Chapter Text
February 25, 1814
Ledger,
I suppose I should have seen this on the horizon. Mama had grown more paranoid as spring approaches, knowing that many of the ton sequestered in the countryside will return and her increasing nerves about the impending arrival of the new Baron Featherington.
She has decreed that we must now stay out of society events and gatherings until after the Queen’s presentation. She wants to be sure that when the Finch family returns, we appear as much in mourning as we were a year ago. As you know, my sisters and I have no dowries to speak of and she desperately wants Philippa to be married to Mister Finch. Philippa does so adore him and Mama does actually want Philippa to be happy. Especially since Mister Finch’s family is quite respectable.
So, as a result, I will not be able to attend any gatherings, day or night, with you and Eloise for the foreseeable future. I do not wish to risk sneaking out at night as Mama is not nearly so distracted now that we are constantly in the house, just like in the summer. While she does not pay much attention to me, I had better lull her into a false sense of security to ensure she does not bat a lash at me once April arrives.
So, my dear friend, lament for me. I have sent a similar missive to Eloise. Please, support her during this time. You know how she feels about entering society.
Waving at you from my prison,
Nel
February 27, 1814
Nel,
I apologize to you, first and foremost, for this being a day late. I spent much of yesterday in bed after spending too long a night at White’s on Friday’s eve. Anthony was in a particularly dour mood and nothing would cheer him except beer and whiskey and even that was not much help. Second, I must apologize to my mother, though you shall be my only witness to admitting so. She currently glowers at me as I pen this response during the sermon on this dreary Sunday. What is every clergyman’s obsession with fire and brimstone? And why does it take three hours to get the bloody point across?
However, I must now rescind my apology to you because, clearly, you hold no care for my well-being. If you did, you would not subject me to Eloise’s moaning about how she misses you or Rapscallion’s persistent nips upon a delicate aspect of my person. He was terrible all summer long when he did not get to see you and finally calmed upon your re-entrance into his life. He may very well make a meal of me if you disappear from his sights again!
Fine, I shall not take my apology from you. Instead, I shall direct all of my ire to your mother…or is that too rude?
Oh dear, Mother is about to box my ears. Me, a grown man of nearly thirty, for all of the congregation to watch.
Write to me, Nel! I am sure we can find a way for us so that you, me, and Eloise can get together.
Desperate for Salvation (From My Mother),
Ledger
March 1, 1814
Ledger,
How are your delicate ears? Do they still burn from your mother’s swift punishment? Eloise detailed the incident in great, gleeful detail in her missive to me. She dragged you out of the church by the ear, I heard, after forcing you to make a rather large donation? I do pity you but I am also in hysterics laughing over the whole ordeal. I do not think I thought it was possible to feel such contradictory emotions at once!
I do not at all feel sorry for leaving you with Eloise but my heart does go out to Rapscallion. I shall miss him terribly as well. You say he bites a tender part of your anatomy? Pray tell, where does he choose to nip?
I am afraid I must cut my joviality short and pose a serious quandary: The new baron has still not appeared and it has now been nearly a year. Mama says he is purposefully drawing out his arrival in order to torture us. While I know you do not ever want to inherit your brother’s title, you are close enough as a man of great fortune to the affairs of lords. In your opinion, why might the new baron, a man we do not know who now has great control over our lives, wait so long to claim what is his? I have speculated that because we are in great debt they may not want the title or they are trying to sort out as much of their finances as possible before dealing with the estate. But beyond that, I truly cannot fathom why he would leave us in such a state of purgatory.
In your estimation, how is Eloise? I consistently ask about her feelings in our messages and she still appears incredibly nervous. I worry for her.
Such dreary topics to leave this missive off on. Would you share your art with me again? Without Henry’s gatherings, I will need some sort of metaphorical sustenance for my own artistic endeavors. Besides, your work always fills me with intense joy. You realize you possess great talent, do you not?
Across the Way,
Nel
P.S. Give Rapscallion a sugar lump for me.
March 2, 1814
Nel,
It is always so encouraging when one’s friend gains a sense of ecstasy from your embarrassment and pain. I believe the Prussians have a word for it, though French is the language I studied and excelled at.
Truly, you know you have a true friend when they can laugh at your fumbles without fear of recrimination. It is an even better friendship when the one being mocked knows that there is no ill will intended.
Lucky I know you so well.
I do not think it is necessary or appropriate for me to share what Rapscallion chooses to munch on. No. Not at all. In fact, I demand you forget I said anything. In fact, I said nothing. You know nothing. That is all.
I see your concern over the new baron and his persistent absence. I cannot imagine the amount of terror that may give you and your mother and sisters. Admittedly, I am not as sympathetic to them as I am to you. But Eloise, and even dear Fran, have reminded me that I cannot comprehend the reality it is to be subject to a man’s power over me. I can only speculate why the new lord may not have arrived yet. Is he advanced in age at all? I think your current theory, that he may be trying to get all of personal affairs in order before tackling the precarious situation of your estate may be most likely. I do hope your mother is wrong, that he is not being needlessly cruel. But from what I know of many men in power… They will wield it in order to assert their dominance of those they perceive as weaker. Anthony, as much of a stubborn mule he can be, is a rarity. He controls much of our lives but I know without a doubt he cares for us. Many heads of houses do not contain even a modicum of affection for some of those they are responsible for.
If it comes to it, maybe you can run away to My Cottage? I could shelter you there. The Crabtrees would… What am I saying?
It seems as we grow closer, Eloise becomes more volatile with her outbursts. She went to the modiste yesterday for more fittings for her presentation dress and when she returned, she stormed through the house like an impending squall and locked herself in her room for the rest of the day. Mother keeps tittering about it being nerves but I believe you and I know better.
As requested, I have used the back of this parchment for a quick sketch in graphite. El pointed out a bird’s nest in a hole in the tree two days ago, so I have decided to mark their progress myself. Mother does not want me at my bachelor’s lodgings while Eloise prepares for her big day and though I am a grown man who is decidedly not afraid of their mother, I decided to be a kind son and stay the month. So I must have something to do before the proper marriage mart season begins. I waited until the mother bird flew off before I climbed the tree and made a rudimentary sketch. Please appreciate my efforts. I tore a pair of breeches and nearly fell thrice for this. El believes the bird is a blue tit. She has been carrying books about botany and wildlife lately, so I trust her more than myself on this matter.
I expect an even trade! Have you worked any more on your Ariadne re-telling?
Thank you. For thinking I have talent of any kind.
Still Plucking Sticks from My Hair,
Ledger
P.S. I did as requested and gave the great beast a sugar lump (though he did not deserve it) and I think I must take a pound of flesh from you to replace my own.
…She was a bride.
Ariadne had imagined this moment so many times before. As a child, when she tried to picture the kind of man her father would marry her off to. Again, just a few months ago when Theseus appeared, ready to kill her half-brother and save the lives of future, innocent Athenians. But despite the life she lived, the very nature of her heritage, she never expected to be wedded to a god.
But Dionysus stared down at her, his eyes crinkling in delight as she stood before him in her peplos. The air was still in this space at the top of Mount Olympus, a liminal space between humanity and the gods. Still, unnatural, but not uncomfortable. It was warm and no small amount of that was due to the absolute adoration in her soon-to-be husband’s gaze.
She thought she would die by the ocean, lost in a sea of despair. Yet his blue-green eyes steadied her, kept her from floating adrift.
“I have a gift for you,” he said softly and with a wave of his long, nimble fingers a wreath, a crown, appeared. It was made of silver leaves and glittered with raw pearls and tourmaline in every shade of green from sea glass to deep emerald. He set it gingerly upon her head, brushing her cheek with his knuckles as he did. “Fit to be a constellation.”
Ariadne could not help the disbelieving snort she emitted. Dionysus frowned.
“It was made clear to me I am unworthy of such praise or loyalty back on Naxos.”
His eyes darkened, a storm passing over his face before he carefully gripped her chin and tilted her face up to meet his gaze.
“Theseus is a man. I am a god and I am not my father. Have faith in me, wife. I will earn your trust.”
And against her better judgment, she believed him.
March 10, 1814
Dear Pen,
I did as you said and followed Ben to the stables.
I can now confirm, with a great sense of justice, humor, and victory, that Rapscallion is doing an excellent job at bruising my brother’s posterior. His derriere, as it were.
My dear Pen, join me in humiliating him. I have so few pleasures this month.
Laughing,
El
March 12, 1814
Nel,
I do not know whether I should be thanking you for sending me a salve or burrowing into the ground to die of mortification.
As it stands now, I think I will go sketch bird eggs as I contemplate my disgrace.
Bruised,
Ledger
March 17, 1814
Dear Colin,
I have not much to report in the way of my own life events. As Mama has kept us much in seclusion due to our period of mourning we have not left the house much these past few months.
Are you still enjoying your travels? There has been much news of Napoleon here and the advances of his army and I know your family must worry about you.
I fear I do not have much to comment on. I know I am usually much more loquacious when remarking upon your extraordinary journey. Please do not mistake the brevity of this letter as being uninterested in your trek across the Continent. But I must take care of a matter of an equine nature.
Please be safe, Colin.
Sincerely,
Penelope Featherington
March 18, 1814
Nel,
A miracle occurred, I believe. I went out to give Rapscallion some extra oats, hoping to soften his disposition to me and lo and behold he did not attempt to bite me once!
Nor did he appear very interested in the oats… I found evidence of quite a bit of sugar coating his lips.
This leads me to two conclusions:
One, that a good samaritan sneaked into the stables at night to appease my great beast.
Two, that this same good samaritan may think my horse is more handsome than me. For what else could explain why they would waste such an opportunity to see an ungrateful cob over one of their dearest friends?
Oddly Jealous,
Ledger
March 23, 1814
Dear Sir Phillip,
I know I often start my letter to you bemoaning my state as a woman with no actual rights to speak of, but I insist I must do so again. My debut draws ever closer and under no circ*mstances am I excited. Why can men enter society unencumbered by any presentation to the Queen or the expectation to marry as soon as possible? You all simply come of age after you get to choose whether to attend university or not and are simply there.
Men get to squeeze the absolute most out of life and customize it to your liking. I imagine it much like when someone creates lemonade making it as tart or as sweet as they like. And the greatest thing about being a man? If it is not to their liking, they can try again.
Us women get one shot. One opportunity to apparently be worth anything. Through marriage. And to marry limits our opportunities afterwards. And if we do not like it? There are no second chances.
My mother so wishes for me to emulate Daphne’s success, happily ignoring all of the hardship my sister suffered through last season. She simply wants me to copy her best, most perfect parts.
I only obtain some semblance of freedom, of balance, with my dearest friend Penelope or through these letters.
I do not think I ever thanked you for indulging my academic interests or my thoughts.
I am afraid I have reached the limits of sentimentality for one letter. You will have to excuse my rougher edges. It is something my brother, Benedict, informs me he adores but also needs some improvement. My other brother, Gregory, informs me I must swap out my entire personality to be agreeable. You can imagine his fate at my hands.
Now, onto the article you sent me about blue tit* and their nesting habits, Benedict and I have been cataloging…
March 30, 1814
Nel,
I hope you are not still reading the absolute drivel that is Lord Byron’s Corsair. Do you know that tosspot said it is partially autobiographical? I am still in a rage since you informed me you bought the damn thing last week. It would do better as kindling for a roaring fire. Nel, dear Nel, what merit could you possibly see in his nonsense?
I had to step away from my parchment and ink for a few moments before sitting down to write again. Anthony gave me the most bemused stare as I walked across the drawing room to achieve calm once more. I sat by Francesca as she played the pianoforte and we remarked on Mozart’s newest work that debuted in Vienna. Then she poked at my sour countenance and imitated a blasted dirge as I made my way back across the room.
Siblings. Why do I have so many of them?
I went to the Granvilles’ the other night and they passed along their wish to see you as soon as you are free from your prison. But I know you exchange regular letters with them as well. I would like to state that Eloise and I have a prior claim to your presence.
I have attached a sketch of the blue tit’s eggs progress. They are so incredibly tiny, I think they are all smaller than half of my pinky. I wanted to hold one but El just about bit my hand off. She said it was possible if I did the mother would abandon them and I would never desire that. I know you cannot tell from my sketches, but they are white and speckled with brown - the type of brown that resembles tea with a splash of milk - and I think it gives El a sense of calm to have these to return to every day.
We are rapidly approaching Eloise’s presentation along with your birthday. So truly, I have only one question to ask: What should we do to celebrate? Your birthday is the day of the Queen’s Ball this year, I believe.
Eagerly, Missing You, Awaiting Your Return,
Ledger
April 1, 1814
Ledger,
Well, seeing as I have a gift in store for the both of you, it feels strange to even think about the day of my birth.
So I will leave it at this:
Surprise me.
Eagerly,
Nel
It was another spring season. Another year where the marriage mart came to call and young new debutantes and their clever mamas developed and executed battle tactics that Wellington or Napoleon would envy.
Although, on the Day of Our Lord the Sixth of April, 1814, Benedict rather thought Eloise was planning a completely different plan from their mother’s. The first one possibly being a desperate escape.
“Is this the plan?” Daphne hissed as she approached them in the hall outside of Eloise’s room.
Benedict rather imagined they looked akin to a gaggle of geese and it made him chuckle nearly as much as imagining how Eloise could currently be attempting to rescue herself from the presentation to the Queen. Alas, it seemed only Benedict and his youngest siblings, Francesca, Gregory, and Hyacinth, were drawing any great humor from the situation. It was a pity, truly. Anthony especially would spare himself the frown lines Benedict was sure were becoming more permanent by the minute if he deigned to laugh at how ridiculous they all looked.
“Daphne, thank goodness you are here.” Their mother turned towards Daphne as if she was Christ on the day of resurrection and Benedict had to bite back another inappropriate chortle at the image.
“She requested time,” Anthony huffed, and Benedict imagined little gray hairs popping out of the man’s head every minute Eloise deigned to make them wait.
“We do not have time,” Daphne insisted. “Stand back, all of you.” In true Daphne fashion, so much like and unlike their mother at once, she stepped forward with purpose and Benedict hastily made himself a shield between his sister and the door.
“No offense, sister,” Benedict smiled, both full of cheeky intent and utter resolution. “But I believe you are the last person she would like to see.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Benedict resisted the urge to wince at the offense and undercurrent of hurt in his sister’s tone. While Eloise was his favorite sister, Daphne was his first sister and that left an indelible mark upon an older brother. By no means had he meant to offend her, but he knew El would appreciate a lecture from Daphne as surely as he would enjoy a meal of bull testicl*s. Daphne meant well, but part of Eloise’s very crippling anxiety rested with how she was constantly being compared to her elder sister. Where Daphne was subtle, Eloise was blunt. Daphne was often tactful where Eloise could be brash. Daphne was considered graceful and beautiful in a classical sense of the word. Eloise was Eloise.
Though Benedict thought about reassuring El that she was beautiful and had her own wonderful qualities, he was also fairly certain that was not really what she wanted to hear at present.
What Eloise really wanted was simply to be told she did not have to do this. But that wasn’t an option.
“Are we sure she is even in there?” Hyacinth piped up, twirling her freshly pressed white dress around her ankles.
“Of course she is in there,” Francesca chided though she did not look nearly convinced.
“Where else would she be?” Gregory questioned.
Benedict smirked, deciding to fan the flames a little more amongst his siblings.
“Climbed from her window, escaped through the chimney-”
“Quiet, she may hear you,” Violet shushed.
Benedict’s smile turned maniacal and he could feel the crookedness of it, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He could not decipher what was more hilarious; that his mother truly thought Eloise would take his ideas and escape or the fact that she was one hundred percent correct.
As overzealous as she could be, Violet really did know her children.
“You do realize I left my child and husband at home for this.” Daphne peered around at her siblings in exasperation as if they were all in kahoots to steal her away from her home in some great time waste of a ploy.
It wasn’t a bad idea, really. They did miss her. Anthony probably most of all, Benedict mused. They were both incredibly bossy. It was why they clashed but also understood each other so well.
“How is little Augie? Can I return to Hastings House with you–” Hyacinth tried to say but Anthony interrupted. It demonstrated how frayed his nerves were if he were to interrupt little Hyacinth.
“I told everyone this would happen!” Despite the fact his brother’s hands were firmly clasped behind his back it was a very pitiful, veiled attempt to maintain an image of control. Benedict knew his elder brother too well to not be able to read the clear frustration in his voice. Anthony did not exactly care for society events but he spent much time cultivating their image along with their mother. Missing the Queen’s presentation, while personally entertaining to Benedict, would not be ideal. “And now we are to be late for the Queen.”
In Bridgerton fashion, their brood began to argue and snipe at each other over the possible outcomes of such a thing, or whether Eloise was currently scaling the flue, climbing her way to freedom and a life amongst the pigeons, crows, and magpies of the world.
“Shh!” Francesca leaned forward, her ear nearly pressed against Eloise’s white painted wooden door. “I hear something!”
Comically, Benedict had to admit, they all stilled and followed Francesca’s lead. Leaning forward, their backs bent in half to hear the faint rustling sound coming through the cracks in the entrance. Anthony’s patience already spent, he reached for the door just as Violet hissed his name. Barely a beat later, before his elder brother could touch the knob, they all practically jumped back as the door opened. Lady’s maids filed out, their heads bowed low as they hurried away like a lion was nipping at their heels.
Or a lioness.
