Chapter Text
PART 2
October 8th, 1815
He was painfully aware that his energy was wasted feeling sorry for himself, and his introspection made his self-pity all the more inescapable. His bare hands clutched the ship's rail as the storm rolled in. The captain had advised them to stay on shore and wait for the next ship, but restlessness had gotten the better of him. Colin Bridgerton boarded the ship with no desire to look back again at the Strait of Bonifacio.
He felt as a great bear must when it escapes a trophy hunter’s trap.
He loosened his grip on the rails. Surely, Isabella and her father had not intended to appear so sinister and scheming. They were kind, charitable, trusting people. Demonstrated by their willingness to take him in two months ago in Portugal, knowing so little about his life. It was their fault for not inquiring more about him…
No, no it was his own fault. For being so familiar.
The sea swelled and the ship with it. Thrown off balance, Colin extended his left arm and cinched the rail in the crook of his elbow. His lower body haphazardly hovered over the uneven slats of wood beneath him. It began to pour. After catching his breath, he squinted his eyes, looking for his lantern. Instead, he saw smoke across the bow. The lantern had extinguished with the rain and rolled away from him. The cumulonimbus cloud he’d seen from shore rumbled menacingly above the ship, and there was little light left in the sky to see him back to his humble living quarters.
That was, until the sky lit up with a lightning which illuminated the whole of the cloud, light bouncing off the puddles of water beneath him and revealing his reflection.
He was only four and twenty, but his frown lines were apparent, even in the briefest of moments. He wondered how Isabella had grown so fond of a man who appeared so miserable and concerned all the time. Fond enough to marry him. Each time he had looked upon his reflection while readying himself that summer, his appearance had been a source of dismay. The light and cheery third Bridgerton brother was now a serious and isolated bachelor. One with nothing left to lose. How rapidly his outlook had changed the past two months.
“Oy! What’re ye doing, idiot?!”
A sailor beckoned him away from the bow of the ship. The storm was picking up. He skirted the sailor’s inquiries –- asking him if he had a death-wish -– and clumsily found his way to the steps and down to his bunk, which was littered with letters. All of them were unaddressed and in his own handwriting. He hadn’t sent or received a letter in weeks.
Of all his siblings, he could rely on Eloise for correspondence, but her earlier letters had been platitudinous in nature. The formula was as follows: a sarcastic comment expressing relief that he was still alive, a mundane anecdote about one of their siblings, and an inquiry after his health. Soon enough, Colin stopped replying. It was not worth the effort of arranging for her responses to be delivered at his next destination.
Well, perhaps his judgement of Eloise’s letters was somewhat colored by a lack of any responses from Penelope Featherington, whom he believed to be one of Eloise’s dearest friends (though Eloise had ignored his attempts to inquire after Penelope’s health).
He had written and sent eight letters to Penelope that summer, not that he had been counting.
And he had written five more, though he hadn’t the faith to send them at that point. Which rounded out the number of missives to the lucky number 13.
His first three letters had focused on his travels – the people he encountered, the food he discovered, and the cultural differences with which he found wonder or amusement.
In the fourth letter, he tried to hide his concern for her lack of a response. It had only been three weeks, after all, and –- even though the war had mostly come to an end -– resources might be too scarce for letters to be delivered as rapidly as he hoped. But he turned his attention to her and her family in case his previous letters had been too absorbed by his own experiences. He inquired after her mother, though he did not hold Portia Featherington in high regard, and attempted to recall which perennials they kept in their garden. In fact, he spent the time writing the letter creating a vivid image in his mind of Penelope’s home and the view it afforded her of Bridgerton House. He put all of this effort in and sent the letter before remembering that she was likely at her family’s country estate. Or in Ireland!
And so he drafted another letter; this one was the length of two letters combined. It contained an interactive element, where he gave Penelope the choice to continue his letter on pages 2 or 4 depending on her correct location. His memories of the Featherington country estate were scarce, but his mother had taken him and Eloise there a few times when they were younger. He focused on his favorite memories there (many involving games of hide and seek or scavenger hunts) and depicted the grounds accordingly.
He had never been to Ireland, but Isabella had. And so he took notes from their conversation about the beauty of the eastern coast. His second-hand depiction left much to be desired, he was sure. So he focused on asking questions about Penelope’s surroundings, about the livestock (were there hairy coos in Ireland like there were in his travels to Scotland?) and the distance between her family's estate and the seaside. His letters had been devoted previously to describing his own surroundings, no wonder she had grown tired and stopped replying!
In his sixth letter, he focused on the animals he had met so far on his journey. One of his fondest memories of Penelope was watching her play with Marina’s dog (who had promptly been cast out by Portia). She was fond of animals, he was sure of it, and perhaps the tales of impish Valencian cats and gluttonous sea gulls would intrigue her enough to engage. He’d even attempted to illustrate the creatures, though he was anything but an artist.
By the time he’d sent letters seven and eight (he wrote these about the souvenirs he'd chosen for his family and a rather elaborate Italian biscuit recipe, respectively), he was feeling more desperate than creative. He could not help wondering if she was even reading his letters. Surely she would have at least replied that she was well when he inquired after her health for the eighth time.
Once October began, he wrote her a letter every other day. His words were unfiltered, because he knew he would no longer send the letters. Each letter contained a memory.
