Chapter Text
Between Calling Hour and the Promenade, Penelope finally got five minutes to herself, wanting to refresh before their walk, and read the excerpts Colin had prepared for her.
She ran her fingers over his CB cypher imprinted into the wax, noting that even the outer sheet was covered in writing that was bleeding through the paper ever so slightly. It gave her the same feeling as every time she had received a letter from him while he was abroad, even the ones she’d never replied to.
Then she cracked the seal, smoothing out the pages, and started to read…
9th of June 1815
Today I went to Santorini, which is even more lovely than the books described.
Many times this trip have I wished I had Benedict with me; not just for the company, but because I know his hands could put to canvas the sights I see before me, so I may look upon them again and again at my leisure.
Especially here in Fira, where the Aegean is the deepest sapphire blue, and the buildings, as they cluster together on the cliffs, are the brightest white, luminous under the noon day sun, an occasional lapis turret or ultramarine roof breaking up what is just a sea of blinding chalk.
I am looking forward to being here for a few days, then extending my trip to the rest of the Cyclades and Crete, having already seen most of Greece already.
But I can already tell from the beauty of the sunset, as I sit on the terrace of my host’s villa, that if nothing else, watching the sky cycle through each colour imaginable as the great orb in the sky steadily sinks beneath the horizon, that I am lucky to see this with my own eyes.
Yet, somehow I feel the experience would be greatly improved still, if there were someone I could share it with…
21st of June
I arrived in Rome just hours ago, yet my feet are already taking me through the city, built on seven hills and valleys, just as Sheffield is back home.
Though I cannot imagine two more different places: The one I know a study in greys, the Rivers Don and Sheaf mirky under stormy skies, on the one occasion that I had cause to visit some Ledger cousins in the Northern town, the Cathedral’s spire rising upward as if reaching for God, the grime of the steel works there seemingly painting everything with a wash of dull greys and charcoal.
Rome, however, is bathed in light, and far from dull, each building is a riot of colour, made more colourful still with the baskets of plants cascading over each balcony, their flowers in perpetual bloom, and the yellows, oranges and rosy pinks arrest my eyes, as they somehow make me yearn for home.
My aimless wandering takes me down narrow, cobbled streets, that smell of fish and flowers, exotic fruit and wares thrust in my face as I squeeze through crowded markets, and somehow I come upon the Pantheon in the middle of the Piazza della Rotonda.
It is bigger than it looks in drawings, the square where it sits hidden from the view of any major carriageway, an Egyptian Obelisk set on top of the baroque fountain, bisecting my view of the ancient building.
A relic of Rome's days as the most powerful Empire on Earth…
When entering the Pantheon it almost swallows one up, the pillars towering above, the doors made as if for giants, the oculus in the centre casting light upon the floor, and it takes one’s breath away to see it-
Someone banging on the door startled her then, making her drop the pages to the floor.
‘Penelope!’
It was her mother.
‘You have been in there for an age! What can you be doing?’
‘I am almost done, Mama…’
Penelope rolled her eyes and finished her toilette, feeling much more refreshed, eager to finish the excerpts, Colin having filled the fronts and backs of three sheets of paper for her in his pretty hand.
She tucked them into the purse that matched her dress, resolved to finish them later. It contained some pin money, a fan, a wrapped boiled sweet or two, and now the folded excerpts from Colin’s travel journal.
Five minutes later and they were back in the carriage, on their way to the park, Prudence and Phillipa riding behind in a carriage with their husbands.
‘Lady Featherington?’ asked Colin, addressing Portia, who gave him a little smile, ‘Would you mind if I took Penelope on a river boat today, since it is such lovely weather?’
Penelope looked up at him, surprised.
‘Of course not, Mr Bridgerton,’ she said, with a soft smile, ‘Would you like that, Penelope?’
Since when did her mother ask her if she was amenable to anything?
‘I have never been on a boat before,’ she replied, addressing Colin, ‘Yet I have always cared to try it.’
‘And I have never taken a lady on the water before, but I will be sure to row gently,’ he replied, with a quirk of his mouth.
She chuckled, her mother giving a soft smile, who then addressed Colin.
