Chapter Text
“When did you first know that Penelope loved me?”
The question is torn from Colin without his permission. He has been rehearsing it for most of the morning, hoping to raise the subject with his mother in a tactful manner. Recent conversations in the family have brought a wistfulness upon Colin that he longs to resolve, and he trusts his mother will have helpful insight.
Violet’s surprise is stark on her face. She is not used to her sons being so forthcoming with their troubles, Colin knows. She is quick to recover, her gaze shining with love as she considers her response.
“Truthfully, dearest, I knew the first time I met her.”
This was the answer he anticipated, the answer he dreaded. He sighs.
“It was very moving,” Violet says, softly. “She was so small. She could not have known much about romance. From my understanding, she knew little of love in general. But she loved you as though it was in her nature. It proved something to me that I had always believed about love and humanity.”
Colin has made the same observation about love across history. He has recognised feelings articulated in poetry written before he was born, and wandered graveyards where lovers have laid together in dirt-spun beds for decades. In his estimation, it is the one thing in life that holds genuine meaning.
To consider every fragment of this all-important wonder collecting in the heart of a small red-haired girl upon her first time meeting him, Colin is in awe.
“I must be the luckiest man alive,” he murmurs.
“I rather think you are,” his mother says, tilting her head and inspecting him shrewdly. “Which makes your present melancholy quite confounding. What troubles you?”
“It is only…” Colin hesitates, stares down at his clenched hands. “I cannot believe that I am worthy of Penelope’s love. It is astonishing enough to know that she loves me today. But to know that she has been sure and strong in her love for me since we were children is overwhelming.”
He is grateful for his mother’s understanding nod. “I know that feeling – that incredulity that somebody so wonderful has chosen you. I warn you, it may never fade entirely. But there is no value in dwelling in that incredulity. It is better to be grateful for their choice and do your very best to love them well. I believe that you are already succeeding with that. You are an attentive husband.”
Colin casts his mind to every memory he has of his mother and father together. Violet had a particular sparkling smile that she reserved for her husband, a girlish look entirely comparable to a debutante falling in love for the first time. He can picture the shy young lady his father married with ease.
He smiles sadly. When he was a boy, he could think of nothing he wanted more than to have another conversation with his father. Now a man with a wife of his own, he realises he would prefer for his mother to have a final moment with her husband.
Edmund set an example that Colin knows he is following well. He recognises that his mother is right to praise him for being a good husband; Penelope matters to him above everything, and this priority reflects in his conduct.
“Perhaps I am doing right by her now, but I failed her in the past,” Colin says. “Her affection for me was no flimsy infatuation. She knew me too well for that. She loved me, truly, and she must have suffered to hold my company without hope of her feelings being returned, but she was my constant friend. She never intended for me to discover her feelings, she was content with my friendship. I am humbled to be the recipient of such selfless, pure devotion, particularly from a girl so special. It is my fault that it was not appreciated or reciprocated. How can I forgive myself for that?”
Violet is smiling, aglow despite Colin’s anguish. He supposes she is enjoying the spectacle of his gushing love – or perhaps the confirmation that her son has spent his whole life in Penelope’s good hands.
“It does not sound to me as though there is anything to forgive,” she says. “Penelope does not love you without reason, dearest. You were very good to her during those years of friendship. Short of falling in love in the same moment she did, there was nothing more you could have done for her. And your love is all the richer for the time you spent nurturing it. You were growing into the man that she deserves, the man that sits before me today.”
Floored, Colin looks away from his mother and stares at his teacup. It means very much to him that his mother thinks so highly of him. He wishes he could believe her.
“That means a great deal to me, Mother,” he says. “I suppose I see your point. I was too foolish for Penelope in younger years. However, I cannot relinquish my regret. If I were a better man, I could have married her during her first season. I could have saved her from a great deal of suffering.”
“She is not yet twenty, dear,” Violet reminds him. “You removed her from her unhappiness very early in her life. You have saved her from suffering.”
“Not before she withstood years of loneliness,” Colin says, softly.
