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The drawing room is quieter than Colin expects it to be. Upon entry, he feels intrusive, at risk of disrupting the women draped over the furniture, sitting in near silence. If not for Penelope, turning to him and greeting him with a bright smile, he imagines he would have left the peaceful room undisturbed.
Colin takes care when passing his sisters and his mother, leaving them to their books and their soft chatter. When he reaches Penelope, he settles by her side and dips low to kiss her cheek. Her skin is soft and precious beneath his lips, stretched with a smile that grows more vibrant every moment.
“Hello, darling,” Penelope murmurs.
“Hello,” he echoes, encircling her waist.
There is more for him to express, but he leaves it unsaid for now. He spends a moment holding her, relishing the relief of having her near again.
She holds an embroidery hoop; a piece of white linen clamped in a wooden circle, covered in petals and vines. He watches the clever, practised motions of her fingers, forming a leaf on the stem of a rose. The rhythm to her work is entrancing. Another stitch is pulled taut and Colin follows the growing thread with muted admiration.
“That is lovely,” he tells her, after some time.
The picture she has woven into existence is artful and pristine. Penelope is easily as good at embroidery as Daphne, the high achiever of all feminine endeavours among his sisters, and nearly as skilled as his mother, who has been threading patterns onto fabrics for longer than he has been alive.
“Thank you,” Penelope says, blushing and smiling. She is radiantly pleased.
“Your care shows in every stitch,” Colin adds, skirting his fingers over the edge of a completed rose. He recognises the careful attention she has paid to her work. He sees it in so much of what she does.
She hums in agreement. “I started early in the afternoon, at your mother’s suggestion. Now I cannot seem to put it down. I keep thinking of new details to add.”
It is remarkable to consider. Mere hours ago, her bouquet was a blank slate, a possibility in her mind. Colin wants to know what inspired her, wants to know every thought that led to the realisation of her vision.
“Why roses?” Colin asks her.
“I suppose because I am fond of roses.”
“Roses in the colours you have chosen symbolise romance and passion,” he muses, recalling conversations he has shared with his florist. “Perhaps you were inspired by ruminations on love.”
Penelope lifts her gaze from her needlework, looks at him dubiously.
“Does my embroidery truly interest you?”
“Yes,” Colin says, brow furrowing. “I am interested in everything that you do.”
As well as the reasons that she does them. Colin wonders if this is strange of him until he feels troubled. Penelope saves him from worry with her shining eyes. She puts aside her needlework and cradles his hands between hers.
“You are so wonderful,” she tells him. She looks starry as she leans in and presses a kiss to the scar on his jawline.
“Honestly, Penelope,” Eloise sighs. Violet and Hyacinth admonish her before she can finish her complaint, the former hissing her name, the latter loudly shushing her.
In the silence that resumes, Penelope giggles. Beautiful, shameless, she tucks herself further into her husband’s embrace.
If there is one element of the monthly Featherington tea that Colin can appreciate, it is the spread. Conversation among his in-laws vacillates between pleasantly dull and subtly vicious, but the assortment of appetisers is consistently enjoyable.
Porcelain platters wobble on the table, covered in dewy cakes, squares of marzipan, and buttery biscuits. Colin assembles his plate in a state of distraction, his eyes fixed on Penelope as she speaks with Prudence.
“Oh, marvellous,” Harry Dankworth says, plucking the almond off the top of his slice. “I do enjoy these confections, except for the decorative almonds.”
Colin cannot resist laughing. “That is an almond slice, old chap.”
“Nonsense.”
“I believe Colin is right,” Albion Finch says, around a mouthful of the same treat. “The flavour is distinctly nutty.”
Harry frowns. “But I despise almonds.”
Not for the first time, Colin wonders what commonalities brought Harry and Prudence together. All he knows of either of them is their capacity for harm, and they exist on opposite ends of the spectrum. Worried, he glances back at Penelope, but she is no longer standing with her sister. She is walking towards him with a knowing smile on her face.
She loops her arm around his middle, inspects the plate he holds.
“Two of everything,” she observes. “This should last you for fifteen minutes.”
Colin grins. “Ten, if I share my selection with my wife.”
“How generous of you to consider,” Penelope teases, her affection clear.
He reaches for the slices of marzipan, meaning to share with her, but her eyes widen with recognition.
“No, you mustn’t have any of that. It made you sick the last time you ate it.”