‘How did you get on with your errand last evening, Mr Bridgerton?’
‘Very well, thank you, Lady Featherington,’ he smiled, ‘Apologies for not returning with you. I had promised to call in on the Duke and Duchess of Hastings, and they live quite close to the park.’
‘And how are they?’
‘Tolerable, thank you. Though Daphne is in her last month of her confinement and she is quite ready for the next Hastings to arrive, rather uncomfortable now.’
‘Oh, yes,’ chuckled Portia, gently, ‘After four babies, I am quite relieved to be done with all that. It is up to my girls to have their time at motherhood, now that they are all grown.’
‘Quite so,’ said Colin, returning her warm smile, then biting the inside of his lip, glancing toward Pen, who was steadfastly looking out of the window, before turning back to her mother, curiously, ‘Forgive me, my Lady, but I thought you had three children?’
She gave a sad smile.
‘Felicity, my youngest, died of pneumonia when she was three. After that, Archie and I stopped trying for a boy.’
Colin was struck dumb with shock for a moment, before he found his voice again.
‘Good heavens, I am so very sorry. Please accept my condolences, Lady Featherington.’
‘It was a long time ago, Mr Bridgerton, before our days in Grosvenor Square. But, thank you… You are very kind...’
They lapsed into silence.
Penelope had never heard her mother talk of her sister more than a handful of times since her death, even when she’d cried as a child after losing her favourite playmate. It was a taboo subject - until now, it would seem. Something about Colin seemed to be opening her mother up. Softening her.
He had that sort of effect on people.
Though she wanted to answer his questions, she kept her eyes on the window, unwilling to look back at him, unwilling to discuss it, until they got to Hyde Park.
Fortunately, it appeared he felt the same.
>>~~~8)O(8~~~<<
The sound of the oars moving through the water was rather soothing, as Penelope sat in the sunshine at one end of the boat, Colin rowing gently on the other.
She sighed, adjusting the emerald around her neck as she closed her eyes to let the sun warm her skin.
‘You seem pensive, Pen…’ said Colin and she deigned to crack her eyes open a little to acknowledge him.
‘Merely enjoying the peace of being out here with you.’
Colin puffed up with pride at that.
‘Then it was a fine notion?’
‘Indubitably,’ she smiled, ‘I feel as if I can breathe a moment… Far away from everything.’
‘These past few days have been trying for you…’
‘Indeed. I feel my nerves to be somewhat frayed, being used to much more time on my own than I have had these last few days. I believe something so lively as a ball may just do me in.’
Colin laughed at that.
‘I apologise,’ he chuckled, ‘I have been quite interrogative of late…’
‘I do not mind you, Colin. Each moment with you is simple…’ she sighed, ‘It's everything else that's a challenge. Like my mother. You heard her accept an invite to the Opera?’
‘Oh, yes…’ he said, rowing slightly faster. He avoided her eye, while she was giving him a searching look.
‘Colin… What did you say to Lord Fife?’
Colin stopped rowing a moment, leaning forward so as not to be overheard by anyone who may have been within earshot.
‘I merely asked him what his intentions were.’
‘And?’ she asked, curiously.
Colin looked decidedly uncomfortable, wetting his dry lips just a little.
‘I do not know if I should tell you this, but Fife's interest in you seems to have been long standing. He wants you, Pen. And only you.’
Penelope’s eyes went wide. ‘What?’
‘He had already decided on you years ago, but thought he had more time before you'd be amenable to marriage, apparently.’
Colin started to row again, his movements tense.
Penelope giggled.
‘Well, I shall have to disappoint him.’
Colin perked up at that.
‘And the other Lords? Any attachments forming there?’
‘It is early. I cannot say I am attached to any one Lord in particular.’
She could not say just then that she was rather attached to a certain mister instead, but she lifted her chin to see his reaction.
His eyes were flashing with something she couldn’t quite place.
‘Truly?’ he asked, a mischievous smile turning his mouth, ‘Not even Lord Debling with his very fine beard?’ he teased.
She sucked in a breath that was also a laugh, looking aghast at him, before she turned it back.