Or a goose what with that terrible feather in her hair.
For Eloise appeared, a mockery of good manners and elegance in her cream and gold presentation gown, a sneer plastered to her face.
“If one of you utters a single word,” Eloise threatened, pointing at them all with every ounce of ferocity she could muster. With a frustrated pull of her skirts, she stormed past them. “Let us get this over with.”
Violet followed immediately after and Benedict had no idea how the woman was grinning when Eloise so clearly would rather be burned at the stake than go through with the presentation. Benedict was even more sure that his sister was just one step closer to running away, throwing her dress on a burning bonfire in the woods and dancing around it naked with pagan women.
Honestly, Benedict would not blame her if she did.
Sighing, he pumped his long legs faster to catch up with Eloise. Not for the first time that morning, he wished Penelope would be there. She would calm Eloise’s nerves.
He knew that Penelope and Eloise had been exchanging frequent missives since Penelope was forced into seclusion the past month by her mother. Benedict had been doing the same, savoring every inked letter, every word that he traced with his fingertip every time a new one arrived. That morning, they had both received a missive from across the square, addressed to them both.
April 6, 1814
My dearest friends,
El: Move purposefully. Slowly. Slowly.
Ledger: Please make sure she does not mysteriously disappear on the way to the palace.
Good luck.
Nel
“Breathe, El,” Benedict whispered, bending at the hips slightly to reach his sister’s ear. He dodged the ostentatious white feather on the way. “It will be alright. Just walk and bow. You do not need to be a diamond. Simply aim for the middle of the pack.”
“I rather be trampled to death by the pack at this rate.” Eloise moved even faster, lifting the hem of her dress as she began the descent down the grand staircase. Benedict grabbed her elbow to steady her.
“I would much rather aid in your escape and start your new life of crime as a privateer than let you be trampled,” he teased gently.
Eloise made a strangled noise in her throat, caught between a whine and a laugh. Alas, their mother knew them too well.
“Benedict,” he heard Violet behind him, the tone of her voice one made of pure, maternal suspicion. “You best not be planning any daring escapes.”
He straightened and shot back his most charming smile.
“I would never, Mother!”
He clutched his free hand dramatically over his heart, widening his eyes for great dramatic effect.
“Cad,” Eloise murmured.
He pinched her side and they nearly toppled over the foot of the stairs with how hard she swung her fist at him.
Ah, yes. Another eventful season, indeed.
As Benedict settled into the carriage reserved for the Bridgerton males, he sighed, glancing out the window to wave to Featherington House as they passed. Though he knew it was unlikely Penelope could see him at this distance, he liked to believe she could. He thought he happily imagined a flash of red curls and a bouquet of fresh flowers.
But as they drove away, the clip of horse hooves echoing loudly across the gravel and stone, Anthony was all business as usual. He sat straight, refined across from Benedict and Gregory. Benedict knew in this instance his elder brother was walking the fine line between a viscount and a brother, and the viscount was winning.
“Gregory. I have decided to replace your Latin tutor.”
It was a statement, not a question.
Gregory tilted his head, his small brow furrowing in confusion. Benedict had to resist the very physical urge to soothe the little wrinkle on his youngest brother’s forehead with a thumb.
“But I like Mister Allen,” Gregory protested, his voice a tiny whine. “He can be quite funny.”
Benedict made the strategic decision to stay playful, desiring to cheer up his youngest brother. In many ways, Gregory was at the biggest disadvantage out of the four brothers. He was younger than them by a decade at least and frequently was treated more as a son by Anthony than a younger brother. He wasn’t yet old enough to join them in many pursuits, so often felt left out. The best Benedict could provide was to allow Gregory to join in on some levity.
And poking fun at Anthony was always fun.
“This is called distraction, little brother.” He waggled his eyebrows for emphasis. “The Viscount's task of finding a bride this season will undoubtedly require it.”
“I am more focused now than I have ever been, I assure you,” Anthony said coolly, leveling Benedict with the glare that the second eldest knew was code for Not in front of the children, you absolute sorry excuse for a responsible adult. “And my task cannot be exceptionally difficult. Hastings did it, after all. How hard can it be?”
Benedict decided it’d be wiser not to point out that their brother-in-law had married their sister practically at gunpoint. The man, now that the trouble was over, did so adore Daphne.
“Spoken with such feeling, too,” Benedict sighed exaggeratedly, clasping his gloved hand over his heart while not-so-discreetly winking at Gregory. His youngest brother was grinning now, happy to be included and that was worth it for him.
“I do not need feeling. What I need is what I have and that is a list.” Anthony’s glower had grown more intense as he said this and Benedict was struck by how serious Anthony was being. Well, more serious than normal. It was quite the change from the year before, where Anthony had seemed torn between duty and self-pleasure. But after Daphne’s troubles and whatever had transpired with the woman Anthony refused to name, he’d turned to his duties as viscount with a fervor that was a tad terrifying. “Tolerable. Dutiful. Suitable enough hips for childbearing and at least half a brain. That last part is not so much a requirement but a preference, in fact.” Benedict was caught between a huff and a laugh when Anthony added, turning to Gregory, “Mister Allen is not there to entertain you. He will be replaced by Sunday.”
Gregory’s mood fell again, Benedict saw it written all over the boy’s face. His shoulders slumped and he sunk down into the carriage seat.
Benedict kicked Anthony’s shin.
He wasn’t sorry about it.
“Could we not have appealed to the Queen, Mama?” Prudence drawled, and Penelope felt like she was listening to someone taking a cheese grater against fresh marble. “After having mourned dear Papa for so very long, perhaps Her Majesty might extend a kindness and allow us to be presented again.”
“I see no need to go through all of that again when I myself am already betrothed to Mister Finch,” Philippa piped up, examining her cuticles with a strangely watchful eye.
“Mister Finch may very well still change his mind.”
“Particularly when he discovers there is still no dowry,” Missus Varley muttered at Lady Featherington’s side.
But Penelope heard it.
After a year of honing the fine art of listening at doors, straining to hear hushed conversations over the clang and clatter of dinner, or the loud chatter and music of ballrooms, Penelope could simply not avoid hearing everything.
And what Missus Varley and her mother had been discussing more and more grew ever more disturbing.
“Hush,” Portia Featherington admonished, trying to wave away all possible concerns and failing. “The new Lord Featherington shall see to that. When he finally decides to show his miserly face.”
She sipped her tea before pulling a face and Penelope fought down a giggle. She received so little entertainment these days, she had to grasp humor where she could. Her only great joy was her correspondence with her friends.
As her mother announced it was finally time to shed their mourning colors and more hushed whispers about reusing tea leaves, Penelope stood on tip toe to try and gain a better view of the street. The Bridgerton carriage had pulled away not long ago and she could’ve sworn she could see Eloise’s scowl from here. She’d even thought she’d witnessed Benedict waving at her but convinced herself it had been a trick of the light.
But now she was waiting for a surprise.
Her surprise for the Bridgertons to be exact.
“Penelope! How many times must I warn you to be wary of that window?” Penelope whipped her head around to see her mother clutching her temple as if Penelope was giving her a migraine of untold proportions. “Do you wish to appear like a befreckled beggar spending all day in the sun?”
“Of course not, Mama. My apologies.”
Penelope shifted, making enough of a rustle with her skirts to appear as if she would move. The second Portia returned her focus to her sisters, Penelope returned her gaze to the square outside the window, her eyes searching greedily for her gift to Eloise.
And Benedict of course, as he would reap the benefits of a happier sister.
She just hoped she got the timing right.
Penelope had reliable friends and the printer she had newly employed was eager to make just as much of a splash as her. It would mean more money for him.
So Penelope waited, taking in this bit of joy before she had to return her thoughts to a lack of dowries, re-using tea leaves, and most possibly another discussion about potatoes.
Benedict found it vastly amusing how his sisters had to crane their heads to see the debutantes. There the girls went, one by one like decorated swans to curtsy before a very bored looking monarch. His sisters, especially Francesca and Hyacinth, observed with the sort of excitement and trepidation that this fate one day awaited them. Francesca’s face in particular looked placid but Benedict knew a troubled sea of worry roiled inside.
Daphne kept looking towards the great doors the girls and their mamas would parade through, tottering as if she was Eloise’s mother. He offered jokingly at one point to hoist her on his shoulders to which she shot him the look. Benedict decided not to admit that he actually missed that time long ago where it was socially acceptable to lift his little sisters upon his shoulders as they strained their little necks to pick an apple on one of their tenants’ orchards or see some spectacle at the park.
Each passing debutante curtsied but none seemed to impress Queen Charlotte. Benedict thought he saw Lady Danbury try to hide a sigh at the Queen’s antsy behavior. The monarch kept shifting in her seat, slouching slightly and waving away each new young girl desperately seeking approval.
But soon the doors opened and Eloise appeared.
Benedict could see a small bead of perspiration at her forehead. Her hands were dusted at her sides, chest rising and falling rapidly with her breaths.
He felt Daphne grimace in sympathy, while Anthony appraised the situation with a critical eye. It was a good thing his siblings knew him so well, for anyone else would think Anthony’s look was judgmental. But the Viscount Bridgerton was just as nervous as the rest of them. Sympathy curled in Benedict’s belly, making it twist and turn. The already warm room, crowded with countless bodies, seemed boiling hot and he was half convinced his sister would faint.
She took a step, the floorboards creaking beneath her.
The Queen tilted her head…
All at once, the doors behind the Queen burst open, and servants with gilded trays filed out into the room, pamphlets stacked atop fine silver trays. The very first went to the Queen herself as her right hand man Brimsley whispered in her ear. The woman’s eyes widened in excitement as she gazed down at the parchment and without even looking at her subjects, she waved them away.
“I have seen enough.”
Benedict felt his jaw go slack as Brimsley tried to protest.
“But, Your Majesty, there are still-“
“I have seen enough.”
And with that, the Queen was gone, leaving the rest of them in utter shock. As servants began passing out the pamphlets, Benedict distinctly heard his sister say from beside their mother,
“Does this mean I can go?”
His mother said something, her polite smile frozen in place as she made a valiant effort to not break the put together character of the Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton. But Eloise, with no care for propriety, dashed away.
Benedict had to hold back a belly laugh at the sight.
Daphne attempted to scold Eloise, but as their younger sister escaped, she was no match when Eloise was on a mission. The mysterious parchment came into view, passed to Hyacinth and Francesca. Daphne peered over to scan the printed words and even his ever-perfect sister had to laugh. With a furrowed brow, Benedict managed to grab the copy Hyacinth held. She pouted at him which he returned with a grin before scanning the page.
And he snorted.
Gleefully. Truly. Heartily.
This was it. The gift Penelope had promised.
Lady Whistledown. Come to interrupt the event that Eloise had dreaded for months.
Oh, what a delight.
Benedict heard Daphne give Anthony a piece of advice, “Truly, I cannot say I will long for any of this. Best of luck, brother. You will certainly need it this season.”
Benedict leaned over so his face was next to his brother’s and he knew he was smirking like the worst kind of arse.
“I agree with our dear sister. You will need all of the luck you can get. If not the very grace of God.”
Anthony muttered unintelligible denials as he shoved Benedict’s cheek, causing the taller man to stumble. But he shook it off. How could he be in a bad mood?
His dear friend Penelope had triumphantly made her reappearance as her alter ego. Eloise had been provided an escape and Benedict had been gifted entertainment.
Now if only he could see his redheaded friend, the day would be perfect.
Dearest Gentle Reader…
...Did you miss me?
As the members of our esteemed ton lazily sojourned in their rustic retreats, This Author was doing but one thing.
Honing my skills.
Or should I say, hatching my plans?
No, even better...
I was sharpening my knives.
For all of you.
Questions abound as to This Author's identity and means. Seeking those answers shall prove fruitless, indeed.
There is, of course, another unknown identity at present. Though this one you will be able to unearth... I speak of the season's diamond, where ever she may be.
Your move, Your Majesty.
Arranging the distribution of the column to time with Eloise’s debut had not been easy. Penelope now had a new printer on Chancery Lane and Penelope’s palace connections had been a fat zero at the end of last year. But someone could always be bought, Penelope had learned, so she made use of her connections and the bank account Benedict had set up for her. It turned out one of Lucy’s cousins had married well and had become acquaintances with one of the Queen’s many daughters. As a result, naturally that cousin’s lady’s maid became good friends with some servants in the palace.
And so it went, the gossip chain that Penelope created link by link, getting in touch with high brow ladies and servants alike to facilitate the timing of things.
On top of that, finagling a new price for her column had to be done. She’d debated getting a hold of Benedict to stand beside her, a strong presence ready to defend her. But in March, it had been hard enough to escape her mother’s watchful eye. In the end, it had been better for her to adopt her Irish lady’s maid persona and put on a facade of confidence in order to conduct business.
Mister Harris needed to respect her. Revere her. Not some well-dressed gentleman standing guard behind her.
“Eighteen? We agreed on twenty,” Harris had said, broad and intimidating even from the other side of a roughly-hewn wooden counter.
“My mistress changed her mind.” Penelope could not help how her lips had twitched in amusem*nt. “You're new to this arrangement, so I'll say this only once. What my mistress wants, she gets. And for whatever reason, that would be you at the moment. That doesn't make you special, Mister Harris.” She saw the moment his mouth gaped in astonishment and relished in it. Penelope had discovered there was nothing better than taking a man by surprise. “Printers in this town are ten-a penny. But there's only one Lady Whistledown, and she can just as easily move her business elsewhere. So it's eighteen, not a penny more. And the delivery boys need a wage increase. They're the ones running around town, while you get to sit here on your lazy arse.”
Harris nodded, slack-jawed, suddenly referring to her with respect. It was something Penelope admitted she liked quite a bit. She pondered if that made her vain or prideful, but a businessman who wouldn’t have paid her any kind while she was dressed as a flimsy debutante referred to her with actual deference. It was intoxicating to say the least.
Benedict may be a tad displeased though.
She winced inwardly at the thought. Benedict had made himself her personal protector. Every time she’d gone out to Bloomsbury on her own last year, he’d taken it personally. The anger that would alight his ocean eyes could only be rivaled by the hurt.
She wasn’t sure what that meant sometimes.
But it was a sure sign of his friendship, of that she was certain. And she would be sure to apologize profusely when she saw him next. Hopefully at Lady Danbury’s ball.
But Penelope also had other worries.
She eyed her mother sitting casually on the sofa, reading her own words. They had been lucky the past year. Ever since the summer, Benedict had been sending produce deliveries from his country garden, disguised as mistakes made by the local grocer. Varley and Portia had been too desperate to try and make corrections, since the deliveries were already paid for. While their diet still mostly consisted of potatoes, there was accompanying vegetables and occasional fruit.
Something about that small gift actually felt rather large. It caused Penelope’s heart to flutter and ache with a tender ferocity.
But it also brought to the forefront her family’s dire straits.
Penelope had money. A good chunk of it squirreled away. If their situation got any worse, was it not her duty to aid her family with what she had?
But that could require revealing her secret. The last thing Penelope wanted was to give away this one thing that was hers, not her family’s.
It was another reason she longed for Eloise and Benedict. They would have advice for her, surely.
Dragged back to the reality of her business, Penelope turned towards her mother.
“I am off to the market with my maid, mama. I have just a tiny bit of pin money left and…”
Her voice trailed off as her mother waved her away, not even giving her a glance. Now that the season had begun she was invisible again, of no real concern. Lady Featherington had to worry about fooling the ton that they weren’t bankrupt, after all.
So Penelope was nothing of consequence. Again.
Scurrying out of the room, Penelope wondered if she was broken. For her mother’s casual neglect did not hurt so keenly anymore.
Benedict sketched a pert nose on the face of a woman. She had round cheeks and curly hair though he had yet to draw her eyes or the shape of her lips. He kept hesitating to jot down those final details, some sort of mental block that held him in its grasp. Distraction held him in its grasp, he decided, as he kept glancing out towards the window to the house across the street.
Well, that and taking some sick pleasure in his sister’s disastrous dancing efforts. He felt quite sorry for Gregory’s feet. But Benedict had paid the boy five shillings to take his place.
Benedict hid a snicker as the sour old dance master glowered at Eloise’s mistakes.
“I do not think she is very good,” Hyacinth said from the sofa across from him, so casually he almost choked on his spit.
“I believe she can hear you,” he replied, shaking his head minutely at his youngest sibling, tapping the end of his graphite to his bottom lip.
“I can hear you!”
Benedict and Hyacinth’s eyes met and they giggled conspiratorially as Eloise, once again, trod on Gregory’s feet.
“Ow! Watch my feet!”
“Might we be done?” Eloise huffed, releasing Gregory as she pleaded with their mother.
Benedict and Hyacinth continued to snicker as their mother, ever the essence of the well-refined lady, tried to reason with her second daughter.
“If you are to catch the Queen's eye after this morning's interruption, then you must be perfection.”
“I believe it was the interruption that was perfection.”
Eloise met Benedict’s stare across the room and they shared a secret smile. Truly, Penelope’s gift had been genius. Perfectly timed and choreographed. They would have to think of something splendid for her birthday in thanks.
“Shocking that Eloise Bridgerton was not named the season's diamond after all, was it not?” Benedict teased, shooting her a mocking look.
Naturally, she stuck her tongue out at him and he chuckled to himself as a rather perturbed Anthony strode into the room.
