s cheeks were prettily flushed, her eyes bright and elated.

“Thank you for the dance,” she said shyly, curtseying.

Thomas bowed his head. “The pleasure was mine.”

Philippa clasped her hands together, eyes brimming with pride. “Well, don’t they make a handsome pair?” she whispered, though not nearly quietly enough. “And so proper. I daresay-”

“Thomas,” Colin said, wishing to spare everyone from the looming awkward encounter. “I should present Mr. and Mrs. Finch, your aunt and uncle.” 

“Oh!” He said abruptly, “Mam’s sister?” he asked, looking at Philippa. 

Full introductions were made between the two little families, so that nobody remained confused about who was related to who. But Colin couldn’t help but feel bad for the young Miss Finch, who was clearly rather crestfallen to see that she was not, in fact, on the precipice of a courtship. 

From the edge of the room where they stood, Colin could see the orchestra change their music across the crowd. He hadn’t checked the set, nor had he been keeping track of the dances, but a change in the sheet music usually signalled it was time for a waltz.

Suddenly the dance card he’d snagged earlier was burning a hole in his jacket pocket. 

And judging by his wife’s look of exasperation at her sister’s antics, he felt confident that now was the right time to do what he’d been planning to do all evening, and steal his wife for a dance. 

When no one was looking, Colin lifted his wife's silk covered wrist and deftly tied the tiny pink ribbon to her wrist. 

“Colin,” she whined sweetly. They both knew that dance cards were exclusively for debutantes, married ladies never wore them, and it was even considered rather over the top for widows to do so. Her eyes danced even as her mouth scolded and heat rose prettily along her cheekbones. She was mortified and delighted in equal measure, the combination stole his breath.

“Indulge me,” he said softly, as he took the small attached pencil and signed ‘ Your Husband ’ across the entire paper square.

The music began to swell, the first few bars unfurled like a ribbon, it was indeed a waltz. When his hand settled at his wife’s waist, the world narrowed to just them two, as if the ballroom itself had emptied of people. They hadn’t danced like this since their wedding day, not with her front pressed against him and his hand sat snugly in her waist as only a waltz permitted. The scent of rose oil, Christ , she knew not what it did to him, seemed to overshadow the scent of wood smoke in the fires or the champagne and food on display. He could feel the bones of her corset under the thin silk of her gown, the heat of her rising through the fabric to warm his palms.

She overpowered his entire senses. 

“You are staring,” she murmured as they moved into the first figure.

“Of course I am staring,” he said frankly, voice rougher than he intended. “You’ve bewitched me, my darling.” 

Her blush warmed him straight through to his bones. “Flatterer.”

“Truth-teller,” he corrected. Her mouth wanted to be stern, but it betrayed her with a curve. He guided her through a slow turn; the room wheeled and then righted, and for an instant he saw them reflected in a gilt mirror. They looked exactly as they should, a man too besotted to hide it and a woman glowing because she was seen.

“I hope seeing your sister wasn’t too much of a shock Pen, I hadn’t even considered that any of your family might be here tonight,” he continued. “I’m sorry.” 

“I don’t think I ever would have been ready,” she said truthfully. “In a way I am glad it’s happened now, Philippa seems happy to see me, but Prudence and…Mama.” 

“One step at a time, my Darling,” he said, dipping her as the music swayed. “We will tackle everything together.”

It was only them, their hands, their steps, the shared rhythm between them. But then, he caught sight of Agatha, laughing and imitating the dance steps to her brother, and the memory of those sneering voices out in the garden  crashed into him like ice water.

We will tackle everything together. She’d want to know.

He drew her a little closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear. “Penelope, there is something I must tell you.”

Her brows lifted, but she didn’t falter in the dance. “Go on.”

“I overheard some men earlier. They spoke of Agatha. Cruelly.”

Her face hardened, and the grip she had on his shoulder tightened, “What did they say?” 

“They questioned her dowry,” he started slowly, unsure about how he would get the words out. “One…prick asked if her,” he gulped. “If her chest would be compensation enough for her accent.” 

“Oh God, ” she said, just as disgusted as he was. But at the same time, resigned, as though she was unsure what she could do about it. 

“I was fit to call the man out,” he growled. “Had Daphne not interrupted me.” 

“It is too often an occurrence for all women, Colin,” she said sadly, attempting to calm him down. “We just have to do our best to protect her, to make sure any man she dances with,” she smiled softly as he twirled her under his arm, “is a worthy one.” 

She always knew precisely what to say, he had every intention of being scrupulously vigilant with any man who might approach his daughter. With any woman who might approach his son too, but fortunately that was a less pressing issue. 

“Agreed?” Penelope smiled as they continued to spin. 

“Agreed,” he said. “But there's something else too, Pen. Please, try not to get too upset when I tell you.” 

“I dread to think what is the main course if what you just told me was the entrée,” she murmured. 

“Mother knows Pen. About Whistledown.” 

Her face fell, Colin could actually feel her skin turn cold under his hands. He adjusted his hold without thinking, drawing her a fraction closer, as if he could lend her warmth through cloth and bone.

“She’s not angry,” he was quick to assure her. “In fact she-”

“How?” She demanded. 

“She saw Agatha holding the column, that evening we told the twins,” he could feel her shaking now, he wished he had not ruined such a romantic interlude with this news, but he knew that not telling her would only make things worse.

“She said she was impressed with you, Penelope.” 

“Impressed?” she repeated.

“As she should be,” he continued flirtily. “You’re a bloody genius, my darling.” He leaned close, reckless with adoration. “Do you know what impresses me most, Pen? You. Always you. You were cleverer than all of London, braver than me, truer than anyone I’ve ever known. I don’t deserve you, but I’ll spend every day trying to prove myself worthy.”

Her breath hitched, and for one dangerous moment, he almost kissed her. There, under the eyes of all society. Instead, he squeezed her hand tight, letting the music and her presence steady him.

“I’m not so sure everyone is impressed, Colin. Agatha said I-” she stalled for a moment, her eyes cast back towards the children. “Oh.” 

Colin followed his wife’s eyes as the final notes of the waltz faded, and he froze. The room seemed to widen again, pouring noise back in, chatter like soft rain, the scrape of chairs, the rustle of skirts as the dancing continued.

Agatha was no longer with her cousins, she had drifted from her brother, and from the Finches. She was standing at the edge of the room, head tilted in conversation with a tall, sandy-haired gentleman. They stood in the half-light near the potted palms, the man stood calm and collected, his profile clean, his smile easy and languorous. 

He knew him. He hadn’t seen the man’s face clearly beneath the terrace, but the outline was enough, the easy tilt of his head, the slope of his shoulders, the very shape of him fitted the shadowed figure from the garden like a key into a lock. Agatha said something quick and bright; the gentleman answered with the same short, cracked laugh he’d heard below the terrace. 

It was him.

Colin’s stomach dropped through the floor. Every protective instinct roared to life. He felt, absurdly, as if the polished boards had become thin ice and his daughter had stepped onto a darker patch. His vision tunnelled, everything around him blurred into nothing but the face of that bastard smirking down at his daughter.

“Her chest wouldn’t be enough for that, eh, Whitby?”

The very man who had spat on his daughter’s name earlier. His tone when he’d said it, perverted and…opportune.

He reached up to tuck a stray curl behind her ear, and as he did so, his knuckle brushed ever so slightly, upon Agatha’s décolletage.

No. No. This man was now attempting to enact his ideas.

Before he could think, before Penelope could put a hand on his arm, Colin was moving. Striding, shouldering past gowns and coattails, his jaw locked so tight it ached. 

“Sir!” His voice cracked through the air like a whip.

The murmur around them thinned to a hush. A dozen heads close to them turned. Agatha startled, her eyes going wide. The gentleman straightened. “Good evening,” he said smoothly, as if nothing at all were amiss. His self-satisfied smirk was still affixed upon his face, “Bridgerton, is it not?”

Colin’s fists curled. “You will not speak to my daughter. Ever. ”

Gasps rippled through the closest to them, his siblings and their partners, his nieces and nephews. Out of the corner of his eye, Colin could see that Anthony was already pushing his way forward, Benedict and Gregory not far behind.

Agatha had gone white as a sheet, “Dad, I-”

Thomas had already pushed forward to join them. He stepped in at the side, placing himself between his sister and the gentleman. His hand closed, gentle but immovable, around his sister’s forearm. “C’mon Aggie.” He looked Colin, dead in the face, and tugged her away from the scene.

“Colin,” Penelope’s voice hissed at his back, sharp with warning. “Not here.”

But all reason had escaped him. The words he’d overheard in the garden replayed in his skull, the anger at Daphne, the panic at running into the Finches, and this smug prick’s sneering face, all of it had balled into one, it made his chest heave with rage.

“Have you forgotten already?” Colin continued in a furious tirade, stepping so close that he actually stumbled back a pace. “The filth you spewed earlier tonight about my child? Did you think nobody would hear you out there?!” His voice cracked with fury. He cared not who heard him now. He grabbed the man by the collar and pushed him hard against the wall, “ Say it again, I dare you.”

“Colin!” Anthony barked, trying to wedge himself between them.

“Colin, what on Earth?” his mother’s concerned voice said from behind him.

The man’s face had gone red, then white. “You mistake me-”

“I mistake nothing. Look at her again, and you’ll be coughing up your own teeth next!” Colin growled, his arm surging forward before Benedict and Gregory seized him by the elbows. The ballroom gasped, most had caught on to the spectacle now. Ladies were clutching their pearls, gentlemen muttering behind their hands.

“Enough!” Anthony bellowed, his voice thunderous. “That is enough! ” He yanked Colin bodily back, shoving him toward the doors.

As Colin lurched past, he heard Philippa whisper to Penelope, “Are you alright, Pen? You can come home with us if you wish…”

“Let me go, damn you!” Colin thrashed, but his brothers held firm. “He insulted my daughter, I-”

“You’ll bring the house down around our ears!” Anthony’s face was stone, his grip merciless as he hauled Colin across the threshold. His voice dropped to an angry growl, “Christ, Colin, have you been drinking? ”

The words landed like a slap. Colin reeled as though struck, blinking at his brother in disbelief. “No I!” His voice cracked, raw. “God above Ant, I haven’t ,” he pleaded, a pang of icy dread stabbed through him as he realised that Penelope might have thought the same thing.

But Anthony didn’t look convinced. With a curt order, he signalled to Gregory, and together they bundled Colin through the grand doors, down the steps, and practically shoved him into a waiting carriage.

“You will go home,” Anthony ordered, low and lethal, “and you will stay there. We will join you later.”

The door slammed. The horses jolted forward.

“Take my brother back to Aubrey Hall,” Anthony ordered the footman. “And come back to assist the rest of us at once.” 

And Colin sat there in the rattling dark, heart hammering, blood still roaring in his ears. His daughter’s wide eyes, Penelope’s horrified face, his family’s shock, all of it replayed behind his eyelids, twisting like knives in his gut.

He’d ruined it. Ruined everything.

Just as he always did.

Chapter Text

St. Brendan’s Primary School, Rathnew, Co. Mayo. Ireland. September 4th 1822. 

“Mammy!” Agatha screeched as she barrelled towards her mother, “Tommy’s crying!” she shouted, tugging at her skirts.

Penelope attempted to crane her neck over the gaggle of awaiting parents at the black iron school gates, but when her stature proved that a worthless endeavour, she leaned down to her daughter’s height and scrambled to spot her son through the gaps in everyone else’s legs. 

Trailing behind his sister, red faced, cheeks streaked with tears and head pointed towards his shoes in shame, was her son. Penelope felt her stomach twist at the sight. 

She scooped up her six-year old daughter as she pushed through the crowd toward her son. “What happened?” 

“I dunno!” She wailed, head craned towards the gate. “We were in sewing lessons with Sister Carmel so I didn’t see Mammy! I didn’t see!”

When she finally crouched down to her little boy, her heart almost stopped. 

He’d had his knuckles wrapped. Violently. 

Large, red welts had risen up on his tiny hands, small marks and abrasions had been made down to his wrists. 

Fuck.

“Thomas,” she breathed, tears welling up in her own eyes. She kissed his head and tugged him into a tight hug, “What happened my darling?” 

But no words escaped him, he just shook his head into her shoulders as tears wracked his tiny body. 

What could he possibly have done to deserve this? 

Thomas was not a troublemaker, he was a shy, sweet little boy. Usually it was her daughter who acted out or answered back, and neither of them had ever done anything bad enough to be physically punished. Not ever.

She scrambled to examine his hands some more, they hadn’t been wrapped, they’d been abused. His left ring finger was purple and swollen, it looked like it had been broken.

“Darling,” she tried again to soothe him, caressing his hair and rubbing his back. Her voice shook with rising panic, “I need you to tell me what happened.” 

