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Dear Diary,
Another day closer to woman I dream of becoming.
Who is that woman? She is slowly coming into focus for me. She is beautiful, she is brave, she is strong. She wears gowns in every colour besides yellow. She builds her legacy whilst reporting every injustice in our fair society.
She is independent. She wants for nothing, she needs no one. Not a best friend’s support, not a mother’s care, nor pity from a Bridgerton son.
Still, I admit I am lonely.
I have not spoken to Eloise in months. The only time I see her is in strained glances across busy rooms, or in suffocating silence as we pass by one another on the street.
The Bridgertons had been away at Aubrey Hall for the past nine weeks, until I spotted their carriages arriving from the upstairs window about a fortnight ago. I do long for their frenetic energy and warmth, but I am not a welcome visitor in their home.
I have not seen Colin since that night, and I am finally ready to admit, diary, that I do not desire to. If I did not see him ever again, I would not care. Certainly, he would not mind.
He would only miss the doting love-sick fool for a friend he is accustomed to. Hanging onto his every word. It is plainly obvious to me that this is what he seeks when he writes to me from whatever worldly place he visits. He only craves the attention I used to happily bestow on him. But, no longer.
I love Colin Bridgerton, no more.
It is time to move along from this foolish, childish dream and step into the light of day—I am becoming a woman; I present this to all in the way I dress now, in the manner I speak, in the style of hair I adopt. I have the most stylish fashions; Genevieve tells me I look as if I belong in Paris.
It is with this new appealing countenance that I will finally gain a husband, and move away from my mother’s grasp—away from this stale home of my childhood; forever across the street from the two people who used to mean the very world to me, but no longer hold any space in my heart. I will move far away from those that cause doubt to creep in to my mind; and finally, I will become secure in who I am, and the legacy I weave as Lady Whistledown.
This is my year, diary.
Sincerely yours,
Penelope Featherington
--
Penelope glanced up from her scribbles at the sound of commotion from the street below.
Forever on the lookout for the latest morsel of gossip from the ton, she looked to the window to see what caused such a fuss, and her breath caught.
Her eyes surely deceived her, for it was him.
Colin Bridgerton, in the flesh.
She had almost allowed herself to forget what he looked like; all long, sturdy limbs and chestnut curls. His mouth twisted in a smirk in response to something Benedict said to him; the entire Bridgerton family was present and Penelope felt a pang in her heart. She missed them all.
He looked magnificent in his travel attire; the blue of his linen shirt, and the nut-brown of his coat perfectly matching his eyes and hair respectively. Penelope wondered if this had been done on purpose. If the intention had been to cause this gasp she held in her throat, this pattering of her heart, this perspiration settling over the skin of her palms. Surely he realized the effect he had on the women of the ton every day, but particularly dressed like that.
His neck was unconstrained by a cravat, the skin of his collarbone on display, and Penelope swallowed a moan as she considered what it would be like to touch that throat, to kiss it softly with as much worship as it clearly deserved.
Just as she settled into her feelings of desire, allowing them wash over her like rain, his eyes drifted up in her direction.
Before she knew what came over her, the curtain swung shut, and she stood; briskly striding back over to her bed chamber.
She closed the door behind her, breathing heavily; her eyes filled with tears, her face flushed.
No, no.
No, no, no.
He could not do this to her again, she would not allow it.
She sat down at her desk, pulling open her journal once more to the page she had just written, adding a note to the bottom.
PS: Perhaps I do still love him. But after this season, I will no longer. This is my pledge to you, Diary.
And with that promise made, Penelope released a sigh of relief.
Colin Bridgerton had taken many things from her; her smiles, her laughs, her dreams of him. Even her hopes for their future. But, she would not let him take anything else.
This was still her year.
--
Dear Diary,
She does not care for me, any longer. I had thought we were friends. True friends, who could tell one another anything. Every fear I have has been laid bare to her, every thought I have had regarding the uncertainty of my future, my purpose. Both, in person and in letter. I’ve told Penelope Featherington words from my heart that I would never tell any other soul.