Benedict studied his brother from the corner of his eye. Every action his brother took these days appeared indelibly calculated, controlled. Even his state of dress for the past few months had been carefully curated and refined. Long gone were his sideburns, his hair shorn to a more close-fitting cut. His suits were expertly tailored, nothing loose or out of place. Their late father’s pocket watch in many ways was the only thing that remained the same, always at Anthony’s side as he went about his business.
Anthony had always been a man of duty, ever since he’d unexpectedly become a viscount a little over a decade ago. But over the past year, it was as if Anthony himself prepared himself for battle, for a new phase of life that would irrevocably tie him down in his place as Lord Bridgerton, head of a family that was destined to grow bigger. Yet there was no warmth in Anthony’s countenance, only that ever-stiff sense of duty.
Sometimes Benedict missed the Anthony of many years ago. When his brother had been eighteen and carefree. Hell, sometimes he missed the Anthony of a year ago, as frustrating as that bastard could be, waffling between duty and running away.
Whatever his mistress had said or done, she’d altered something in Anthony. Bent something so out of place that Benedict was unsure if it could ever be straightened out again.
“Was anyone else aware that dear Colin has apparently decided to add Albania or some such place to his itinerary as he gads about the world?” Anthony sounded utterly irritated. Not entirely new for the man, but the mention of Colin had Benedict’s ears perk up a moment.
For it made him think of Penelope.
It was probably good Colin would be abroad a bit longer.
“No.” Eloise begrudgingly began dancing again with an even more disgruntled looking Gregory. “But how happy for him that he can simply decide to do that.”
“Joining us for tea, Anthony?” Violet asked hopefully as Benedict began to refine the curls of the faceless woman on his sketchpad. He could smell the strange, dusty scent of graphite on his fingers and the scent of black tea with lemon coming from the tray service. Among it, Anthony’s strong vetiver cologne wafted into the room, his presence overpowering everything.
“I am afraid I must pass. Too many calls on my funds today.” Anthony clasped his hands behind his back, ever the man in charge. “Now that the season has started, I shall need to fill your coffers at the modiste, and oversee the hiring of a few extra staff, and your ring, when you have the chance, I shall need it. The fields by Ferryhallow – I was thinking we might hold off on leasing them this year due to the hard frost–”
Violet whirled around, placing a hand to steady herself on the sofa near Benedict’s feet. He glanced at his mother sharply, just as surprised as she was. Though, he had to admit, he was more amused. His mother just about appeared as if she would keel over in shock.
“I beg your pardon?”
Anthony blinked at his mother as if she’d forgotten her own name.
“The frost hardens the soil, saps it of nutrients.”
“That is very well, but you requested my ring?”
“Father's betrothal ring.”
Benedict recalled the ring quite well. Though his mother had not worn it since before Edmund Bridgerton’s death, she prized it above all else. It was a precious thing, a small set of creamy pearls shaped into the aspect of a flower.
But Benedict was curious. He eyed his elder brother and he couldn’t help what he knew was a sh*t-eating grin cross his face.
“Did someone catch your eye at the presentation, Brother?”
“I thought all of the young ladies looked beautiful,” Hyacinth exclaimed, not wanting to be left out.
“Not particularly. And all of the young ladies looked the same. Like young ladies.” Anthony was to the point, assured, almost mechanical. Like a clock ticking away the time precisely the way it was supposed to. Precise, short, on time. Benedict had the keen feeling his brother was living his life out of some sort of secret handbook for lords. He could imagine it now, on page 267, when a viscount turned the age of thirty, one must finally submit to the shackles of marriage .
Anthony turned towards their mother again to continue, “I should simply like to be prepared when the opportunity presents itself.”
“The opportunity…”
Violet actually looked affronted. As if her eldest son had insulted the Archbishop of the Church of England.
“I have already compiled an index of the season's eligible misses and have arranged interviews.”
The very room stilled. Benedict could feel it in the air, the bewilderment of his entire family as they studied Anthony, as if he was addled in the head. Interviews?
Benedict’s hand slipped and he cursed as his graphite nearly took out the faceless woman’s round cheeks.
“Interviews?” Their mother’s smile was forced, Benedict could tell. He was already predicting how he might do damage control to convince their mother that, no, the head of their family was not suffering a grievous brain injury. Hopefully. “Dearest, I shall be more than happy to give you my ring when you find someone with whom you are very much in love. Besides, it is in safe keeping at Aubrey Hall.”
Violet slid down the back of the sofa as Anthony stuffed a finger sandwich into his mouth form the tea service. She leaned down and whispered none-too-quietly into Benedict’s ear,
“See that he is quite well.”
“Me?”
Benedict’s question was half incredulous, half exasperated. Why was it always him that had to make sure Anthony hadn’t been kicked in the head by a horse? Alright, yes, Anthony was his dearest friend and brother. But for pity’s sake, Benedict had given up the title of nanny to all of his siblings years ago.
Or, at least, he thought he had.
But luckily, or unluckily, Anthony did not seem to be in the mood for being looked after.
“I am not in need of coddling,” he snapped, swallowing his sandwich with such gusto, Benedict was shocked he did not choke. “I assure you all. Everything is in order.”
With that Anthony checked their father’s old watch before snapping it shut and briskly departing as suddenly as he had entered. Benedict shared a worried look with his mother and decided, quietly, that fine, he would check on Anthony later.
He was starting to worry that some horse really had kicked his brother in the head.
Rapscallion recognized the young miss from a mile off. He was well acquainted with the human his master called Eloise. Not only by her looks, but by her smell he could tell they were fellow foals, born from the same stallion and mare. It was uncanny how much they looked alike, but even small idiosyncrasies made themselves present between them: the tilt of their head when they were confused, how their voices raised to an impossibly higher pitch when they were stressed, or how their blue eyes shifted about if they feared to be caught.
As usual, the two siblings feared to be caught by their mother, which Rapscallion found a little preposterous. They were old enough now that surely the mare who birthed them no longer dictated their care or feeding schedule.
Humans were exhausting. Baffling, really. And Rapscallion missed Carrot Top keenly, the human mare who fed him sugar and that his master stared at when he thought she wasn’t looking. It took a long while for Rapscallion to learn human names. They were often strange and not in any sound he could pronounce himself. But after much practice and exposure he could at least recognize them. But Carrot Top’s name was still a little too hard to grasp, so he settled for what her hair reminded him of, one of his favorite treats.
He had almost called her Sugar Lump, but she did not resemble the delicacy she fed him most often in the slightest. That was fine. Carrots were just as well.
His master and his younger sister were persistently petting his snout, softly, affectionately. Rapscallion would usually not mind but he missed Carrot Top and the sugar she gave him. All his master Benedict had brought were oats and apples. While both were fine snacks, they were not his favorite.
Carrot Top knew his favorite.
So Rapscallion did what he usually did when frustrated over yet another meeting in which Carrot Top, his friend and quite obviously his master’s mare, did not appear; he bit the sensitive flesh of his master’s behind as soon as he wasn’t looking.
“Ow!” his master exclaimed, jumping at least a foot before glaring at Rapscallion. Rapscallion simply whinnied exasperatedly.
“Brother, is that not the umpteenth time he has bitten you this month? And in very much the same place too.”
“The equine beast seems to only do it when he has not seen Penelope on a regular basis.”
“Oh! Well in that case, it’s perfectly acceptable behavior.”
“No, El, it is not! At this rate, I will no longer be able to sit on my bruised, delicate behind at any event. I will have to sleep on my stomach!”
“Not my problem.”
“I thought I was your favorite brother.”
“You are! But this is entertaining.”
The two started their incessant arguing, though the great horse knew it would always end amicably. The pair of siblings could not stay mad at each other if they tried. It was admirable. But Rapscallion thought it was less entertaining than when Carrot Top got in a lively argument with his master. It was an interesting dynamic that distracted him from his regular schedule of feeding, riding, eating, and sleeping. Carrot Top had changed his routine significantly for many moons now, and he hoped to keep up that unusual life pattern.
“Speaking of,” his master hedged, and Rapscallion let out a long, exhaustive breath through his nostrils. “You are seeing Nel at Market Day tomorrow, correct?”
“You are not invited.”
“El!”
“What? I need time with my friend.”
“She is our friend.”
“But my best friend. Besides, did Mama not task you with the unfortunate business of checking in on our dear brother while he makes his ridiculous round of interviews?”
His master groaned and even the horse knew that was a sound of the utmost agony.
“Damn it all! I had forgotten.”
“Never fear, Brother. You shall see Pen at Lady Danbury’s ball that very evening.”
His master buried his long, strong fingers in his white mane, his nose nose dipping to nuzzle the short hair along his neck. Rapscallion felt his master’s heat radiate from the man’s hairless cheeks and the horse almost felt bad for biting him.
Almost.
“But I want to see her now…”
“What was that, Brother?”
“Nothing.”
Rapscallion snorted. At least he and his master had one thing in common.
Nel,
You conniving, vexing woman! To bilk me so, I am both deeply impressed and greatly cross.
Your timing of the pamphlet during the presentation was a stroke of genius, and Eloise will be singing your praises for the rest of the calendar year.
However, do not think we will not have words about how you delivered your column. Dear Nel, you know how I worry. Do not stoke my ire to a fever pitch that would cause me to do something rash.
If you’re not careful I will chain you to my side.
However, I have been told in no uncertain terms I am not allowed to remain angry with you. At least over this particular incident. El forbids it.
I hope to see you soon, friend.
Your Irate Friend,
Ledger
The bright market bustled with the ton as always, filled with an array of spring pastels that attracted the rich like bees to flowers almost glaringly dazzling. Penelope could not have cared less though, as she had finally reunited with her best friend once again. The only thing that would have made the excursion better is if Benedict had accompanied them.
She tucked away the missive Eloise delivered to her from her brother, not even attempting to hide her small smile.
“Daphne provided me a list of recommendations for a successful season. Private advice regarding the top ten ways in which to entrap a man. I am telling you, Pen, the new season has barely begun and already I feel touched in the head.”
Penelope could not help the giggle that escaped her lips as she plucked a new fat, white quill from a stand. Dropping the required payment into the marchant’s waiting palm she turned to delight in her best friend’s bemoaning of the season. While Penelope admitted she herself would not mind some advice on how to actually gain an eligible bachelor’s attentions (she though briefly of Colin’s bright smile though, strangely, it was pushed away as quickly as it came by a mind’s roar of ocean blue waves), Eloise’s commentary could always be counted on to make Penelope feel invigorated.
Eloise smirked knowingly as she eyed the quill Penelope had just obtained.
“Another quill? My, my, dear Pen. You do get through them at an extraordinary rate.”
Penelope could not help but share in Eloise’s barely concealed attempt at a covert grin. She winked before looping her free arm through Eloise’s own.
“I have been busy with my correspondence, as you well know.”
“Oh, yes, correspondence . Sweeping letters to the whole of London’s finest, I gather?”
They both barely contained their giggles before pinching each other girlishly, shushing one another in only the way best friends could get away with. No one paid them any mind and Penelope had to admit, that was the beauty of it. To the rest of the haut ton, they were just silly debutantes with nary a worldly thought in their heads. It really was the perfect cover.
“To be fair, some of my quills and ink have been used in order to keep up with you and your brothers.”
Penelope looked around the market catered exclusively for the rich. It was incredibly different from where she normally bought her writing supplies in the busy, no frill stalls outside of St James and Mayfair. But within the confines of their pretty, constructed world everything was made just so. It was strange that Penelope felt that she liked both, even though she knew that straddling the two separate realities could one day prove difficult. But for now she did it with ease, as the only people who truly saw her helped her do it. Her heart warmed as she gripped Eloise’s arm a little tighter in her own.
“Yes, keeping both me and my brothers entertained must be a large task to take on,” Eloise teased, adjusting the light blue hat on her head, squinting out at the world beyond the stalls as a hint of sun gleaned through the stone columns of the hall the market had set up in. “Benedict was rather put out he could not join us today, but Mama has him on a mission to make sure Anthony is right in the head. He had set up interviews amongst the eligible young ladies to find a suitable wife, if you can believe it?”
“Interviews?” Penelope felt her lungs constrict and her stomach hurt from how much laughing she’d done in the past hour. But this bit of news proved to be the most hilarious. “I guess I should not be surprised. He has always seemed very… particular?”
“That is a kind way to put it.” Eloise glided through the stalls, picking up a small book at a stall that described the nation’s local bird populations. She reached into her own reticule to pay for it, hugging the small tome happily to her chest. Penelope had heard all about the progression of the blue tit’s nest of eggs in the garden and Eloise was convinced they would hatch any day now. “And if Whistledown just so happens to make fun of him for it, I would be most grateful.”
“El!”
Eloise rolled her bright blue eyes playfully before leading Penelope out of the market and onto the stone steps outside. Spring was finally grabbing hold of London after a chilling winter and Penelope was delighted that the imported wisteria alongst the great houses, the cherry blossoms in the gardens, and the jasmine planted in nearly every square were finally in bloom. Despite a persistent bite to the wind, warmth permeated the air with more frequent bursts of the sun.
“Enough of Anthony. You have been writing Colin too, correct? I have stopped reading his letters. He rambles, does he not?”
“You say that every time we mention his letters,” Penelope admonished lightly. “But he is not a bad writer, in fact. He is very descriptive when it comes to travels, especially about the sights and local customs.”
“Yes, well, I must admit I am jealous he has in fact been somewhere.” Eloise’s face fell a fraction, and Penelope recognized the storm that flitted over her eyes. The Bridgerton siblings were similar in that way. They were painfully easily to read in many respects but it was truly their eyes that could tell a whole story in under a second. “Because he is a man, he may do so. Because he is a man, he may galavant off to any country he likes before he is thirty. He does not even have to consider marriage until he is forty or so, if he so wished. Oh, if I were a man…”
“You would eat his heart in the market place?” Penelope tried to joke and Eloise gave her a weak smile in return. “Just as fair Beatrice said in Much Ado About Nothing ?”
“Can you imagine that it has been, what, nearly two hundred years since that play was written and yet that sentiment still holds true.” Eloise tapped the dimple in her chin thoughtfully. “Pen, why do you not write of this plight more often? You have considerable influence, power even. Why not use it for such an endeavor?”
Penelope squirmed a tad uncomfortably as they walked along the path to admire the green square ahead of them. She was all too aware of the persistent presence of their maids behind them.
“While I agree with you, El, that the state of our existence is unfair, that sort of writing can be considered politically radical. I must be careful how I say things. You remember the Queen’s hunt for me last year?”
Eloise winced, coming to a halt at the edge of the green space. She threw a look back to their maids a few steps behind. Penelope pretended to stand on her toes to gain a better look at the light pink cherry blossoms hanging from the tree.
“Fair enough, I suppose.”
Penelope snorted. From Eloise that was as close to an admittance of defeat one could have. But she had a sneaking suspicion Eloise would bring up the subject again.
“What of the new heir to your household? Is he here yet?”
“No. Mama is still convinced he is trying to torture us before he makes his appearance,” Penelope chewed her bottom lip. She’d fallen back into the habit the past month, leaving the bit of flesh in tatters. “I am not sure what we will do if he is as bad as Mama says.”
She felt Eloise lean her head on top of her own, the gentle pressure soothed her. It was something that, truly, only Eloise could do.
“No matter what happens, I will be here for you Pen.”
Penelope smiled because it was truly one of the only things she believed to the marrow of her bones.
Benedict finally found an opening to accost his older brother at Gunter’s at exactly 2:31 p.m. The blasted man had been conducting his interviews since bloody ten that morning and Benedict deeply regretted letting his mother rope him into this. One, because he could have slept for at least another two hours if he had not been dragged out of bed by a determined Violet Bridgerton, intent on her second child stalking her eldest across Mayfair for the day. Two, he also could have been with Eloise and Penelope right now at the market. While ton activities and events were not his favorite, he had not physically seen Penelope for going on a month and it felt like a literal hole in his chest had opened up the minute she’d disappeared from sight. He supposed this was what it was like to have a best friend for a long period of time.
Growing up, Benedict had always had friends. That was the type of man he was. Amiable, funny, and constantly willing to start conversation. He and Colin were similar in that manner. However, Benedict moved from circle to circle so much, trying to find his niche or his place that he had never been able to really have one close friend. Oh he had many friends and acquaintances, but no one he could truly bare his soul to.
No, that honor belonged to his siblings. At least, it had until last season.
It had until Penelope. Then Henry and Lucy. Even Andrew was becoming what Benedict suspected was a close friend and it was a new, wonderful feeling that Benedict never realized he was missing.
But now that he had it, he never wanted to relinquish it. Bridgertons were covetous creatures, they all knew it. Even if they would never admit it aloud; they were a family that refused to relinquish anything - or anyone - they claimed as their own.
So Penelope being gone for a full month when she was only across the street? It had nearly done him and Eloise in.
Except Eloise was now basking in Penelope’s company and Benedict was stuck trying to ensure that Anthony hadn’t contracted a disease of the brain.
When finally Anthony’s two o’clock interview with Miss Goring had ended after exactly thirty minutes, Benedict slid into the chair across from his brother the young lady had previously occupied. Without preamble, Benedict took a hold of his brother’s spoon, still planted into a half eaten scoop of creamy ice, and stole a bite.
He immediately regretted it.
“Ugh,” Benedict groaned, making a face as he was forced to swallow the salty, foul concoction. “Parmesan ice? You absolute bastard!”