This may be what bothers him most of all. The discomfort that comes with knowing that the woman he loves has been hurt in ways he cannot change. He remembers the young girl she was: tucked in on herself, bashful, stammering. Those signs of fear and doubt in an unloved girl wear on his every waking moment. There is little he can do to redeem what she went through in her childhood home.
“I am afraid that is one of life’s more painful lessons,” Violet says. “We cannot protect the people we love from the world. Not even the people we bring into it. You will learn that when you have your own children.”
A hazy memory returns to Colin, the time where his father died and his mother slipped away. He knows that this period unwound each of her children in irrevocable ways, but he also knows that she is referring to far simpler failures than this. The world is full of barbs and nobody has the power to prevent it from making its mark.
“I suppose your advice is to handle her pain with love.”
“You suppose right. You know me well,” Violet says, chuckling.
He smiles warmly, awash with affection. “I appreciate your perspective very much. That is why I wished to speak with you about this.”
Violet leans over the table, lays her hand atop his. “I am glad you came to me. I hope you know you always can.”
Colin nods. He turns his hand under hers so their palms touch.
“You say that now, but wait until I seek you out to complain about the time I wasted,” he says, grinning. “I will bore you to tears. I am afraid I could grumble about it for hours.”
His mother laughs, as he hoped she would, but the levity does not last.
“I know you will not appreciate me saying so, but darling, you are so young.”
It is perhaps the last thing Colin expected to hear in response to his joke. He is startled enough to remain quiet and await her elaboration.
“I do not always notice it, when you have grown so noble and strong. But you are only two and twenty, speaking of time as though you have any notion of it.”
Colin tenses. There is nothing he dislikes quite as much as being patronised.
“It is not my intention to condescend to you,” Violet says, sensing his disappointment. “Do not doubt my respect for you for a moment. But you might take some relief in my promise that the time you were not Penelope’s husband will seem very short, someday.”
“I have considered that. I can surely redeem my early negligence over a lifetime.”
A twinkle appears in Violet’s eye. Colin suspects he is wrong again.
“Perhaps. Or perhaps you could simply continue a beautiful love story,” his mother says. “Perhaps the most beautiful I have ever witnessed.”
It is a wonder that Colin does not stop breathing altogether. This is hefty praise indeed, from a person most qualified to give it. He feels his jaw going slack.
“I look forward to telling my grandchildren the story,” Violet says, smiling at him. “A boy and a girl became friends as children. The girl loved him from the moment she met him, and she was right to; he treasured her friendship until he was grown enough to love her in return. When their love bloomed, it was without orchestration. It was natural. A wildflower among planted roses in the ton.”
Colin is not surprised to feel tears in his eyes. He has never heard such a moving description of a love story, and he is its leading man and his conduct is kind and human, not exactly foolish. He realises that Penelope makes for a satisfying heroine – such a romantic girl, seeing and loving one man forever and having her instincts proven right by his eventual reciprocation.
She was right to love him. All along, her heart was safe with him.
He understands why his mother appreciates this story.
“I am touched, Mother,” Colin says. He hopes she perceives his gravity.
“I only speak the truth. I consider myself very lucky to have watched this story unfold over the years.”
“I understand why our marriage was your darling wish,” he says, now warmed instead of shamed by her long-standing hope. “It meant a great deal to Penelope, when you said that. She gushed about you for a good hour when we returned home that night. She has as much admiration for you as I do.”
“Oh,” Violet says, placing a hand over her heart. “How sweet. Penelope is very precious to me. She reminds me so much of myself – though, she is far cleverer and far braver than I could ever be.”
Colin merely chuckles, unwilling to voice his agreement. His mother is an incredible woman, but he is confident that nobody in the world is quite as incredible as his wife.
“I must confess, my desire for your marriage was not entirely selfless.”
“It wasn’t?” Colin asks, intrigued.
“I have always longed for Penelope to be my daughter,” Violet says. “Thank you, dearest, for bringing her home to our family.”
Once again, Colin recalls Penelope in her youth. This time, he does not remember her cowering in corners, frowning at her mother and sisters, melancholy stained on her face. He sees her sitting in the Bridgerton drawing room, encircled by his family. He sees her showing Eloise a passage from a book, sees her clapping for Francesca at the piano, sees her stitching with Daphne, sees her clutching his mother’s hand on the settee. He sees her searching for him from across the room, smiling that particular smile that only he can conjure in her.