“Father…Father…,” he hiccupped, unable to get the words out. 

“Father O’Donnell,” Agatha supplied, whispering the name of Thomas’ teacher in her mother’s ear as though the man was watching them through the classroom window. 

Shit. She knew she hadn’t liked him. The twins had only started at the hedge school a week ago and the man had already been dismissive and smug toward her, insisting that he’d only answer her questions if they came from her husband.

But it was the only school for miles, and she’d be damned if her children went without a proper education. 

“Father O’Donnell hit me…” he stuttered. “He hit me because I was using the wrong…ha…hand.” 

Trips to the library in Galway were a real treat for the family, it being a day’s travel by horse and cart, and when they couldn’t make it there, she encouraged them to make up their own stories. They both had vivid imaginations, and she taught the pair of them to write what they imagined down, just as she’d done in her own childhood. Reams of parchment and leather bound journals full to the brim of scribbled stories and accompanying drawings filled the bookshelves and littered their bedroom floors of Buncrana Cottage. 

So when they’d been enrolled in Saint Brendan’s, they already knew how to write. Agatha with her right hand and Thomas with the left. It was something Penelope was rather proud of. And she’d never seen anything wrong with her son being left handed, it never gave her pause, it was just the way he was made. The same way he had dark hair, pointed elf-like ears, and the most beautiful stormy blue eyes. 

But as she examined her son's battered palms, one more cut up than the other, she suddenly recalled that children who wrote with the left hand were often punished and forced to use the right. 

How could she be so stupid? How could she not have remembered that?

Penelope and her sisters had been educated by an old governess, in matters that her mother had deemed important, namely French, etiquette and dance steps. Prudence, Philippa and herself were all right-handed, so she’d never encountered that particular brand of cruelty herself. 

But Colin had. 

A memory flashed before her eyes as she continued to soothe her weeping child. 

Her, lying in Colin’s arms on the striped settee in the boudoir of their soon-to-be home. Spent and lying in the golden afterglow of their lovemaking.

“How did you get this scar?” she asked him sweetly as she traced his chin with her fingertip. “I’ve always wondered.”

“Ah, one of my Eton professors took offense to my writing with my left hand,” he replied, laughing softly at the memory. “Papa stopped our tutors from forcing me to switch as a young boy, so when I started at secondary school, they weren’t very happy with me. Mr. Crenshaw took a yard stick to my face when I struggled to switch to the right.”

“Colin, that’s awful! What did your Mama say?” She gasped.

“I never told her,” he whispered. “Nor my brothers. I didn’t want anyone to think I was weak, Pen.”

“Oh Colin,” she cooed, almost tearing up. 

But he just kissed her nose, and cuddled her closer. “None of that, my love,” he said, brushing her off. He flashed her a wicked smirk, “we have other things to attend to.” 

“Wait here,” she bleated, her voice low and steady, careful not to frighten her children, “Aggie, mind your brother. I’ll be back in a moment.”

Penelope rose to her feet, skirts whipping with the speed of her movements. Her gloves balled in her fist, her bonnet strings askew, and her chest heaved with the effort of holding herself together.

Agatha nodded quickly, eyes wide at her mother’s tone.

Penelope’s boots struck the wooden floor of the school corridor like hammer blows. Teachers and some parents lingered in the hallway, but they parted at the look on her face. She did not knock. She did not wait for invitation. She pushed open the door to the dimly lit, chalk-dusted classroom.

Father O’Donnell was still at his desk, quill scratching furiously over parchment, his spectacles low on his nose. He looked up with the mild surprise of a man unaccustomed to being challenged.

“Mrs. Bridgerton,” he said, smirking. “I cannot say it is proper for a mother to storm into a classroom uninvited. Is it an English custom?”

Penelope’s vision went red.

Before she could think, before he could smirk again, her hand lashed across his face. The sound rang sharp against the stone walls, shocking even herself with its force. His spectacles flew from his nose, clattering to the floor.

“You struck my son,” she hissed.

The priest’s hand went to his cheek, crimson blooming under her palm-print. “The boy must learn discipline. The left hand is unnatural and…”

“Unnatural!?” Her voice rose, shaking with rage. “There is nothing unnatural about my child, there is nothing wrong with him. He is clever, he is kind, and he is mine. If you ever-”. Her throat caught, but she pressed on, her voice now a low growl, “if you ever lay a finger on him again, Father, I swear before the Lord Himself that I will march straight to the bishop and tell him that you cannot control a school without your stick. See how long you remain here when he finds out you’re so weak that can’t teach letters to six year olds without breaking bones!”

His face drained of colour. “You dare threaten a man of the cloth-”

“I would dare anything for my children.” She leaned in, her words searing. “And I promise you, I will burn your reputation to ash if you test me again. You,” she wrenched his face towards hers, “do not know what I am capable of.” 

For a long moment, silence hung, thick as smoke. The man’s breathing came out ragged and panicked, despite himself. 

At last, she straightened, putting her gloves back on and adjusting them with sharp tugs. “Thomas will continue to write with the hand God gave him. You will correct his schoolwork, not his body. If you cannot abide that, then make no mistake, I will ensure that you never teach again.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and marched out, the slam of the schoolhouse door echoing like church bells behind her. 

Back outside, after all the other families had headed home, Thomas and Agatha stood hand in hand at the school gate, both of them standing wide eyed and trembling. 

She hurried toward them and enveloped them both in her arms, careful not to further hurt her son’s hand in the process. They would stop in the local physician’s house on the way home, demand he sees Thomas straight away and ensure his finger is set and bound to heal before it gets any worse. 

“It’s finished,” she whispered fiercely into her son’s hair. “No one will ever touch you like that again. Not while I have breath in my body.”

Thomas buried his face in her shoulder and began to sob once more.

Agatha, always the braver of the two, tilted her chin. “Did you give him a smack, Mammy?”

Penelope tightened her arms around them both. “Yes,” she said. “And I’d do it again.”

Aubrey Hall, Kent. England. November 1st, 1833. 

The plaster crumbled from the force of Colin’s fist against the wall. He yelled in pain and anger, he’d forgotten that the walls of Aubrey Hall were old, and very hard stone. 

He’d fucked everything up, and it felt as though he’d broken his hand now too. 

“Christ, Colin have you been drinking?” 

Colin couldn’t blame Anthony for reacting the way that he did, how many times had his brother witnessed him lose control over his emotions, ranting and raving with the whiskey thick on his breath. 

He just wished he’d had a chance to explain, wished he’d been given a moment to tell them what was wrong. He’d been pulled from the ballroom so quickly he hardly realised what had happened until he was rolling away in the back of a carriage. He should have gone straight to his brothers, and threatened the man quietly, together. Instead he’d snapped, acted rashly and embarrassed himself of his entire family and all those people. 

Penelope had had the wherewithal not to overreact, she’d managed to stay in control of her emotions when he’d told her. 

And God, no doubt he’d humiliated Agatha, his stomach curled at the thought. Her first ball, her entrance to society, and he’d ruined it. Thomas had pulled her away, not out of fear of the other man, no, he pulled her away to protect his sister from her own father.  

Edmund Bridgerton was surely rolling in his grave. 

Penelope had looked horrified, hurt as Colin was wrenched from the glittering hall. 

“If you hurt her, even once, even unintentionally-,”

The curling tendrils of panic seemed to close around him, snake across his body and tighten so that he struggled to breathe. 

Mrs. Finch had offered her home as refuge from the chaos. Fuck, she’d probably assumed Colin’s rage was the reason their marriage fell apart in the first place. 

What if Penelope took her up on the offer? He was truly frightened now. 

They could be at the Port of Southampton by morning if they left straight away. What if they did not come back at all? 

The thought lodged in his chest like shrapnel. He stumbled to the window, pressing his forehead to the cool pane, staring out into the night. His heart thundered as he strained for the sound of carriage wheels crunching over gravel.

But all he could hear were the gasps and muffled laughter of the ballroom, it hammered against his eardrums, increasing in volume with every heartbeat, closing him in. 

Nothing yet, fuck , how long had it been? He was still dressed in his fine waistcoat and britches, having shed his constricting jacket and cravat on the staircase. He cursed, the pendulum clock on his wall was of no use to him as he had not known the time when he left, but it felt like he’d been home for hours.

His legs gave out at last, and he slid down the wall until he sat on the floorboards, knees bent, head tipped back against the cold wall. He braced his hands against his thighs to stop them shaking. His breath rasped, too fast, too shallow and he couldn’t fill his lungs as he needed to. Black spots began to crowd his vision. Sweat prickled at the back of his neck. His hands shook so badly he had to curl them into fists, nails biting crescents into his palms. His mouth was dry as dust, his tongue heavy and useless. 

Surely, they’d be back by now. Each second that passed had him more convinced that no one was coming. Panic and anxiety seemed to rise up within him, impossible to shoo away.

That’s when he saw it. Glinting in the moonlight from the window, winking at him, teasing him. 

A bottle. Clearly left from the last time he had stayed at Aubrey Hall. He’d always paid Dunwoody extra on his wage slip to ensure he had a consistent supply of alcohol kept in his bedroom to get him through however long the visit would be. If it was supplied from the Bridgerton cellars, word would surely get back to his mother. 

Dust coated the bottle, but he could see from across the room that it was unopened.

His throat constricted. He could almost taste it, the burn down his gullet, the fire in his belly, the way it would flood his veins and make all the noise in his head soften. 

Just a sip, just for a moment.

The world seemed to slow as he crawled toward the bed, his knees shook on the hardwood floor as he approached. 

He reached under the bed and the cold, dusty glass against his palms seemed to anchor him somewhat, to ease the unrelenting thoughts swirling in his mind. 

It looked so refreshing. He pressed the cork to his lips and actually groaned at the scent emanating from it. 

Delicious . 

It would be so easy. Just a swallow, just enough to still the shaking in his hands. 

Just enough to ease the panic. 

Their faces swirled before him. His family. Penelope, Thomas, Agatha. 

God, how many times had he done this exact thing? Curled on a floor somewhere, bottle in hand, promising it would be the last?

He’d swore to himself he would stop the last time he’d snapped. The last time he’d lost his temper, he’d been trying to protect the people he loved, but he’d done nothing but hurt and frighten them in the process. 

“No,” he rasped, the word raw in his throat. “Not again. Not again.”

He rose to his feet before he had a chance to change his mind, wrenched open the window and tossed the bottle out into the garden below. 

He thought for a moment that the tinkling smash against the gravel was as much relief from his attack of panic as actually taking a sip might have been.

He braced his hands against the open window, taking in large, crisp gulps of air as the anxiety and racing thoughts started to subside. 

“Colin?”

Her voice. Soft, uncertain, but real. He turned his head, still hunched over the window, and there she was. Penelope, framed in the doorway, her nightgown loose about her figure, hair unpinned and tumbling in waves. Her eyes flicked from his heaving chest to the open window, then back to his face.

Relief washed over him like a wave of warm seawater, warming him from the inside out. Judging by her state of undress, they must have followed pretty quickly after Colin, and in his panic he’d missed the carriage's arrival altogether, when he thought he’d been watching for them.

“I thought you’d be asleep,” she continued, concern etched across her face. “But then I heard the glass smash.” 

“Oh, um,” his eyes flicked unconsciously back toward the open window. Penelope traipsed across the room to join him, her eyes squinted as she poked her head out of the frame and looked at the ground. 

“I didn’t,” he scrambled, unsure if she even registered what had dropped two stories and smashed onto the gravel in this darkness. “I just,”

“Wanted to make sure you wouldn’t?” she asked softly, her big, blinking eyes looking up at him perceptively. 

It was as though she could read his thoughts. 

“Yeah,” he breathed, impossibly grateful for her seemingly telepathic abilities. A beat passed where she said nothing, just reached to stroke his hand soothingly. 

“How is Aggie?” he blurted out, remembering himself. “Thomas? They’re here Pen? They’re alright?” 

“They’re alright, I made sure,” she assured him, smiling. “Kate took them in her carriage with Edmund, while I stayed behind.” 

At his confused look, Penelope explained. “Lady Bridgerton wanted to smooth things over with the Macclesfields. I had to say goodbye to Philippa and,” she snapped her eyes to his then, something fiery behind them. “And I wanted to have a word with Anthony too.” 

“Oh?”

“Well, I told him what you told me,” she stated plainly. “And your mother too. They were both horrified, Anthony was put in his place. I think he’s sorry for acting rashly. Violet asked him how he would have reacted had it been Charlotte in Agatha’s place.” 

Penelope’s face twisted as she continued to speak, “I saw him brush her chest too, Colin. I’m not saying your reaction was…entirely appropriate, but I don’t blame you.” 