Anthony merely smirked, taking back his spoon and taking a large, satisfied bite.
“I quite enjoy it.”
“Then you belong with the rest of the lunatics who claim to be gentlemen.” Benedict smacked his mouth, his tongue pressing to the roof of his mouth as if that would somehow exorcize the flavor from his taste buds. “Speaking of lunacy, how is this absolute mockery of courting going?”
“Ah, that is the genius of it, little brother. It is not really courting, but a requirement to preclude any sort of courting that could take place.”
Anthony sat back in his chair, crossing his arms as he let a look of smug satisfaction cross his face. Less than impressed, Benedict felt the lines of his face settle into something flat, only raising one eyebrow.
“Sure. And how is that going for you?”
Now Anthony scowled and Benedict let out an inward crow of victory.
“None of these young chits seem to be able to achieve balance or perfection,” Anthony bit out, the seams of his jacket tightening as he tensed under Benedict’s gaze. “If they have any smarts, they lack all grace. If they have social niceties, they appear to be missing a brain. How am I meant to find the next Viscountess Bridgerton if none of the available young ladies can measure up?”
“Why should perfection matter, Brother?” Benedict placed an elbow on the table so he could rest his chin on his palm. He could understand Anthony wanting a woman of both beauty and learning, but perfection? Anyone should know that perfection did not actually exist. Though, Benedict had to admit, he often sought the ever elusive perception when it came to his artwork.
Or, if one were to ask young Gregory, there was such a thing as an absolutely perfect vanilla custard.
“Perfection matters, Ben, because it is a new Viscountess Bridgerton that would take over all of Mother’s duties. Not just parties or the running of the household, but the care of our younger siblings. Particularly our sisters.” Anthony leveled an exacting stare at Benedict that actually made the younger man gulp. “I am no fool. You think I do not know how much Eloise despises the idea of being out? That you have promised both her and Francesca that if they decided to be spinsters, they could live with you?”
Benedict refused to flinch under Anthony’s stare. He couldn’t tell who he was talking to just then, his elder brother or the viscount. But no matter what, he would not apologize for the vow he gave to their sisters.
“If you think I will take back what I said then you are sorely mistaken.”
Anthony held his glare for a moment before he sighed, rubbing his temples.
“Benedict, think on it. It is I who provides you with money to pursue what you want. We did not force you to join the military or the clergy. While, yes, you make your own financial investments and reap some rewards from that, it is still I that mostly supports you. It is definitely I that supports our sisters. You may offer them a place to live, but unless you find a stronger revenue stream it is still I that supports you all. And if you change your mind? If your future wife decides she does not want your sisters living with you? Then it will be me and my future wife that will play host to Eloise and possibly Francesca for the remainder of their lives.”
Benedict could not help the guilt that stabbed his body, twisting his guts and making him fidget. He sat back in his chair, mirroring his brother’s body language while he crossed and uncrossed his legs.
“I would not go back on my word to El or Fran.”
“I do not believe you would do so intentionally,” Anthony answered and Benedict could not help the well of hurt that filled up inside him. “But you can be flighty, Ben. Always trying to find what you are meant to do. I know what I am meant to do. I have known since I was nineteen years old.” Anthony’s face became stony then and Benedict knew the exact memory that was flashing across his brother’s mind’s eye. “I must protect my family. To do that, I must marry the perfect woman, one who can deal with the contradictory forces of Eloise and Francesca. One who can get along with Mother. One who, Heaven help us, will ensure Hyacinth safely debuts rather than turn to some sort of life of crime like we all secretly suspect she is capable of.”
Benedict could not help the snort that escaped him at that, and even Anthony gave him a half-smile. Shifting in the small wooden chair, he peered around him, at all the young ladies with their maids and mamas, in bright pastels as they chittered over the marriage mart. For that was what they all talked about this time of year. Their very livelihood depended on it. Benedict hated it for many reasons, as the room of anxious debutants and ambitious mamas, frankly, did not interest him.
But was that truly their fault? Or were they exactly as they had been molded to be by their society, as Eloise and Penelope so often reminded him.
As he surveyed them all, he could not spot one he believed could actually match his domineering, stubborn, often cantankerous older brother. But more than that, he could not imagine that a single one of them could ever come to rival his brother’s love for his family.
He wondered if Anthony even took that into the account. For whoever he married would not survive their family if they did not have a heart as strong and as capable of love as the rest of them.
With a sigh, Benedict shook his head and shrugged in defeat.
“Fine. I shall tell Mother you are not addled in the head but simply doing your best.”
“I would appreciate it.”
“ If you buy me a vanilla ice.”
“You absolute blaggard.”
“You love me.”
Twenty minutes later, Benedict had been shooed out of Gunter’s for Anthony’s three o’clock interview. With a slightly lighter conscience and a stomach full of vanilla ice and biscuits, he strolled along the street as he let himself digest. Anthony’s words had not truly surprised Benedict. It all made sense, his brother’s desire for absolute brilliance from a woman that would help him head their large family. But he could not help but feel that this would, at some point, bite Anthony in the arse harder than Rapscallion attacking Benedict’s own derriere.
Unconsciously, he rubbed his bottom before realizing what he was doing in the middle of the street. He quickly withdrew his hand, though his thoughts now turned to Penelope. He would see her that night at Lady Danbury’s ball and nothing thrilled him more in that moment. He had not realized how quickly one could forget the finer details of a friend’s face until they were gone unexpectedly for a month, but there it was. He was not exactly sure on what side of her face the stray curl fell upon, the one that always escaped any hairstyle she wore, or if her nose twitched before or after she laughed. It felt traitorous to forget such small, important details. Any detail, every detail, was important to an artist and he loathed to admit that he could even forget one about his young friend.
The one thing he knew he never forgot was her hidden, close-mouthed smile. The one full of secrets. It was as he pictured it, coy and vivid in his mind, that he angled his body towards a shop window to avoid crashing into a gaggle of young women heading down the street. They made no signs of stopping or avoiding his path so he stepped inwards, his eyes now diverted to the merchandise on display.
He froze.
There within the window display, on a pretty tray filled with other jewelry and hair ornaments, was a silver butterfly no bigger than the palm of his hand. It was set upon a comb made to slide into a lady’s hair, its intricate wings carved with delicate curves and circles beset with jewels. Tourmaline of the prettiest blues and greens dotted the silver wings and before Benedict knew it, he had entered the shop to enquire about the price.
Though he already knew that no matter what price it was, he would be purchasing it.
And he knew exactly who he would give it to.
Penelope’s nerves grew further frayed the more her mother and Missus Varley talked as they had gotten ready for the ball. Besides the fact that some of their wardrobe was being repeated from the year before, and they were having boiled potatoes for dinner again (unfortunately, Benedict’s last shipment of vegetables had run out two weeks ago), Missus Varley and the one maid they shared amongst them, the house was truly deserted.
Penelope’s heart panged as she thought of Missus O’Carroll and of Evans. She missed them terribly.
Prudence’s voice snapped her out of her longing and Penelope studied the conversation over the pages of her book.
“A season with no new dresses nor servants. Are we to empty our own chamber pots, too?”
“Mama, I cannot do that,” Philippa piped up, her nose wrinkling in disgust.
It would have made Penelope chuckle if the possibility had not seemed very, very real. She knew, deep in her heart, that some of their worries were petty. Emptying their own chamber pots and eating potatoes were the least of their worries if they were to go on as they had been.
“Calm yourselves,” Portia sighed, cradling her forehead with thumb and middle finger as if fighting off a headache. “As I have told you, once the new Lord Featherington arrives, we will be provided for.”
“Well where is he? Why is he taking so long?” Prudence huffed as she pushed Penelope’s feet off the chaise lounge so she could flop down, tying her robe across her breasts more firmly.
“Because he wishes to make us suffer.” Portia huffed another long sigh and, although the dramatics may have seemed ridiculous to Penelope before, she was not amused now. No, her mother was truly worried, concerned for their welfare. And if her immaculate, put together mother were to crack, her sisters would topple after her like a house of cards. “I did not wish to burden you young ladies, but…well our estate has been left in some disrepair ever since your father... The new Lord Featherington is off somewhere delighting in our misfortune because the man is as cruel as can be. I hear he cast his only son out to the Americas for daring to question his word. I tremble to think where he will send the rest of us if he has a mind.” Her mother whirled around in her tight floral skirt, a hand clasped to her bosom. “Cornwall, perhaps.”
“Cornwall!” Prudence exclaimed and Penelope flinched.
“I suppose you may always visit Mister Finch and me,” Philippa said, a dreamy smile floating upon her face.
Penelope did not feel so bad bursting her bubble just then.
“If there is nary a penny for new dresses or staff, there is certainly none for your dowry, sister.” Penelope eyed her mother and as if she meant to challenge her words, Portia glared at her before the corners of her eyes gave way just a bit in silent acknowledgement.
That look was gone as soon as it appeared when Philippa asked incredulously, “He shall prevent me from marrying?”
Their mother shook her head, grasping Phillipa’s shoulder in her hold to assure her. The purple feathers peaked through Portia’s hold and Penelope imagined her mother holding a small bird a bit too tightly.
“Of course not.” Portia smoothed out the feathers on Philippa’s shoulders before pacing the small, dark room. “The man may be an old, bitter curmudgeon, but he is a gentleman and he will keep a gentleman's agreement. Which is why we must waste no time finding matches for the lot of you.” Penelope’s stomach sank like a stone, settling somewhere near her toes at her mother’s words. “Unless you are all betrothed by the time our cousin arrives to claim the Featherington estate, we shall be at his mercy and then, heaven help us all!”
“We could always sell the silverware,” Missus Varley contributed, wringing one of their old dresses in her fingers. “The dinner service should fetch a handsome price.”
Penelope could feel her thoughts spiraling as her mother and Varley talked and her sisters worried amongst themselves. She had known, of course, of the dire situation her family was in. It had been the entire reason Benedict had squirreled away her money in a hidden bank account at Barclays. But with the new heir nowhere in sight and her own mother possibly willing to push Penelope into a marriage with just any eligible bachelor, they needed money and quickly.
The question was, did Penelope have the fortitude to use her own funds to support her mother and sisters? For the life of her, she didn't want her family discovering she was Lady Whistledown. And if Penelope revealed she had money, her mother’s shrewd line of questioning would lead the woman to find out.
Portia Featherington was many things, but unintelligent was not one of them.
Penelope bit her bottom lip and softly cried out as she tore into the tender flesh again. It bled slightly but the taste of copper and iron on her tongue gave her resolve. She would focus on Lady Whistledown tonight, more money to fill her own coffers. She would hopefully see Benedict and obtain his help. If the heir did not appear within the next fortnight, then Penelope would contrive a scheme to lift her family out of potential poverty.
She wouldn’t allow her mother to marry her to just anybody.
She couldn’t.
Lady Danbury’s ball, as usual, was flawless. Held in a dazzling conservatory, the greenery around the room added to the magnificence provided by the string quartet, the mountains of food, and the glittering jewels of the attending debutantes.
There was of course no shortage of gossip to overhear either.
The arrival of the Sharmas was the biggest talk of the night, centering mostly around Lady Mary Sharma nee Sheffield. It was a scandal to be sure as she made her reappearance with not only her own daughter, but the daughter of her late husband from a previous marriage. Penelope spied the two women from across the way and even she had to admit she was stunned by their beauty. The youngest girl in pretty pale pink was the quintessential debutant; bright smile, demure standing, and undoubtedly charming if the men coming to ask her to dance was any show if it.
But the elder Sharma daughter, dressed in sky blue, was a figure to behold. If the younger was a pretty as a doe, then the older Sharma sister was as regal, gorgeous, and terrifying as a lioness. The woman eyed the crowd with an assessing gaze before she gave her own sister subtle nods and hints as to who she may approach or assent to dance with.
Penelope could not help but admire the woman. If anything, she looked utterly assured of herself. Desperately, Penelope wanted to know more about them, to know of their characters. But she would bide her time. She could be patient, and while gossip was incredibly juicy, Penelope did not want to malign the sisters without getting a better assessment of them.
Lady Mary’s old scandal was not news exactly, but it would feed the ton. Penelope gained much insight from watching the sisters command their corner of the room, especially as wards of Lady Danbury. But that was another reason to be cautious. Lady Danbury was the last woman Penelope would ever want to cross.
So she listened some more. She overheard her mother and her put-on hysterics to ward off the Finch family from asking about the dowry again. Not unusual, and for once, Penelope had no compulsion to even be embarrassed by her mother’s show. Getting Philippa married at the very least was of the utmost importance and Albion Finch had been the only man to show any interest in a Featherington woman.
But as the ball continued and Penelope wandered along the outskirts, hiding behind plants and generally going unseen, she couldn’t help but take longing glances at the front glass doors. She tucked the little bundle of flowers she’d brought from home into her hair hopefully.
Their entrance into Lady Danbury’s ball was easy and nonchalant. It had to be in order to set Eloise at ease. She fidgeted constantly in her light blue dress, covered in floral appliques. Benedict pitied Eloise immensely; she looked so uncomfortable in her own skin when she was a girl usually bursting with confidence. It felt unnatural to see her distressed.
Benedict peered around the makeshift ballroom in the conservatory, his eyes seeking out a flash of autumn fire curls. This time last year at Lady Danbury’s ball, his first thought would have been to find the alcohol or Lady Danbury herself. Old habits died hard, after all. But now, after over a month of not seeing each other, he ached to be in the company of his young friend.
“Stop fussing with your dress,” Anthony hissed, bending down to scold their sister as she once again picked at her skirt.
“You look lovely, dear,” Violet soothed, patting Eloise’s arm looped through hers.
Eloise grimaced and Benedict wondered if their mother really thought that her second daughter was nervous about how she presented in a dress.
“I look like a prize calf, trussed up for auction.” Eloise furiously threw down the bit of her dress she had been fussing with.
Sensing that Anthony was growing exasperated and their mother was about to issue some other platitude or correction, Benedict knew he had to jump into action. Quickly, he decided to do what he did best. Defuse the possibility of confrontation with humor.
He bent himself in half to reach Eloise’s ear and did his best obnoxious impression of a cow’s moo. Both Eloise and Violet swatted at him though he saw his sister’s lips quirk upwards just a little. Satisfied, he stood at his full height and even Anthony cracked him a covert smile, which from Anthony was tantamount to a blessing from the archbishop.
“Even Daphne felt most apprehensive at her first official ball and look how well her season turned out,” Violet tried to soothe again but Benedict knew by the instant fall of Eloise’s face that any comparison to Daphne was the wrong thing to say.
Before his little sister could snap, as he felt she would do by the tensing of her jaw, the baby-faced Marquis Ashdown approached, his fly-away red-curls puffed around his face. He was barely out of leading strings, and although Benedict could not protect Eloise from dancing with gentlemen forever, he could save her from this one.
“Come, Sister,” Benedict automatically looped his arm with Eloise’s, dragging her away from their mother’s hold. “The cakes at these occasions are surprisingly good.”
Before either Violet or Anthony could utter a word, Benedict hastened Eloise away, practically diving into the surrounding greenery as if they could camouflage themselves into the natural decor. He thought he heard Anthony utter the words, “It truly is a sparse crop,” and Benedict prayed for his brother to choose his words more wisely around their mother. He of all of their brood should know the dowager viscountess would take that as a challenge.
Benedict was proven right when the escaped duo heard their mother announce so loud the entire conservatory could hear,
“After all, this is the season the viscount intends to find a wife .”
Turning to watch the results of their mother feeding chum to the sharks that called themselves debutantes and mamas, they watched as Anthony was entirely surrounded by silk gloved arms holding out dance cards and a cloud of hope that his name would provide them entrance to the Kingdom of Heaven. Eloise snorted, placing one hand on her hip, raising her nose in the air like a royal about to watch a deserved execution.
“Serves him right.”
Benedict sighed, squeezing her upper arm gently between his bicep and ribs.
“It is not Anthony’s fault that you debuted this year, El. He will not force you to choose any man if you do not want to. He learned that much from Daph’s season last year. He is already much more hands off with you than he was with her.”
“But he could have told Mama no. ” Eloise shot a glare of such fiery rage up at him that Benedict instantly knew she was masking her intense hurt. “And the reason he is so hands off with me is because he knows I could never be as perfect as Daphne. That I am a lost cause.”
“Oh El. Do not disparage yourself, please. That is not it at all.”
Benedict did not know how to fix the overwhelming sense of defeat that enveloped his sister. He could not admit that she was right, Anthony could have told their mother no, to hold off Eloise’s debut another year. But Benedict also saw Anthony’s point – had talked to their brother about it over the cold months.
“If we delay Eloise’s entrance into society, Mother will simply grow more frantic in her efforts to marry her off,” Anthony had said over glasses of port one long autumn night in his study. “I understand your concern for her, Ben. She does not aspire to be a wife and mother as Daph did.”
“Then why not hold it off just one more year?” Benedict had asked, gripping his glass a little too hard. “She is so scared, Ant.”
The conviction in Anthony’s deep brown eyes wavered slightly, Benedict swore he saw it, but hardened again with resolve. But even Benedict could not deny the attempt at gentleness in his brother’s voice.
“If we delayed it a year, she would debut at the same time as Fran. That would be incredibly stressful on both of them. The longer Eloise is out without any suitors she would accept, the sooner she will be labeled a spinster and put on the shelf.”