Colin falters. It takes him a moment to remember what she is referring to – that woozy carriage ride from the month before, the ache in his stomach that persisted through the night. It hardly seems like a reason to abstain from eating cake. He could have felt ill for any number of reasons, that night.
“You were queasy after eating marzipan at the fair, as well,” Penelope says, sensing his doubt. “I do not believe it agrees with you.”
He realises she is right. He wonders if that means she knows him better than he knows himself. The prospect does not upset him. It was only a matter of time before she did.
He presses both slices into her palm.
“Then these are for you,” he says, squeezing the back of her hand.
Sleep can be elusive in his preoccupation with his love. However tired Colin feels at the end of the day, he draws out the time he spends with Penelope in bed. He lights a candle on their nightstand, watches the glow of the flame waver over her beautiful face. He murmurs to her, holds her, resists the sludge in his eyes.
Penelope is an enthusiastic participant in this routine. She speaks with him softly and finds parts of him to touch. She traces his face: his eyebrows, his chin. She traces his body: his shoulders, his collarbones.
Often, she nuzzles their palms together. They compare their wrists, their fingers, as though there is a shred of novelty in how much bigger he is than her. Of course, there is none, but the delight is everlasting. Colin smiles every time her fist disappears under his curled fingers.
One evening, when the conversation has faded and Penelope has already closed her eyes, Colin strokes her hair. He arranges her waves over her shoulder and across her pillow; drags reverent fingers along the space above her ear again and again. She is almost purring. He realises that this ear is her freckled ear. There are none on her left ear, but she has two on her right. Neither large, nor prominently positioned. But he notices these things. He notices everything about Penelope.
“You have freckles on your ear,” Colin says. “Were you aware of that?”
Penelope cracks open one eye, smiles with amusement. “No. I have never thought to inspect my ears in the mirror. I imagine you are the only person in the world who is ever sufficiently close to me to make such observations.”
He chuckles, happy beyond reason, and kisses her ear. It is a strange place to put his lips, fleshy and hollow and curved. Strange and somehow sweet.
Penelope scrunches up her nose. “That feels odd!”
“Unpleasant?” Colin asks.
“No,” Penelope says, slowly. “It is simply new.”
“That is rare for us, these days.”
When they were first wed, Colin often remarked upon how little they had to learn about each other. Marrying your best friend meant already knowing everything, he thought, and he was right in one way, but wrong in another. A person is a collection of infinite, intricate details. He knew Penelope well when they were friends, but he could never have predicted the closeness they now share.
No secrets, no shame. Intimate knowledge of freckles and scars.
She gazes at him thoughtfully. “Where are my freckles?”
He touches the freckle that sits on the underside of her lobe.
“This is the first,” he says.
He dips his finger behind her ear, touches the dotted bulb.
“This is the second.”
“How did you ever find the second?” Penelope asks.
Colin realises that he has no idea. The knowledge is tucked securely in his mind, unaccompanied by beginning or end.
“I cannot recall exactly,” he says. “I expect it was on a night like this.”
A night of indulgence and exploration. A candlelit cocoon of sheets, a dream world. There are hundreds of such nights he could have made the discovery.
Penelope drifts her fingers over his stomach. Colin glances down, sees that she is circling the freckle that sits some inches right to his belly button.
“I’ve had that for as long as I can remember. It was bigger when I was a child.”
“You grew around it,” she says, smiling. She caresses him with her thumb and he wonders how it is possible for such a simple touch to convey so much.
The split in the plate is entirely Colin’s fault.
A petulant part of him wishes to blame Penelope and her beauty, but it was his decision to cope with her flirty banter by lifting her out of her chair and sprawling her over the dining table.
Almost at once, a bread plate shatters beneath their combined weight. Penelope gasps and Colin frets, assuming he has hurt her, but she is only concerned about the broken porcelain.
“Oh no,” she moans, shuffling along the table, revealing the two jagged slivers of the plate. She nudges the pieces together so that the edges meet in a thin black line.
Colin caresses her back, the bearer of the brunt.
“Penelope, I am so sorry. That must have hurt. Are you alright?”
“I did not notice any pain,” Penelope says, her voice distant. “This is part of my favourite porcelain set. It was the first I ever chose for our home.”
Her fingers shake on the reassembled plate and Colin burns with regret. He sees significance in every choice she makes; he is keenly aware of the years she went without a voice.
“Oh, Pen,” he says. “I am so, so sorry. I should have taken more care.”
“It was a mistake,” she responds, quietly. “I am not upset with you.”