‘I have barely spoken with him, as you well know. A dance here, a chat there. Barely anything, really… Dare I say that you seem to favour him for me, even if I do not?’ Colin gave her a quizzical look, ‘Though, I suppose he is not unpleasant to look upon, come to think of it…? And I must admit… Lady Debling does sound rather fine, does it not?’
That wiped the smirk off his face.
Good.
‘Nonsense,’ he scoffed, rowing a little faster, ‘I would rather have you never marry, old friend, so we may promenade together, always…’ she raised an amused eyebrow at him, and he cleared his throat, ‘In truth, I consider not one of them good enough for you, Pen.’
‘Oh, and who is?’
He merely smiled enigmatically at her.
‘I suppose I may relinquish you, someday…’ he said loftily. ‘Perhaps so you might wait by the door for the latest gossip with Lord Remington…’
‘You are too much,’ she chided with a laugh. ‘I suppose you do not like Whistledown much?’
‘Not at all. Though, you seem to enjoy her?’
‘I admit that I do, on occasion.’
‘Even when she has been quite opinionated about your family, and awfully mean about your yellow frocks?
‘I have long made peace with the fact that nothing she said has been particularly untrue. Frankly, It felt cathartic to have it written for all to see in printer’s ink, in a sense, rather than whispered behind fans by the likes of Cressida Cowper. And it's not as if we are the only ones she aims her quill at.’
‘I suppose that is true,’ conceded Colin.
She bit her lip as she laughed to herself over something she'd just remembered.
‘What?’ he asked, buoyed by her good humour.
‘I was just thinking, I do like it when she exposes some villain or other.’
‘Oh? Such as?’
‘Lord Berbrooke for one. I am certainly relieved for The Duchess of Hastings that she never had to be Lady Berbrooke…’ Penelope shivered a little, making a face, ‘Odious, horrible man, could you imagine?’
When Colin didn't say anything she looked across at him, to see he was staring at her, thoughtfully.
‘Oh, yes, I forgot about that. I am relieved that Daphne had an escape there, certainly…’
‘Let us talk of something else, if it pleases you?’
‘No need,’ he said, pausing his rowing again, as they slowly navigated the Serpentine, ‘I would like to hear your opinions. About Whistledown. About the Ton. So I may know you better.’
‘As you wish.’
Penelope started to feel uneasy as he took up his oars again.
‘I suppose she has done some good with her words over time…’ he said, distractedly, ‘But, what did you think of her exposing your cousin?’
‘Shocked, of course. Relieved too.’
‘How so?’ he asked, curiously.
Oh… No, no, these were dangerous waters.
‘Pen?’ he said, when she didn't answer straight away.
‘Marina could be cruel, Colin…’ she said, quietly, not meeting his gaze. ‘As much as I loved my cousin, and wished for her happiness, her plans for you were born of desperation. Not love. I admit that when she was exposed, even with the censure my entire family had to endure, it was a relief that it released you from your promise, at the very least.’
Colin started rowing again, until they were in the shade of a willow, Penelope waving at Philippa as she sailed past with Albion.
‘I do not blame you, Pen. It took me a while, but I too am relieved, now that I am free to spend my days with you. Though I still think that Whistledown is an infernal menace, and we shall dance on the day of her demise.’
Penelope chuckled, the tension broken, her stomach leaping at his inference, fleeting as it was.
‘She is indeed,’ she conceded, trying not to read too much into his words, sure he didn't mean them that way.
But, what if he did?
What if he was serious in his suit?
Her stomach started squirming in elation that he may want to be with her, and angst over the possibility that she may have to tell him her secret.
And that was something she would avoid, until she could not avoid it anymore.
>>~~~8)O(8~~~<<
Colin was enjoying the time alone with Penelope, though they'd got onto some rather serious topics, trying not to think too much on what Fife had said earlier that day. He decided to change the subject by broaching another.
‘Can I ask you, Pen… Why did you and Eloise grow apart?’
Penelope gave him a steady look, barely blinking before she dropped her gaze, and shook her head a little.
‘Forgive me… I am prying. Again,’ he said, desperately wishing he'd held his tongue.
Penelope settled her gaze on him again.
