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In 1821 Colin had been aboard a merchant ship taking them to the most secluded, glorious beach in all of the Mediterranean. They’d encountered a storm that had him shaking in his boots, and before he knew it their ship had capsized.
Water filled his lungs, and he struggled for every breath he took. His body useless, his strength pointless, his years of boxing futile against the might of the sea. The waves had hit him over and over again; stronger, faster, louder every time and he’d been certain this was his end. His head barely above water, one of the workers aboard the ship had saved him, pulling him onto the dingy. They’d bobbed along on the water for almost 24 hours before finding the island.
He had almost died. But the waves never left him.
And he never told his family. He couldn’t bear to scare them like that, especially his mother and Anthony.
Now, in 1826, as Colin sat in the large family room of Aubrey hall he felt the same dread. His lungs heavy, his heart hammering against his chest and fear deep within his bones. There was no storm, no waves, no sea to swallow him whole.
Just the sight of Penelope and Benedict.
His brother.
With Penelope, who never had been, and never would be his .
She was now Penelope Bridgerton.
Penelope Benedict Bridgerton.
Colin had thought this would be easier than last time. It had been exactly 14 months since their wedding and he hadn’t stepped foot in England. Last time, there had been this nagging hope residing deep in his heart, that the letter from Eloise had all been a joke. A prank pulled by his sister, that Penelope wasn’t truly about to marry their brother. Last time, Colin had anger, frustration, regret and hope when he’d set foot in England.
This time however, there was only despair. His mother had written him the longest letter he’d received in his life, asking him to come back this instant or she was going to get on a ship and find him in Italy herself. Anthony had sent him a short missive telling him that mother was despondent, worried about his health and mental state. So, the good son that he was, he’d packed his bags, steeled his heart and gotten on a ship for England.
They’d all gathered in his honor, to spend time with the wayward vagabond third Bridgerton brother. And Colin had desperately hoped Benedict and Penelope would sit this one out.
Liar , he thought. He’d wanted them here, her here - but not like this.
Not a smiling, carefree, content Penelope. Over the year he’d tried to think less and less of the woman, and when he did he found himself wondering if she felt the same void he did. But it was clear she didn’t. Colin craned his neck to look out the large window, finding Penelope in an instant. She sat perched on the large armchair in the gardens, her feet bare and tucked under her as she animatedly chatted with Eloise. She looked at home in Aubrey Hall, and Colin realized with a start that she’d probably been here before, without him, without the family, with just Benedict.
He dismissed the thought entirely as his gaze shifted to his elder brother. Benedict sat only a few feet from him in the family room, firmly planted on the ground, a paintbrush in hand as he helped Charlotte paint. The girl was quite prolifically painting the floor more than the paper Benedict had laid out for her. Anthony, simply sat nearby and smiled unnerved by the marble being ruined by his 5 year old.
Everyone, even a newly married Eloise and her straight-faced husband looked happy.
Colin felt out of place, in the midst of his family, in the midst of all this joy .
He could hear the waves, slowly building up, coming to take him adrift.
He needed air, he needed a stiff drink. He needed to run.
Slowly, and dismissing his mother’s curious eyes with a smile, he made his way towards the refreshments laid out. If he was eating, then he might not think. Then maybe he wouldn’t feel so out of place.
He loaded his plate and was about to turn when he caught a streak of red in the corner of his eyes. Penelope, carrying two empty cups of lemonade, walked into the hall, leaning down to blow air kisses at Edmund and Amelia who ran through the room like wildlings and finally reached the refreshments table. Colin stood still, as if rooted to the spot and watched her see him, notice that he was there. She faltered for a second, before smiling softly and walking around him to reach for the lemonade.
The gods must be cruel, because like a puppet and his puppet master, Colin turned, following his body with hers. And waited. He’d said all of four words to her after arriving two days ago. “Hello” and “How do you do?”. He was afraid, terribly afraid of what would come out if he opened his mouth. So he waited.
“How was Italy?” She asked jovially, filling up her glasses and putting them down the table. She turned, and he moved to mirror her stance, placing his overladen plate next to her glasses.