But she is disappointed by what has happened. Though they have never discussed the matter before, Colin is not surprised to learn that this is her favourite set. They use it more frequently than any of their others, almost every day.
“It is my favourite, as well,” Colin realises aloud. “You chose beautifully.”
The plate is plain ivory at the centre, bracketed by dainty blue and purple flowers, rimmed in silver. Elegant, feminine, classic. Very Penelope. He can see her in the pattern, see the pattern in her. A miniscule portrait of her tastes, her sensibilities.
She looks at him with wide eyes. “I did not realise it was your favourite.”
“There is no need for your use of the past tense. We can repair this, I am certain.”
“The crack will remain visible,” Penelope points out.
“A single imperfection will not ruin its beauty.”
Of that, Colin is certain. In his estimation, the nature of beautiful things depends upon their presence in reality, and reality does not exist without flaws. Everything important is imperfect. Everything worthwhile is wounded.
Penelope seems dubious and hopeful in equal measure. “You may not have noticed, but this is our porcelain. Yours and mine alone. I reserve it for when we are home alone.”
In fact, Colin has not noticed. He only has happy memories associated with scraping those flowers clean, but happiness fills most of his days. It can be difficult to distinguish the minutiae, particularly when his senses are all attuned to Penelope.
“I am touched you would save your favourite porcelain for me,” Colin murmurs. This choice was among the first she made for herself and she has dedicated it to the meals she shares with him. The knowledge that not even his mother has used these plates makes his throat feel tight.
“Well, you are my favourite person. It only makes sense that I would.”
That smile from earlier returns to her face, coy and sweet. Colin does not tip her backwards, this time. He takes her face in his hands, kisses her slowly.
“Tell me about the day you chose the porcelain,” he breathes into her mouth.
She talks about colours and freedom and aesthetic pleasure. He nods along, absorbs her words, and adds every syllable, every fracture, to his understanding of the woman he adores.
Colin makes an effort to give Penelope space when she is socialising at soirees, but he seems incapable of straying far from her. Standing with his acquaintances, feigning interest in their conversations, he tries to keep his wife in his line of sight. He finds relief in her proximity, in the visual assurance that she is enjoying herself. Every smile that crosses her face brings him a faint rush of pleasure.
Tonight, he flits between groups, moving gradually closer to her. Soon, he stands mere feet away from her, close enough to her that he can hear portions of her chat. The tone among the ladies is barbed, commiseratory. They are gossiping.
“Wherever my husband goes, mess seems to follow,” one lady, named Mrs Grant, is saying.
“I quite understand your predicament,” another, named Lady Watson, responds. “Only last week, Quentin trailed mud through the drawing room. You would never assume him to be the son of a baron.”
“I recently caught a glimpse of Edward’s study. I was shocked by the state of it.”
“Do you so rarely enter your husband’s study?” Penelope asks, sounding surprised.
“No. He requires his space, as I enjoy mine.”
Sheepishly, Colin turns closer to the men with whom he is pretending to speak. The knowledge that other people in the ton demand distance from their spouses seems strange to him, eavesdropping on his wife, utterly bored by everybody else at the party.
“Besides, I can understand why he does not wish to share such a space with me,” Mrs Grant says, shuddering. “The shelves overflowed with loose, disorganised papers. The books were adorned in spider webs – I really must speak with the maids about their dusting.”
“I am fortunate not to share your plight,” Penelope says. “My husband is rather tidy. In fact, it was his idea to organise the books in our library based on their topics. It is most convenient to have all of the romantic literature gathered on one shelf.”
“How interesting. I have never considered the ideal strategy for arranging a library.”
“The servants handle those decisions in my home,” says Lady Watson. “But then, I do not possess the great passion you and your husband do for reading and writing.”
Penelope blooms brighter in her smile. “I must admit, Colin’s writing desk can become chaotic while he works, his papers and ink strewn all about, but he reorders it when he is finished. He is mindful in that way.”
On every occasion that Penelope makes an observation about Colin that he has not noticed in himself, he is struck by feelings of tender surprise. He supposes he is generally tidy, but he is only ever mindless about cleaning up after himself.
So often, Colin thinks he has found the limit for the elements of his existence that Penelope can heap love upon. Somehow, she is never short of reasons to praise him.
Later that evening, Colin stands on the back terrace of the party, stealing a moment of reprieve, when a pair of familiar arms shroud him. He knows it is Penelope before he turns around. She is pressed into his back, gazing up at him with shining eyes.