‘Perhaps it has been a long time coming, Colin. Neither of us have felt heard or seen in our friendship for a long time. We also want different things. Eloise wanted us to be spinsters together, yet I have always wanted a family. We love each other… Fiercely, but…’
A tear slipped down her cheek.
Colin wished fervently he could cross the space between them and hold her in his arms while she cried. Yet here, in a public space, with eyes on them, it would not do.
He handed her his handkerchief instead, and she dabbed at her eyes.
‘Perhaps she and I will be better for the distance, some day?’ she added, hopefully.
‘I hope so, Pen… Forgive me for bringing it up.’
‘Not at all. It feels good to get it out.’
‘You can always tell me anything, Pen…’
‘Thank you…’ she said, fondly.
He bit his lip, uncomfortable, as he thought of things to speak of, coming up with nothing suitable, while a little smile curved over hers.
‘You can ask me about my sister, Colin, if you would like to?’
Colin stared at her a moment. How did she know he was dying to ask her about her loss?
‘I do not want you to confide in me if you do not wish to, Pen.’
‘It is alright,’ she sighed, straightening her skirts, giving him a glimpse of her naked calves and delicate ankles.
He felt his attraction to her hum and fizz through him for a moment, but shook himself out of thinking about her that way, not when their conversation was so serious.
She took a deep breath, searching for where to begin, before she spoke in a low voice, her sadness palpable.
‘Felicity was my baby sister. And she was, and remains, my favourite person in our whole family. I remember getting up in the middle of the night, even though I was still so young, to sit by her crib and rock her. And of everyone, she would always come to me first, sit in my lap, always making me laugh. And I would cuddle with her for hours when she got old enough to come into my bed with me.
‘Then after one very cold night in that old house we had on the other side of Mayfair, we both took ill. And mother said she feared she would lose us both over the next few nights. After a few days, my fever broke and I got better, but Fliss had not, and then they would not let me see her and I fought and cried, not understanding why I could not see my baby sister. And then Felicity…’
Penelope shook her head at the memory, then let out a sob into the handkerchief, unable to go on.
‘I am so sorry, Pen. I did not know,’ said Colin, angry at himself for asking this in public where he could not comfort her appropriately, ‘You loved your sister, very much.’
He shuffled forward, reaching out to take her hand in his, not caring that people could see them.
‘I did. She would have been almost the same age as Hyacinth, Colin. I am sure they would have been very great friends.’
He nodded, rubbing the back of her hand soothingly, ‘I remember what it was like the night when we almost lost mother and Hyacinth, not long after father was taken from us too... How precarious it was, how we could have easily lost them both. We have all been very lucky, all things considered. Apart from father, of course.’
‘You are very kind...' she said, squeezing his fingers, 'My papa took it badly and mother carried on as if Fliss had never existed, and we were forbidden from speaking of her after the day she was buried. You may not believe it, but even Prudence was so heartbroken, that she cried for an entire week!’ she chuckled wetly and Colin gave a wan smile. ‘Felicity was all of our favourite, Colin…’
He merely squeezed her fingers in return, allowing her to spend her grief.
‘We moved to Grosvenor Square a year after we lost her, my mother insisting she could not bear to live in that draughty, ancient house where she had lost her child. And that was the last I ever heard her speak of my baby sister. Until today.’
Colin did not know what to say, wanting to hold her in his arms so badly. He could only support her with his presence though.
‘Thank you for telling me, Pen.’
‘Thank you for listening. I feel as if I have a piece of her with me again, in remembering her.’
He gave her a little smile, ‘I am always here if you would like to talk to me about her, about anything… Pen.’
‘I know… I do not know how I would have survived without your friendship all these years, Colin.’
‘Nor I yours, Pen,’ he replied, and then sat back so he could start rowing again.
And they moved on to less fraught subjects.
>>~~~8)O(8~~~<<
Back on the promenade, they were discussing favourites, being trailed by Lady Featherington, her daughters and their husbands, the latter of whom Colin, admittedly, got along with rather well.
Colin and Penelope walked closer together this time, too close really for a couple who were not yet engaged, and Colin wondered if he really should just ask her now and put an end to any thoughts of her being carried off by the likes of Lord Fife.