“Spain, I was in Spain last.” He corrected, nodding as she made a non-committal sound of acknowledgment. “It was hot.” He replied simply.
The sun had been blazing and blistering in Madrid. But Penelope’s brightness and warmth put it to shame.
Something he had no intent of acknowledging or revealing. His memory was tortuous enough. He could still feel her heat in his arms.
“Oh,” she replied, her eyes giving away her nervousness while her voice remained light. She bobbed on the balls of her feet, clearly looking for a way to make conversation with him, until she smiled bright and big and asked, “Do you remember you told me about that patisserie in Paris?”
Colin shook his head in response. “The one that made divine rum and apricot jam pastries?” She added taking a step closer to him.
Realization hit Colin, he vaguely remembered telling her about his trip to Paris in one of the many balls his mother had dragged him to. He’d asked her to dance after Cressida had made a rude remark about Penelope not needing any more sweets and had told her about the patisserie and how heavenly their pastries were. She’d beamed up at him and shyly confessed that she’d love to visit it one day. And he’d thought, maybe one day he’d take her, maybe one day he’d show her the Paris of his dreams and she’d forget all about Cressida Cowper and her barbs.
The next week, he felt restless again and left for Greece.
“Yes, Stohrer,” he replied tightly, swallowing the painful lump in his throat.
“You were absolutely right!” She said, “I could barely pronounce the things I ate, but I asked for the apricot jam pastry and it was scrumptious.”
Colin frowned, “You were in Paris?”
She deflated slightly at his question, but pulled her smile back up before nodding.
“When?”
“Oh, around 6 months ago. We were in France for months, Paris was the last stop.” She said it so simply, so easily, like the words hadn’t just ripped him apart.
Because, Colin realized, with a jolt that Penelope had been in Paris, without him. No, they had been in Paris - Benedict and Penelope. On their honeymoon, he was certain - leave it to his extravagant brother to choose France for his honeymoon trip.
“Wonderful.” Colin said in what he hoped was a light and happy tone. But the way Penelope’s smile dropped he realized it wasn’t.
And damn them all to hell. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to know, to see, to feel .
“Are you happy, Penelope?”
Her brows furrowed in confusion at his question, “But, Of course.” She said honestly, the slightest of color rising in her cheeks.
“Isn’t that a shame.”
Before he knew it, the words were out of his mouth.
Penelope gasped, her smile fading and her brows snapping together. The air frizzed around them, crackling like a thunderstorm. Benedict’s attention snapped to them, his eyes narrowing as he got up from his place on the floor. Colin didn’t know if it was her small gasp, or the shift in her body language, or the simple fact that now they were one, so attuned to each other, that Benedict knew instantly that something was wrong.
His stride purposeful as he inched closer to them, Benedict called out her name in question. But Penelope tilted her head back and laughed softly, her eyes still tense, but her body relaxing. With one hand she indicated to Benedict to stop, trying to diffuse the situation and Colin felt like the biggest bounder on the planet. He watched, and said nothing as Penelope tilted her head at him in finality and walked towards Benedict.
Lemonade and Colin forgotten behind.
The waves got louder and louder, and Colin braced for impact.
He found her hours later. Sitting on a stone bench at the edge of the gardens, far away from the house but still within visible distance. Eloise had told him he’d find her here, taking a breath from the madness that was his family and all their spouses and children, and dogs. He wished to apologize. He needed to apologize. His comment had been out of line, but then again he’d never behaved in line for their last two meetings.
Today, and the day of her wedding. The day he’d kissed her.
She sat with her hands braced on the stone bench, her face turned up to the sky, a soft smile on her face. She heard his arrival and turned to look at him, cautious but not alarmed. But not happy either. He supposed he deserved that. She greeted his arrival with a small nod, watching as his knee touched the bench, almost as if he made to sit down beside her but changed his mind.
“Colin,” she acknowledged.
“Penelope.” He responded, “I wished for a moment of your time.”
She simply smiled and waved her hands about, as if saying that they had all the time in the world - if only that were true.
“What are you doing out here?” He chickened out at the last minute, turning to look up at the fading light. Night was approaching and it was bound to be another cold one.