“I have been looking for you,” Penelope says.
Colin turns in her embrace, guides her face to lay on his chest. “I am never far.”
“I know. It is what makes these social outings tolerable.”
He laughs. He understands her perfectly.
The moment that Colin steps through the door, he knows that Penelope is home. Impossibly, he can sense her, even before he steps into the drawing room and finds her sipping a cup of tea, tapping the cover of the book in her lap.
Something is wrong. There is a slight curve on her eyebrow that he recognises from occasions where she is trying to restrain her emotions. There are creases beneath her eyes that he cannot recall seeing over the course of their marriage. Then there is her absence from Number Five on a Wednesday afternoon – the time of the week where Penelope has tea with his mother. He has never known her to miss it before.
“Pen,” Colin says, not bothering to hide his concern. “Are you well?”
Penelope lifts her eyes to look at him and brightens. She puts aside her tea and her book and rises from the settee with her arms open, wordlessly inviting a greeting hug.
“I am well enough,” she tells him, sighing with relief when he envelopes her. “I have a slight headache. I believe it is because I did not sleep well last night.”
Colin is aware. She tossed, she turned, and he laid awake. His sleep depends on hers. He cannot seem to rest properly unless he can feel his wife breathing in time with him.
He remains quiet, watching weary colours unfold on her face.
“You must be so tired to miss tea with my mother,” Colin says softly.
Penelope looks startled, then vindicated. Then grateful. Colin tracks the subtle tones in her face without difficulty. He knows how strange it is to be known so well.
“Yes,” she whispers. “I hope your mother understands that.”
“I assure you, she will. She understands the nature of each of her children with intimidating accuracy.”
A gentle laugh escapes Penelope, and she presses herself closer to him. Breathes him in.
“I believe an early night is in order,” Colin says.
Penelope makes a humming noise. He knows that she won’t relent to retiring in the afternoon, while sunlight fills their bedroom, so he returns her to the settee and encourages her to drink her tea. He reads to her in that slow, sprawling voice that he knows she finds to be soothing, and waits for her to go limp in his arms.
When Penelope asks Colin to look over her work, he struggles to balance his feelings of honour and surprise. After months of marriage, he remains awed by her writing prowess, bashful by her claims that his work is equal to hers.
Besides what she writes, how she writes, he appreciates her script. The graceful entwinement of letters. He is reminded of ribbons on dresses, stems on daisies. In her handwriting, he sees her grace, her precision, her warmth. In his head, he hears her words in her speaking voice instead of his own.
Colin swirls a finger over a paragraph that centres around him. The letters are looser when spelling his name, as though Penelope means to give him space to sprawl out, as though she wants more of him in the world. There is love in her ink. The longer he beholds it, the warmer he feels about it.
“Your handwriting is so elegant,” he murmurs to her.
They are in bed, reading each other’s work by shimmering candlelight. She wears gentle pink and rests with her back on his chest; she props the papers she holds on his forearm. At his proclamation, she glances up at him, curiosity in her eyes.
“It is soothing to read,” Colin adds. “I feel enveloped by your script, somehow.”
It is an understatement, a measly compliment that conveys so little of what he means to tell her. But Penelope is smiling softly. She knows what he is saying.
Of course she does.
“I am not making sense,” he acknowledges, laughing.
“You make perfect sense to me,” Penelope replies, clenching his wrist. “I often ruminate on your handwriting. There is a certain strength in the way you form your words, and visible care. I sometimes believe I can tell which words you hesitated before writing, and which flowed from you with ease.”
Colin grins and nuzzles her temple. “I would not be surprised in the slightest if you guessed correctly.”
“Well, I know you quite well,” Penelope muses.
Another understatement. Colin understands.
Before he fell in love, Colin believed romance to be a desperate affair, defined by high, heavy stakes. He got a taste of that around the time that he was realising his feelings for Penelope, and then reckoning with what it meant to know and love her so entirely. But now, settled in his marriage, he has found boundless evidence to the contrary.
He asks for two cups when he calls for tea, even if Penelope is not home. He splits pieces of fruit with her on traipses through their garden, wanting to share the simple sweetness with her. He is enthralled by her recollections of mundane moments. He gathers every facet of her that he can, files it away to inform his adoration.
This is the light of all lights, and it shrouds him every day. It comes with ease.
“We know each other well,” he tells her, and leaves it at that.