She flipped around and leaned against the window frame, the soft velvet curtain pushed between her back and the wall. “But your brother didn’t need to wrench you from the ballroom like that, it only made more of a spectacle.” 

“I am to blame, Pen,” he countered. “I can’t fault Ant for reacting that way, he’s seen me…lose control of my emotions before.”

She took in a long breath, shaking her head and smiling softly, despite herself. “For fuck sake, let’s just agree it is that…that man’s fault! I wish I’d caught his name but he made a swift departure after you.” She cast her eyes towards him again, “I don’t think he will try something like that again, looked like he’d shit himself.” 

“Penelope!” He half gasped, half giggled at her incredulousness. She gave him an insincere apologetic look, and it took a long, lovely second for them to stop giggling like school children, for their breaths to subside to a normal pace once again. 

“Nevertheless, I’ll speak to the twins in the morning. I need to apologise,” Colin said, knowing it was the right thing to do. “To both of them.” 

She nodded her agreement and stepped back into the centre of the room, hands clutched to her elbows as the November chill from the open window surely bit at her bare arms. He shut it for her quickly and crossed to stoke the nearly dying fire in the hearth. 

“It’s not the first time a parent has lost their temper defending them,” she whispered, though Colin thought he could detect the tiniest hint of pride in her voice. 

He crossed from the fire to take a seat on the bed, only now realising just how exhausted he was, “What do you mean?” 

She took in a steady breath and joined him at the bed, standing between his legs. She took hold of his hands, “It was many years ago. Thomas was only six.” 

Dread prickled at his skin. What was she on about? What could she possibly have had to defend a six year old from? The thoughts came quickly, unable to stop them. 

What could she have had to defend Thomas from that was comparable to what had happened this evening?

“It was his school teacher,” she revealed quietly as the memory washed over her. “His hands…they were beaten, because he writes with the left,” she looked up at him. “Have you noticed?” 

In truth, he had not noticed, but Colin was left-handed too, and he’d been beaten and made to use the right too. He reflexively splayed his own hand as she spoke, from when he’d punched the wall earlier, but found that the pain was no longer there. 

“His…his knuckles were all welted and he had cuts on his palms. His little finger had been broken, it was all swollen and bent.” 

Anger bubbled in his stomach, tears prickled at his eyes, but he forced himself to keep his temper in check. 

“Pen,” he whispered, guilt hammering and thrashing at the back of his mind. 

Colin could picture it too easily, the little boy’s dark head bent low, his left hand steady and sure around his quill, and then the blow, the beating, the stick . He winced at the image, bile rising in his windpipe.

He thought suddenly of his own father, how’d he’d berated and cast out the tutor who’d tried to discipline Colin into using the right. He should have been there, he should have been there.

Her voice grew stronger, fiercer. “I marched into that schoolhouse and slapped that man across the face. I made sure my nails cut his cheek too,” she breathed shakily. “I swore to him that if he ever lay a hand on my son again I would ruin his life forever, I’d make sure he’d never teach another child in his life.” 

“Oh Penelope,” he said, tugging her closer. “Was he alright?” 

“Yes,” she was quick to reassure him. “His hands healed perfectly, thank God. And that teacher left for another Parish not long after.” 

He had to agree with her, thank God. 

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It thrummed with everything unspoken between them. Colin’s throat ached with words he couldn’t voice, his guilt at not being there, his shame at being less than the man his father had been, his awe at her strength. Penelope had stood in the breach when he hadn’t. She had protected their son with the kind of steel he always knew she carried within her.

Colin swallowed hard, his hand trembling as he brushed a stray curl from her cheek. “You amaze me, Pen,” he croaked. “You always have.”

Her expression softened, the firelight caught in her hair, gilding the loose curls like a halo, the fire in her eyes cooling to something gentler, something that reached straight into him and pulled.

She was more teasing, more tempting than a dusty bottle of whiskey could ever be.

“As are you, Colin. You’re not the only one who has lost their temper in defence of their children,” she whispered. “It just shows how much you love them, my darling.”

Darling. 

She’d never called him that before. The word sank into his chest like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. He couldn’t help it, but he tugged her closer, fists balled up in her linen nightdress, as though she’d float away if he let her go. 

She slid her hands to the back of his neck, and he had to strain to steady his rapid breaths. 

He was reminded of that perfect night in the Featherington gardens. The moment when he’d stepped forth to kiss her. When he knew, good and proper, that there was no escaping her, no denying his feelings anymore. How her breathing had been quick, and sharp and nervous, how her breasts had risen and fell with each breath, straining against her angelic silvery gown, enticing and arousing him as he approached. 

He dropped his gaze to her chest now, fuck , he was eye to eye with her nipples. He could almost, almost make out their perfect peachy colour through the fabric. 

A pool of arousal swirled in his stomach. “You’ve never called me that before,” he whispered hoarsely.

She sighed, steady and sure. “I don’t want to hide that I love you, Colin,” she said simply. “It’s no use anymore.”

Time stopped. The words seemed to hang in the air like smoke. I love you. Words he hadn’t heard from her lips in years, not since before everything shattered between them. He’d dreamed of them, yearned for them, woken in the middle of the night reaching for her as though he could pull her back through the memories and have her say it again. 

And now here they were, falling from her mouth like manna from heaven.

His vision blurred, the room swirled, he felt drunk. He pushed forth so that his forehead touched hers, tears now flooding his eyes. “Say it again Pen, please.” 

She slid her hands to the back of his neck, her eyes wide and wet, lips trembling but smiling. He had to strain to steady his rapid breaths. 

“I love you, Colin.” 

God, there was nothing for it, he couldn’t resist her. Not anymore. 

He pulled her flush against him, and kissed her. She tasted sweet, and a little tart from the lemonade she’d been drinking at the ball. She’d obviously applied more rose oil to her hands and neck before bed, because the arousing fragrance filled his nostrils. Fuck. He kissed down her neck, breathing in her scent.

She loved him. Fuck, she loved him. She was going to stay. 

“I love you…,” he groaned into her neck, kissing and sucking her soft skin. “God, I love you too.”

He pulled her into his lap and relished her weight against him. He’d been dreaming of it since the last time he’d had her like this, he’d been touching himself like mad every night to the memory of her grinding atop his clothed cock. 

They kissed for what felt like hours, maddening and tortuous. Her loose curls curtained around them, shielding them from the rest of the world. He was so hard, so desperately wracked with desire for her that he thought he might die if he could not have her. 

He wasn’t sure if it was him pulling her, or her pushing him then, but he found himself lying flat against the bed, her angelic face smiling down atop him, her eyes dark and languid in the low light. There was no corset in the way now, no stays to stop him from feeling all of her. Instinctively, he slid his hands upwards to cup her breasts. Gravity rendered them so full and heavy, and too big to fit in his hands. 

His thoughts came unbidden, more frantic and more animalistic until he could hardly think at all. “Take it off,” he growled, only one goal in mind. He wrenched her nightdress up her legs. “Penelope, take it off.” 

She moaned loudly and obeyed his order at once, undoing the small knot at her neckline and pulling the linen smock over her head.

Her naked body was like something out of the paintings of Venus he’d seen in Italy and France. Titian, Botticelli, Lotto…they could not hope to recreate the sublime goddess before him. 

Fuck , she was exquisite, all peachy and golden and pink. Her nipples poked out from the ends of her curls, pointing at him. Without preamble, he sucked her right breast into his mouth, moaning against it hungrily. He palmed the other, squeezing and kneading her whilst she grinded her bare cunt against his britches. There was something so deliciously erotic about having her like this, naked in his arms, whilst he remained clothed and controlled. 

She squeaked as he flipped her over, and her eyes met his, wide with excitement. 

He couldn’t hold back, he had to have her, and God, she didn’t want him to. He kissed her deeply once more, sliding his hands from her breasts, across her belly and down to the swell of her hips. She was so perfectly formed, made just for him. 

He shifted his concealed cock against the plush give of her thigh and let out a moan against her lips. He relished the feel of the wetness she’d left on the thin fabric of his britches. 

He gripped her other thigh and pushed it up so she was spread before him, and broke the kiss so he could look at her. Too much of a man not to enjoy the view.

“Fuck,” he groaned, as he took in the sight. Splayed and spread eagle on his bed. Right where she should be. 

“Colin,” she whimpered. “Please.”

His fingers shook as he stripped, he rid himself of his silken waistcoat and linen shirt. He mourned the loss of their contact as he rose from the bed to tear off his britches. But he kept his eyes affixed on hers. 

Penelope’s breath hitched as his now freed cock bobbed before her. He flashed her a wicked smile. 

They both knew what was coming. 

But first things first, he thought to himself. Without warning, Colin pulled Penelope to the end of the bed by the backs of her calves. She let out a yelp of surprise as he sank to the floor, pulled her legs over his shoulders and, at long last, came face to face with her perfect cunt.

She looked delicious, with perfectly pink, sodden folds, all dusted by bright copper curls the exact shade of her hair. 

He cast his eyes up towards hers for just a moment, taking in all of her from this new angle, her cute little pouch stomach, the valley between her heaving breasts, her mane of hair glowing gold in the reflection of the firelight, and her eyes , shining bright from her flushed face, encouraging and trusting. 

She nodded her consent, and without a second more, Colin pressed his nose into his wife’s soaked quim. 

He almost came on the spot.

Christ above she was delectable , sweet and tart and musky. Her essence so perfectly womanly that it made his head spin and his balls tighten. For a minute he just devoured, licked and sucked up as much of her as he could. He pushed her thighs against his ears, all he wanted, all he needed, was to be entirely surrounded by her. 

She moaned and trembled against him, writhing and grinding her cunt against his face, desperate for friction. He drew his tongue up to the hard nub above her tight hole and splayed his tongue flat against it. 

“Oh f..fuck, Colin,” she whimpered helplessly. But he just continued to lick hard stripes against it, knowing how fucking good he was making her feel. 

He had to get her off before he took her, he needed to feel it , to hold her against him as he brought her to the height of pleasure. 

But fuck his cock was aching, leaky and desperate for attention. It jutted out hard before him and each soft brush against the fabric of the bed clothes was driving him mad. 

He needed her, soon.

She was whining in earnest now, and God, the noises she made, he was suddenly grateful there were about three empty rooms between her and anyone who might hear them. Her hips began to rise and fall with the rhythm of his tongue, her hands grasped tight to his hair as she rutted against him. 

He remembered this from before, how she rocked herself against his fingers as she grew closer and closer to her peak. 

That’s it baby, get yourself there. 

He wanted to say it out loud, but he didn’t dare stop to use his tongue for something as useless as speech. She shook and keened and thrashed her head from side to side as she chased her pleasure, his fingers bit into her thighs, squeezing her harder and holding her close until finally she let out a sweet, melodic sound of ecstasy. 

Yes, fuck, yes.

He slowed his sweet kisses and licks as she came down, her spent breaths heaving. It was so beautiful, she was so beautiful. 

“Pen, I-,”

“Come here,” she breathed, smirking at him.

He didn’t need to be told twice. 

He rose and climbed atop her, he flanked her petite body between his arms, trapping her under him. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. And, as if magnetised, they began to kiss once more. Soft and wet, she tasted her own essence from his lips. Their bodies shifted and pressed against each other, their hands roaming and exploring one another. 

“Please,” she begged. “Please, Colin!”

He smiled against her lips. He wanted her to say it, “Please what?”

She took in more desperate, heaving breaths as they continued the tortuous kissing, “Colinnn!” she whined, her voice wracked with desire. 

He leaned down to kiss down her neck once more, he grinned against her collarbone, licking and sucking. 

“Say it,” he instructed. He hoped his voice sounded teasing and debonair, but in truth he was just as needy as she was. 

“Please,” she moaned. “Please fuck me, Colin.” 

Thank God. 

He leaned back at once, so he could see where to line himself up, not so experienced that he could do it without looking. His cock was rigid, red, and messy with his precum. He circled his thumb against her clit and nudged himself in, relishing the sweet moan it elicited from her. 

Christ she felt good. So fucking good and he was barely inside her. 

He could hold on no longer, he hadn’t the wherewithal to be gentle this time. Without warning, he slid inside her, all the way to the hilt. 

God. Fuck.

She threw her head back in pleasure, and rolled her hips in an attempt to fuck herself against him. He growled and gripped the mahogany headboard. 

He fucked her, hard. He pistoned his hips in and out of her, savouring her creamy warmth. He thrusted, making her moan and whimper with each swift movement.  

He’d forgotten how good it was, to be with her, how it was more than release, more than an animalistic need for pleasure. 

How it was everything . God almighty, she was magic.

His hips stuttered as he grew closer to his peak, the pleasure overwhelming his ability for precision. He reached and circled her nub again, praying he could hold out until she climaxed. 