“I love your family, I do. But I’m not yet accustomed to it,” she said shyly, “The featherington’s are nothing like this. I’m still not used to the sheer numbers, the sights, the sounds. The smells.” She added thoughtfully.
“I just needed some…”
“Air,” he finished for her, nodding his head in understanding. He knew exactly how she felt, he’d grown up with them but still felt the need to escape far too often.
“You wished to speak to me.” She repeated his words back to him.
“I did.”
And she just sat there, in a pale blue dress, looking up at him calmly. Colin realized with another jerk how she’d changed. The last time he saw her he’d realized it with the force of one of the waves that had him asunder. She wasn’t the shy wallflower slinking in the corners then, she’d been strong and fierce. And now, as she tilted her head and considered him in quiet contemplation, she was something he’d never seen before.
Confident, content, self-assured. In who she was, where she was and what she was.
He didn’t know if it was age, or his family name or his brother that attributed to this change in the girl he’d known half his life. And he was certain he didn’t want to know.
“I’m sorry,” He started, bringing her hands to the front of his body and folding them together. “I’m sorry for what I said, I didn’t mean to insult or hurt. A lapse in judgement, I’d like your forgiveness.”
The words “ Are you ” were visible in her eyes, steel behind blue, but she said nothing. Simply stood up and walked two steps towards him, “Thank you, and I forgive you.”
“Good,” he replied curtly, “You should really get back inside.” He added in a gentlemanly tone as he turned around to leave.
He couldn’t look at her any longer. Standing there so soft and beautiful and radiant. He couldn’t look at her any longer and not hold her.
“May I ask you a question?” She stopped him in his tracks with those words. Slowly, he turned, swallowed and allowed his head to drop an inch to give his consent.
“Had you hoped for another answer?”
His eyes widened, unsure what question she referred to. So she clarified. Her voice light and her eyes curious, she took another step further, “Did you come back here and hoped to find me unhappy Colin?”
He considered her question slightly in awe. He’d have to add brave to the list of things Penelope had become. Or perhaps, just as the tragedy of his life, he’d once again been too blind. He straightened his spine, forging his will as he said.
“Yes.”
She hummed in response and smiled knowingly, taking in a deep breath and looking at her feet. Almost as if, this had been what she’d expected and feared.
Emboldened, Colin moved ahead and demanded, “Ask me why” When she said nothing but looked far off into the distance of the gardens, he pleaded, “Ask me why Penelope.”
“Why?”
He smiled, “So I could whisk you away. I can’t very well save a happy Penelope can I?”
And therein lies the problem. He still wanted her, desperately, maddeningly. He hoped and hoped and hoped that she’d be sad, repentant of her decision to marry Benedict. And Colin, her knight in shining armor would steal her away in the night - family and tradition be damned.
But Alas, it was not to be.
She studied him astutely, giving away no indication that she’d heard him. Truly heard him, and his intent and simply scoffed and shook her head. Looking away from him and into the depths of the garden again, she surprised him once again. “Why didn’t you write to him?” She asked, accusation dripping from her tone.
Colin frowned, confused until Penelope threw up her hands and all but screaming, “Benedict. Your brother . You haven’t written to him in 14 months.”
Something inside him split open - perhaps his heart, perhaps his very being. The sight of her, so lovely, so warm, so angry on behalf of his brother - her husband - made him want to scream up to the gods in anguish. He took a deep breath in to control his beating heart.
A wave, strong and determined, hit him, stealing the breath from his lungs. Almost toppling him over. But he persevered, he stood his ground.
“Oh, that. Yes, I haven’t.” He ignored the guilt that bubbled up in him.
Her calm resolve seemed to break at that. “For god’s sake Colin. 14 months, you didn’t write once . Not for his birthday, not when his painting was displayed at the National Gallery, not for our anniversary…”
“What should I have written Pen?” Colin challenged, “What should I have written? Congratulations brother, hope you and your lovely wife are doing well and happy first anniversary Ben! Here’s a bauble I found on the streets of Barcelona.”
“What do you expect me to write to Benedict, Penelope? What ?” He growled, his voice low and dangerous. His hands fisted by his sides as he bent lower to make his point. Anger flooded him, anger at Benedict, at Penelope, at his damned mother for making him come back.
