Chapter Text
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Venice, Italy
13th of February, 1814
Home has never seemed so far away, and the people in it further still. The only correspondent I have remaining is my mother, but even her letters are few and far between. In the case of my siblings, their silence is unsurprising. They have always shown a lack of interest in my accounts of my travels. ‘Poetic drivel’ as Eloise once so kindly put it.
But Penelope has always shown a keen interest. Her letters were always full of questions and detailed accounts of her life. And so now, her silence weighs heavy on my mind. We were on good terms before I left London, excellent terms in fact. Our friendship had grown exponentially, she had become my closest confident. She met me without judgement and with understanding. And kindness. And loyalty above all else, to both my family and to me.
So now I wonder why has she forsaken me?
Mother writes that she and Eloise are no longer speaking. But surely she would not hold my sister’s transgressions against me? It is the not knowing that tortures me so.
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Sardinia, Italy
27th of February,1814
The city of Alghero is perhaps one of the most beautiful Islands to grace our planet. I admit I have not much experience with Islands other than parts of Greece, but it has truly stolen my heart. The waters are crystal clear, the food impeccable and the people of the city are most charming. As I look over the balcony from my apartment, I am greeted by an expanse of terracotta roofs and the distant sea.
It is perhaps my favourite place I have visited thus far and yet I find myself unable to enjoy it as I should.
My mail remains lacking. Penelope still has not responded.
I am sure to write to her each time I settle into a new place, incase she should change her mind. Well, in truth I am unsure there are many words left unsaid and so instead, I send her books. I imagine her reading them at her favourite window in Featherington house.
The image still fresh in my mind, as I used to watch her in said window from my study.The most recent edition sent was ‘Romeo And Juliet’ from Florence. Rather scandalous perhaps, but if memory serves me correctly, Penelope always borrowed books on romance from Daphne at Aubry Hall.
Could this be the reason for her silence? Has she found a new correspondent in my absence?
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Barcelona, Spain
6th of March, 1814
Each new city claims to take place as my favourite as I continue my travel through Europe. Though, nothing compares to the Sagrada Familia. It’s wondrous architecture, rich history makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.I took time there to pray for my family, peace for my father in heaven and of course for Penelope. Or more specifically, to understand the reason for Penelope’s silence.
I have long since given up hope she will reply. And in my melancholy I have resorted to re-reading her letters of old. The are well worn now, tattered at the corners as I read them each night before I retire to bed.
What has become of me? What a fool I am. I miss her terribly.
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Paris, France
21st Of March, 1814
Paris has been kind to me. She has welcomed me into the warmth of her bosom with open arms. I do enjoy the finery and the fashions of this city most of all. It is the perfect place for the re-invention of self.After adopting the Parisian style, I found myself more willing to partake in the lifestyle. Alongside my peers, I spend my days drowning in fine wine and women.
Oh the women!
They are some of the most beautiful in the world and very forth coming with their affections. Something I find myself glad of at this moment as I continue to be shut out of Penelope’s life.
My brothers would be proud, I suppose. They might even now think me a man, rather than a green boy.
This new version of myself is much more appealing to others, it would seem. No matter how lonely and superficial I may find it -
“Odysseus! ” Phillip Clairmont’s voice echoed down the hall of their shared living quarters in a rather sing song way. “Are you joining us or not?!”
Colin had grown tired of the nickname and its altogether embarrassing fruition. It came from Homer’s Odyssey, of course. The Greek story of the king of Ithaca who fought tooth and nail to return to his wife Penelope after the Trojan War.
He was christened Odysseus upon the night of his arrival in which they were in their cups. He had gotten entirely foxed and spent the whole night simpering and crying about Penelope.
“I am coming! Do not get your britches in a bundle, my friend.” Colin pulled his dinner jacket on and headed for the door.
“Now, boys.” Phillip announced to Colin and Michael Stirling, flinging his arms around their necks, dragging their heads toward his own. “Tonight we are to be the very epitome of an english gentleman, for the Contessa is very selective.”
“Contessa?” Michael asked with a mischievous smile.
“The best one yet lads, the manners of a lady with the experience of a whore.” Phillip told them enthusiastically and Michael laughed. Colin, on the other hand, grimaced out of their line of view.
“Apparently she likes them young so that she may take them to her bed and teach them things far beyond greatest imaginings.” He continued, glancing out into the distance as though he were staring at a beautiful work of art. “Teach us tips on bedding women, that is.” He clarified with a wiggle of his brow.
Michael snorted. “I do not need lessons. That would be like teaching an eagle to fly.”
“A bird does not instantly take flight as it enters the world.” Colin smirked, pushing him toward their awaiting carriage. “It too, must learn and perfect their craft.”
Michael rolled his eyes. “Is that so? Very well then gentleman, let us call this a wager.”
Colin groaned and Phillip rubbed his hands together in excitement, as they entered their carriage.
“Are you not indeed, up the river tick?” Colin countered. “I heard you were drowning in card debts.”
“Five thousand pounds to whoever beds her first.” Phillip suggested, ignoring their squabble.
“It is always such fun to best you in a wager, Clairmont.” Michael leaned across the carriage and shook Phillips hand. “I accept.”
“Thats the spirit.” Phillip beamed. “Odysseus?”
Colin rolled his eyes.
“No.” Micheal interjected loudly, “The titled chits love Bridgerton’s prince charming, romantic novel bit. We would surely lose.”
“It is not a bit ! I cannot help it if they find me charming… and witty… and devastatingly handsome.” Colin smirked at Michael and turned to Phillip with a shake of his head. “No dice. Her title nor her lessons intrigue me and I am not of like mind with Michael. I do not seek out to be Great Britain’s most notorious Lothario. Nor am I in need of five thousand pounds.”