With the hard, circular motion against her clit she began to shake again, rolling her hips in perfect rhythm with his own. 

She thrashed her head and moaned and almost screamed, rocking and keening until her beautiful face contorted in a silent wail, her legs stretching out before her, toes curling into the fabric atop the bed. 

He had never seen anything so beautiful. 

But he couldn’t stop, she was so perfect, she felt too good. His hips continued to slam against her, unable to stop from chasing his own orgasm. 

“Colin,” she moaned, splaying her hands against his chest to push. “Wait, no, don’t-” 

At the sound of her protest he stalled at once, and with great effort he pulled himself out of her, barely a second before he spilled. He groaned loudly at the release, spurts and spurts of his seed splattering against her messy, well used cunt. 

Colin collapsed beside her, chest heaving, his forehead damp with sweat. For a moment, neither of them moved, only the crackle of the fire filled the silence.

Then Penelope rolled toward him, her fingers sweeping gently through his damp curls, her lips brushing his shoulder. She rested her head against his chest, and let out the most adorable sigh. He turned to her, overwhelmed, his throat too tight for words. All he could do was hold her, arms wrapped around her as though he could fuse her to him, and never let her slip away again.

But in the quiet lull, a shadow pricked at the back of his mind. She’s stopped him, she’d pushed him off her. 

She doesn’t want another child from him. That was it. 

Was she too clever to make the same mistake again?

The thought twisted, sharp and unwelcome, but he was too spent, too happy, too utterly in love to dwell on it tonight. She was here, in his arms, her body warm against his. 

“I love you, Penelope.”

That was all that mattered. For now.

Chapter Text

Aubrey Hall, Kent. England. November 2nd 1833.

As it transpired, nothing on Earth compared to the bliss of waking up wrapped around his wife. 

He blinked his eyes open to find himself in a hazy, blurry world of copper and gold. His hands and fingertips, infused with the warmth of her steadily heaving breasts. His legs, tangled with hers, the coarse hair on his calves scratching against her impossibly smooth skin of hers. His lips, pressed flush against her nape breathing against her. 

And his cock, decidedly roused by her scent of rose oil, lemonade and sex . 

His perfect wife, who dozed and dreamed with the heaviness of a woman who had been well and thoroughly fucked. 

He pecked kisses upon her cute little ear and down her neck, as he found himself too damn impatient to wait for her to awaken on her own.

“Mmm,” she groaned in response, her eyes still shut. 

“Good morning, my Pen,” he whispered softly. 

She fluttered open her gorgeous eyes and blinked at him, “Good morning, my love.”

Love. She loved him. It hadn’t been a dream. 

He couldn’t help it, he leaned down to kiss her once again. She moaned into his kiss, wrapping her hands around the nape of his neck and pulling him closer. 

“Pen,” he murmured against her lips. “I want…I want…” 

She nodded and spread her legs beneath him, kicking the soft goose down coverlet to the ground in the process.

Wanton. He thought wickedly. 

He broke the kiss and took a long moment to just look at her. As he had done last night, but the sun streaming through the windowpane afforded him the opportunity to view all of his wife’s exquisite form in an entirely new light. 

Soft, peachy pale skin, lightly dusted with a smattering of freckles. Pillowy, creamy thighs, that he was dying to sink his teeth into. That adorably cute pouch of a stomach, and her ample, shapely hips. Those bountiful, heaving tits, topped by her little pink nipples, hard in the cold morning air. Her copper hair, bouncy and tangled, of a colour that somehow warmed him just by looking at it. And her perfect face, with flushed cheeks and full lips and the most achingly beautiful sky-blue eyes. 

“I could spend hours just looking at you, Pen.” 

“Not if I can help it,” she smirked, and pulled him down to kiss her once more. 

There was no gentility in the way she kissed him, nor in the way he roamed his hands about her, frantic and desperate. He grabbed and squeezed every inch of her he could reach, as though she might melt away if he didn’t. She wrapped her legs around him and drove their hips together, eliciting a hungry, needy growl from him as his cock slid between her soaked, messy lips.

His voice dropped to a gravelly husk, “Let me fuck you, wife.”

She groaned and reached between their bodies without hesitation, nudging him inside her. 

Christ. It felt like she was swallowing him whole.

He buried himself as deep as he could once again and they both let out a keening moan for each other. His hips moved automatically, driving into her, hard. He couldn’t help but growl and take her even more roughly. Manhandling her, gripping her thighs even tighter against him as she shook and moaned, getting her closer and closer to her peak. 

But fuck, if he stayed inside her and felt the rhythmic, pulsating clench of her cunt as she came apart, he would follow her, he was sure of it. 

Too early, too early, he wanted to savour every bit of her.

Penelope must have felt this too, because she had this mischievous, wanton, fucking sexy look on her face as she watched him. Without warning, she used all her strength to push him off her till he was flat on his back. 

He was about to let out a growl of protest, when she straddled and pushed him back inside her with ease. 

Goddamn, he had dreamed of this. 

He gripped her lovely hips tight as she bounced atop him. The maddeningly good sensation of his cock being cooled by the cold morning air, only to be swallowed again and again by her hot, wet heat had his toes curling against the fabric of the sheets. 

“Oh fuck, Penelope,” he groaned. “Oh yes Pen, take me. ” 

She nodded and moaned in agreement, too focused on taking her pleasure from him for words. Her breasts bounced repetitively, up and down with each movement, near hypnotising him. He slid his hand up to palm the right, savouring the weight and softness. As he did so, he smirked and used the other hand to circle her little nub, so slick and wet as she continued to grind against him. 

“Aaaaah,” she wailed. “Ahh Colin!”

She loved it. 

“That’s it baby,” he teased, using all his strength to keep up the tone. “Get yourself there.” 

She nodded again and bounced with even more abandon, and soon, her face screwed up in pleasured ecstasy as she started to cum, he could feel it, the way she milked him. 

Yes. Yes.

But God , he knew he hadn’t much time left, he was going to finish soon, he couldn’t help it, she felt too fucking delicious to stop. 

Somewhere, in the back of his mind though, he remembered the events of the night before. That she didn’t want him to finish inside her. Just as he began to push her off him and tell her to stop, she wrenched herself off him on her own. 

He mourned the loss for barely a second, before he felt her little hand wrap around him and begin to stroke, aided by the wetness she had left there. 

“Unnngh,” he threw his head back as she gripped and massaged him. Sliding her soft palm up his shaft with one and cupping his balls with the other.

God, she loves him, she takes care of him. Oh fuck-

That thought was too good, too sweet. His hips gave a sharp thrust upwards and he exploded in her hands, so warmed and protected in her embrace. Spurt after spurt burst forth as he shuddered and shook his head from side to side. 

“Penelope, ah! Penelope!” He moaned as he finally came down from heaven, and they took a moment there, just breathing together in perfect unison.

She smiled and crawled up on her hands and knees to reach for the cloth and jug of water that was usually left by the maids each night, giving him a perfect view of her luscious arse. 

Even in his spent exhaustion, he had a rakish thought that if he was blessed with a next time, he was going to take her from behind. 

She handed him a wet cloth and he grimaced as he cleaned himself up. It wasn’t pleasant, but compared to what usually happened, which was either fall asleep in his mess or have a cry in the bath, it was cracking. When he had finished wiping himself off, Penelope smoothed down her messy hair and cuddled back into him. 

As it had done last night, the spent bliss of their activities died down, to be shadowed by the fact that once again, she hadn’t allowed him to finish inside her. 

He couldn’t really blame her though, he thought fairly, things were still up in the air with them. She had agreed to stay until January, but they had not discussed what would come after that, which was bound to give her pause. It had been seventeen years since she’d given birth, of course, maybe she thought she was too old. At six and thirty, she certainly wasn’t, but Penelope was not known for being kind to herself. Although, if that was the case, she need not have taken precautions at all. 

But he knew the truth, he thought grimly, she may have admitted her love for him now, but she certainly wasn’t sure what kind of father he would be. 

She knows he loves the twins to distraction, he thought of the events last night, she knows he would do anything for them. 

But the image of the smashed bottle on the gravel outside flashed before his eyes, of Gregory’s words, his accidental admission of Colin’s alcoholism. 

Thomas and Agatha, though it made him sad to think it, were on the cusp of adulthood. Fully formed, clever and independent. It would be different to raise a baby , surely she would be uncertain of him still, surely she had to think of that. 

There was no faulting her there. It was what made her a good mother.

But Colin was determined, “ fight for it, Colin. Fight for them. With the daily, quiet proof that you are someone they can lean on.”

“Penelope-,” he started. 

“Mama lives with Philippa,” she said at the same time. But Colin couldn’t help but feel for a moment that she knew what he was about to say. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d felt like she could read his mind. 

That thought though, was cut off rather quickly when what she had actually said sunk in. “She does?” He breathed. 

“Yes,” she confirmed. “Pip told me after you left, she was trying to convince the twins and I to come home with her.” 

“Is…is that why you didn’t?” He asked, unable to stop himself. The panic that she wouldn’t return last night rushed to the forefront of his mind once again. 

“No, well it certainly didn’t help,” she sighed, cuddling him closer. “No, I wanted to return home to you, Colin.” 

“I know it wasn’t polite what you did,” she continued softly. “But I love how you stood up for her, Colin. I love how you love our children. So much. After you left, I was just…bursting to tell you.” 

His heart might burst. She loved him. She loved him!

“Oh, Pen. I love you so much .” He sighed into her hair, but her admission from moments ago was still floating in the air, unable to ignore. 

“Your mother,” he pressed on. “What do you want to do?” 

He knew what he wanted, the same as what he felt in Anthony’s study. Namely, to march out this morning with his father’s pistols, or even better, to skip the challenge entirely and just wring the old bitch’s neck. But lying there with her, so happy and in love, definitely had a positive effect. He felt a lot less volatile than usual. 

It was Penelope’s family, it had to be her decision. 

“I think we need to see her, Colin,” she said. “I think I just need to face up to it. Their birthday is getting closer, the sooner we get our affairs in order, the better it will be for Thomas.” 

He nodded in full agreement, so very proud of her bravery “We will do it together, Pen. The barony is in our son’s name, there is nothing she can do once he’s of age.” 

“Yes well…she’s circumvented such obstacles before,” she warned stonily. 

Colin took her warning seriously, but in truth he was more worried about the emotional damage Lady Featherington might cause to his wife. He didn’t want Penelope to go through any more than she already had, and frankly, he didn’t want the twins anywhere near her. 

The twins. He still needed to apologise to them properly, Colin thought. So with a kiss, and a promise that her mother could not possibly circumvent what the Bridgertons, with all their money and all their connections, could throw at her, they rose and dressed. Penelope snuck into her bedroom as quickly as she could, dressed as she was in only her nightgown.

“I’ll see you at breakfast,” she smirked. 

As he made his way down the stairs, he braced himself for the onslaught of his family, who would certainly be desperate to berate him, question him or tease him for his actions the night before. But before he could, Thomas stalked up the stairs towards him, looking as though he had been waiting for his arrival. 

He did not seem to see the need for small talk that morning. 

“Uncle Anthony told me what you overheard last night,” he put sternly. 

“I-, yes,” Colin replied, a bit taken aback. 

“Is it true?” He asked bitterly. 

“It is,” Colin confirmed. 

Thomas looked him dead in the eye, as if trying to decide something. He was reminded, as though he could forget, of his son’s warning the night they arrived at Aubrey Hall. His heart rate sped up about three fold as he waited for him to respond.

But he just stuck his hand out, waiting for his father to shake it. 

“Thank you,” Thomas said when he did. “I would have done the same thing.”

Thank God. 

Colin grinned, relief washing over him in waves. He gripped his son by the shoulder, taking a moment to take in their appearance in the grand, gilt mirror which framed the double staircase. 

They looked so very alike, it was astonishing. 

“Breakfast?” He proposed, unable to wipe the smile from his face. 

“Yeah,” he nodded happily. “I’m starving, I didn’t eat anything last night, felt too much of an eejit trying to pick up the canapes with those tiny forks.” 

Colin laughed as they made their way into the breakfast room, “it’s an art, to be sure.” 

It seemed that he had arrived late enough that mercifully, most of the family members had already eaten, and were now taking advantage of the relatively brisk, bright morning to take a turn in the gardens. 

Anthony, Kate were there though, watching their daughter Mary as she tore about the room banging on the bodhran drum Anthony had bought for her in Dublin. His mother and Benedict, who were smiling, clapping along to the tune. 

Nine-year old Violet, or ‘Letty’ as her cousins called her, or ‘quite the little Madam’, as her grandmother called her, was trying to get Mary to bang the drum to the tune of a waltz, so she could show off her dance steps to everyone. 