And yet, she has abandoned me.
What have I done to harm her good opinion of me? Surely, it must be something but I cannot even think of it. The last time I laid eyes on her was on the dance floor of the Featherington Ball, after I saved her family from ruin.
She had said I was astonishing.
Did she mean it, diary? I had thought so at the time; it filled my soul with such light I felt from the heavens. I practically floated out of the ballroom; knowing I was held in such high esteem.
And yet, when I wrote to her from my very first port in Italy, I received nothing in response. I had considered that perhaps the mail had been delayed; for I had only stayed at the same inn on the Italian coast for two weeks, three at the most. Perhaps the letter had been delivered after I’d already left, travelling next to Spain.
But there, I’d written to her from the Spanish coast, travelling inland afterwards—I’d ventured back to that inn on the coast, four weeks later, partially in hopes that I’d have a friendly piece of correspondence awaiting my return. Yet, there was still nothing.
It had made my next stop rather difficult. I’d intended to spend close to a month, exploring the rolling hills of France, sampling the wine and the cheese in the countryside; enjoying the beauty of the cobblestones of Paris. Instead, I found this far too difficult to manage; I simply missed home.
And, so here I am. Returned. And yet…
I swear I saw a glimpse of her yesterday upon my return. My family had all gathered to greet me on the street and I felt most welcome. Until I looked up to the sitting room window of the Featherington home and saw nothing but a hint of her red hair, the curtains sliding shut.
Make no mistake, she does not wish to see me. The letters were never lost, they were simply unanswered.
And I am left bereft. Adrift at sea, without her friendship to guide me home, to anchor me to port.
I am determined, diary. I am simply determined to discover what went wrong, and I am resolved that I will fix this. Whatever it takes.
Sincerely,
Colin Bridgerton
--
A knock at the door pulled Colin from his thoughts.
“Colin?” a hesitant voice called, and he went to answer it.
“Franny,” he said, a smile tugging at his reluctant mouth. She looked lovely.
“Are you… ready for the ball?” she asked carefully, looking around his room. The first ball of the season was that evening-- Francesca's very first, and he’d promised his sister he’d accompany her; since Anthony would have Kate on his arm, and Benedict was left to escort Mother.
“Of course,” he said, pulling on the mask he wore, his signature easy smile sliding into place.
He offered his arm to her, and they made their way downstairs and out the front door. The sky was still light, even though it was half-past seven; the summer sun was still on the horizon.
The last thing Colin wanted was to attend yet another ball, filled with women and their mothers, their eyes appraising, their demands on his time endless.
And yet, he yearned to see Penelope.
Perhaps he could find out what he had done wrong, and the first piece of the puzzle would fit into place.
Almost as if she’d materialized from his thoughts, Colin spotted Penelope Featherington, once again from the upstairs window of her sitting room. She was looking onto the street below, seemingly lost in her own thoughts.
Before he could stop himself, he lifted his hand in greeting, waving at her.
She did not see him, and Colin sighed, helping Francesca into the carriage.
Tonight, he promised himself. Everything would change after tonight.
--
Hours Later
Nothing had changed tonight. Nothing but the kind of clarity that made him sick to his stomach, his heart twisted in regret.
He’d seen Penelope Featherington at the ball, but it had not gone the way he wanted.
Once his eyes settled on her he noticed that she was looking lovely and remarkably changed somehow; her hair loose in tumbling red waves over her shoulder, her form adorned in a blue and silver gown. In her presence, he finally felt truly at home.
Until her eyes met his; cold as the icy depths of her blues and he was instantly unnerved, his heart pounding.
“Pen,” he said, as he approached her, his voice wavering. He cleared his throat. “Rather, Penelope—”
She turned from the conversation she’d been having, fixing him with a stiff frosty smile that didn’t belong on her face. “Mr. Bridgerton,” she said loudly. “How lovely to see you. I trust your travels were pleasant?”
His brow furrowed, unaccustomed to the voice she was using. Where was Penelope, his friend? Instead, he found nothing but disguised hostility masked in societal niceties.