Benedict hated to admit that Anthony’s strategy was sound, that his logic made sense. But that still did not stop the helplessness he felt at being unable to make Eloise feel better.
“I will help you and Nel will too,” he whispered. They were now at the opposite end of the dance floor hidden by a ficus or some other such plant. Its waxy green leaves hid their bodies well and the fresh, clean scent helped mask the oppressive stress and energy of the ball itself. “How about you go find Nel. I will track down some refreshments and keep an eye on Mother.”
Eloise’s whole countenance lit up at once and although Benedict also wished desperately to see their mutual friend, he knew he’d made the right choice. Eloise needed Penelope more than he did right now.
“You really are my most favorite brother, you know that?” she exclaimed, bouncing on the balls of her feet.
Before he could reply, she was off, dashing along the sides of the dance floor, probably to find the darkest corner Penelope could be gathering gossip from.
Benedict ran a gloved hand through his thick hair, watching as she disappeared in the crowd. A Bridgerton blue amongst the other pastel dresses and black suits. He couldn’t help the conflicting emotions that overtook him in that moment. Eloise was his favorite sister, not that he would ever admit it. He loved all of his siblings in different, unique ways. But Eloise was the one he could call not only his sister, but his friend and confidant. Yet the need to protect her and his other siblings warred with that ever-growing sense of losing out on finding himself, discovering what could set him apart from being the spare of the Bridgerton family.
Balance, he discovered, was an incredibly tricky thing.
Penelope could not believe that, for once, her bright yellow dress actually helped her blend into the scenery rather than make her stand out like a beacon amongst the more calm pastels of the ton. Though she was invisible no matter what, at least her pineapple-colored dress actually helped her match some of the floral arrangements.
Standing in a dark hallway off the conservatory, not much but candle flames and moonlight lighting the way, she eavesdropped on two incredibly chatty footmen.
“...And they say Millerson has a whelp in the country. Spitting image of his father–”
Penelope grinned at the tidbit, though she would have to do a bit more digging about Mister Millerson before publishing that tasty morsel. Perhaps if she saw Benedict that night, she could inquire on Millerson’s reputation and if he was truly awful, then she would expose it. Benedict was often her voice of reason, while Eloise encouraged her to be brash and bold. It was a balance, that was for sure.
She subconsciously tucked the small, cut sprigs of heather and freesia into the hair just above her left ear again. The heather Benedict would recognize as the symbol she needed his help delivering a column that night. She’d decided last minute to add freesia, a new addition to the bouquet.
A sign of implicit trust.
“There you are!”
Penelope startled as Eloise strode over, her face one of relief. Penelope smiled, large and open as a twinge of guilt settled into her stomach. She should have immediately sought out Eloise, she knew her dearest friend was nervous about her first official ball.
“Oh, Pen. I am so glad to see you!” Eloise gushed, grabbing Penelope’s hands and squeezing. “Mama is already being insufferable.”
“I am sorry, El. I should have sought you out immediately.”
Eloise waved her gloved hand, her dance card nearly hitting Penelope’s nose.
“Nonsense, Pen. I knew you had business to attend to.”
Eloise wiggled her brows and Penelope could not help the giggle that bubbled from her lips. Eloise had the uncanny knack of always being able to make her laugh.
“At least your mama did not see fit to dress you as a sunflower.” Penelope gestured to the glaring brightness of her yellow dress. “I declare a bee keeps mistaking me for the real thing.”
Eloise opened her mouth to reply but Penelope saw from over her friend’s shoulder the approach of two gentlemen and had to resist wrinkling her nose. Lord Stanley was not offensive by any means. He was polite enough but without a doubt one who silently followed a crowd. Lord Cho, on the other hand, quite flagrantly flaunted what he thought a woman’s place was within the confines of marriage.
“Miss Bridgerton. May I request your next dance?”
“Or I might accompany you to fetch some lemonade? You seem parched.”
Surging in her chest, a tide of simultaneous protectiveness and jealousy overwhelmed her. She didn’t like it; it was awkward and painful all at once. She wanted to help shield Eloise from these men that she knew her friend did not like on principal. In fact, she was fairly certain that Eloise would rather break her own foot than dance with them. Penelope quickly decided she best not voice that aloud lest Eloise might really try to break her foot.
But the jealousy was there, too. Ugly and bitter. It was not that Penelope desired the attention of these two men in particular. In fact, they were probably the last men, besides Lord Fife, she would want to attract. But Eloise was a Bridgerton. Beautiful, bold, and with a bountiful dowry to match. Penelope had never, would never, attract positive attention from gentlemen.
“How can you tell, is she wilting?” Penelope murmured, and although she knew she was ignored, she was surprised at her own gall.
“Or punch if you prefer,” Lord Cho tried again, nothing if not insistent.
“It was a plant pun if you were wondering…”
But she was invisible. As usual.
“Apologies, gentlemen, I regret to inform you that my dance card is already full.” Eloise flaunted her dance card and Penelope noticed for the first time the scribblings of graphite upon it.
Her friend whisked her away, but before they got too far, Penelope grabbed the card and began to read.
“Byron? Wellington? Eloise, these names are false!”
“I am merely following my sister's valuable advice,” Eloise replied haughtily, a triumphant smirk taking over her face. “She told me that it is of the utmost importance for a lady's dance card to be filled with all of the right names.”
They both burst into laughter and Penelope tried desperately to school her face, though she failed utterly. How could she be jealous of Eloise? Truly, her best friend was too clever by half. But more than that, Eloise made her feel jubilant when otherwise she would not. Their glee was short-lived, however, at the unmistakable voice of the Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton.
“Eloise?”
Eloise hid her dance card behind her back, pressing her side firmly against Penelope’s own as if she could draw strength just through touch. Penelope pitied Eloise. Lady Bridgerton’s motivations, Penelope knew, came from a place of love. But her overzealous conviction that all her children should fall in love and marry would push Eloise farther away rather than provide happiness.
“There you are, dear. Come, there is someone I would like you to meet.” Violet made a grab for Eloise but before she could be pulled away, Penelope was seized by simultaneous inspiration and panic.
“Lady Bridgerton, excuse my rudeness. May I just tell Eloise something real quick? Some courage for her first ball.”
Penelope tried to smile, though she feared her nerves may have shown. The matriarch blinked a moment and Penelope was struck by just how beautiful Violet Bridgerton was. Her bright blue eyes that matched half of her children’s own, walnut brown hair elegantly pinned back. Regal and warm all at once. Penelope wished, not for the first time, that her own mother demonstrated half as much outward care. Violet may be overbearing but she was loving in the extreme.
“Alright, Penelope dear. Just for a moment.”
Penelope nodded her thanks before pulling Eloise off to the side just far enough that Violet could not overhear if they whispered. Gingerly, Penelope took the heather and freesia from her hair and tucked it in Eloise’s own.
“Give these to Benedict when you can.” Penelope pulled a pin from her own curls to secure the flowers in Eloise’s own. “I must make a delivery tonight.”
Eloise rolled her eyes playfully.
“Yes, he was most displeased when you went out on your own to deliver the one that saved me from presentation.”
“He wrote me as much in the missive you delivered to me.” Penelope shook her head, the message he’d sent her still tucked in her bosom along with her Whistledown scribblings for the night. “But it was meant to be a surprise.”
“And you succeeded.”
Eloise closed her eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply. Penelope could imagine how everything here overwhelmed her best friend; the dancing couples, the smell of overly sweet cakes and lemonade, the orchestra playing song after song until everything blended together in one whirling cacophony.
Softly squeezing Eloise’s wrist, Penelope tried to impart any bit of strength she possessed.
“You can do this, El.”
Eloise bit her lip but nodded before returning to her mother. As Eloise was dragged off, to meet some gentleman no doubt, Penelope dropped back to the two gossiping footmen.
Benedict picked up his second ratafia of the night which, quite honestly, was very tame for him. He'd been determined to keep himself mostly sober for Eloise’s sake and, he admitted, he did not want to be halfway sloshed when encountering Penelope for the first time in a month. Suddenly, a delicate hand picked up a glass of ratafia beside him and he turned, co*cking his head to face his mother. Her brow was furrowed, pupils darting around the room. In the back of his mind, he noticed lines between the knuckles of his mother’s hands.
“Have you seen your brother? Or your sister?”
Benedict smirked. He had actually seen Anthony a few minutes before, darting out for some fresh air outside. While it had been highly entertaining to watch his brother be passed from eligible young lady to eligible young lady like he was a prize to be won, he wouldn’t betray his brother’s peace. As for Eloise, he distinctly remembered seeing Violet drag her into conversation with some young lord or other, but by the time Benedict had been able to get near, Eloise had somehow slipped out of Violet’s grasp.
“They managed to escape you?” he asked cheerfully and his mother shot him a look that could only be described as maternal vexation. “Good for them.”
Benedict made to make his own escape but before he could, Lady Danbury approached in all of her glorious, draconic splendor. Truly, he would never be able to not admire the woman even as she struck fear into his heart.
“Mister Bridgerton. You have yet to take the dance floor once at my ball. Is there no young lady that piques your interest or are you letting your brother have the pick of the litter?”
As usual, the cunning woman’s sharp wit hit its mark. Benedict wondered sometimes if she was omniscient, some Greek goddess in hiding, one of the Fates just counting the threads on each person’s string of life.
“My brother certainly deserves the spotlight this year, Lady Danbury. I have no intention of interfering with that,” Benedict remarked.
Lady Danbury passed by him, tapping her cane on the ground as she settled into place besides his mother.
“Or maybe you are repeating a pattern from last year,” she volleyed. “Following the scent of certain other flowers.”
Benedict felt a chill run down his spine and cast a glance towards his mother’s expression. The last person he needed discovering his hidden friendship with Penelope was Violet Bridgerton. She would interrogate him with all of the deft skill rivaling the most experienced barrister. His mother’s brow furrowed and he knew he needed to extricate himself from the conversation immediately.
“I have no idea what you could mean, Lady Danbury,” he said lazily, raising his glass of ratafia in silent acknowledgement to her intelligence. “Unless you mean one of the many vintages that I am drawn to like a moth to a flame. I have been searching desperately for the elderflower wine you had last year.”
With that, Benedict spun on his heel and strode off, desperate to put distance between him and the two shrewd women behind him. He had gotten about ten paces away before a slender arm shot out from the greenery and grabbed his arm. He jumped, splashing half of the blood red ratafia onto the polished floor.
“El!”
Eloise stood there, plucking a bundle of flowers from her hair and tucking them into the front of his waistcoat. Eloise did not have to say anything, the flowers spoke volumes, practically shouting at him.
Penelope needed him.
He couldn’t explain the sudden sensation of his chest expanding, feeling as if he could practically float.
Wordlessly, she looped her arm with his and led him out into a dark side hall then a side door, exiting to a back gravel path lit precariously by moonlight. They walked until they made it to the quiet servant’s entrance to see a familiar figure hidden by a blue lady’s maid cloak. He felt his pulse thrum in his neck, pound with a rhythm more loud and excited than any drum.
“Nel!”
She turned and there she stood. Whatever she had been wearing to the ball was covered by the cloak, but even her face, shadowed by the eve’s darkness glowed when she saw him. How that close-lipped smile he adored directed at him made the wait worth it.
“Benedict!”
She rushed forward, nearly toppling into him and Eloise in her haste. She tripped on the gravel and both he and Eloise, perfectly in-sync, steadied her.
“I have missed you,” she breathed and he felt the truth of her words hover in the air before he breathed them in.
“As I have you,” he admitted. But for some reason, he hurried to add, “As has Rapscallion. You cannot believe the damage he has wrecked upon my body since he last saw you.”
“Yes, and it had provided myself and El no end of laughter.”
“El should have kept her mouth shut on that score.”
Eloise simply shrugged, removing her arm from Benedict’s grasp and crossing it over her chest.
“What? It was simply providing Pen entertainment while she was cooped up in her house.” Eloise suddenly pouted, sticking out her lower lip with such dramatic effect Benedict had to resist laughing at her. “I have made an appearance at my first ball and the pair of you still will not let me go with you on a Lady Whistledown mission.”
“Oh El,” Penelope tilted her head, completely sympathetic. “It is because it is your first ball that we cannot. Your mother has quite the eagle eye on you.”
Eloise mumbled and grumbled and Benedict pinched her side, causing her to yelp. He chuckled and she punched his shoulder.
“Look El,” Penelope started as she whacked Benedict’s hand away from pinching his sister again. Benedict pouted at Penelope now, falling easily back into his role with her as if they hadn’t been separated for a month. “You know how I constantly evade detection? Though I am a wallflower, there are rare occasions I must escape Mama and this trick always works.”
“What?” Eloise inquired and Benedict bent forward, eager to hear the answer as well.
“Stay at least two feet behind Mister Whitstone at all times.”
There was a beat of silence before the answer leapt to vivid life in Benedict’s mind and he had to stifle a snort. He made a strange choking sound instead while Eloise appeared entirely befuddled.
“Mister Whitstone?”
“Yes,” Penelope nodded, her cloak swaying a little in the cool, spring breeze. “Not only does he have manners so indecorous that no one engages him in conversation, but his cologne smells of rotten fruit. If you can stand that, you have a physical repellant.”
Eloise gagged and Benedict caught Penelope’s eye, both alight in humor. It was an intimate thing, he realized, to share in one’s silent humor. But he adored it, especially with her.
“What if I do not want to hide behind him?” Eloise asked, her whole body shivering in disgust.
“Then you must pretend to be a potted plant, El,” Penelope said seriously.
Benedict could no longer keep in his chuckles, his ribs aching with the effort as his lungs spasmed.
“Come along, Nel,” he said before chucking Eloise under the chin. “Sneak back in carefully, El. I will return home and you can tell me all about the slights against you if you do not successfully escape Mother the rest of the time.”
“I shall endeavor not to be caught,” Eloise replied dryly.
Stepping forward, Eloise hugged Penelope fiercely before darting back off into the darkness. With ease, Benedict placed a hand around Penelope’s shoulders to lead her away.
“Come, Rapscallion awaits.”
There was something strangely natural about reading her latest column aloud on Rapscallion’s back, cradled between Benedict’s thighs as he steered them towards the direction of Chancery Lane Printers. Penelope had informed him of the change in printers, for the better price of parchment, the higher quality of ink, and a better pay out for all involved.
“I still wish you had taken me,” Benedict grumbled, the satin of Penelope’s cloak tugging the stubble on his chin. “It is dangerous, Nel. A woman on her own, even one disguised as a servant. I swore to–”
“To protect me, yes. But Benedict, surely you are not going to use our first meeting in a month to scold me?”
She grinned and she could feel his chest rumble in discontent. Men were funny creatures, and while she wished Benedict would give her a little more credit when it came to running some of her Whistledown business herself, another part delighted in his protectiveness of her.
“I suppose I can save my lecture for later.”
“Wise choice, indeed.”
Rapscallion whinnied in apparent agreement as he clopped along the dark street, carefully evading hacks and drunkards.
“Traitor,” Benedict said and Penelope beamed. She wriggled a little in her place upon the saddle and Benedict stiffened slightly, the one arm banded around her waist tightening. “Nel, is everything going smoothly with your bank account? You have been able to make deposits successfully?”
“Oh, yes! They have been very discreet at Barclays. I am ever so grateful for you setting that up for me, Benedict!”
And she was. It was certainly less stressful to be able to hide away her growing sum of money in a bank rather than in hollowed out books under her floorboards.
“If I may ask, how much is your enterprise making for you?”
“Let’s see,” Penelope tapped her chin thoughtfully. “For last edition’s takings? Eight hundred copies at five pence a piece, sold for eight pence each, minus the delivery boys' wages, I should have made eleven pounds two shillings here altogether.”
Penelope felt Benedict’s jaw drop, his chin hitting the crown of her head. She giggled, bending her neck so she could look up into his astonished face. For a moment she was stunned breathless as his ocean eyes glittered in the dark, his expression impossibly soft and full of awe. Something stirred and flipped in her stomach as she met his gaze.
“You are incredible, Penelope Featherington. Do you know that?”
She didn’t say anything, just stared at him until her neck ached too much to hold the position. When she returned her vision to the street, she felt him pull her closer and, possibly, tug the reins. Rapscallion’s walk slowed and Penelope let Benedict fold himself around her. He was protecting her against the chill, that was all.
Surely, that was all.
There is nothing quite like the sweet-scented smell of success. But after taking in the scene from last night's festivities, it is clear the season won't be quite so fragrant for everyone.
The Viscount Bridgerton's own mama may have loudly declared her eldest son's lofty intentions to marry. Yet, I cannot be the only one wondering if this former capital-R-Rake is indeed ready to flourish. Perhaps the Viscount, like the rest of us, is simply waiting for The Queen to finally name her diamond. Or perhaps This Author should take matters into her own hands. Though, of the many purportedly well-trained and bred hot-house flowers on display this year, This Author must wonder if a more surprising choice might still be in store.
Which ever darling miss receives such high esteem, let us hope there is a suitor available of only the sharpest wit, lest his dry musings leave a young lady wilting like a parched rose.
Penelope could not help but bask in the joy of her recent success. Not only had her latest Lady Whistledown issue been published without a hitch, she had been reunited with her dearest friends while giving them the gift of giving a spotlight to their brother's hapless courting attempts. She blushed, remembering the ride to and from the printers on Rapscallion’s back. Benedict had held her close all night as if almost afraid to let her go. They’d talked so easily, of Whistledown, his latest sketches, of Anthony’s hilarious misfortune. It had been so effortless to be lost in his embrace and his voice.