And Auggie, Oliver and Edmund, who were all pretty obviously sporting a hangover and trying to hide it. Colin could tell, he was an expert in that department of course. Were all grimacing at Mary Bridgerton’s continuous banging, but had clearly decided that the pile of bacon, eggs and fried bread before them was worth the never-ending noise. 

“Good morning Colin!” Anthony beamed as he approached, clearly rather guilty of his behaviour the night before. 

“Yes! Good morning Uncle Colin!” Auggie smirked from the far end of the table, even clearly in ribbons, the boy could not resist the chance to tease. 

But Kate, tactful as ever, looked toward the three boys to make sure they weren’t listening, and waited for Colin and Thomas to sit down next to them before speaking. “My husband,” she nudged him. “Is very sorry for overreacting last night.” 

“Indeed,” he coughed, steeling himself. “Had it been Charlotte or Mary I would’ve fucking-,” his brother swallowed. “Well let’s not get into that,” he said, clocking his mother’s raised eyebrow. 

Colin was about to suggest a duel, unable to resist the reminder that Anthony had already done such a thing once before, but he hesitated, not entirely sure that his mother actually knew about that particular incident, and honestly they had had enough drama for one week.

Benedict clearly did not subscribe to that notion however, because he moved closer to them, and next words had Colin nearly jumping out of his seat, more eager for a duel than he had been when he thought of Portia Featherington. 

“His name’s Cavender,” he said grimly. “I don’t know him personally, but I know his brother, and he’s a bastard. He tried to-,” 

“He tried to what? ” Thomas implored, voicing the words Colin was about to speak. 

But Benedict had clearly cut himself off for Thomas’ sake, young as he was. Which did not comfort Colin at all. 

Penelope’s entrance to the breakfast room, clad in a soft, delicate pink day dress thoroughly distracted him, however. It wasn’t as if he could do much this morning. According to her, the man had fled last night, and was probably halfway to London by now. 

Her presence, as it always did, brought a soft lightness to the room, calming him. The sun seemed to stream brighter through the windows, just so it could shine against her hair. 

“Good morning,” she smiled, giving Thomas a soft kiss on the cheek, who had clearly decided to hold his council in his mother’s presence, as Colin had. 

Colin rather pathetically tilted his head toward her, as though expecting a kiss too, but was disappointed. 

“Now that you’re here, Penelope. You should know, I’ve not gone into details with everyone about what that man said,” his mother announced to their group, casting a suspicious eye towards Colin’s three nephews at the other end of the table. “But I’ve warned them against making fun. I am not going to approve of your behaviour dear, but,” she looked him dead in the eye. “But I am proud of you all the same.” 

“Thank you, Mother,” he said, grasping her hand across the table. 

“Thank you, Lady Bri-, um, thank you, Mama,” Penelope said softly. 

Honestly he couldn’t care less what the rest of his family thought, it didn’t matter a jot to him. Judgement from his family had not really deterred him before, after all. Daphne was sure to grumble about it, Eloise and Hyacinth would be merciless in their teasing. But his wife and children, that’s what mattered. Penelope approved, Thomas approved, and Agatha-, 

He paused. Where was Agatha?

Panic jolted through him. He craned his neck about the room, casting his eyes through the windows in case he would find her, but he couldn’t see anything. 

“Where is Agatha?” he asked, unable to quell the panic in his tone. 

Penelope jumped a little too, following Colin’s eye line. “I haven’t seen her since she left the ball.” She turned to the rest of his family, “has she been down to breakfast?” 

“No,” Kate exclaimed. “I’ve been here all morning, she hasn’t come down.” With some clear, mother-to-mother understanding, she continued, “she was alright last night in the carriage, but said she was tired, and went straight to bed.”

“She…she seemed alright to me, Mam,” Thomas said, but Colin’s stomach churned at the clear concern in his voice. 

“I’ll check her bedroom,” Penelope said, jumping out of her seat and stalking out of the room, her shoes clicking against the floorboards. 

Colin and Thomas looked at each other, an unspoken disquiet between them. 

Clearly shared by the rest of them. “I am sure she is around here somewhere, darling,” his mother said softly. “Perhaps she took a walk in the grounds?” 

But the words just buzzed around in Colin’s head, unable to stand the anxiety, he followed Penelope out of the room. He could hear Thomas behind him, but they sped off in different directions. That was probably a good thing, the grounds, and the house, were enormous after all.

Colin headed toward the west wing and the nursery, throwing open every door and looking in for her. That quick rise to panic he could never control, a sick, nauseous feeling started to wash over him, something he had not truly felt in a very long time. Running through a house, tearing the doors open, calling for someone and waiting for them to call back. The bile rose in his throat as it had all those years ago, when he’d come home to Bedford Square to find Penelope gone. His heart hammered the same way, his stomach twisted with the same sick anxiety.

“Penelope?! Penelope, where are you?!” 

“Agatha?! Agatha, where are you?!” he continued to call down the deserted hallway, feeling the walls close in on him with every step. But nothing . 

She’d run away from him, he was sure. He’d frightened her, he thought in a panic, everyone else had just misinterpreted that she was fine, they assumed she was stronger than she is. 

He wrenched open another door, feeling the cool brass handle against his burning skin, “Agatha! Aggie!”. 

Empty. There was nothing, Only the morning light streaming through the tall windows, cutting in golden shards across the runner carpet. As he continued down the hallway, dust swirled lazily in the sunbeams, utterly indifferent to his terror. It was almost insulting, the house seemed alive with brightness, warmth, laughter from out in the gardens, from other family members who had not yet heard what was going on. His footsteps pounded the floorboards as he stalked on, his breath coming too fast, shallow, like he couldn’t fill his lungs. 

He tried to steady himself, to rationalise. It was a sunny morning, she couldn’t have gone far, she was probably in the gardens, like his mother had said, but the fear would not be soothed.

“Penelope?!” he shouted, his voice cracking as he watched her descend the back stairs. She was already breathless, skirts clutched in her hands from running. “She’s not in her room,” she gasped, “nor anywhere in the guest wing.”

The sick feeling doubled in him. Where was she?

He rounded another corner with Penelope, nearly bowling over one of the maids carrying a basket of linens.
“Have you seen Miss Agatha?” Colin barked, his voice sharp with urgency.

The poor girl froze, the sheets clutched against her chest as though they might shield her. Her eyes darted away, down the corridor, anywhere but at him. “Y-yes, Sir,” she squeaked at last, her voice high and strangled. “She’s… she’s in the vegetable garden.”

“Oh!” Penelope gasped in relief, slumping against the pillar next to her. “Oh thank God.” 

Something about the way the maid said it though, the quick glance, the note of dread in her tone, prickled at the back of his neck, but he dismissed it. He barely paused long enough for her to bow his head in thanks to the young maid before they strode away, boots thundering against the floorboards.

The doors to the terrace banged open under his hand, the bright morning air hitting him like a slap. He sucked it in greedily, scanning the sun-drenched lawns and breathing in a sharp, crisp breath of air, relishing how it calmed him as it had done last night. 

The vegetable garden. His legs carried him faster than Penelope, but she hurried to keep up with him. 

Until at last, he saw a flash of her red hair through the crack in the wall separating them and the vegetable patch. Nobody in the house, save the woman who stood next to him, had hair anything close to that colour, so he knew it was her. He sagged in relief as Penelope had done, feeling rather foolish for the way he reacted. 

Penelope stroked his arm soothingly, “maybe you should take this opportunity to apologise. I’ll tell Thomas and the others she’s alright.” She looked at him sternly then, “make sure you tell her she gave everybody quite the scare.” 

Colin nodded, and before he could stop himself, leaned down to give her a firm kiss on the lips, so relieved as he was. She blushed furiously, which struck him as ridiculous, given her performance in bed this morning, but adorable all the same. 

With that, she trotted off back around the corner of the house, and made her way inside. He rounded the corner of the kitchen garden wall himself, and froze.

There she was. Agatha. The bright morning sun caught in her copper curls, her cheeks flushed pink, and for an instant Colin felt dizzy with relief, only for it to sour at once. She was whole and safe, thank God, but seated scandalously close to a boy.

A footman. That Irish footman that his mother, in one of her very few mistakes, had decided would be a good fit as a valet for Thomas.

The pair of them perched on the edge of a metal bench as if…as if they were courting . They were laughing, loudly, heedless of the world around them.

A thin curl of smoke rose between them. Cigarettes.

Colin remained rooted to the spot. His chest still heaved from the run about the house, but the suffocating panic that she was gone, truly gone, drained from him all at once. 

What replaced it was no less paralysing.

She wasn’t lost. She wasn’t hurt. She was sitting in his family’s garden, smoking like a docker, giggling with a servant.

His stomach dropped. His hands went clammy. 

Oh God… how was he supposed to handle this?

Last night was child’s play compared to the scene before him. That man, that Cavender , had committed a clear breach across the bounds of propriety, Colin had every right to disapprove. In the glittering ballrooms and ornate dance halls of the aristocracy, the rules were clear. 

But as Colin watched his daughter giggling and joking with this boy, their accents unnervingly similar, Colin felt as though they were two people from another world, with another set of rules entirely. 

Which of course, they were. 

The footman’s head turned first. His easy grin collapsed into horror when his eyes landed on Colin. The young man went rigid, muttered a hurried, “Oh fuck,” crushed the cigarette beneath his boot, and bolted for the servants’ entrance, disappearing in seconds.

Agatha turned towards him and froze, the only movement the swirling trail of smoke from her still lit cigarette. 

“You um…” he cringed as he walked toward her, “you shouldn’t be smoking.” 

Christ , he was quickly realising how very difficult it was to be a parent. Love was one thing, affection was one thing. Discipline was another. It was tricky, he really had no right to reprimand her. Or did he? He was her father after all, but at the same time he’d only known her a month. 

It felt as though he was in this murky, foggy, grey area that there was no obvious way out of. 

She smirked softly, and rebutted, quick as a flash, “ you shouldn’t be starting fights in the middle of ballrooms.” 

He almost laughed, she got him there, and he remembered what he must do.  

“I am very sorry for that,” he said softly. “I frightened you. I embarrassed you,” he went on, voice low. “I let my temper speak for me instead of my head. That’s on me, not on you. I’m meant to protect you without making a spectacle of you.” 

He paused, “It's just…I overheard some things that man said out on the terrace, and well…it wasn’t very nice.” 

Rather surprisingly, Agatha did not ask him what was said, which Colin thought went very much against her character. 

He cast his eyes towards the door to the servants corridor, and grimaced, he wouldn’t be surprised if that boy had already told her. Gossip about the family spreads like wildfire among the staff, that’s what everyone always says. He was reminded for a flash of how Eloise, back in Pen’s first year out, had been convinced that one of their staff was Lady Whistledown. 

“When I saw him talking to you,” he continued. “I thought he was going to try something on you, and I just…snapped. I’m very, very sorry, Aggie.” 

She shook her head, looking down at the ground. “I think he was,” she said solemnly. “Kept asking me to go somewhere more private with him.” 

At his abashed look, she laughed and rushed to assure him. “I wasn’t going to go. I was actually about to, as charmingly as possible of course, tell him to piss off…” 

Benedict had been right, clearly debauchery and perversion ran in the Cavender family. Anger bubbled in him, it would be so easy, he could shoot the bastard dead if he wanted to. 

“...when you came over. So I was actually fine, really.”

Colin was furious. But he had the sense to know that, more anger in front of his daughter was certainly not going to aid his relationship with her. Though she actually seemed to think the situation was rather funny. 

“My sister has always been a lot more optimistic than I am.” 

“Nevertheless, Aggie. I am very sorry. The last thing I wanted to do was embarrass you.” 

“I actually thought it was pretty tame,” she snorted. “If we were in Rathnew, I would have punched him.” 

Colin let out a cackle and grinned. She was so very unlike any other young deb he had encountered, he felt a surge of pride for her, and for Penelope, who had done such a wonderful job of raising her. 

So quick and clever, so independent, and so funny. She was such a wit, just like her Mama. 

“I pray it never happens again,” Colin sighed. He took her hand rather seriously then, “But if it does, please don’t hesitate to punch anyone, no matter who they are.” He thought the better of this though, and at once continued. “Of course, the first thing you should do is find me , and I’ll do the punching for you.” 

She nodded her agreement and cast her head up towards the sky, soaking in the brisk sunlight on her face. Colin wanted to take advantage of the silence to ask about the footman, but he couldn’t quite find the words. 

What was he supposed to say? He felt any disapproval would land him in a very awkward position. Telling her she couldn’t chat to a male servant would show how he positively reeked of privilege. He was reminded of what Thomas had told him on the boat, how his schoolmates had been forced to leave Ireland to find work with great aristocratic families over here. 