Angry at himself. Always himself.
Penelope stared back at him, eyes wide and alert. Shaking her head, she whispered softly, “You’re not the Colin I used to know.”
“No, I’m not.” Spittle flew out of his mouth, as he took another step forward and dared her to look him in the eye. She did just that, misty and conflicted, but blue stared right back at green. “That Colin is dead. All that’s left is this hollow, empty chaos. ”
“You’re so angry.” She spoke softly, her blue eyes turning gray in the waning light, twinkling with unshed tears. And Colin cursed loudly, no matter how hot the fury coursing through him, the sight of her tears did him under.
“I’m not angry, Penelope.” He conceded.
“Then what?”
“I’m in agony . I am hurting, Penelope. I am not angry, I’m just lost.”
Adrift, without an anchor.
“Because I didn’t wait?” She asked with a small sniff, disbelief and disdain coating her words.
He doesn’t say anything, there isn’t anything to say. The answer is clear, but that doesn’t make it easy, make it right. He’d realized he wanted her too late, and she’d moved on. She owed him nothing.
Mutinous, she brought a hand up to point at him, her nostrils flared and eyes full of scorn, “You have some nerve Colin Bridgerton.” She slapped the hand against her thigh and breathed low and heavy, “The world gave me very little. I had nothing and was destined to have nothing. And then the world struck a hand out, a chance at happiness, at family, love and companionship.”
“What was I to do?” She demanded, bunching the fabric of her dress in her fists, “Say to hell with your kind generous sincere offer of marriage and passion and companionship Benedict, but I’ll continue to spend the rest of my futile life sitting in vigil for someone to notice me.”
“You don’t need to justify…” Colin rushed out through his teeth, not needing to hear of his failure again.
“You’re damn right I don’t.” She hissed. Her shoulders braced, her cheeks tinted and her eyes burning with such fury that Colin was certain if he looked at her any longer he’d split in two.
She was the sun and she’d burn him alive.
But he was a masochist, he realized with a furor as he looked at, really looked at her. And gods if she hadn’t been more beautiful in her life. Even with anger at his person radiated from her, contempt clear in her face and body, he longed for her. She’d been his anchor, the mere memory of her enough to stop the waves from taking him away. He could still taste her, he could still remember the heat of her in his arms. And he’d give his life to have it again.
And he wondered and wondered and wondered what the penance would be for kissing her.
Again.
“Don’t.” She warned, loudly, barely putting a dent in his ardor. When he took a step towards her she took two back, held out a hand and threatened, “No, Colin. I will scream.”
He laughed in disbelief and put his hands up, burned as they did to touch her, but he conceded.
“Do you love him?” He asked again. He’d known the last time she’d lied to him, he wondered if she would again.
“Yes.” She said, softly, less forcefully than last time and with a smile on her face. And Colin knew, she’d only lied a little this time.
“Does he love you?”
She considered his question, tilting her head to look at him with that infuriating smile on her face, “Maybe.” She spoke in a low avowal, her fingers rising to trace over her lips. A remembrance of the kiss they shared or another he knew not.
The water rushed in, lapping at his feet, the pressure built in his chest from the sheer force of it. And he ached to surrender himself to the waves.
“Then there is nothing for us to say is there?” He asked pointlessly, turning to leave when she spoke again.
“One day Colin, when you aren’t so..,” she paused, spreading her hands out, “Angry, hurting, I’d like us to be friends again. You were my dearest friend. I miss you. Benedict misses you.”
Guilt reared its head, pricked him as he huffed out a sound and nodded, and swiftly turned to walk away before the tears fell.
Hours later, after the young ones had been put to bed, they all sat hunkered down in Anthony’s favorite visiting room. Adorned in family portraits going back generations, right next to the newly painted portrait of the current Viscount Bridgerton and his family. Colin followed along with the riot Hyacinth and Gregory were making, troubling Anthony as he attempted to read a book. Colin smiled, some things were still the same, His family, his siblings still brought him joy.