A snort from the corner table drew Penelope’s attention and she turned to see Mister Albion Finch settled next to Philippa and perusing her scandal sheet.
“It is rather clever, the way she uses plant puns to belittle,” he said and Penelope could not help the swell of pride that made her feel practically buoyant.
She knew she liked Mister Finch for a reason.
“Clever indeed!” she said, closing her book as she hopped up from her seat by the window to snatch a treat from the tea service. She picked a cucumber sandwich, made from the latest shipment of Benedict’s own crop from his property. Penelope swore she could practically taste the Wiltshire air as she bit into the tasty morsel.
But her smile faded as she overheard her beleaguered mother, reclined upon the sofa, say to Missus Varley, “The candlesticks. See what they are worth.”
The reality of the choice set before her came crashing down. If the new heir did not come soon, Penelope could have no choice but to use her funds to support them all.
And along with it, her secret identity could be revealed.
As she shuffled out of the room, Penelope pondered why freedom seemed to always flutter out of reach.
Benedict felt as if he could fly.
Truly. The sun was shining. His family was all together in the house. Rapscallion had not bitten his very bruised arse today.
He had finally seen Penelope last night.
He’d been filled with nothing but euphoric delight ever since and there was a small, rational part of him that was questioning why. Penelope was one of his dearest friends, that much was true. But why was he deriving such unbridled joy from the meeting? He couldn’t explain it and, frankly, he did not want to.
Why try to rationalize away something happy?
So even when Benedict, sketchpad in hand, nearly ran smackdab into Genevieve Delacroix on her way out of the drawing room, it did not diminish his spirits.
“Madame Delacroix! Hard back at work, I see.”
“Bien sûr! Who else could dress these delicate debutantes for the season?”
There it was, the well-practiced, false French accent. She truly could have been an actress if she had so desired. Benedict had not been entirely kind-hearted towards Genevieve the past few months, especially as she had appeared to be making advances towards Penelope. Genevieve’s love life was none of his concern, and her rejection of him over the summer had not really smarted.
But to go after Penelope… Something about it irked him. He told himself it was because Penelope was innocent and if his young friend ever wanted to explore a relationship of a more sexual nature, it should be of her volition, her instigation, no one else’s. But Genevieve flirted and poked until Benedict felt like an irate bear being bated in the pit.
However, the day was new and Benedict was excited there was a party that evening. He hoped to take Penelope, like they had over the autumn and winter months. He wanted to bask in her conversation as they drank and drew in the warmth of the Granville home.
And, he reminded himself, Genevieve was Penelope’s friend. Maybe Genevieve’s flirtation were all for naught.
“I hear there is a party tonight,” he hedged carefully, lowering his voice to avoid his mother’s attention. “Will you be attending?”
Genevieve’s familiar, feline smirk slipped onto her face.
“That depends. Maybe if our sweet Nel is there, I will be sure to be in attendance.”
The base of his spine grew taut and rigid. Before he knew it, Benedict stood once more at his full height, his eyes narrowed down at her accusingly.
“I have warned you before. Leave her out of your seductions–”
“Do not look so tense, Mister Bridgerton.” She flipped her tight curls over her shoulder as she adjusted her sample book of fabrics in her arms. The smug look of satisfaction plastered on her face did not escape him. “I have much work to do. My art comes before all else… Even pretty redheads.”
With that, she sidestepped him and swept out of the room, leaving him roiling with a fiery, furious emotion he could not immediately identify.
As he approached his elder brother at the table, the bastard had the audacity to smirk at him.
“Are you and the modiste still…making a stitch?”
Anthony took a sip of his tea, his dark brown eyes, the color of dry earth, twinkling at him with mischief. But Benedict felt as if he’d been doused in water straight from an icy lake. While his brother clearly thought relations were still friendly between him and the modiste, how much did his brother overhear? Could he tell that Benedict’s possessiveness did not lay with the woman who dressed the ton but with another?
Panic seized him, causing him to splutter loudly, “N-no, Brother. How about you? Have you found a wife yet, or are you planning to offend every young lady until there are none left?” Benedict raised his voice even louder, desperately trying to put all attention away from him. “Is Mother aware?”
“Aware of what?”
Small victory but a victory nonetheless, for Violet Bridgerton’s assessing stare was now firmly trained on Anthony. Benedict received a glower in thanks for his efforts as his brother stood, folding his broadsheet abruptly before placing it on the table. “I am off to deal with our solicitor.” Anthony bent low as Benedict opened his sketchpad and said just loud enough for him to hear, “Have fun with your pretty pictures, Brother.”
Benedict did not even wince at the biting remark as Anthony strode out of the room, their mother hot on his heels.
Just as the door nipped at their mother’s skirts, Francesca slid into the chair Anthony had vacated. Benedict raised his brows in surprise but flinched as a loud screeching sound filled the room. Every sibling looked to watch Eloise drag the legs of an upholstered chair across the floor to place between him and Francesca. Trust Eloise to not give a damn about making noise or scuffing the floor. Benedict could already imagine poor Missus Wilson pulling out her hair when she discovered it.
“Well, go on, Brother. Give us some fresh gossip before it is printed in Whistledown.”
Francesca’s hazel eyes are actually slight with quiet mischief, twinkling at him like a rushing river under the sun. It struck him keenly in that moment that she would depart once more for Bath soon and it was softly devastating. He wondered if she was ever lonely, then was immediately filled with shame that he had not thought long on that before.
“What witch or god did I insult to be blighted with such nosey siblings?” He opened to a fresh page in his sketchbook before he reached across the table and tapped Francesca’s nose. “You know, dear Fran, sometimes I think you are cleverer than the rest of us.”
“Oi!” Eloise crossed her arms and attempted to kick his shin under the table but missed. “Just admit that every single one of your sisters are more intelligent than the lot of you males combined.”
“Possibly,” Benedict mused, taking out his graphite as he began to sketch the rough outline of a small butterfly. “I am forced to admit that the majority of women in my acquaintance could easily run Parliament a far sight better than the men I meet at White’s.”
“Oh, a boon for women,” Eloise crowed sarcastically, meeting her sister’s eyes with a knowing look. “That a man can actually admit that most of us have wit and measure! But would you say the same to those same men at the club?”
Francesca shrugged, her delicate shoulders rising and falling with measured perfection. The sixth Bridgerton sibling, out of all of them, was a thinker above all else. She cared about her musical skills, her family, and little else. Though she acted with perfect poise, Benedict had no doubt that she would never seek to be the center of attention when it was her turn to be introduced to society.
“Personally, I would leave Parliament to Eloise,” Francesca turned to her sister and smiled sweetly. A little too sweetly. “Let her handle the men and run them ragged with her speeches. I, on the other hand, think I would be more apt at subterfuge. I would be a rather keen adviser.”
“Hyacinth would be a war general,” Eloise added, shivering at the thought.
They all turned just in time to watch Hyacinth cry in victory as she beat Gregory at marbles…again.
“Daph would quite obviously ascend the throne,” Francesca continued. “I do not know how, but she would surely rule over us all.”
Benedict chuckled, nodding in agreement. Briefly he wondered what role Penelope would have in this new version of government. He had no doubt she’d be valuable. Maybe she would be Daphne’s spymaster? His chest rumbled with warm laughter at the idea. Yes, Penelope would be a most excellent spymaster in the new world order.
Glancing up, Benedict’s chest tightened as he watched Eloise and Francesca chat more about this alternative universe where women ruled. It was endearing and it was with a bittersweet pang that he realized yet again that his imaginative, brilliant, witty sisters could come up with such grand plans and yet were not allowed to achieve them.
Quietly, he flipped again to a blank page and began to sketch his sisters’ faces as they joyfully discussed this alternative life. A possible future. With every stroke of graphite that detailed Francesca’s sharp eyes or Eloise’s stubborn chin, Benedict fervently wished he could create such a reality for them.
Henry couldn’t stop laughing.
The party was going splendidly, as they usually did. Henry had no problem admitting he was a proud man in many respects. He had pride in his art. Pride in his education and intelligence. Quite a bit of pride in his good looks. He had pride in his wife. His partner. And he most definitely had pride in his party-throwing skills.
But, more than anything, he had pride in his powers of prediction.
And currently, he reveled in the fact that he had predicted that Benedict Bridgerton was obsessed with Penelope Featherington. It was of his opinion (and Lucy’s, and Gen’s, Andrew’s, Charlotte’s, Marina’s… The list went on) that Benedict had been unknowingly falling in love with the youngest Featherington girl for a year now.
But nothing could prove it more than when Benedict had come to the party that night in a foul mood because he’d received a last minute missive that his precious Nel could not join that evening.
“That wretched mother of hers,” Benedict had growled, grabbing the closest alcoholic concoction that passed him by and downing it in one gulp. “She is apparently up all hours of the night fretting about the arrival of the new Lord Featherington, so Nel must be cautious. That harpy is ruining Nel’s fun!”
“I admit to being shocked Penelope is letting her mother get in the way,” Lucy admitted, hiding her smirk behind a dainty hand. “But if even Penelope, master of disguise that she is, feels nervous, she must have good reason.”
“I suppose,” Benedict grumbled.
Now the man sulked in a corner, not even entertaining the attentions of the passing women and men who tried to entice him. Instead, Henry, Lucy, and Andrew took turns sitting next to him and listening to his complaints that grew more slurred by the minute.
“By Jove,” Andrew shook his head, amused as he and Henry watched Benedict show Lucy a tiny, silver hair clip in the shape of a butterfly. “He is entirely besotted. For such a smart man, how in the nine circles of Hell does he not know he is in love?”
“Because ignorance is bliss, my love.” Henry languidly stroked his fingers along Andrew’s waist, slowly stoking the passion in his lover’s eyes. “If he acknowledges his feelings, that means taking on the realities with it. He will believe her to still be in love with his brother and that will be a barrier on its own. Then there is jealousy, whether to initiate courtship, that she is his sister’s dearest friend… We humans create countless obstacles for ourselves when it comes to love.”
Andrew sighed, leaning into Henry’s side. It spoke volumes of the implicit trust between them and the people invited to the Granville home.
“Does this mean you want to change your bet?”
“Why no, my love. In fact, I will raise you another one hundred pounds. He shall realize he is in love with her this season, but will do nothing about it for another year.”
“Gods above, I hope you are wrong. For Penelope’s sake,” Andrew groaned. “Marina is quite fond of her cousin and I must admit, I like her too. I would loathe to see the poor girl wait that long.”
Henry chuckled before planting a kiss upon Andrew’s shaved cheek, inhaling the strong scent of his orange blossom cologne.
“You, my love, clearly do not understand the absolute stubbornness of a Bridgerton.”
Penelope sat at her desk, pink robe wrapped around her, tapping her fingers upon her parchment riddled desk. The fickle flickering of the candlelight cast light and heat upon her face as the spring chill seeped through her covered windows. She chewed her bottom lip and winced as she broke open the barely mended flesh, the taste of blood on her tongue.
There was no money.
Penelope had known that. Feared their destitution when Benedict had uncovered for certain the depths of her father’s irresponsibility, the worst of her father’s debts. It had felt nearly insurmountable then.
But now, it felt like one of those impossible tasks set by the gods. One that no mortal could actually pass without some herculean feat.
She thought of the money accumulating in her Barclays account, sitting there just for her. Should she swallow her pride, her fear, her very own freedom and give the money to her mother? Was there another solution? A bequest from some far-flung relative she could fabricate?
Zounds, all of the possibilities seemed to stack on top of each other until her mind was pressed down by such a weight that is physically hurt behind her eyes. Penelope massaged her temples, attempting to relieve the mounting pressure behind her forehead when she heard the echo of footsteps in the hall. Penelope sat up, grabbing one of her many books stacked upon the desk before flipping to a random page and pretending to read just as the door burst open.
It was only when Penelope peered down at the words that she noticed she’d taken out Lord Byron’s Corsair and she had to fight back a twitch in her lips. Benedict would throw a fit if he knew.
“Why is it so quiet in here?”
Penelope could detect the quiet sneer in Prudence’s voice as she made the comment, the wheedle at her youngest sister’s reclusiveness.
Penelope would have begged for her sisters’ attention as a child. Either of them. But they had never been interested in the same hobbies as Penelope, creating a natural barrier they seemed to sense. Yet Prudence, and Philippa at times, appeared to co*ck her head at Penelope, wondering why their sister never tried to join in with their conversations or wiles. Penelope did not know how to explain that she, now so used to being alone in her own household, simply did not know how.
“Because I am alone? Reading. As I always do.”
Penelope knew her voice sounded more irritable than it perhaps should be and she curled in on herself. It was best not to provoke Prudence. Prudence was not nearly as sharp as their mother but what she lacked in wit she poured into viciousness. No one could say that any of the Featherington girls weren’t hiding a set of claws.
“You are so boring,” Prudence whined and Penelope could see her sister now out of the corner of her eye, creeping into her field of vision to tap her long fingers upon Penelope’s stack of books. “I will be perfectly putrified if Philippa does manage to marry Finch.”
Penelope rolled her eyes.
Truly, had no one but her actually completed her vocabulary lessons with their governess?
“Petrified.” She couldn’t help the correction, sharp and a tad arrogant. “The word is petrified.”
She kept her pupils trained on the words in front of her, reciting the lines over and over even though they refused to stick.
That man of loneliness and mystery,
Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sigh;
Whose name appals the fiercest of his crew,
And tints each swarthy cheek with sallower hue;
Still sways their souls with that commanding art
That dazzles, leads, yet chills the vulgar heart.
Quick as a flash, nails like talons came into view and snatched up the piece of parchment underneath her book.
“No!” Penelope yelped, jumping up, knocking her chair to the floor in shock.
No, no, not those missives. Not those, please not those…
“What are you writing here?” Prudence held the paper out of Penelope’s reach, taunting her as Penelope circled her sister. But she could not reach the dangling paper, even if she jumped.
“I am not writing!”
“But you were!”
Prudence twirled around out of Penelope’s stunted reach, raking her gaze over words that had been meant for Penelope’s eyes and her eyes alone.
“Prudence! Do not... Hand it back!”
She could feel her pulse thrumming in her neck, a vein throbbing at her temple. Please, let it not be–
Penelope saw the moment her sister’s eyes widened, her jaw going slightly slack.
“Oh my... You little devil-doll,” Prudence cackled and Penelope felt her heart plummet to her feet like a stone. “This is what occupies your ‘quiet’ time?”
Penelope squirmed and fidgeted. Blood rushed up Penelope’s chest, her breath coming in fast. It only worsened when she heard her mother enter the room.
“What are you ladies doing still up?”
“Penelope was writing,” Prudence exclaimed, ensuring she clamored over anything Penelope might have to say. Here it was, the beginning of her demise… “To Colin Bridgerton!”
Frozen in place, Penelope suddenly did not know how to feel. She’d feared Prudence had snatched up one of her Whistledown rough drafts. Or, worse, one of her many missives from Ledger. For if Prudence had dug any deeper, had sunk her claws into the rest of the stack of papers, she would have pulled up at least eight letters from Benedict for every one of Colin’s.
Embarrassment, rapid and hot, flooded her body. The flush made her body ache like a day old sunburn, a sting upon the flesh that could only be waited out. The look of exasperation her mother leveled her with did not help matters.
“Well that would explain the ink all over her fingers,” Portia cradled her head in her hand again as if Penelope was giving her a migraine. “I declare, Penelope.”
“Colin is my friend,” Penelope proclaimed defensively.
But she knew that, at the very least, her sister suspected the truth. That Penelope had held a candle for Colin for years.
And that, of course, the handsome third son of the Bridgerton family had never noticed.
“As if he would ever waste his ink on someone like you,” Prudence sniped, though Penelope didn’t know exactly what her sister had to look down on her about. It was not as if any young man was lining up to court her either.
But Penelope was always underestimated. Always cast aside. Always deemed lesser.
It rankled her, festering like a vile thorn or cyst, determined to infect her body.
But Portia no longer listened, instead rifling through Penelope’s stack of books. She picked up the cherished book of Robert Burns poetry, sniffing it cautiously.
“Are they worth anything?”
“What?” Penelope reeled back as if she had been slapped.
“Your books.” Portia turned the book in her hand, lovingly worn across the spine and Penelope’s heart leapt from her feet to her throat as she thought of the delicately pressed flowers she’d placed by her favorite poems. The ones she would discuss with Benedict on midnight rides upon Rapscallion. “Books can be worth something, can they not?”
“I– I do not think so, Mama.”
The stutter was small but Penelope prayed she could move her mother’s interest elsewhere. A part of Penelope realized it was selfish to want to keep hold of her precious books for as long as possible. To covet them as a dragon did its horde of gold. But she didn’t care. Let her mother sell every painting, piece of silver, or braided cushion in her room before she even touched her books.
“Pity.” Portia set the book back in place and Penelope silently thanked the heavens she had actually put it back with some care. “You must stop wasting your precious time on such pointless pursuits as writing silly letters. Colin Bridgerton is no more your friend than I am the next Catherine the Great.” Penelope felt tears bite the back of her eyes and she bit her lower lip again. Copper kissed her tongue, but she blinked furiously. “Now wipe your hands lest someone think you a commoner.”