“They work in service mostly, as hall boys and footmen to families like yours.” 

This young lad had clearly suffered the same fate. He thought of Agatha dancing with the boys at the Céilí, how on Earth could he tell her that she couldn’t associate with the type of people she had grown up with? How could he explain that what was acceptable in her home, was not acceptable here?

He felt certain it was something that he would have to discuss with Penelope before he even considered talking to Agatha. 

She would know what to do, he tried to calm himself, she always did. 

“Girls can’t do much here can they” she said suddenly, snapping him back to the conversation. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, the dance cards, the needing permission to talk to boys or to waltz. Talking to Belinda last night, it seems like all she is excited for in life is marriage, kept talking about expecting a proposal when she came back to London.” 

He looked to his feet, unsure what to say. She’d pretty much hit the nail on the head. She didn’t sound angry, exactly, just impassioned, as though telling him about something she’d just discovered.

“Even Thomas!” She continued, growing animated in the way she spoke, waving her now long burned out cigarette about the place, “at Buncrana we were equals . We had the same jobs, we had the same opportunities, we had the same friends. Last night I wasn’t allowed to play billiards with my own brother . And this flippin’ Barony! He has all this work to do now! Something important, something big.” 

“Darling,” Colin said, now having an inkling of something he could say to make her feel better, but she cut him off, continuing her tirade. 

“You have all this money! Look at this house, these gardens! All this money, but nobody can actually do anything, can they? You all live by these ridiculous rules, especially women! It’s mad. ” 

But Colin just smiled, for once not feeling as though he was failing in the parenting department. “Well,” he spoke confidently. “Your mother did something, didn't she? Her writing. That’s something to be proud of, she was extraordinary, even with the odds stacked against her.” 

Agatha was so like her mother, he felt sure that anything she wanted to do, she was going to do it. 

But Agatha just gave a small, sad smile. “Yeah,” she sighed, looking at the ground. “And it ruined her life.”

Chapter Text

Aubrey Hall, Kent, England. November 6th 1833.

She could feel his eyes watching her from above his newspaper, sense the way dragged from the crown of her head down to her slippered feet as she sat curled up in the drawing room’s plush armchair. 

“Anything interesting in the paper today?” she asked lightly, knowing he wasn’t paying the least bit of attention to that morning’s edition of Morning Chronicle. Still, for a fleeting moment, she marvelled at how simple, how utterly domestic it was. To sit there in a sunlit room, on a Wednesday morning, and discuss the morning’s news with her husband. 

“Not particularly, something about the Factory Reform Act,” he sighed dramatically, lowering the page. “Much more interesting to watch you read instead.” 

“Eugh,” came Thomas’ voice from the doorway.  

Colin startled and flashed an apologetic smile at his son, “you’re very light on your feet. I’m too used to hearing my siblings thundering toward every door from twenty feet away.”

He turned and threw Penelope the same guilty smile, in clear reference to what Agatha had found them doing in his childhood bedroom a fortnight earlier. She, too, could move like a cat when she wanted to. 

Thomas just rolled his eyes in the way that every teenager did and took a seat on the sofa opposite the two armchairs, reaching for one of the newspapers Colin had already leafed through.

Penelope had to smile at it, Thomas had always done little things like that, things that made him feel more grown up than he was. Next to his father, the same crease in their brown, the same folded leg, it was a marvel how much they resembled each other. 

The last few days had been unusually peaceful. Most of the family had returned to their own homes, the initial excitement of her and the children’s arrival beginning to settle. Thomas had been glum when August, Oliver, and Edmund left for university, but was cheered by their promises they’d all be back at Christmas when, much to Penelope’s dismay, they’d assured him the real fun would begin.

She had expected Agatha to feel the same with Belinda and Amanda gone, but while her daughter had claimed she was “counting the days” until their return, she seemed hardly bothered at all. It was odd, Thomas, who had always been the bookish one, was the one left restless. Whereas Agatha, usually so extroverted, had taken their absence in her stride.

This had surprised Penelope, until Colin had told her what he’d seen when he went to apologise to her in the vegetable garden. 

She ran her fingers through her hair at the thought, her smoking was shocking enough, but her suspicions had indeed been proven, her daughter had become friendly with a boy, a footman. 

And neither she nor Colin had any idea how to proceed. For she shared the same concerns as him, forbidding her from befriending this boy would mean more than just policing her child’s freedoms. 

The problem was, she was only doing as Penelope had always permitted. In Rathnew, she and Thomas had always had the same friends, they all cut about together, playing in the fields and terrorising the village together. And Penelope was not going to tell her daughter that she could not have the same friends her brother had just because she was a girl. 

It was a cut that ran deep, she still remembered how her Mama had forbidden her from playing with Colin when she’d started to ‘blossom into a woman’, and was only allowed to associate with him in the company of chaperones, rigid, distant and overly polite. How it had broken her heart to be apart from him. 

Where Aggie had grown up, a girl’s reputation did not hang on a thread, she did not live in the shadow of some future husband’s good opinion. No one whispered about dowries or prospects, no one counted freckles or weighed her figure against another girl’s. 

Everyone was simply too busy to concern themselves with that, too busy to worry where next month’s rent money would come from to worry about who a young girl played with. 

But they were not in that village anymore. Here, there were rules, boundaries. Here, where nobody had an occupation to fill their days, they entertained themselves with gossip and vitriol. 

The irony of that cut through her, sharp as a knife. 

Here, a young girl sharing a cigarette with a footman would be fit for the cover of the Morning Chronicle more than any Factory Reform Act ever could. 

How could she explain, after being raised the same as her brother, the same rules, the same responsibilities, that all of a sudden, now that she’s here, England, that she was different, somehow less?

It would be slightly unorthodox, yes, but who would bat an eye if Thomas had done the same thing Agatha had?

It seemed to Penelope like a monstrous betrayal. 

Her gaze shifted to Thomas, neat and proper with his paper, looking already every inch a young gentleman. His title had set him apart from his sister the moment they’d arrived. He always would outrank her, unless Agatha made a spectacular match, which Penelope knew her daughter had little patience for.

Had it sunk in for them yet? That they were no longer equals?

“I hate to disturb this peace, Pen,” Colin’s voice cut through her thoughts, low and reluctant. “But I think we should get on with the business of visiting your mother.” 

“Your mother?” came Thomas’ unsure voice from behind his paper. 

“Yes, ah…,” Colin grasped, unsure how much at this point he should divulge to their son. “She should have some of the ehm…documents, deeds and such that pertain to your title and holdings, Thomas. We need to speak to her so you are better prepared to take over in January.” 

“Oh,” Thomas muttered, his voice turning brittle and cold. “This is the same woman who threw you out, told you to leave England and never come back?”, he asked, directly to his mother.

“Yes,” Colin admitted grimly. “Which is why, I don’t want you or Agatha anywhere near her. I don’t think-,” 

“Don’t want us anywhere near who?” 

Agatha strode into the room, ink-stained fingers clutching her journal. She had clearly been rusticated in her bedroom, scribbling away. Penelope was relieved that at least she hadn’t been hanging outside the servants quarters again. 

The room fell still. Colin snapped his eyes to her, silently asking how much to say.

“Our grandmother,” Thomas supplied flatly. “Lady Featherington.” 

Agatha’s brows shot up, “your mother?” she asked Penelope. “You don’t want us to see her?” 

In all truth, she had to agree with Colin’s strong feelings on this matter, she was hardly ready to face up to her mother herself, the thought made her stomach swirl with anxiety. 

She hated that even after all these years, the woman still had this…this power over her, that she still held control over Penelope’s emotions. 

She didn’t want her children to see her that way, frightened and cowardly. 

She didn’t want her children to feel that way themselves, she had no idea how Portia might react to meeting them. 

Thomas, her legacy, would carry the Featherington name, but he was so like Colin, so unmistakably Bridgerton. Would Portia see him as a rightful heir, or a living insult? She still remembered the vitriol with which she spoke of Colin the morning after her engagement. 

Do you not remember how the Bridgertons treated us like dogs?

And Agatha, her little girl. Colin couldn’t see it, but their daughter was the very image of her grandmother. The copper hair, the set of her brow, even the tilt of her chin. Her values might be vastly different, perhaps on the other end of the spectrum entirely, but her determination, her ambition, her confidence, it was all Portia Featherington. 

She didn’t really want Colin to see that either. 

And Colin, God, Colin. She needed him there, as much as he needed to be there. He needed to know the truth and she needed him to protect her, but she felt fairly certain that the ordeal would end in another screaming match. Even though the twins seemed to understand his outburst at the Macclesfield ball, she wasn’t about to let them see him lose control again. 

But perhaps, most importantly of all, they had only known a welcome since they’d come here. 

The Bridgerton’s were so kind and good, so unlike any other family Penelope had ever known. Violet Bridgerton was surely an angel sent down from heaven, she didn’t want them to come face to face with their other grandmother and be met with scorn and snobbery. 

Because at the end of the day, her children were two, scruffy Irish kids from the sticks, and her mother would surely find that a cause for concern, if not outright hostility. 

That was more important than anything to Penelope, that they felt welcome here, happy, not judged or discriminated against because of where they grew up. 

“One…prick asked if her chest would be compensation enough for her accent.”

Colin was so worried, she could tell, that it would be her who would pack it in. Her who would say she’d had enough, that she was done with this ridiculous experiment, that she was ready to go home, and to never speak to him again. 

But it was the twins that Penelope was worried about. 

Oh they seemed happy enough now, this was all very new and exciting for them, even if they were sometimes reluctant to admit it. 

But the truth was, she feared it would be them who would grow homesick, bored, or angry like teenagers often did, and one day, they might ask to return home. Meeting a woman like Portia Featherington might well add fuel to that fire.

And what could Penelope do but follow them? She was their mother after all. 

“I…no,” Penelope said feebly in response to Agatha’s question. “No, I don't think it's a good idea.” 

“But I want to meet her,” Agatha snapped back. 

Penelope sighed, it was her mother’s face, staying back at her in youth. 

Penelope shifted uneasily in her chair. “Aggie, you don’t understand. My mother…she is not a good person. She never was. I don’t want her anywhere near you.”

If Agatha had asked this of her mother even a week ago, she probably would have been less concerned. Her entire life she’d thought she’d been the one with exclusive rights to her mother’s cruelty. That Penelope's failures, her failure to be thin, her failure to be sociable, her failure to be a boy, was what had made Portia dislike her so. 

But Philippa’s words in that garden, what she’d done to her and Prudence, cruelty so intense and so pointed that it had caused her elder sister to lose a child, had shifted her view on the matter somewhat 

Perhaps Penelope had been indulgent, she was not the only one who had suffered at the hands of Portia Featherington. 

The problem was that only made her more concerned for her son and daughter. 

“I’m not a child,” Agatha shot back, her cheeks flushed pink. “If she’s cruel, I’ll know it for myself. But you don’t get to decide for us who we meet.” 

Penelope’s voice cracked, and she pressed her lips together. “She will make you feel small. And I swore I’d never let that happen to you.”

“This is different,” Colin said sternly. “She isn’t like your Granny Violet. You’re not going.” 

Agatha’s eyes widened at her father, as did Thomas’, both expressions the same, as if to say; you are surely not going to try and parent us?

Wrong move, darling. 

But Agatha just stepped closer to her instead, and spoke, low and cold, “we’ve spent our whole lives not knowing half our family…”

Fuck. That child knew exactly what to say. 

Penelope flinched as though struck, and Colin drew in a sharp breath, but Agatha pressed on, her voice fierce. “It isn’t fair. You kept our father from us, now you mean to keep our grandmother too?”

Penelope’s throat tightened. She wanted to argue, to shield them, to insist she and Colin knew better. But Agatha’s words cut through every excuse she had clung to. She had hidden enough from them already.

She exhaled, long and trembling, and lowered her gaze to her lap. “Very well,” she whispered. “You’ll come.”

She couldn’t protect them anymore. 

Finch Residence. Surrey, England. November 7th 1833. 

At the Macclesfield ball, Philippa had scribbled her address on the leftover blank space of her dance card. She’d smiled at Colin’s note, even in the aftermath of the outburst which had shocked the entire ballroom. 

“He really loves you, doesn’t he? He really loves your children.” 

The carriage rattled as it drew to a slow halt before the house, and Penelope’s fingers twisted together in her lap. She had meant to send a note, to give Philippa warning of their arrival, but each time she set pen to paper the words eluded her. In truth, she wasn’t entirely certain she wouldn’t back out at the last moment, so she’d pushed the task aside until it was too late. 

