AN: Soooo, a long time no see...
As it is, live happens. I have lived through some of the best moments in my life as well as the worst.
After RB it took me a long while to become invested in a fandom again. And when I did (Downton Abbey's Mary & Matthew and Mary & Charles, Foyle's War's Sam & Andrew or Pride & Prejudice), I felt like my language skills and knowledge about the era were not good enough to write something myself. Even if I had plenty of inspiration and storylines. Bridgerton is comparatively easy because it isn't very historically acurate:)
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. This work is the interpretation of the original material and not created for profit. No copyright infringement is intended.
References to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libellous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
WARNING: This story deals with topics like death, suicide, depression, psychological and emotional abuse as well as the prejudices and values of the time that today might be considered discriminatory.
The knocker hadn't been taken down yet when she arrived. No doubt, there remained a number of people needing to come and go, and not all would feel at ease using the servant's entrance.
Mrs. Varley, the trusted housekeeper, greeted her with a solemn countenance, her lips drawn tight in a gesture of restrained sorrow.
Eloise attempted to speak, her words faltering amidst the weight of her emotions. "I... um... I..." Her voice wavered. She took a shaky breath and tried again. „I…" but she couldn't get the words past the lump in her throat.
With a sympathetic nod, Mrs. Varley granted her entry, ushering her into a haven of misplaced cheerfulness, adorned with remnants of the previous night's festivities. Floral arrangements littered the hall, Eloise caught a whiff of their fading fragrance, a bittersweet reminder of happier times.
"May I...?" Eloise began, her voice barely above a whisper as she struggled to find the words. "May I see her?" she finally managed, her plea tinged with desperation.
Mrs. Varley's brow furrowed with concern. "Miss, I fear it may not be wise." she cautioned, her voice soft and soothing.
"Please," Eloise implored, her voice choked with tears.
"Miss, I beg you to reconsider," Mrs. Varley urged gently, her eyes brimming with empathy.
„Please."
"Miss, truly, I advise against it. The sight is not…fitting for a gently bred lady. Mrs. Featherington has barred even Miss Phi- Mrs. Finch and Miss Prudence from seeing her, deeming it too distressing for their sensibilities. I implore you, my dear, do not."
But Eloise shook her head resolutely. Regardless of the grim spectacle, she needed the confirmation. "Mrs. Varley, I must see Penelope with my own eyes. I must know that she is truly gone." she insisted, her voice quavering with emotion.
Eloise was glad that Penelope's remains had not been laid out in her chambers. It would feel wrong somehow. Mrs. Varley tried to explain Lady Featherington's misdirection when they carried her in, but Eloise could scarcely listen.
- Description of the dead body -
And as soon as Mrs. Varley had lifted the sheet, she knew she should have heeded the housekeeper's warning, she was not at all prepared for the sight that awaited her - more ghastly than she could have imagined. The aftermath of the fall compounded by the subsequent cart collisions had left Penelope scarcely recognizable. Her countenance was marred by contusions and blood, rendering her features indistinguishable. Crimson rivulets marred her red locks and yellow gown, the fabric soaked with the life that had fled. Eloise found herself lamenting Penelope's choice of attire—she had always despised those yellow dresses.
- End Description -
As she stumbled away from the grim tableau, Eloise sought solace in Penelope's chamber - a sanctuary frozen in time. The blood was pounding in her ears, her vision tightening and becoming blurry. The remnants of their last fight lingered in the air, mingling with the faint scent of lilacs. Tears welled in Eloise's eyes as she surveyed the room, her heart aching with the weight of loss she was only beginning to understand. The room looked like it has always looked. The disarray Eloise created last night was gone. Only the fireplace not yet cleaned.
She knew not how long she sat on Penelope's bed when the sound of Lady Featherington's anguished weeping pierced the silence, prompting Mrs. Varley's inquiry. "Miss, may I leave you momentarily? Her Ladyship requires my attendance. She is quite distraught."
Eloise offered no verbal response, only a nod. For a time, she sat motionless, silent tears tracing silent paths down her cheeks, attempting to fathom the unfathomable. Her thoughts consumed by grief and regret.
Suddenly, clarity seized Eloise's gaze. Rising to her feet, she hurried to Penelope's hiding place, prying it open with a sense of urgency. Anticipating drafts of Pen's Whistledown chronicles, she found naught but correspondence from Colin, her diary, and what appeared to be a substantial amount of money, considering the weight of the purse. For a fleeting moment Eloise had hoped that Penelope had staged her death. Had fled - in shame or fear of unmasking. But if Pen had truly run away, wouldn't she have needed the money?
She hastened to the hearth, inspecting it closely. Flakey Ashes littered the grate, as if someone had burned papers - a lot of papers. Among the charred remnants, scraps resembling those drafts she had glimpsed only the day prior.
Surveying her dearest friend's chamber, Eloise's gaze alighted upon the balcony. This had been Penelope's final view. The balustrade dug into Eloise's abdomen. It was rather strange that Penelope fell off a balcony with a railing so high. Reluctantly, she cast her gaze downward, the brown spot on the cobblestones unsettling her. It seemed so far a away from the house for a mere fall. Yet, Eloise dared not entertain the implications. She was afraid to consider what that would mean for her and her conscience. And she was afraid to consider what that would mean for Colin, too.
Meanwhile, across the square, Colin Bridgerton grappled with his own anguish, his heart heavy with remorse. Colin had taken refuge by the window, his gaze fixed on something outside he couldn't see. The day had commenced poorly, and only deteriorated further. He wondered if a worse day had ever existed. The ache of his hangover paled in comparison to the torment wrought by the latest missive from Lady Whistledown. He, the coward, had succumbed to the pressure of societal expectations and denigrated his friendship with Penelope to appease his people he barlely liked. What he had said to appear appropriately calloused and to be accepted by Fife and his peers, had been twisted into a vicous diatribe by Lady Whistledown, unjustly besmirching Pen's character, looks and societal position. It was an abomination; she did not merit such vitriol. Lady Whistledown ought to have castigated him, not Penelope. Never Pen.
And then, before he could even break his fast, a clamor erupted in the square, wrenching his attention away from food he could barely stomach. The news soon after reported by the footman John left him reeling—Penelope had plummeted from her balcony, crushed beneath the wheels of two heavy carts passing by just then. She was gone.
And then his last solace died. He had hoped that at least Penelope had died before she had a chance to read the latest edition of Whistledown. But unfortunately this had not been so. Mrs. Wilson had heard from Mrs. Varley how Penelope had been the first to peruse the scandal sheets, losing her footing shortly thereafter.
Colin was overcome with nausea, the sensation akin to being trapped beneath a horse, suffocating beneath the weight of his anguish. He wished his lungs would cease their labor, his heart its incessant ache. Though unspoken, the grim truth loomed. For Colin knew, deep down, that his callous words had played a part in Penelope's untimely end.
This story will probably be rather short. I have an outline, but it doesn't really have to be all that long - unless someone wants to cowrite with me.