Her mother swept out of the room with Prudence hot on her heels. Prudence shot Penelope a victorious grin before the door closed. Penelope clenched her fists. Her nails bit into her palms and she resisted the very real urge to scream until she lost her voice.
The bitterness rose inside her like a violent tidal wave. She wouldn’t use her money to help her family. No. Not yet.
She’d rather starve first.
Filled with sorrow and, she knew, pettiness, she slumped once more at her desk and picked up Benedict’s last written message.
Nel,
Remember to meet us after the Queen’s Ball for your personal birthday celebration! El and I might be competing over who obtains the most thoughtful gift for you.
I shall win, of course. For I am not only the superior sibling but, clearly, the superior friend.
I missed you at the Granvilles’ party last night. I hope the new Featherington heir comes soon, if only so you will obtain some modicum of the freedom you had before. It is not the same escaping into the night without you.
Besides, Rapscallion was clearly displeased. I may have held my hands over my, uh, backside, when going to tie him to the post.
Your Friend Who is Dying of Boredom,
Ledger
P.S. I will give you five pounds if you tell Eloise I gave you the better gift.
Penelope traced the inked words with her pointer finger, letting it soothe her. She had friends, friends who valued her. Even if that was impossible for her own mother to believe.
Penelope thought of the opening lines to her next column and grinned. Yes, the Queen’s Ball would be quite interesting. It might not be just Penelope who could have something to celebrate.
Might our Queen finally extinguish the fevered speculation and bestow the highest of honors to a most fortunate young lady tonight? With so many futures at risk, I do suspect this author is not the only one waiting with bated breath.
Penelope delicately sipped her glass of champagne as she kept an ear out for gossip, peering out at the resplendent ball in her requisite place by the wall. Well, the windows this time. But it was all the same. She smoothed out the intricately embroidered sparkles of her star themed dress, a bright yellow gold that, for once, Penelope did not despise. It was certainly not the worst dress she had ever been forced in.
Just as she glanced up from her drink to spy the crowd once more, a frantic Eloise in a silver and cream dress all but barreled into her.
“We must leave!” Eloise was practically sweating, her voice high-pitched as she made to drag her friend away. “The Queen. I somehow managed to...charm her. She seems to in fact LIKE me.”
Penelope stifled her amusem*nt to adopt a placating countenance. She could respect Eloise wanting to avoid the spotlight.
“Eloise, you must calm–”
Most unpleasantly, she was interrupted by Cressida Cowper and her lackeys swanning into their space. Penelope couldn’t ignore the instinct to look down and away in a vain attempt to avoid the blonde debutante’s attention. For years, Penelope wondered why Cressida despised her so. Why she chose to focus much of her spite and cruelty on Penelope and her insufficiencies.
Penelope learned it was fruitless to wonder why some people did things. It would simply drive her mad.
“Eloise Bridgerton, the diamond.” Cressida’s voice was sharp, assessing Eloise like a fox that had just set its sights upon potential prey. One thing Penelope had vowed to never do was to underestimate Cressida’s capacity for evaluating a situation and any attempts to turn it to her favor. “Perhaps now you might stop spending time with insipid wallflowers all evening and refine your circle of friends.” Penelope tried to ignore the barb and took a sip of her drink, but it was like swill in her mouth. “I may have an opening–”
“I would rather die.”
Penelope choked and spat her champagne at Eloise’s words, and before she could even so much as squeak, Eloise took her hand and dragged her off. Eloise weaved them through gentlemen and ladies, servants, and even a runaway Pomeranian, not wavering once as she pushed through glass doors and onto the gravel. She led them through long grass and wood, the night air making gooseflesh erupt on Penelope’s skin, but she couldn’t care less about the cold.
Her chest was too busy swelling, as if it might burst from a delight so fierce it physically hurt.
Eloise defended her. Chose her.
It was not so much that she would ever doubt Eloise’s friendship or loyalty, but Penelope sometimes could not help but be bowled over with surprise when it happened. When it kept happening.
Eloise had chosen her, again and again, since they were nine years old.
And it still amazed Penelope to the point of speechlessness.
They go further and further into the fields, yellow daffodils bright and cheery even surrounded by the dark, spring night.
“Eloise,” Penelope finally croaked out. “Eloise, where are we–”
“Anywhere but in there.”
They finally halt and Penelope studies her friend as she closes her eyes and breathes in the air. Crisp, cool, full of fresh flowers and wet earth. Something finally releases in Eloise’s stature and Penelope sees her friend finally, physically relax.
“How you managed an entire season of these absurd events alongside people like Cressida Cowper is beyond me.” Eloise slumped into the field of yellow flowers like it was a haven away from a world of chaos. And, in truth, it was. The space was quiet, serene in the dark night, hidden by the thicket of trees. “And it is not just her. It is all of them. Staring at me as if I were some china teapot.” Eloise turned toward Penelope, co*cking her head in disbelief, as if Penelope had triumphed over some godlike task. “How did you do it on your own, Pen?”
“I do not share your difficulties, El.” The words slipped from Penelope’s mouth so easily she barely noticed how bitter it was in her mouth. It was just an unfortunate truth. “Insipid wallflower. Remember?”
Eloise blinked before she took Penelope’s hand, squeezing their satin gloved fingers together. The light scent of daffodils filled her nostrils and Penelope could feel dew cling to her skirts. It made her shiver but it wasn’t unpleasant.
“That is not–” Eloise paused, rephrased. “Cressida is only incensed that even her new dress cannot hide her character.”
Penelope could not help the wide smile that consumed her face. Eloise protectiveness of her was incredibly sweet, and while the kernel of jealousy and disappointment that accompanied Penelope to every social event remained, the sheer joy that Eloise’s defense of her offered overpowered it.
“It is not so bad you know. The wallflower thing.” Penelope knew she was trying to cheer herself up just as much as Eloise. But it also was not a lie. There were small comforts to being consigned to the corners of a room. “I always get the first taste of lemonade. I know who all the best dancers are just from watching. I can always tell when a suitor is serious about courtship just by how he looks when a young lady dances with another.”
Eloise eyes glimmered for the first time that evening and she jostled Penelope’s shoulder with her own.
“And helps with your enterprise. It helps hone your skills for spotting gossip!” Eloise tapped the dimple in her chin thoughtfully before her expression softened into a rare look of such care that Penelope knew her friend would be embarrassed if she saw it. “Pen, you do not have to pretend any longer. Even beyond Whistledown, you like all of this.”
Penelope settled back into the field with Eloise, their hands clasped between them.
“Well, it can be amusing.” Penelope thought of what she enjoyed about being in the background of balls and events. Uncovering truths, whether they be good or bad, watching couples dance and wondering if they are in love. She enjoyed watching Daphne and the Duke of Hastings last season. It had been such a whirlwind of emotions where she questioned love and all it was said to be, meant to be. And what it actually was. But she found, more than that, she cherished the moments she’d spent amongst friends. She enjoyed the time after the events in the Bridgertons’ garden, where it was just her, Eloise, and Benedict in the bower of the tree.
She wished Benedict was there now.
“Do you think I should be doing more with Whistledown?”
Eloise pursed her lips, staring up at the stars through the overhanging branches.
“I– In some ways, I wish you would. I just think women are so much more than pretty, young things to be introduced then married off at the earliest convenience. Sometimes, I think the gossip simply pushes that idea. But… it is your column, Pen. And I know that idea is partially born of my own fears.” Eloise sighed before continuing, her voice trembling. “I can feel people's eyes on me. Every time I walk into a ballroom, I know they are comparing me to Daphne. She was so good at being the diamond and it made my mother so happy. I can never live up to that. I do not want to live up to that. But it does not make it any easier to know you are constantly disappointing people just by walking into the room.”
The stars twinkled down at them and Penelope wondered for a moment if the faraway, celestial objects looked at humans. Do they also make impossible wishes when peering down from the heavens?
“I never thought of it that way. No one truly notices me.” Penelope shifted in the grass, the cool, green strands tickling her legs, arms, and neck. “I suppose that is what I like. Though, sometimes, I wonder if I simply tell myself that is what I like. But when you are invisible, you can have all the amusem*nt you want without any of the expectations that popularity brings. It...frees you.”
“That is why you remain anonymous?”
“In part. Another part is that it is practical. Mama would surely want me to share the money I make.”
Eloise made a rude, guttural noise.
“Take it you mean?”
Penelope nodded, swallowing.
“I cannot lie, there is a certain amount of pride. That I am the one leading the ton along by dangling a carrot in front of their faces and they would never suspect it is me.”
“You should be proud! Why should the sin of pride only be acceptable in men!”
Penelope raised Eloise’s hand and held it to her heart.
“Thank you, El.” Penelope looked over, her light blue eyes meeting Eloise’s. Her eyes were lighter, clearer than Benedict’s. But still so moving all the same. “You know, when we entered the ball, Mama told us to show our figures because diamonds are pointy.”
Eloise gasped and choked on a laugh, the crooked set of her front teeth gleefully obvious as she snorted.
“No!”
“Yes, and when Prudence asked if she sparkled, Mama said, ‘You did something.’”
They collapsed into a fit of unrestrained laughter, rolling in the flowers, and Penelope hoped the stars could hear them.
“My, my. What great joke did I miss?”
The Diamond Ball was, Benedict had to admit, as Eloise had put oh-so elegantly, “diamond-y.”
Christ alive, he nearly strangled himself on his own spit trying not to burst into gut-wrenching laughter when she had said that. It would not do for two Bridgerton siblings to embarrass themselves in front of the Queen. And, yet, in a very Eloise fashion, she had somehow impressed the usually bored-looking monarch.
Benedict could not resist when he poked fun at Anthony, putting on a faint veil of amused disgust,
“If the Queen in fact names Eloise the diamond, whom will you marry then, brother?”
“Hush you.”
Benedict smirked, all too happy to draw some of his pleasures from making fun of his brother. While he understood Anthony better after their conversation at Gunter’s, even though it was miniscule, that would not exempt his older brother from many rounds of familial teasing.
Turning ahead in order to follow Eloise, for wherever Eloise went a certain redhead would be there as well, he gaped when he found Eloise had left him in the dust. She took off, her bound brown hair bouncing amongst the crowd as she fled to a corner of the room. There were too many people, many surprisingly tall lords milling around the young debutants as if they were hounds set loose upon a hunt. But Benedict could have sworn that he saw a flash of curls that glowed like coals in the fire.
Benedict made to follow but Anthony gripped his elbow, steering him to the opposite end of the room to grab champagne. Benedict’s head swiveled around and he found that they’d even lost their mother, though Benedict had no doubt Violet was trying to find Eloise. Or, more likely, a potential suitor for their second sister.
Anthony picked up a delicate glass of bubbly champagne and frowned at it, as if insulted it was not whiskey or brandy in front of him. Benedict forced himself to keep his mouth shut as Anthony tossed back the glass in one gulp before picking up another. Benedict shot a reassuring smile to a passing elderly lord and lady whose names escaped him, though he was sure their judgmental stares would transform into biting words in no time.
“Brother, surely it is too early to need much in the way of libations.”
Anthony sipped his second drink, though his brown eyes were already as hard as packed earth as he raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“I will need some liquid motivation if I am to push out all of the dandies and rapscallions who will vie for the diamond’s attention once she is announced.”
“First, I take offense on behalf of my beloved horse,” Benedict crossed his arms, shaking his head good-naturedly. “Second, if the diamond is not Eloise.”
“While I dearly love our sister, and in her own bumbling way she managed to impress the Queen, I do not imagine her being given the title.” Anthony shuddered. “Lord, I hope she is not named the diamond. It was more trouble than it was worth for Daphne last season.”
A brief rush of guilt and the sort of sickness one acquired when they missed someone hit Benedict with a wave of melancholy. He still felt horrible for how neglectful he had been of his sister’s plight the year before. But he’d sworn to Eloise and himself he would be a better brother this season, while somehow maintaining his own independence.
Easier said than done.
Benedict craned his head back to where Eloise had run off to and found that, of course, she and Penelope had disappeared.
He moaned as he took his own glass of champagne, unhinged his jaw, and let the liquid slide down his throat as if it was watered down beer.
Off to a great start.
“It seems our sister has pulled a vanishing act,” Benedict mused and Anthony shook his head, gulping down his glass and peering around as if he could will a stronger spirit into existence.
“You best find her before Mother has a conniption,” Anthony said. “You know how determined she is for Eloise to put her best foot forward in society.”
Benedict frowned, the alcohol in his stomach curdling unpleasantly.
“You assured me you would allow Eloise to avoid marriage if she at least tolerated the season,” he whispered, leaning towards his brother’s ear as they surveyed the crowd around them. It was all bright lights, crystal glasses, diamonds, flowers, pageantry… And none of it moved Benedict. He also knew that Eloise felt the same. “You gave me your word. I gave El my word. Please do not make me have to trounce you at fencing, or on the pall mall field, to prove a point.”
Anthony, the bastard, actually chuckled.
“Benedict, I will defeat you on any battlefield you name. All, except two.” He held up two fingers and lowered them as he listed the apparent only times Benedict could defeat the viscount. “Art, obviously. I find no joy in it and, therefore, I choose not to excel at it.” Anthony’s leer gentled for just a flash, so fast Benedict would not have noticed if he did not know his brother so well. “And in the care of our younger siblings. At least, when it comes to their…feelings.”
Benedict was taken aback by the compliment, so much so that he said nothing when Anthony patted his shoulder reassuringly.
“Ben, I will not force Eloise into any union she does not desire. But Mother will not take our sister seriously until she’s failed to pique Eloise’s interest in any man she pushes her way.” Anthony gripped Benedict’s shoulder tightly, just for a moment. “You will be able to keep your promise to her. Now go find her, before the Queen makes her announcement. If Eloise is named the diamond, it would not do for her to miss her moment.”
With that, Anthony slipped away, disappearing into the crowd.
Benedict rolled his eyes, taking the order for what it was. Find our sister now, before Mother worries herself to death. He had planned on retrieving Eloise anyway, for where his sister was, that was where Penelope would be. The thought sparked a flame of endearment, glowing within him. Their Whistledown outing after Lady Danbury’s ball had not been near enough time with her, and the silver butterfly burned a hole in the hidden vest pocket tucked under his black jacket.
Running a gloved hand through his hair, he winced when his fingers caught in his thick, chestnut strands. He’d run them through too many times that night, tangling the ends until there were hidden snarls in his once perfectly styled locks.
He set off, mulling over Anthony’s promise as he walked to where his sister and friend had been, just by the back window. Promises could be flimsy, breakable things. Too many times, Benedict had witnessed men break fervent vows to friends, lovers, political allies, even family. Hell, he had watched the fallout of Anthony being unable to keep a promise to his mistress last year, though he never obtained all of the details.
But the one thing Benedict felt like he could count on was anything sworn by Anthony in the name of his family. If their eldest brother claimed he would not force Eloise to marry, Benedict believed him.
He had to.
So he bit his cheek as he saw, from the corner of his eye, his brother assess the flock of young debutantes again. Perfection, for Benedict, did not exist amongst such a crowd. The young ladies there were all far too poised, practiced, a personification of perfection that only greater highlighted their…well, imperfections.
He only hoped Anthony would make the right choice for their family. The right choice for himself. Any woman bound to the young viscount for life would need a will that was as unbreakable as steel or, dare he say it, diamond.
Lawks, he really wanted to stop thinking about his brother’s problems now.
With a new desperation to escape into the easy banter and calm Eloise and Penelope could give him, Benedict followed his instinct. He slipped outside into the chilly night air, a slight mist hanging over the vast expanse of gardens and woodlands hedging the property. If he knew anything about the young women who’d clearly made an escape attempt, it was that they felt most comfortable with their laughter and their secrets amongst the branches of the trees.
Padding forward, he felt his shoes sink slightly into the soft ground. He thought he heard the echo of girlish giggles and followed the noise until he stumbled upon a field of daffodils that reminded him of the yellow of Penelope’s many citrus colored dresses. Yet, for some reason, he found the color did not irk him so much. The sound rose from the ground like steam from a cauldron or smoke from a fire, wispy and ethereal as it rose higher and higher until it evaporated in the night air. It was musical, though slightly out of tune. Benedict had never understood men who had written about a woman’s laughter being like the tinkling of bells or some other rot. Real laughter was loud, sharp and uninhibited. Musical, yes, but pretty in how inherently unpretty it was.
All Benedict could think was that clearly, whatever women those men had encountered had been pretending to laugh at their jokes.
He trod carefully in the grass, trying to sidestep as many blooming flowers as possible until he hovered over two squirming, giggling silhouettes. It was dark and his eyes had not fully adjusted, a cloud had passed over the bright moon. There was a slight sparkle coming from a tiara embedded in a riot of curls, two small hands clasping each other in the grass.
“My, my. What great joke did I miss?”
The laughter halted abruptly but resumed full force when they appeared to recognize him.
“Brother!”
“Benedict!”
Ah, now that was music to his ears.
“I have come to retrieve the two fair maidens before they miss the Queen’s announcement, and before our dear mother turns into a fire-breathing dragon.”
“Oh hush!”
The shadow that was Eloise rose from the ground, but not before giving a rather loud moan of protest. Hand still held tightly to Penelope’s, she tugged and the darkened figure of Penelope stood. Benedict blinked, trying to get a better look at her. His eyesight must be failing him in the dark, now, for the damned cloud that had blocked out the moon’s light kept her from his view.