She was always brighter among the blue. These were the walls among which she found her hope. Colin knows in his heart that it was what got her through those difficult years.
Colin realises he is grateful – grateful to his family for keeping a space open for her, and grateful to Penelope for waiting for him.
“Of course, Mother,” he says. He retrieves a handkerchief from his pocket, one Penelope embroidered with his initials when she was younger than Hyacinth, and dabs at his eyes. “Thank you for welcoming her.”
After finishing another cup of tea with his mother, Colin sets off in search of Penelope. He roams the halls of his childhood home, glad to see it unchanged in his absence, as stable as the love of the family it contains. He comes across the mingled voices of the family’s three latest additions and smiles with excitement.
He hopes he can spend some time with Kate and Penelope. Both women are so quick-witted that any time spent in their joined company is very entertaining.
By the doorway, Colin notices that his new nephew is stirring in his wife’s arms. He lingers so that he can admire Penelope holding the baby. She looks serene as she strokes his dark wispy curls along his temple. Colin is so acquainted with her gentle touch that he is not surprised when little Edmund yawns peacefully.
Enraptured as Colin is with the sight of Penelope cradling the baby, it takes him a moment to register what she is saying to her sister-in-law.
“ – no need, Kate. It is not as though you should be held accountable for what Anthony says. Besides, I do not believe he meant any harm.”
“He did not,” Kate agrees. “He is very fond of you. But Anthony’s intentions are often far removed from what he achieves.”
Colin is tempted to laugh at the accuracy of that, but his realisation of what they discuss has made him curious. It would appear he is not the only Bridgerton still thinking about that conversation at the dinner table those few weeks ago. He cannot resist sinking into the shadows to listen.
“I hope he did not embarrass you.”
“I embarrassed myself,” Penelope says. “Harbouring unrequited feelings is an undignified predicament even if left unspoken. I can hardly believe I announced it so loudly, and in front of most of the family!”
Kate laughs softly. “From what Anthony has told me, you were quite dignified in your yearning. I doubt the same can be said of me when I fell in love. It is a brave thing to love somebody, especially when reciprocation is unknown.”
“You sound as though you know the feeling.”
“There was a time that I was convinced Anthony did not return my love,” Kate confesses. “I denied him the first time he proposed to me. I believed he implored me out of honour.”
Colin was unaware that Anthony had also failed to resist having his wife before marrying her. He recalls what Lady Cowper wrote about his family’s history of hasty weddings and wonders if there is some truth in it.
“It mustn’t have been a very romantic proposal!” Penelope exclaims. “Poor Anthony. He was so repressed, I am not exactly surprised his love was not communicated.”
“He has grown very much in the time I have known him,” Kate agrees. “Still, he is no less infuriating than the day I first met him. You are the only person who can understand my predicament, being married to a Bridgerton man.”
Penelope giggles. “They are quite exuberant, are they not?”
“They are more often mad,” Kate replies bluntly.
“I suppose we have met their madness by agreeing to marry them.”
“At least you had the sense to marry the sweetest one,” Kate says.
Colin grins, touched to be awarded this title by Kate. Though he bristles when his brothers allude to his gentle personality, he is delighted when it is praised by his sisters, mother or wife.
“My feelings for Colin hardly feel sensible,” Penelope says. “But it is true that it was his good nature that first struck me. I had never been treated so kindly after making a mistake. My love for him grew from that initial appreciation.”
“Was this during your first meeting? He mentioned at your engagement ball that he fell from his horse.”
Penelope nods. “It was a windy day, my bonnet flew into his face. I expected him to be cross at me, but he only laughed. He was so jovial and kind, so handsome, even with mud on his face.”
There is a discerning look in Kate’s eyes. “You loved him right away.”
“Yes. I saw him, and I never saw anybody else.”
Happiness soars in Colin’s chest. He is feeling more glad and more guilty for his decision to eavesdrop with every passing moment.