Before he had a chance to open his mouth to ask her to dance, Penelope was taking the arm of another gentleman.
“Pardon me, Lord Dankworth has asked me for the next dance, and I hear it beginning. Shall we?”
The gentleman on Penelope’s arm nodded, escorting her to the dance floor smoothly, leaving Colin in their wake.
It wasn’t until later that Colin was able to corner Penelope, asking for her next dance in front of a crowd including her mother so that she’d be unable to refuse him.
Her mouth was a thin line, as she took his hand and he led her to the dance floor.
She avoided his eyes continually, looking to the side, her form rigid in his arms. He couldn’t wait another moment.
“Pen—” he whispered in her ear. “What—what could be wrong? I wrote you letters. Did you receive them? You never replied, and now you act as though suffering my presence is the very worst punishment imaginable.”
“I’ve been busy,” she said stiffly. “I was not simply lounging around, waiting for one of your letters to come in the mail. I have a life of my own, as well.”
“I know,” he said softly, carefully. “But something has changed, Pen. I know it. If you would just tell me and grant me the opportunity to explain—”
“There is nothing to explain,” she said, a note of finality in her voice. “Now, I would appreciate it if you would cease calling me Pen in public. We do not want the ton to get the wrong idea.”
Colin felt the walls closing in on him. Whatever could cause his closest friend to turn on him in such a manner?
As the dance ended, Colin did not have to wonder much longer.
She curtsied to him as they parted. “Perhaps you should find a dance partner more worthy of your time,” she said.
He opened his mouth to argue with her but she continued.
“Someone you could perhaps dream of courting one day.”
And with that, she floated away from him, leaving him slack-jawed and feeling rather stupid.
Dear Diary,
I have returned home from the ball early; I told mother I was sick. Perhaps I truly did feel sick, from both the multiple glasses of brandy and from my conversation with Penelope Featherington.
I simply could not be there a moment longer. Not knowing that she’d heard what I said. What I’d forgotten I’d even said. My thoughtlessness knows no bounds.
I did not mean to proclaim that I’d never court her so loudly in public; I’d had a few drinks that evening and Fife was tormenting me about it. I only said it to shut him up but I didn’t realize how loud I’d been—I would have never said it if I knew there was a chance Penelope could hear.
Truth be told, months ago I was in such a tormented state after what happened with Marina Thompson that I did not believe myself ready for courtship, or marriage, with anyone. And the very idea of it with my dearest friend was utterly preposterous to me.
Fife simply doesn’t understand our friendship. No one does. It is impossible for me to explain; I frankly don’t understand it myself.
But it all makes sense now; the lack of letters, the cold glances, the refusal to look in my very direction, let alone speak. I have insulted her. I have wounded her pride and damaged her trust in me considerably. She feels I was making a mockery of her in front of my peers, and perhaps I was. But it was not my intention.
And truly I feel sick with disgust at myself, for causing this mess. I deserve her scorn, her hatred.
If only there was something I could do to prove to her that I care; that what I did to her was unintentional. That I value her friendship, and her presence in my life. That she means a very great deal to me.
Diary, wait—I see her carriage returning and I have an idea. I am unsure if this will work, but I need to try.
Sincerely,
Colin
--
Penelope stepped down from her coach, allowing help from the footman, when she heard the sound of footsteps approaching.
“Colin?” she found herself saying, before she corrected herself quickly. “Mr. Bridgerton,” she said.
He had come from his home; was he on a midnight stroll?
“Good Evening Miss Featherington,” Colin bowed to her, all the airs of propriety in place for the benefit of her servants, as her family had stayed behind at the ball. But, Penelope had decided to travel home early, for she was tired. It had been a taxing evening and she had a column to write.
Colin reached for her hand, and she allowed him to take it, as he raised her gloved knuckles to his lips for a kiss. She felt something stiff slide into her palm as he let go, raising his hat to her as he continued on his merry way down the street. “Good evening,” he said, as he left.
“Good evening,” she muttered, perplexed.