But, no, he wanted her to feel as if she chose the right person, even if that person was not him. Yet, so far, she was quite affectionate with him, encouraging in a passive way. He liked how it seemed as though she was happy being herself around him, effortlessly attracting him, and as Daphne had said, there was no rush.
‘I cannot believe that you are partial to Wordsworth…’ she was saying, laughing at him.
‘And what did the gentle poet do to Miss Penelope, to be so thoroughly rejected by her taste?’
‘Oh, I like Wordsworth, but I rather thought him a little whimsical for most gentlemen.’
‘I am not most gentlemen, dearest Pen, for I am known to wander lonely as a cloud… And hosts of golden daffodils do cheer me up on a cold spring morning.’
She gave him a dubious look.
‘Now you will tell me that they are your favourite flower…’
‘They are indeed… Sunflowers too… Symbolic of Spring and friendship. Daffodils always remind me of you, in fact…’
Penelope gave a shy little chuckle and it felt good to make her laugh.
‘Oh yes, I do believe I was once described as a lone, plain daffodil in a bed of elegant lilies.’
‘Whistledown?’
‘Naturally…’
He made a little scoffing noise. ‘I would hardly call daffodils plain…’
‘Nor I, come to think of it…’
‘What of yours, Pen? Do I detect you are partial to a rose?’ he asked, bending in toward her, conspiratorially.
She laughed in earnest.
‘Not at all… I like Morning Glory for its colours, and Nigella for its flowers.’
‘Oh? Morning Glory is a flower of affection, is it not? And Love-in-a-Mists are meant to convey unrequited love? Or puzzlement over intentions…?’
Penelope gave an amused hum, ‘Only if you give them to someone, I believe?’
‘Well, if I brought you some, I would not want to convey the wrong impressions,’ he said, bringing his tone lower, ‘But they are certainly pretty. And I see your favourite blues are in there.’
‘You would bring me flowers?’ she asked, with a quirk of her mouth.
‘Perhaps…’ he smiled, with a cocky little toss of his head as they strode along, ‘And what of your favourite poet?’
‘If you must know, while poetry is not all that interesting to me, I prefer William Blake to all others.’
‘Oh, do you, indeed?’ he said, his arms behind his back, as he recited: ‘Tyger, tyger, burning bright, in the forests of the night…?’
‘That's it, yes. The Tyger. My other favourites are Ah, Sunflower-’ Colin laughed at that, ‘-and A Poison Tree… I do like how Blake uses the flow of the words, and rhymes, with such effortless power. I can almost feel myself standing in the jungle, with this burningly orange creature in front of me… And it makes me wonder, about the nature of things, I suppose, about the dichotomy of creating something that could be as dreadful as it is beautiful…“Did he who made the Lamb make thee?”and whatnot ...’
Pen looked up to see Colin gazing down at her with a crooked, gentle smile.
‘Forgive me,’ she laughed dismissively, ‘I get a little passionate on occasion…’ As you know, i am sure.
They had reached her carriage, and as he held out his hand to help her climb in, he arrested her fingers in his.
‘Promise me one thing, Penelope Featherington…’ he asked, as she looked at him quizzically, eye level with him as she paused on the top step, locked into the depths of his blue, blue eyes…
She merely nodded, mesmerised, and his mouth turned up at the edges.
‘Never, ever, change…’
>>~~~8)O(8~~~<<
That night Penelope eagerly finished reading the excerpts that Colin had given her, as she sat snuggled up in bed, treating herself to an early night, having already written and sent Genevieve her latest issue, which should be on it’s way to press just as she leaned into her pillows.
She found the place where she had been called away, where Colin had been exploring Rome…
When entering the Pantheon it almost swallows one up, the pillars towering above, the doors made as if for giants, the oculus in the centre casting light upon the floor, such a spectacle I have never witnessed, and it takes one’s breath away to see it, the largest domed ceiling in Christendom, dressed in golds, a church older than even Our Lord, once a shrine to all the Gods and Goddesses of Rome.
It fascinates me, this ancient world, and how some day ours will be ancient too.
I moved on, eager to see more of the city, relics and ruins and the remains of temples scattered in the living tapestry of Rome, walking down a narrow street packed with merchants, to find myself in a small square, the Hadrianeum appearing on my right as the stone wall turns into pillars as if by magic, and when I could see it fully, it appeared to be the fascia of the once grand Temple of Hadrian, now sandwiched between more modern buildings.