Michael shoved his shoulder into Colin’s in response. “What does she look like?”
Phillip paused. “She is older, I admit.”
“How old?” Michael snapped.
“Forty- Six.” Phillip admitted with a grimace.
“Forty- six?!” Michael exclaimed. “If I wanted a woman that old, I would call on your mother!”
Colin snickered and Phillip slapped Michael’s hat clean off his head. “She is a tad long in the tooth, it is true, but they say she is quite lovely.” Phillip continued. “She has skin as pale as milk, soft as silk. Her breasts are bountiful and her eyes strikingly blue.”
Michael leaned in listening intently before cocking an eyebrow. “And of which colour is her hair?”
“She is red headed.” Phillip told them.
Michael groaned loudly in protest. “Then we might aswell hand Bridgerton our money now!”
“Me? Whyever so?” Colin frowned.
Michael and Phillip both rolled their eyes.
“It is no great secret that you have such a preference.” Phillip told him.
“You leave blondes and brunettes crying in your wake.” Michael smirked.
Colin swallowed hard, his ears feeling almighty hot. It wasn’t true. Was it?
Colin was tired of feeling like he was on the other end of their jokes, they at times ganged up on him in their teasing as Anthony and Benedict often did. Colin wanted–no needed–to put them in their place.
“Very well.” Colin smiled. “Cut me in.”
Michael slumped back in annoyance and Phillip celebrated with a rooster-like crow.
Later that in the evening, Colin was disappointed to find that the party was a drab affair. Nothing like nights at the gentlemen’s clubs and brothels they they had become accustomed to. The people there were also dull. Old Lords of withered titles and grandfathers of men his age. But the Contessa was just as Phillip had described. She was red headed and elegant, her skin was soft and her stature small and lightly rounded.
And when Colin saw her enter the room in a canary yellow dress, he thought his heart might explode.
“Gentlemen?” Colin whispered as the men watched her enter, their eyes like saucers. “This one’s mine.”
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A week later Colin was five thousand pounds richer and milked almost completely of his seed.
The Contessa Isabella De Bourbon had taught him all the ways to give a woman pleasure; how to bring her to completion at his fingers, at his mouth, how to fuck her until she took the lords name in vain…
Colin found her pleasure only heightened his.
“What is her name?” She asked him one morning as they lay in bed after their third round of naked acrobatics.
Colin’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, wondering how quickly he could change the conversation. “I’m sorry?”
The Contessa smiled and left a small kiss on his cheek as she got up to slip on her silk robe. “It is of no consequence to me, but I had noticed.
Colin could not meet her eye, instead he rose to dress as well, hoping he could get out that door before this conversation went any further. “Noticed what exactly?”
“You are… very particular on what appeals to you visually. You do not ever look upon my countenance, but you very much enjoy my hair and my being dressed in yellow.”
Colin swallowed, his heart hammering in his chest.
“You take me as another, do you not?” The Contessa questioned.
“Do not be ridiculous.” He huffed as he buttoned up his shirt in a hurry.
“There is no harm in it Colin, we both knew this was not a joining of romantic feeling or intent in matrimony.” She chuckled. “Have you told her you love her?”
Colin was jamming his feet into his evening shoes from the night before, when he almost toppled over. “I beg your finest pardon?”
“You heard me.” She smiled with a cocked brow.
He tried to push her words away, to let her accusations roll off him like water off a ducks back, but instead he was drowning in them.
“I–it is not–how can you be so certain?” He muttered. The word weighed heavy on him. Love.
He missed her, longed for her. Without her he found himself adrift, completely unlike himself. But was it love?
“You are a very deep thinking man of feeling. It is what drew me to you.” She told him.
Colin sighed.
“I can see that you long for connection that which transcends the physical. You long for her.” The Contessa smiled and turned to brush her hair in the mirror.
Colin thought all the air in his body had dissipated. “Yes.”
Yes. He did. He loved her. He cherished her. How could he have never seen it before?!
He approached the Contessa with a smile, intent on placing a kiss on her cheek. But something in the periphery of his vision caught his attention.
On top of her dresser lay an issue of—
“Is that Lady Whistledown?” Colin asked in surprise.
“Indeed.” The Contessa continued brushing her long red locks. “I am travelling to London next week and heard that to get a feel for your society and know it’s people, I must read it. It is rather scandalous and very entertaining.”
Colin glowered. Entertaining indeed. A ruiner of lives and reputation, perhaps. The brain child of the Devil himself, certainly. “I assure you, it is not.”
He let his eyes run over it anyway, his curiosity of home peaking.
Dearest Gentle Readers,
It is the beginning of a new season and the beginning of new marriages, with a total of twelve taking place over the off season. None more so romantic than that of Anthony Bridgerton and his new wife Lady Kathani Bridgerton. This author is told he declared his love for his new bride assuredly, fervently and very loudly-
Colin paused for a moment. His mind kicking into top speed, his heart thundering in his ears. He had heard these words before…
They were not common place— no.
A memory sprung to his mind of Daphne’s ball but two years ago. He and Penelope standing on the periphery of the ballroom as they so often did.
“You are not a fool!” She told him desperately. “When one finds oneself in love, they should declare it. Assuredly, fervently, loudly.”
He then thought of her letters, the style of her writing. Could it be? He also thought of the signature at the end one.
Yours Truly,
Penelope.
No.
Colin was sure of it, it was her. It had to be her! He knew how she favoured alliteration for dramatic effect when describing something negative, or her hyperbole when describing the positive and fantastical. And her rhetorical questions to make one ponder. Not to mention her double entendres which were second to none.
She was well versed in the act of story telling.
She was a great writer.
Penelope Featherington was Lady Whistledown.