Something looming hung in the air, he could sense it. Impending, waiting to strike. But for the life of him he couldn’t decipher the feeling or parse through the mist that had settled over him. It unsettled him and he stepped closer, reaching out to take a hand.
He grasped Penelope’s gloved hand in his own, he knew by the size of her small palm and her short, dainty fingers, even under her satin glove. Now he was close enough to breathe her in and besides the scent of petrichor and daffodils, there still remained that heady smell of ginger that clung to her tresses and skin. Stepping even closer, he felt her arm brush his chest and his breath hitched.
In that moment, he could have cursed all of the clouds in the mercurial English sky for blocking his view of her.
“Come,” he breathed, though it was more to Penelope then to his sister. “As much as I would love to hold court in a field of wildflowers, we must hasten back before Mother notices.”
“Who says you would be the one to hold court?” Penelope teased, and hearing her speak was a strange kind of relief.
“Quite right. It is your birthday, after all. You shall be the one to hold court over us later tonight.”
Penelope let out an exaggerated gasp.
“Me? Holding court over Bridgertons? Now that is more of a present than I ever thought to receive. Tell me, Benedict, will you play the role of my jester?”
Eloise snorted in her very Eloise way. There was no other way to describe it, but Benedict paid it no real heed.
“Your jester. Your servant. Your knight. Your prince. I will play whatever part my lady commands.”
It was supposed to come out as a joke. The light and usual tease they were so accustomed to.
But there was something deep and rich, slightly rugged, in the way it had come out that Benedict could not fathom.
So he turned, leading the young ladies by the hand back to the festivities.
He could not tell whether the shiver he felt came from him or the woman at his back.
Upon re-entering the ballroom, Benedict had to blink to regain his sight. The terribly bright space in comparison to the near darkness of the field made everything that sparkled hurt his eyes. He could feel his pupils adjusting as everything, from the polished chandelier to the Queen’s jewel encrusted dress, made his head pound. He did, however, spot Anthony motioning for him to join his side. Without looking back at his charges he said,
“I must attend Anthony for the announcement, but the pair of you best not wander off. I will be back after the Queen makes her decision and we shall…escape to fairer pastures.”
“To safety from this carefully orchestrated madness, you mean?” Eloise muttered.
“To our most lovely bower,” he heard Penelope chime in cheerfully.
He felt her squeeze his hand as he let go and he wanted to turn, to look at her, but Anthony made even more furious motions with his fingers which were, honestly, quite rude indeed. The only way to stop his brother from accidentally insulting some other young lady was to hurry to appease him. Benedict rolled his eyes before surrepticiously making a rather rude, two-finger salute at his brother. A colonel caught the gesture, however, and grumbled under his walrus-like mustache but, frankly, Benedict did not care one wit.
With just a few quick paces, Benedict was beside his brother as Brimsley tapped a champagne glass, the sound ringing around the room. The music abruptly stopped and the guests turned as Queen Charlotte took center stage on her raised platform. Even Benedict had to admit, she was a formidable woman. While he always had the impression the woman suffered from chronic boredom, if she could go toe-to-toe with Lady Danbury, then clearly she possessed wit.
“Your presence is noted and Your Queen most appreciative. Allow it to now be my honor to present to you, the season's diamond.”
Benedict watched the crowd lean forward, eager for this anticipated, juicy morsel. He could practically hear the many ambitious mamas of the ton clacking their hidden talons together as they waited, hoping it would be one of their girls to snag the title. Even for the rich, there was always room to move farther up the ladder. His own mother had not spotted Eloise yet and kept trying to crane her neck over the heads of others. Benedict grimaced but felt it was for the best. No matter the announcement, he doubted very much it was their mother Eloise would want to have next to her at this juncture.
“Miss Edwina Sharma.”
Benedict nearly missed the announcement, but soon he followed everyone's gazes to the young girl dressed in white. She was pretty, that was unquestionable, with dark brown skin, brown eyes that were friendly and inviting, and hair as dark and shining as obsidian. Next to her was the elder sister, a Miss Kathani Sharma who, Benedict had to admit, seemed less intimidating when she swelled with pride for her younger sister.
Benedict smiled softly. He could empathize with that.
Brimsley stepped forward to escort Miss Edwina to the Queen, a giddy nervousness hovering over the new debutante that was sweet in its own way. It reminded Benedict a little of Francesca when she would introduce a new musical piece she wrote to the family.
Benedict raised an amused eyebrow as his elder brother watched Miss Edwina with something akin to satisfaction. The look that filled his brother’s dark, earth brown eyes was not rampant, wanton lust. No. Lust was entirely different from the expression furrowing Anthony’s brow. It was as if that ridiculous list of attributes Anthony had created floated into life across the floor, pretty in white, shining floral appliques sparkling as she bowed before the Queen.
It was as if Anthony had solved a particularly hard math equation, or even–
“You look at her the way I look at a finished painting, brother.”
Anthony’s answering smirk, without tearing his stare from the young debutante, had almost been answer enough.
“Every man needs a muse, does he not?”
With that, Anthony, resolute and determined, practically pushed his way through the crowd of viable suitors now lining up for a dance with Miss Edwina Sharma.
The incessant urge to roll his eyes had to be resisted and finally Benedict allowed his own gaze to drift about the room.
Only to land on Eloise, clinging to Penelope’s side.
Penelope.
He had not seen her, truly seen her since Henry’s small soiree to honor Wetherby’s return to London in early March. The other night, she’d been covered in her lady’s maid cloak, and just ten minutes before she’d been hidden from him by the dark, velvet night. The pretty image of her at Henry’s soiree in a month ago, cheeks flushed with wine as she giggled with her cousin, invaded his vision. But Penelope tonight, her blazing red curls atop her head, adorned with a tiara fit for any moon goddess, her yellow dress emblazoned with stars that merely added to her shine–
The beautiful picture she made seeped into every orifice, the sound of her far-away laughter as she conversed with Eloise like a siren song pouring into his ears, her countenance a feast for the eyes, every single solitary thing about her imprinted itself upon his brain.
Bruised his chest.
Air became trapped inside his lungs, and no matter how hard he tried, they burned for release, to say her name.
It was with sudden clarity that, though he had nearly written to her every day since their last visit, it had not been enough.
It could never be enough.
And, Devil take him, how had this happened?
It was like he had been standing in the middle of a thunderstorm for the past year, as it brewed in intensity, clouds darkening, electrical fire fizzing in the air, rippling across his skin— a warning. One he clearly didn’t heed. For, as he saw Penelope again, fresh from the night air she’d taken with Eloise, her copper hair vibrant in the light, her sky eyes clear as they searched the room, and her face — the face of a woman — she looked up and met his gaze. The wind howled in his ears, lightning struck, and Benedict knew right then that he was in love with Penelope Featherington.
And the storm in his heart showed no signs of easing.
That terrified him more than anything.
For she loved Colin .
His younger brother.
Benedict was doomed to have his heart trampled beneath her pretty little feet. The worst part was, he knew she would never do such a thing on purpose.
Full of pride, she was. There was no denying it.
But not malice or ill-will. At least, not intentionally.
Lawks, how could he let this happen?
How could he have let himself fall in love with Penelope Featherington?
Something wriggled at the back of his mind, a memory. Henry Granville taking stock of him at a garden party, his wry smile filled with both amusem*nt and pity.
“You are going to be one of those,” his friend had chuckled. “It is going to strike you like lightning and you will be f*cking paralyzed.”
And f*ck. He had been right.
Penelope waved at him, lighting up at the sight of him. She even jumped on the balls of her feet, jostling Eloise who harrumphed in response. And though Benedict moved blindly, weaving his way through the crowd to join her, he felt that electric current in the air again. It was a hum all around him and, as he joined their side, he swore he could still smell petrichor and daffodils.
As her sky blue irises met his own, that secret smile he adored tilting up her pretty lips, he felt that electric current fly up his spine.
“Benedict,” she breathed. “I have missed you terribly.”
It struck again. He swore he felt it, seeping down, down, down into his bones before becoming one with his marrow. The sound of her voice, the lightning that was drawn to where he was rooted, tearing him asunder, branding him, burning him until he was both full of new growth and ashes alike. That could be the only way to describe this torturous, beautiful, pinnacle moment.
He was hopelessly in love with Penelope Featherington.
And there had been no stopping it.
“You only just saw me outside,” he teased, though his voice came out breathy and strained. “And the other night.”
“What can I say?” She tilted her head and her red curls spilled over her shoulder. Suddenly the starry crown nestled in her tresses was not enough for him to proclaim her beauty, her loveliness. She’d clearly been fashioned to be some sort of gilded Selene, Goddess of the Moon. But Benedict knew in his very soul she was so much more. “I do very poorly without my friends, even for a day.”
“They have a habit of making us better, I admit.”
“I agree, heartily.”
They stared at one another for a bright, shimmering moment. The ball moved around him, he could see his brother dancing with the new diamond out of the corner of his eye. But he could not tear his gaze away for all of the music, wine, and sibling shenanigans in the world.
Until one such sibling interrupted. The blight.
“Pen, let us all go gather gossip together! Then maybe dear Brother can sneak us out early?”
Benedict startled as Eloise leveled him with a glare as if challenging him to dare not to abscond with two young ladies out of the bloody Queen’s Ball early.
“It would take a miracle,” he said, obnoxiously pulling a chestnut strand from his sister’s updo.
She swatted him. He was just about to swat her back when Penelope asked,
“A birthday miracle?”
Hell’s bells.
How was he supposed to refuse that?
Unfortunately, Benedict had not been able to successfully sneak both women out of the party. Which had been all well and good, for Benedict had needed a moment in the carriage back to Bridgerton House to make his lungs work again. Penelope had unknowingly held a stranglehold on the bloody organs all night, unable to tear himself away from her until Penelope’s own mother had announced it had been time for the Featheringtons to leave. God, how had he been so blind before?
She was beautiful.
Maybe it was because last year she had been a girl, not fully grown into her own skin. But her strength and resilience had been nurtured right in front of him and, even through her multiple bouts of heartbreak, she’d pushed through. She’d become that butterfly he’d been obsessed with over the months, hidden in plain sight until suddenly one saw just how tantalizing she was.
How could no one else see it? How did no one see what he could see?
Well, except for maybe Genevieve. But thinking on that filled him with gut twisting jealousy, so he put it out of his mind.
He replayed every moment since he discovered she was Whistledown in his head during the carriage ride, as Eloise retrieved her gift for Penelope from the kitchens, all the way to the swings where they awaited their friend to sneak out of her home. As they swung softly in the night, his feet rocking on the ground as Eloise’s toes skidded through the grass, he smoked a second cigarillo and tried to concentrate on how the tobacco burned his lungs.
Or was it the very thought of Penelope that made his lungs feel like they were mere pieces of parchment, curling at the edges and burning to ash in the fire grate?
He didn’t know anymore.
There was a small squeak beside him and he knew by the way Eloise jumped up that Penelope was there. Their friend dashed forward, having changed into a thick, cream colored robe. She’d forgotten to take out the tiara from her hair and Benedict was struck with the sudden urge to lay her out on the grass and sketch her under the moonlight.
Or… other things.
Carnal delights he had no right to think about. But how could he think of anything else when she floated to a sitting position in front of him like a Grecian goddess?
“Oh, the two of you will never guess what just happened! This truly may be the best birthday ever.”
That grabbed his attention.
“What?” he asked slowly, lowering the cigarillo and carefully stamping out the burning edge onto the edge of the swing.
Eloise settled beside her friend, practically vibrating with anticipation.
“The new Lord Featherington has arrived!” Penelope could barely contain her excitement, bouncing up and down on her thighs. Even Eloise squealed and hugged Penelope tightly.
“Oh, Pen, such fantastic news! Will he pull your family from poverty?”
“He is already working on what I once thought was a Herculean effort,” Penelope said, a tinge of pride for this relative in her voice. “He has already assured us that he has paid Philippa’s dowry to Mister Finch’s family, so they may finally be married! It turns out he’s our cousin, Jack, from America. That is why it took so long for him to arrive. His father died and the estate passed to him, so it took awhile for him to get his affairs in order. He appears ever so pleasant and nice! Mama is a little dumbstruck, I think.”
“Probably because someone other than her is now in charge,” Eloise snigg*red and Benedict flicked his sister’s forehead.
“Manners, Sister.”
“I only speak the truth, Brother.”
Penelope bit her lip and, without thinking, Benedict reached forward to pry the pink skin from her teeth with his thumb. He frowned when he felt the rough scab on the moist inner bit of flesh, stroking it once before regaining control and letting go. If he was not careful, even Eloise would catch on to Benedict’s newfound feelings.
And he was afraid that would become a matter of life and death. Best not take the risk.
He shifted in his swing, feeling himself melt like wax in the warm sun under the rays of her happiness.
“I am glad, Nel. I know you were worried.”
Penelope directed her shine directly onto him and gods, how was he supposed to make it through a single day without acting like a fool in her presence now?
“It was a fortuitous birthday surprise.”
“Oi! Benedict and I shall not be outdone by this cousin of yours!”
With that huff of indignation, Eloise retrieved the box she had placed carefully by the swing. With a flourish, Eloise opened the box and Penelope gasped, covering her mouth in surprise.
“Eclairs!”
“Your favorite from that bakery you like,” Eloise said proudly, placing the box down between the three of them so they could all partake. “Happy birthday, Pen.”
“Oh, El,” Penelope whispered and Benedict knew that, once again, it was only Eloise, and now Benedict, who had acknowledged Penelope’s birthday. Once again, her family had forgotten or simply ignored the event.
This little demonstration of friendship in the garden would be the only celebration she received.
It broke something tender inside Benedict. He realized with sudden anxious clarity that he had many such moments with Penelope and it was, frankly, terrifying.
Benedict slowly reached into the hidden pocket on the underside of his cream colored vest, his jacket long abandoned. The edges of the silver butterfly almost seemed to flutter under his touch as he removed it and gingerly, he presented it to Penelope. It sat in the center of his palm, it’s carved wings spread out, the tourmaline sparkling under the dim light of the moon and stars.
Penelope’s jaw could have hit the ground when she saw it, her fingers reaching for it, hovering in the air as if it would disappear in a puff of smoke.
“Benedict, this is too much. This must have been so expensive!”
Shaking his head, he slid down from the swing to his knees and gently took the accessory, settling it into her hair. He’d had much practice with his younger sisters, especially when Hyacinth loved to tear out her ribbons as much as she did. As his sisters had grown they’d needed help with their ribbons, hair baubles, and clips throughout the day. Sometimes, there had been no chance for a lady’s maid or other servant to assist. Quickly, Benedict acclimated himself to fixing his younger sisters’ hair at the park, in a corner at a ball, or even within the sanctity of their drawing room. Compared to Hyacinth’s constant squirming and complaining, placing the silver butterfly amongst her autumn colored curls was seamless.
He sat back on his heels, admiring her. Just as he had suspected, it suited her perfectly. The blue and green tourmaline brought out the inherent brightness of her irises, the silver a beacon in her fiery hair. She was a dream, a pretty picture he wanted to create again and again; in graphite, charcoal, watercolors, and oils.
He was trapped again in that space, the thunderstorm only he could hear and feel surrounding him, roaring in his ears…
Until a small, weak chirp broke the moment.
Eloise drew in a great breath of surprise, leaping to her feet before she started climbing the tree in nothing but her flimsy nightgown.
“The birds! They have hatched!”
Benedict and Penelope looked at Eloise, then at each other, ocean and sky meeting in the middle until a warm understanding bloomed between them. Affection for Eloise and for each other, all rolled into one. Penelope stood, taking an eclair as she followed Eloise to the tree trunk. She took a bite and moaned, savoring the flavor as she licked a bit of cream from her lips.
Benedict bit his cheek, holding back a sound that most definitely would not be appropriate.
Busying himself, Benedict helped lift his sister to the opening in the tree where she could see the newly hatched birds, her shins digging into his shoulders as she made great exclamations on how they looked from their barely opened eyes to their practically bald little figures.
Benedict met Penelope’s expression again and she gave him that smile. The one he adored. The one that made him want to part her lips and coax every one of her secrets from her.
God, he’d trade his soul for it.
“Happy birthday, Nel.”
Reaching into his small waistcoat pocket, he fingered the stone he’d plucked from the ground outside the palace as they’d made their escape from the ball. It had been mixed amongst the gravel, a rare, shining piece of pink quartz big enough to feel a tad weighty in the middle of his palm. It glittered hopefully from the ground, as if winking at him. When he’d studied it under the blazing torches keeping the grounds lit, he’d marveled at its beauty, overlooked because of its simplicity, at how well it blended amongst a crowd.
A wallflower amongst gems.
Without a shadow of a doubt, he knew who he would think of whenever he looked upon this stone in his vast collection.
He just didn’t know whether it would flood him with joy or sorrow yet.
Color. Clarity. Carat. Cut. At long last The Queen has named her most precious stone.
While This Author finds Miss Edwina Sharma to be an exceptional young lady, it is about time I used these pages of record for something else: a shift.
Is the entire practice of naming a diamond not, well, rather ridiculous? Should a woman not be valued for so much more than her dancing or comportment? Should we not value a woman instead for her candor, her character, her true accomplishments?
Perhaps, if The Queen abandoned this absurdity that is The Diamond, we would all see that a woman can be so much more.
That she can, truly, sparkle from within.