She hurried into her home and up the stairs, not daring to pause and read the parchment until she was in the safety of her bed chamber.
Meet me tonight at midnight in the gazebo on your estate. Please allow me to explain.
Yours,
Colin
She swallowed the lump in her throat and considered throwing his note into the pile of letters from him that she had housed under the floorboards.
But something made her hesitate.
She looked at the hands of the clock in her room. Quarter to midnight.
Instead, she pulled out her journal and began to write.
Dear Diary,
Should I go? Should I meet him? I cannot possibly think of what he’d have to say that would ever make up for the torment he put me through.
I remained in my bedroom for an entire month, pretending I was ill, because I could not face society after what he said.
It was only after I finally went out in public again, that I realized that no one had noticed, no one had care, no one remembered. Yet again, I was irrelevant.
Yet I noticed, I cared, and I remember. And I will not let his charms sway me to forget this so quickly. I am bound and determined.
Yet, I will go.
Because it is Colin.
Sincerely yours,
Penelope
--
She appeared to him through the mist of the warm summer air at night as if she were a mirage, and Colin’s heart soared at the very sight of her.
“Pen—Penelope,” he stammered. “You came.”
“You asked me to,” she said quietly, guarded.
“Yes—yes, I did,” he said, and then paused to take a deep breath. “Thank you for meeting me. I simply—I had to speak to you. It could not wait another night.”
“We should be quick,” she said quietly, her eyes downcast. “Wouldn’t want to be caught, then you’d be forced to marry me, whether you like it or not.”
He opened and closed his mouth. “That’s not—I am not concerned… that is, we will not be caught. And I am willing to take the risk.”
She said nothing, but her blue eyes stared back at him as if she were piercing his soul.
“I wish to apologize, Pen. And to explain,” he said hurriedly.
“What could there possibly be to explain?” she asked quietly. “You do not wish to court me, you wouldn’t dream of such a thing,” she shrugged. “You do not need to.”
“Yes but—”
“You know, Colin, I never once asked you to court me.”
“I know. I know Pen,” he sighed, raking his fingers through his hair. “I was stupid. An imbecile. I said those things because I was being teased and I was trying to explain our friendship and I wasn’t thinking properly—”
“—I never expected you to want to marry me, or court me, Colin. But I would have never expected that you could hurt me so.”
“Penelope, please. Allow me to apologize,” he pleaded. “I was incredibly thoughtless and foolish, and horrible. I will regret that moment for a very long time, and I dearly wish I could take it back.”
“You didn’t even remember it happened until tonight,” Penelope argued.
“Yes but—what I always did remember, what I do remember is us. Our conversations at countless events. Our dances at balls. Our letters throughout my trip to Greece. Your constant reassurance that I will find my purpose, that I’m more than just a third son, more than just a Bridgerton; I’ve only come to believe in myself as much as I do in large part because of you.”
He reached out his bare hand to take hers, and she allowed it, her sapphire eyes shining in the moonlight back at him.
There in that moment, a feeling came over Colin Bridgerton; a feeling that he’d never had before, not for anyone.
He wished to kiss Penelope Featherington.
He wondered what it would be like to take her face in his hands; the silk of her skin under his fingertips as he pulled her close to him, and brushed his lips against hers.
Of course, he would not. He could not. He was a gentleman, after all.
“Pen, tell me what I can do to make it up to you, and I will do it,” he continued softly, his face mere inches from hers. “I would do anything to feel the warmth of your friendship again. You are so very dear to me. I cannot lose you, I will not.” He tugged on her hand. “Tell me what I must do,” he begged, his voice a whisper.
“I simply need time,” she said quietly. “To rebuild my broken trust in you.”
“I can do that,” he said. “I will earn back your good favour.” His thumb smoothed along the back of her hand.
She nodded. “Colin, can I tell you why your words truly hurt me?”
“Please do,” he said quickly, desperately wanting her heart to open again to him once more. For her faith in him to be restored.
“It is because I truly want to be married,” she said.
His stomach tied up in knots.