“Well, that may be an exaggeration,” Kate teases. “Plenty of men were described to be handsome in Whistledown. You considered marriage to another, at a certain point. You were not quite so hopeless in your affection for him that you did not see other men altogether.”
“But I really was. I really am ,” Penelope admits, blushing. “I can recognise if a man is good-looking, but nobody else has ever caught my eye or turned my head. Nobody holds appeal to me, besides Colin. That is what makes his propensity for jealousy so ridiculous.”
Kate hums thoughtfully. “Anthony is prone to jealousy, as well. I find it strange when he met me as an unwed spinster. I wonder if it is a family trait.”
“They were raised with love and wealth, and they have lived their lives as handsome, charming, socially-respected men,” Penelope says. “I imagine their understanding of desire and possession are quite different from ours.”
Colin feels his heart throb. He is saddened to consider these women having such familiar resignation to going without. He remembers the shame with which Penelope declared herself a spinster at nineteen and can only imagine what Kate experienced during her early twenties. Both women deserve infinitely more than the world into which they were born is willing to afford them.
At least they are loved and secure now. Colin knows Anthony shares his determination to see to this.
“You are right. How ridiculous,” Kate sighs and shakes her head. “I fear these Bridgerton men are simply ridiculous by nature. Benedict was terrible to bait Colin that night, and Anthony was terrible to laugh when he succeeded.”
“I think they may have planned it together. I saw them exchanging conspiring looks all throughout dinner.”
“I would not be surprised. I ought to give Anthony a good smack.”
Baby Edmund makes a loud gurgling sound.
“Don’t you defend your father,” Kate warns him.
More of Penelope’s beautiful laughter rings throughout the room. Colin wishes he could step inside and bask in it, but he does not wish to interrupt them. It is clear that they are benefitting from one another’s company, commiserating over matters that they may not want to discuss so frankly with their husbands.
The thought makes further eavesdropping inconceivable. Shaking his head at himself, Colin walks away, hoping that Kate will call upon Bloomsbury sometime soon.
Shame follows Colin home, reminding him that he is not in the business of concealing things from Penelope. He whispers a confession in bed that night.
“I overheard your conversation with Kate.”
Penelope, nestled in the crook of his arm and tracing patterns along his chest, does not lift her head. “Oh?”
“I intended to announce myself, but I paused when I saw you with Edmund. You make a beautiful vision with a baby in your arms. So gentle and doting.”
She makes a soft noise, and kisses his chest in thanks.
“I wanted to watch you for a moment. Then your conversation resumed, and I could not bring myself to interrupt you.”
“Nor could you resist eavesdropping?” Penelope asks, grinning at him.
“I apologise,” Colin says, flushing.
“I would be a wretched hypocrite to fault you for eavesdropping,” she says, patting his sternum lovingly. “Today was our first opportunity to talk about that night since Edmund arrived. Did I divulge anything you wish to discuss?”
“No. You said nothing I did not already know. I only wanted to thank you for all you said about me. I am very grateful for your love.”
This is what draws her out of her sleepy haze. Penelope looks up at him, her eyes wide with surprise. “Of course, you are welcome.”
“I also spoke to my mother,” Colin adds. “She made it seem rather simple. I am starting to accept that I should be grateful for your patience rather than regretful of my ignorance. I am happy that you love me, whether or not I deserve it.”
Penelope props her chin on his chest, gazing at him with reverence.
“I appreciate that perspective,” she says, softly. “But you know that love is not deserved. It is not earned. It is given freely.”
She has told him this more than once. He has struggled to wrap his head around the concept, not because he has never known unconditional love, but because he has never received such an abundance of concentrated love.
He is the centre of her world. It is his first time being at the centre of anything.
“I know,” Colin tells her. “Perhaps it concerns me. How can I ensure that you feel appreciated, when you want nothing in return for your love?”
“I told you,” Penelope says. “I only need you to stand by me. To hold me, to kiss me.”
It is a simple and familiar resolution. An answer that Colin has been taught all his life to see the value in. He sighs with honest relief, wraps his wife in his arms, and puts down the last of his doubt.