I follow my feet further on, and another square appears, Piazza de Trevi, this one containing a magnificent fountain, statues of gods and men standing haughtily in their alcoves, while others take to the water.
I sit here a while to write, refreshing myself with the cool, clean water, Rome known for it, the makers of Aqueducts still sublime in their engineering.
I continue on eventually, as the shadows lengthen, finding the larger carriageways, marvelling at the straight, wide roads built to take marching centurions across the city, and I find myself wandering up a hill, wondering if I should head back to the Inn, my valet probably curious as to where I got to. He is a worrying sort, is my man.
It is then that I turn a corner, and come across a sight that stops me in my tracks.
A bright yellow house stands to my left, arresting my attention momentarily, before the colossal building ahead of me takes up my vision instead.
The Colosseum…
I have read of it, of course. No one comes to Rome without knowing it exists, but the sheer height and breadth of it as it stands against an azure sky is just… Awe inspiring. Sitting in the valley almost alone, a companion arch some distance away.
From here it is hard to believe it is a ruin, the part of the outer wall still intact, a vision. And it is hard to think as I stand on the hill and gaze upon it, that once I walk down the stairs it will tower over me.
It is only once I am standing in its shadow that it truly hits me; the scale of the thing, walking around it to find the outer wall ends in a diagonal addition, built in brick just eight years ago to resemble the existing stone, made to preserve this crumbling shell so we may behold its grandeur for generations still to come…
30th June
I come, at last to Paris, now free of the blockades of war. Yet here I feel there is need for change and dress myself in the latest fashions, speaking French almost exclusively, though there are many of my countrymen here, now that Napoleon is in exile and we have control. I go for a walk along the Seine, its many bridges in evidence, and it is easy to see why Paris is called the City of Romance…
8th July
…Today I return home to England, ready for the season. I grow weary of travel, and last night something strange happened.
I was in a ballroom, walking through, deciding which ladies I might dance with, when something caught my eye; a woman in yellow silks, with russet curls cascading down her back.
For a moment, I thought it might be Penelope, and I went to cross the room, but then she turned and I saw that it could not be her. She was too tall, and much older, though her build was similar. Of course, it was also impossible that she would be in Paris. And yet, though it wasn’t Pen, for a moment it was so good to see her again.
Especially as she has not written a word to me in return, and for the life of me, I cannot account for it. Are we not friends? Has something changed for her to refuse to correspond with me? Is she well? Or… Did something happen, of which no one will tell me?’
Paris has been diverting, but I rather long for the ear of my friend, and to embrace my family, and to see Anthony and Kate happy in their marriage. I want to see all of their faces when they open their gifts that I have collected from across Europe.
Most of all, however, I wish to revel in the fascination and laughter of my friend, as I tell her all of what I have seen and done.
And then, in that moment, perhaps, I may have accomplished something truly remarkable…
Penelope sighed as she folded the pages back up and put them into her bedside drawers.
Colin wrote so beautifully… Effortlessly, in fact. And she could not wait to tell him as such.
The last excerpt he’d chosen to include had her frowning, however.
She knew he was trying to illustrate how much he’d missed her, that much was obvious. But there was something that niggled at her, that there was some bigger message he wished for her to receive.
And yet, as Penelope snuffed out her candle and got comfortable on her back, she dismissed it as her overactive imagination.
For what message could he possibly have, that he could not come right out and tell her?
She could not think of anything, and chuckled at her own silliness as she moved onto her side, soon sound asleep, blissfully unaware that across the square, a restless Colin was sitting at his desk, drinking a glass of brandy, wondering fervently if she had seen the theme running through the excerpts, one he’d only seen himself as he’d pulled his favourite moments from his tour, embellishing them still with his memories, noticing that she was always with him as he wandered.
In spirit, at least.
And that one of his most fervent wishes was to take her travelling with him, so she might see all of these places with her own eyes.
He hoped that she would realise, somehow, that the most remarkable possessions he had, his most cherished memories, in fact, were the moments he spent with her…