Dearest Penelope,
Do you recall the first time you visited Bridgerton House for tea? You would not eat a single biscuit, for fear of appearing unladylike. Eloise and I decided the best course of action would be to hold a contest between our sisters and any female visitors (which included yourself and two of Daphne’s friends) the following week. I immediately regretted our idea when I saw how quickly you all consumed the assortment of biscuits. There would not be any remnants for the brothers! Perhaps this is why we discourage young ladies from eating at balls. There would be little left for the gentlemen.
The letters began with anecdotes which brought a smile to his face, despite his overall foul mood. But they soon became opportunities to rewrite history. She would never see them, so why not use them to assuage his guilt? In one letter, he pretended he had taken Penelope’s warning to heart before Whistledown had publicly shamed Marina. In another, he had never opened his mouth to speak with Fife at the Featherington Ball. How nice would it be to have the chance to rewrite or erase history, and to have others see and believe it.
When he traveled, he could do exactly that – rewrite his history and place himself in the context he desired. Or so he thought, until the other day.
Sailing away from London may have protected him from eager mamas, but Isabella’s father had proven even more fearsome. There had been a significant delay in their travels the last few weeks, supposedly due to one of Napoleon’s allies, Joachim Murat, attempting to take back some power. They had been asked to stay in Bonifacio until further notice, and their party waited patiently to sail to their next stop in Calabria until they had the all-clear.
Over the course of these three weeks, Colin became progressively more aware of how incredibly isolated he felt. He had never been the sort to withdraw from others when he felt alone, and so he joined Isabella for walks along the beach at sunset and listened to her stories. There was nothing quite like listening to others speak of their hopes and dreams when he was blue.
In Europe, he had always been free to converse with women without a chaperone or a formal introduction. So he thought nothing of the casual and admittedly intimate walks he took with Isabella. She was aware of so much beyond her marriage prospects and eligible suitors. He did not think he could be at risk of an entrapment again.
After a fortnight, her father had asked him why he had not yet requested Isabella’s hand in marriage. Apparently, the time they spent on this idyllic island was perfect for a wedding. It was only after mentioning all of this that Colin learned Isabella had feelings for him.
Isabella refrained from admitting this to Colin directly. Rather, she imprudently left this task to her father’s discretion. And so he treated it with the utmost indiscretion and told Colin at a moment where he could not escape his party (not without angering the Austrian Empire).
“You see, my daughter is enamored of you, and I do believe you’ve encouraged her affections,” the doting father proclaimed, as the two gentlemen shared a carafe of wine on the patio of a nobleman. “I approve of the match, and I would be happy for you to marry her while we wait out this unexpected delay.
Colin was silent for a while, all but totally ignorant of the father’s eyes on him. He stared out at the moon’s reflection in the quiescent sea, thinking of how far he had come from his home. How different this year’s journey had been from the last. How dizzy he felt not knowing the date on which he would sit and eat biscuits at Bridgerton House once more.
Isabella’s father cleared his throat.
“I cannot!” Colin exclaimed.
Colin was shocked at his childish exclamation. Only two months ago, he would have believed himself in one of his fantasies. Becoming engaged to a young woman of ethereal beauty, after she shared her secrets with him at sunset while stranded on an island. It was straight out of one of the romantic novels that he secretly read in his teenage years.
But, no, he could not marry her. It was all wrong. Him being here , on the coast of Bonifacio – quite literally, the coast of Good Fortune. He had run from his home, where he was surrounded by those he loved, to some ultimately arbitrary location. His family did not know this woman. He barely knew this woman.
The woman’s father stared at him in disbelief.
“I cannot marry your daughter.”
“You cannot be serious. Do you know how many have vied for my daughter’s hand? I was prepared to offer you a journey home on one of the ships in my fleet, so that you might see your family before joining ours more permanently.” When he received no reply, he continued, "But I fear you will have to arrange your own transportation from here on out." With that, he dismissed him.
Colin panicked. He had no way home. And he found himself overcome with a homesickness he had never known before.
It was imperative to regain his respect and trust.
“Apologies, Sir, but I cannot marry your daughter because I am already engaged.”
The father was thoughtful for a moment, and then seemed to recall something altogether reassuring, “Is this the young lady you are always writing to? Isabella and I assumed it was your sister.”
Colin was already lying, and he figured it a good enough explanation as any, so he replied, “No, not my sister.” When the man was silent he finished by saying, “Her name is Penelope Featherington, and she is the woman I intend to marry.” He hoped Penelope would not mind saving him from an imprudent marriage.
“You are engaged? And yet you are traveling --”
“Her mother deemed her too young for marriage, sir. It was unorthodox, yes, but I am committed to her and wished to travel until we could begin our lives together.”
“And so that is why she never responds to you, is it? I noticed you were always checking for her letters.”
“Yes, her mother forbids it. I am barely even sure if she is allowed to read my letters.” The further this story developed, the more he found himself wishing to believe it himself. Perhaps Penelope’s mother did not want her writing to him. She had never been fond of the Bridgertons, and she might see the arrangement as improper.
He had invented a narrative to suit his needs. And so just a few days later, he was aboard a trade ship, journeying home to England. To the people who knew him. He could not rewrite history with them, but perhaps he could fashion a new future to suit them all.