Whatever Colin had expected her to say, it was not this.
“I want to be married, and soon. This very social season, in fact. And your words may have hurt my chances of that happening,” Penelope explained.
“But…” Colin was truly perplexed. “You’re so young, Pen.”
She laughed, but it was a hollow and bitter sound, as she let go of his hand. “You do not understand,” she said. “It is because you are a man. It is not the same for women as it is for men. You can continue to be unmarried for another decade—two, truly. And no one will think anything of it. The longer I wait, the more likely it is that I will be past my prime. I need to find a husband now,” she began to pace around the gazebo. “I need to be married, so I can make my own mark in this world, away from the Featherington name,” she continued.
“Oh,” he said. “How… are you faring so far?” he asked reluctantly.
“Honestly? Not very well,” she said, deflated. “I was hoping that the changes I’ve made would help,” she gestured to her gown and hair.
“You look beautiful,” he interjected. He meant it.
“Thank you,” she waved away his compliment and continued. “But it’s no use—as much as I feel that I finally look ready for a husband, I simply—I do not know how to speak to men.”
“I am a man, and you’re speaking to me,” Colin said teasingly.
“You’re Colin, you do not count,” she said dismissively, and his heart sank a little at her flippant words.
“I will help you,” he said suddenly, desperately. “I will help teach you in the ways of attracting a suitor.”
She stopped pacing to eye him warily. “You will?”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” he laughed. “I may be just Colin to you, but I know how to speak to a lady—”
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t doubt that.”
“Pen, let me help you with this,” he insisted. “You deserve it. You deserve to find someone special. Please.”
She nodded slowly, her mind busily working behind her eyes. “I will consider it,” she said carefully.
“That’s all I ask,” Colin said. “You know where to find me if you decide to proceed.”
“I certainly do,” she said. She was smiling, and it was the first time Colin had seen a genuine smile from her in months. He felt his heart lighten in response.
“Goodnight, Pen.” He took her hand in his again, raising her knuckles to his lips for one more kiss. “Until our next midnight in your gazebo,” he raised his eyebrow teasingly.
--
Dear Mr. Bridgerton,
I have decided that I will accept your kind offer of lesson. You know which lessons I speak of. Meet me at the market tomorrow at ten o’clock sharp.
Yours in (careful) friendship,
Penelope Featherington
--
Dear Diary,
Am I stupid or merely foolish? For I have decided to forgive him.
How could I resist his beautiful face, imploring me with his beautiful words… on such a beautiful night. I simply could not; I am not strong enough.
But I will remain guarded, and I will not—I repeat, not, let him distract me from my final goal.
And that is to find a husband.
Yours faithfully,
Penelope
--
It was a beautiful day in the market as Penelope lifted a flower to her nose and sniffed it.
She put it back in place and continued on, admiring the wares of the quill-maker with his table of treasures next to it. One quill in particular took her fancy; it was special somehow—long with a round colourful green and blue feather.
“It is from a peacock,” the vendor said.
Penelope had never heard of such an animal but nodded politely.
The vendor told her how much it was, but before Penelope had the chance to decline the absurdly expensive price, she felt a presence beside her.
“I’ll take it,” said a voice, deep and clear. Penelope couldn’t help but smile in response.
The vendor took his coins, and Colin presented the quill to her with a flourish.
“I figure you’ll require quite an abundance of quills, Miss Featherington.”
They began walking through the market side-by-side. “And why is that, Mr. Bridgerton?”
“Because you’ll need to write to me,” he said. “And often, if we’re going to arrange to meet for all of these lessons.”
“Oh?” she asked, her voice teasing. “Are there going to be many, do you think?”
“Oh yes,” he said. “I have so much to teach you, my pupil. There will be many, many hours of instruction. Hours of learning, and conversation, and laughter. And, friendship,” he said lightly, as he looked down at her, his expression fond.
Her heart pounded in response. “I believe I may enjoy these lessons,” she said softly.
“I should hope so,” he said, a sideways smirk gracing his beautiful face. “Now, let’s begin.”
--
The End