Maybe one day this ache would go away. Maybe their happiness wouldn’t seem like such a burden to him. Somehow, that conversation with Penelope, with all their cards out on the table, had, strangely enough, made him feel better. Any and all hope he’d had was dashed at the sight of her, but still he felt lighter, safer.
The waves had resided, leaving behind a gentle sway of the sea.
The calm before a storm.
Eloise raised her glass in a toast to all of them, the Bridgertons and spouses alike - may they always be like this, happy and together. And then Eloise caught sight of Penelope saluting and discreetly handing her glass of sherry over to Benedict. Eloise, fashionably blunt and incapable of letting something go, immediately pounced on her friend.
“Penelope, you love that Sherry. It’s the one Phillip’s friend got from Italy.” When Penelope looked at her friend in confusion, “We’ve gotten fairly drunk on it a few times.” Eloise ignored her mother’s affronted comment.
“Come on, toast with us.” Eloise said, thrusting her glass towards the red-hair who paled and shook the glass away.
“I don’t feel like sherry right now.” She waved it away, crinkling her nose and scooching away from Eloise and closer to Benedict.
“Here have some whiskey then,” Kate offered her glass, a small twinkle in her eyes which turned into a laugh when Benedict said, “I’ll have it,” grabbed the glass from Kate and downed the drink in one go.
“Penelope Bridgerton, do not tell me that you’re changing your habits for my dear brother…” Eloise went about angrily and was cut across instantly.
“It just doesn’t suit me anymore. Spirits, that is, they just don’t sit well with me anymore.” Penelope answered innocently, turning quickly to look at Benedict. Who grimaced at her choice of words, and at the shocked look on his family's faces, realizing that the ruse was up.
The wind whistled around Colin, remicent of that day in 1821. Turbulent, angry, unforgiving waves engulfed him. Water filled his lungs, his chest so so so heavy and his throat burning. The storm had come to take him.
And suddenly Colin knew. A hand gripped his shoulder, tight and firm, stopping his movement.
Violet gasped and turned to swat at her second-born, “Benedict Bridgerton do not take me for a fool.”
It lasted all of a second, but Benedict looked straight at Colin, and for a second the obvious joy in his face faltered, replaced with something that looked so much like pity and fear that Colin wanted to scream into oblivion.
Husband and wife of 14 months shared a glance, a sheepish smile on both their faces as they turned to look at Violet Bridgerton. Penelope took a deep breath then blushed wildly and said, “According to the physician, you Violet will have your tenth grandchild in six months.”
And then everyone exploded in a flurry of movement, Kate squeezing Penelope so hard that Benedict actually yelped slowly in warning. His mother, his sisters, his brothers, even Phillip and Simon all rushed to congratulate the to-be-parents. And suddenly Colin knew why they were keeping quiet, they didn’t want to make the announcement in front of him. Didn’t want to hurt him, or anger him.
And he hated them for that consideration.
He was thankful for the hand on his shoulder. The iron grip could only belong to his eldest brother. Anthony, his face a picture of pure joy for his brother, raised one hand to toast the upcoming Bridgerton, and with his other hand kept Colin from floating away.
Anthony became his anchor in that moment, and he’d never loved him more.
Colin’s feet howled and protested as he stood and made his way to Penelope and Benedict. Thumping his brother on the back he congratulated him and bowed deeped to wish his sister-in-law, and promised he’d bring the little one treats from all over the world. Benedict held his hand back and pulled him into a tight hug making Colin’s throat bubble with emotions and guilt.
His brother was truly a king among men, and Colin had hated him so deeply for far too long.
The rest of the night no one paid attention to him.
He was thankful that Anthony got him well and drunk before helping him to his chambers. And as Colin got into the bed, Anthony still hovering around the bed, he cried into his big brother’s shoulder like the twelve year old boy who’d just lost his father. And after he’d cried all he could, he simply went to sleep.
Adrift, once again.
A week after Colin left for India and didn’t return to England for years.
He wrote to Benedict in 4 months, a simple note apologizing for not writing in so long. And described India in vivid details.
Two months later, a missive arrived from his brother, informing him of the birth of one Agatha Eloise Bridgerton, along with a sketch of the babe and her mother.
When Colin went to bed, he’d hold the sketch close to his heart and drift off.