The house itself was a modest, red brick, two-story home with a gable roof, and perfectly symmetrical façade. Philippa never really did have an eye for editing, the garden was so packed with blooms you could hardly see through to the windows beyond. But the roses and hollyhocks, the lavender and hydrangeas bloomed still, even into early winter. Gardening was something she’d never really had a knack for, Buncrana’s gardens were an embarrassment frankly, but her sister seemed to enjoy it very much. 

Speaking of Buncrana, this house rather reminded her of it, not quite as unnecessarily large, but it held that same aged look, so suited to the countryside that it might melt into nature itself. 

She could not imagine her mother being content here, she’d never cared for a country living. 

When her uncle had passed and Penelope’s father inherited the barony, Portia had leapt at the opportunity, she’d had the entire family and staff moved out of their small dower house and ready to move to the city the very next day. The woman had lived for London, for Mayfair drawing rooms and endless rounds of parties, for any chance to parade her daughters before society. 

To reside here, to live out her old-age in this place, in what was so clearly a middle-class home, where no grand dinners could be given and no orchestra hired, must have felt to her like exile.

For a fleeting moment, Penelope allowed herself the hope that perhaps they were not at home. That she might be spared the confrontation for just one more day. But as she watched, a lamp flared to life in the front room, the glow spilling against the garden path.

Her stomach dropped, they were here, and Penelope would have to face the woman who disowned them. 

The door creaked open to reveal a middle-aged woman with a face lined as though it had been carved by the weather, she looked windswept, despite being indoors. Her apron was coated with flour, and Penelope discerned she must be a cook and housekeeper combined. She gave the four of them a shrewd once-over before calling into the house in her thick Somerset accent, “Ma’am, you’ve some visitors ‘ere.”

She pushed open the drawing room door with an impolite grunt, Philippa, who was hunched over a sheet of paper where she had been absentmindedly sketching, shot to her feet so quickly the chair scraped harshly against the floorboards. 

“Penelope!” she said in a loud whisper, the pencil still clutched in a loud whisper. “You did not say you were coming!” 

“I-,” Penelope croaked out, trying to match her sister’s whispered tone. “I needed to see Mama.” 

Philippa’s eyes flashed an understanding at her surely anxious expression, she addressed their housekeeper once more, “Mrs. Coombe? Please shut the door behind you.” 

The woman let out another affirmative grunt and carefully shut the door, clearly trying to be as quiet as possible. Penelope’s stomach tightened even further as a flash of understanding came to her, they were whispering because Mama was upstairs. 

Did they always whisper? Even Albion and Philomena? Her brother in law had always been frightened of her, she supposed. 

Has anyone told you that your mother is rather terrifying?

For a moment, silence hung heavy. Then Albion rose from his chair near the fire, offering Colin and Thomas a courteous nod. 

Young Philomena all but glowed at the sight of Thomas. She dipped into a sweet curtsey, her cheeks as pink as her ribbons, and Thomas, stiff with surprise, bowed back. The memory of their shared dance still lingered plainly in the girl’s eyes.

Colin stepped forward, his tone carefully level though his jaw was tight. “As you know, Thomas has inherited the Featherington estate. Your mother has been keeping it in her charge for years, and he’ll require the documents, deeds, tenant rolls, whatever there is, if he’s to take it over properly.” He kept his gaze fixed on Philippa, though he softened his voice. “We came to speak with her, is she here?” 

Thomas squirmed uncomfortably, pursing his lips. He might be alright with the Bridgertons, but Penelope could tell her son was still uncomfortable with the idea of being paraded around as ‘Lord Featherington.’ 

Albion cleared his throat. “The baroness keeps her cards close, as ever. But I have seen to some of the paperwork myself. The writ, the um…ledgers, ah…we can um…we can make a start.” He hesitated, the weight of what was left unsaid thick in the air.

Philippa coughed to cover the awkwardness, smoothing her bright purple skirts with restless hands before turning to the girls. “Agatha, dearest, this estate business will bore you dreadfully. It is not for ladies! Why don’t  you let Philomena take you for a turn in the garden? Or perhaps she might show you her watercolours?” 

Agatha’s spine stiffened. Her eyes flashed towards her mother, a spark of outrage rising, but she pressed her lips tight. “Fine,” she muttered at last, her voice taut, taking her cousin’s arm with the utmost reluctance. 

Penelope was sure that ledgers and tenant rolls would bore her, but it was the thought of being pushed out that needled her immensely. 

It is not for ladies. 

Treated differently, just because she was a girl.

Philippa let out a slow breath, her eyes darting toward the ceiling as though to summon courage. “Perhaps,” she said quietly, “you should see Mama first. She hasn’t been well. She’s not left her bedroom in some time.”

Colin’s hand shot to Penelope’s arm. “Then I’ll go with her,” he said firmly, his voice low but resolute.

Penelope shook her head, though her hand lingered over his. “No. I’ll be all right. I’ll only be upstairs.” She tried to sound calm, but her eyes betrayed her, Colin gave her one last piercing look. “I’ll be right upstairs,” she said, trying to reassure him. Reassure both of them really, she knew if things went downhill he would be up those stairs like a shot.

Penelope shook with apprehension as she stepped further into the shadowed room. It was comfortable looking, smaller than a master, though not by much. A white marble fireplace dominated one wall, its carved mantel lined with trinkets and miniatures, the gilt mirror above reflecting every corner of the chamber. A tall wardrobe and upholstered screen sat across from the mantle and between the two windows lay a mahogany vanity set. It was strewn with the creams and oils and powders that Penelope remembered well. Those potions and tonics her Mama had relied upon to make herself more beautiful. 

As she finally flicked her eyes toward the armchair, there she was. Sat up against the pillows, but dozing peacefully. 

She almost didn’t want to disturb her, if she was ill, as Philippa said, perhaps the kinder thing to do is let her sleep. She could still run away, even now. 

But even as the thought formed in her mind, the woman before her began to stir. 

“Mama?” Pen whispered as she watched the woman’s green-blue eyes flick open. 

Her voice was groggy, thick with sleep, “Penelope?”

She had the same face Pip did when they reunited the week earlier, that shocked elation. But only for a moment, after that, her face turned stony and cold. 

“Penelope.”

“Mama.”

She looked old. As though her glamorous fashions, the brocade fabric of her dress and the heavy beading were actually propping her up. The jewels resting on her chest and pinned snuggly to her greyed hair were last vestiges of her armour, her final line of defence. She sat up in that faded armchair, haughty and queen-like, as though it might have been Saint Edward’s chair itself. 

“Take a seat.” 

As though drawn by deeply embedded childlike instinct, Penelope sank immediately onto the matching ottoman in front of the fire. 

“Mama I-” 

Her mother’s eyes flicked over her face, cool and assessing. Her eyes lingered for a very long moment, in that same way she’d always done, as though counting her daughter’s fault in her head. 

“When did you come back?” she asked at last, her tone deceptively mild.

“Only a few weeks ago,” Penelope answered, her fingers knotting together in her lap.

Portia hummed, as if weighing the response. “You haven’t changed much,” she said, and though the words might have been kind in another woman’s mouth, Penelope heard only the sneer beneath them, knowing what those words meant.

You haven’t changed much. You’re still a pudgy little pig, Penelope. 

“And yet…,” her mother continued. “You have grown bold indeed, to walk into this house after all this time, without so much as a warning.”

Penelope swallowed, it wasn’t so much boldness, but sheer procrastination, but in an odd way, she hoped the backhanded compliment was genuine. 

She opened her mouth to respond, but Portia raised a wrinkled hand to silence her. 

“There’s nothing left,” she snapped. “I don’t know why you’ve bothered to come here, Penelope. I won’t do anything for you.” 

There’s nothing left. She knew now what the Finches had been trying to avoid saying downstairs. In truth, she had expected this, why on Earth would she have left Featherington House if there was anything else to keep her there. 

She imagined her mother being dragged out, her fingernails catching at the door hinge.  

But at Portia’s words, she couldn’t help herself, all the tiny, unspoken hope that she might be embraced was erased, “Have you ever?”

“Have I-,” she stuttered. “Have I ever?” anger rose in her tone like mercury in a thermometer. “How dare you?! You ungrateful girl,” she bit off, grasping at the arms of the chair in a fruitless effort to stand up. “I gave everything to you Penelope, I worked tirelessly for you and your sisters,” she spoke in that way that Penelope was so familiar with, that snakelike hiss that meant she was about to endure one of her mothers tirades. “I kept you in the manner you were accustomed to, you spoiled child! I educated you, kept a roof over your head, dressed you in lovely fashions-,” 

Even with the anxious nausea swirling in Penelope’s gut, she had to repress a smirk at her use of the word ‘lovely’. 

“Do you have any notion of what it cost to keep you presentable? To send you into society year after year, when the invitations dwindled and your suitors were few? I scraped and schemed, I smiled until my jaw ached, I swallowed my pride so that you might stand in drawing rooms with the cream of London society! A pudgy, spotty child who could barely string two words together without stammering. Too shy to dance, too timid to speak, too plain to be noticed. I had to drag you into the light, I endured the pitying stares, the whispers, all for you.”

Penelope swallowed, blinking back the onslaught of emotion, willing herself not to give her mother the satisfaction of her tears. She tried to remind herself that this was her practiced skill, to make her feel guilty and small. She jabbed and jabbed until you were bleeding out, begging for mercy, all while she hailed herself as a victim, a martyr. 

“And what do I get in return?” she asked incredulously. “Nothing.” 

Penelope snapped her head up, and looked her directly in the face because she knew exactly what her mother got in return. 

“You got an heir,” Penelope said defiantly, desperately willing her voice not to waver. “My son.” 

The woman swallowed convulsively, casting her eyes towards her bejewelled fingers. 

“You’ve known about his existence for years,” Penelope countered, confidence sprouting in her stomach like the first snowdrops after a harsh winter. “You’ve known all this time and you kept it to yourself, kept it in the family, away from Colin, so that you could remain in control.” 

“You were only ever a last resort!” Her mother grasped, her cool, collected demeanour slipping away. “Do you think I would have gone looking for you if your sisters had managed to perform their duty? I intended to bring you back, Penelope. To drag you back to London and make you do your job.” 

Went looking for her? Bring her back? This took Penelope by surprise, she’d thought she’d had her mother figured out, imagined she’d hired a private detective or something. She’d never believed her Mama would actually have gone looking for her herself. 

In a very sad, very pathetic way, it made Penelope feel loved. 

“Imagine my surprise when I landed in that Godforsaken town, when I enquired after you, when I saw you at the school gates, hand in hand with two children! That little boy…well…he looked so like him, I knew what had happened. You’d bore a son, a legitimate heir at that! And you told no one.” 

Her eyes were bulging out of their sockets, her face was so red that Penelope thought the woman before her might spontaneously combust. 

“And as for that Bridgerton boy…that drunkard.” She almost laughed, in a way that made Penelope’s blood rush to her ears in anger. “Pathetic, do you honestly expect me to have told him?” 

The confirmation was no less than what she’d expected, but Penelope said nothing, she thought if she opened her mouth she might scream. 

“No,” Portia continued, “no it was better in my hands, Penelope. It always was. Your father, your cousin Jack, they did nothing for the estate, nothing to keep us afloat. And that Bridgerton boy, you can’t honestly have expected me to give him anything!?” She asked incredulously, but almost genuine, as if she was actually asking her opinion. 

“You wanted nothing to do with him, you had left! And I kept tabs, all he did was waste away in brothels and gambling hells, pissed drunk every hour of the day. He was in no state to run the barony, and certainly no state to father your son!”

Penelope wanted to leap to her feet, to snatch at her mothers hair, to slap her across the face as she had done to that priest so many years ago. The words were too much, anything, anything to get her to stop talking. But she had a point, Colin had found himself in such an awful state because she had left, because she thought she was better off without him. 

Her fault, her fault. 

She could feel tears threatening to encroach again, she felt gagged and bound by her mother’s words, trapped as though she were still a child. If she opened her mouth she would scream, yes, or wail and sob. 

But Portia just continued to speak, each word harsher than the last, “No, no it was better with me Penelope! Better in my hands, with no man telling me what to do.” 

All of a sudden, Penelope spoke without even thinking, “Better with you?”, she almost laughed. “Better with you? Mama you have no money! You floundered what resources you had! And now, what?” she actually did chuckle this time, “you live with Philippa? Not a penny to your name! Pretending you’re ill because you’re too embarrassed to leave the house?!”

She had not a moment to revel in her victory before a sharp, painful clatter came across Penelope’s cheek. 

Her mother had slapped her clean across the face.

The wail she let out must have been loud, because before she knew it Colin’s heavy footfall was pounding up the stairs. 

He wrenched her out of the chair and pushed her behind him, “don’t you fucking touch her. Don’t take another step closer.” 

It was clear that Colin was holding on to the very last threads of his civility as he tried not to hit her back. She could actually hear his teeth grinding, his pulse was beating like a drum in his palms. 

He knew, as well as Penelope, that the children could not see him lose control again. 

But her mother just continued, too enraged now to think of her own safety. “Do you know why I have no money?!” she screeched, “Ten thousand pounds and an apartment in Vienna to that silly girl! That idiot Cowper chit, who clever as you think you are, Penelope, managed to figure out your secret!” 

It was as though all the air had been stolen from the room at once. 

It had been her mother. She had paid Cressida off. She was the reason she was able to return without facing ruin.  

Colin was shaking as the news landed, she could feel his sweating palms as they gripped to her own. 

Penelope’s mind was racing, thoughts coming unbidden, a mile a minute. She tried desperately to reason with herself, to pin the thought down, to remind herself that this wasn’t kindness. She knew logically that her mother had paid Cressida off to save her own skin, and her sisters, that Whistledown would have ruined them as much as it would have ruined her, especially if Penelope had not been there herself to take the blame. 

And yet.

That sick, helpless feeling rose like bile in Penelope’s throat, the feeling of being cared for, of being protected, of being worth the sacrifice. For one hideous moment, it felt like love.

The tears came in earnest now, hot and unrelenting. She turned her face away, not daring to let her mother see her weep, not daring to let Colin see the confusion etched across her visage.

Still, she could not speak. And her mother continued as though she could not stop. 

“The lion’s share of our money, Penelope. And not only to the Cowper girl!” She raved, incensed, striking her and Colin dumb. 

“A bribe to your maid to tell me where you’d gone the day you left, a thousand pounds to the Danbury steward who told me of the house the Countess gave you! Another hundred to the schoolmaster for your children’s birth records! I could have lived comfortably till my end if it weren’t for you, you wicked girl!” 

Colin stepped forward at her words, fit to lunge, she could feel the anger radiating off him. 

But then, Penelope felt herself slump, the tears she had shed burning off some kind of emotional steam that had been building inside her for many years. 

Her mother had protected Penelope’s secret, had ensured she could be reunited with her husband, albeit without meaning to. 

Penelope had provided her mother with an heir, had ensured she kept her title and standing, albeit without meaning to. 

They were even. 

There was nothing more to say. 

“Colin, stop,” she sighed, exhausted. “There’s nothing more to be done.” 

It was a timely cessation to the rising tension, because just then she heard Thomas and Agatha bounding up the stairs after Colin. They poked their heads through the open door, but Penelope did not give her mother a chance to address them. 

“You must have known, Mama. That Thomas would come of age one day. I am afraid that day has come, we will take the deeds to the properties we have left, Colin will ensure Philippa and Albion send over the ledgers and anything else we require, we will take over everything from today on.” 

Her mother opened her mouth to speak, but she cut her off again. “I know you said there is nothing left,” she gripped Colin’s hand and could not manage to hide her smirk as she spoke. “But unlucky for you, I married a Bridgerton. We will throw enough money at this to ensure Thomas is king of the bloody county one day if we have to!” 

The words tasted sweet on her tongue. The Bridgertons were everything Portia had wanted to be: wealthy, respected, untouchable. They had never clawed or schemed for their fortune, never peddled their daughters like wares at a market, never lived and died by what next invitation they had. They were the gold standard, the family against whom all others measured themselves. 

Portia had loathed them for it, loathed their ease, their effortless charm, their inexhaustible coffers.

Now it was Penelope who sat on the winning side of that divide. She, the overlooked daughter, pudgy and shy, who had been told she’d never be enough. She, who had been laughed at, jeered at, bullied in her own home, was now mistress of a fortune and a name her mother could never touch.

And for once in her life, Penelope let herself revel in that triumph.

She made to sweep from the room, incredibly proud of herself for managing to stand up for herself at last. 

But she should have known better, because Portia Featherington never left a room without having the last laugh. 

“Are these your children?” she asked, her beady eyes roaming about the twins in that same assessing way she had done to Penelope earlier. 

“I-yes,” she stammered, caught off guard. The way she looked at her children made her sick with unease. 

Entirely ignoring Agatha, who looked disgusted by the woman, and perhaps a bit disgruntled that her parents warnings had been proved justified. 

She directed herself directly at Thomas, “Lord Featherington,” she curtsied, and using the last card in her hand, she spoke, “One can only hope you’ll prove yourself to be more of a man than your pathetic, drunken, father ever managed to be.”

Chapter Text

Buncrana Lane, Rathnew, Co. Mayo. Ireland. November 7th 1828. 

The cold was bracing, that crisp winter air that seemed to travel directly up his nose and into his lungs, chilling him from the inside out. The cold, packed earth that served for a path was icy cold even with his heavy boots. 

The sun was setting fast, it seemed like just a few days ago the sunshine would stretch long into the evening, awarding them hours and hours with which to play in the courtyard square or the village’s neighbouring fields  after school. 

But Mammy’s most important rule was to be in before sundown, and at this rate they might not make it. 

The ice in his chest was slowing him down, he forced himself to take in a heaving breath of that frozen air as they trudged up the hill. 

At least Mammy was making chicken stew tonight, she’d promised them both that she would when they left for school that morning, with a kiss to their foreheads and a whispered, “be good,” to his sister. The thought of that warm hearty meal, the rich savoury stew piled on top of creamy mashed spuds and some torn, crusty bread. A fire in the sitting room, and his new novel to read after a long day of nothing but dreary arithmetic and painful Latin spurred him on. 

At least he was free for the next two days. 

“Come on Tommy!” Agatha shouted from a few paces ahead, marching like a lieutenant on parade, her head high and arms swinging, “there will be fuckin’ killings if we don’t get in soon!”

He grunted in indignation, about to tell her that his bag of books was much heavier than the weightless sewing kit and colouring pencils she was required to bring to school, when a shout cut off his train of thought entirely. 

There was some sort of scuffle ahead, outside the O’Shea’s cottage. 

Out of pure instinct, he lunged forward and pulled his sister back, rather unfortunately done by gripping one of the long braids which fell down her back. 

“Ow! Jesus, what the-,” she cast her eyes to where his were set. “Oh,” 

Even from about fifty paces away, Thomas knew what he was looking at. 

They were being turfed out, all five of them. 

Their belongings, though there wasn’t much, were stacked up on a cart. Piles of loose, tattered clothing, for they had no trunk to carry them in. A couple of burlap sacks of potatoes and meal, taken with them and hoped to stretch God knows how long. Some books and toys, baby dolls, some old hurls and bats, and a sad, wooden rocking horse flanking the rest of it. 

Its glassy eyes reflected the sunset, its straw-like hair blew in the wind, it stood and swayed slowly as though it was put there to protect what little they had left. 

Mrs O’Shea was in tears, her face gaunt and hollow. She was wrapped in a threadbare blanket and she clutched her two youngest to her chest as they wailed, tugging on her hair and battering their little fists against their mothers chest. 

They weren’t wails of anger or frustration, but hunger. 

Their father stood firm in their tiny bungalow’s doorway, broad shouldered and furious, arguing viciously with the pompous land steward, who slumped lazily against his palomino horse, smug as anything, smoking his pipe. Thomas thought that his polished buttons and boots stood in stark contrast to his rat-like face and scraggly beard, and his stature, careless and floppy, seemed to mock the entire scene. 

The voices carried, even over the cries of the young children. 

“You’ll not put us out. Not tonight, not with the wee ones crying for their supper. We’ve nowhere else to go!” Brendan O’Shea’s voice cracked with fury and desperation.

The steward sucked calmly on his pipe, letting the smoke curl from his mouth before he answered. “Not my concern, O’Shea. Rent’s three months in arrears,” he said matter-of-factly, running his hand down the house’s battered wooden walls, “and the master’ll have his due. Out with you.”

Agatha let out a small cry of sadness as they both spotted Liam O’Shea, their classmate for almost a decade, his head poking out from the side of the cart. He watched his father argue with the man, his eyes wide with fear. 

He hadn’t been to school that day, now they knew why. 

Liam’s cheeks were blotched red from the cold, or maybe from crying. He clutched an old teddy in his arms, looking far younger than the twelve year old he was. 

But when his eyes caught theirs, he jerked his head away, burying his face against his patched sleeve as if the shame of being seen like this was worse than the hunger, worse than the cold.

Thomas’s chest ached at the sight. He wanted to call out, to say something, anything, but his tongue was stuck fast to the roof of his mouth. 

He felt useless, helpless, and worse still, he felt afraid.

What could he do?

“I’ll pay him when the harvest comes right, it always does!” O’Shea barked back, fists clenched at his sides. “You think I don’t mean to? You think I’ve not worked in these fields since I was a lad? This roof is mine as much as his!”

The steward chuckled, shaking his head as though amused by a child’s tantrum. “Nothing here is yours. Not the roof, not the land, not the dirt under your boots, O’Shea. The land is in His Lordship’s gift, you’re here because he says you can be. And now he says you can’t.”

“The baron’s away to London! Hasn’t stepped foot here in years! He couldn’t give a bollox’ who lives here, hardly needs the money, does he?!” 

“Ah, but my dear Mr O’Shea,” the steward snarled in that sickeningly posh English drawl that seemed to command quiet over all the Irish in their village. “I’m afraid I do.”

What did he want? Thomas thought desperately, how soon could they get a new family in here? Would they fare any better? Would they not be turfed out as soon as the next harvest went bad?

The land was nearly useless here, or so he was told, nothing but a layer of soil over rock, or peaty bogland. 

To hell or to Connacht, that’s what everyone always said. 

“Well we’re not goin’ anywhere, ye English prick,” Mr. O’Shea growled, planting himself in the doorway like he meant to become part of the wall.

The steward smiled, thin and sharp and gave a wave to the two hired men that skulked behind them. At once they stepped forward, lugging small wooden barrels in their arms. The first man, somehow more rat-faced than his boss, popped the cork with his teeth, and began sloshing the liquid across the low walls of the garden, like a pubgoer sneaking off for a piss. The second staggered toward the cottage, hefting his barrel higher, grunting as he tipped it against the thatch of the roof. 

“Oh no,” Agatha whispered next to him, gripping her brother’s arm in fear. 

The smell hit Thomas before the sound did, sharp and acrid, stinging his nostrils and clinging to the back of his throat. He gagged, but could not tear his eyes away from the scene, watching in horror as they sloshed the stuff like water, letting it run in greasy rivulets down the whitewashed walls, soaking into the moss that clung at the corners. 

Shouts rang out from the little family in the cart, Mrs. O’Shea wrenched herself up and stuck out her hand, pleading with her husband to give in, her voice raw with panic, “Give up! Brendan, give up, please!” Bleated wails came out from the children, who stuffed their heads in their dresses and gathered the blankets to their face to cover the smell. 

“Over my dead body!” Mr. O’Shea growled back, who was now attempting to wrestle one of the steward’s men to the ground. He grabbed the fellow by the collar and drove him back, both of them stumbling into the mud. The barrel clattered sideways, spilling its contents in a reeking puddle.

“If that’s how you want it,” the steward grinned over the din. Without a second thought, he gave a lazy flick of his wrist, and tossed his lit pipe on to the drenched earth at his feet. The little house, with its wooden walls and thatched roof, was set ablaze in seconds. 

Thomas’s breath left him in a strangled gasp. He could feel the wall of heat off the fire even from where they stood, the crackle of burning wood drowning out the wails of Mrs O’Shea and her little girls. He watched Liam’s eyes widen, watched his friend claw at the cart’s edge as if he might leap down and run into the blaze for the home he’d just lost.

He felt his sister tug at his sleeve in desperation, her voice trembling, “Come on Tommy, please, there’s nothing we can do.” 

Even his sister, with all her bright optimism, knew that they could not help. 

He wanted to move, wanted to scream, to run for help, but his legs had turned to lead. A sick, heavy weight pooled in his gut. She was right, there was nothing they could do, it was the third eviction they’d seen that year, and nobody ever did anything. 

And that man, that rat-faced bastard, that smug, pompous English prick.

He hated him. He hated them all.

A Rattling Carriage, Surrey. England, November 7th 1833. 

The road between Surrey and Kent was cobbled and gravelly, the carriage lurched along, and Thomas didn’t know if it was the motion sickness or the woman they’d just met that had made him more nauseous. 

For a long while, no one spoke. His mother was huffing against the glass, her arms crossed severely over her travelling cloak, Agatha was picking at her fingernails, her brow furrowed in frustration and Colin was shifting nervously, unable to look at him or his sister. 

Mammy was right, they shouldn’t have come. 

The air between them felt somehow poisoned now, thick with smog as though an undeniable reality had cracked open and released some sort of noxious, venomous vapour.