The day is clear and bright, and though it is warm, there is a hint of crispness in the air that indicates the end of summer days is nearing. They were on the cusp of her favorite time of year, and now, with Eloise back in Mayfair—even if it was just for a short amount of time—everything felt right in her world.

Penelope smiles softly as she links her arm through Eloise's, shivering slightly as they turn onto a shady part of the path as Eloise recounts a series of essays she'd recently read critiquing and commenting on Mary Wollstoncraft's Vindication of the Rights of Woman — one of the only interesting things in the entire library at Kippendavie, she claims.

It's difficult to picture Eloise in Scotland, alone in the vast highlands after the novelty of simply being away wore off, grappling with the contrary thought of missing life in society — not for the reasons most women of her age would miss it, but missing it nonetheless. Despite Eloise's deep conviction that she wanted to be alone, she did not; and despite her deep conviction that a solitary life would suit her, it did not. She was social — loved to talk and be heard, to debate and argue, to listen and reflect, even if just to offer a scathing rebuttal the very next opportunity that she had.

In this way, they were similar — though while Eloise voiced her grievances, Penelope preferred to write them, appreciating the ability to reflect and be calculated over Eloise's desire to be blistering and provocative. They were two sides of the same coin, but realizing that had taken her years.

As children, Penelope had always been the sidekick, walking in Eloise's shadow, following her lead — but looking back, Eloise was simply more confident and outgoing, and in so many ways, listening to what she had to say helped Penelope to develop her own voice. For years, she saw herself as an extension of Eloise, but in reality, their friendship gave her space to grow and breathe while at home she was so often stifled by the meaningless musings and brashness of her older, louder sisters.

As Eloise continues on about a particularly vexing criticism of Wollstonecraft, Penelope can't help but remember the rainy, spring day when Eloise had beckoned her over, dragging her into the Bridgerton library to show off the copy of Wollstonecraft's book, which she'd found tucked neatly and inconspicuously between between a well-loved copy of The Odyssey and a bound copy of essays by John Locke.

Back then, the book seemed so scandalous and together, they'd poured over it, reading passages to each other and musing about Lady Bridgerton's double life as a bluestocking — a notion that delighted Eloise so much that Penelope gladly participated in the fantasy, keeping quiet her own assumption that the book belonged to someone who'd been a guest at the Bridgerton home and mistakenly left it behind.

Colin had been home from Eton for the Easter holiday and had teased them mercilessly, taking the book and running off with it as she and Eloise chased after him, all three children screeching as they ran through the Bridgerton house until Lady Bridgerton stopped them. Penelope held her breath, waiting for the sort of admonishment her own mother would deliver, but Lady Bridgerton was calm, plucking the book from Colin's hands and returning it to Eloise. Penelope had been so impressed as Lady Bridgerton's brow had jutted upwards as she looked sternly between Colin and Eloise, immediately prompting apologies from both of her children. If a scene like that had unfolded at the Featherington house between her and one of her sisters, her own mother would have screamed until she was red in the face, then banished both children — and the extra, uninvolved child, for good measure — to their rooms for the rest of the afternoon.

Penelope remembers frowning as Colin sulked away, upset his fun had been spoiled, and she remembers the triumphant way Eloise had grabbed her hand, grinning broadly as she led her back to the library to continue their reading.

Days later, as Penelope sat in the window seat, writing in her diary and appreciating the setting sun, she looked toward the Bridgerton house. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth and her stomach fluttering as she spied Colin, sitting in his bedroom window, his brow furrowed intently as he read a book that looked suspiciously like Mary Wollestonecraft's.

"She has a daughter, you know—a writer."

Penelope blinks as Eloise's statement brings her out of her memories and back into the present moment. "I, um… I know. I saw her book in the window of the bookshop."

"Did you buy it?"

A grin twists onto Penelope's lips. "No, but I did go in and look at it. Philipa was with me and I read bits of it to her that she says gave her nightmares for a week."

Eloise snorts out a laugh and Penelope can't help but laugh, too.

"You know, her husband is a writer, too. Percy… something-or-another."

"Shelley."

"Have you read him?"

Penelope shakes her head. "No, but his book was next to hers in the shop."

"I heard that she helps him edit his work. He's far more prolific than she — obviously, since he is a man and stringing together two decent thoughts warrants publication — but she has far more talent."

Penelope smiles, thinking of Colin. "I… I would venture to say their talents are just… different, their audiences are different."

"Perhaps," Eloise mumbles, unconvinced. "You know, it's funny," Eloise says, shifting the conversation. "I never thought I would be glad to do this—promenading around Mayfair, walking the same path again and again."

"I will reserve my alarm for when you start yearning to not only help plan your mama's masquerade ball, but attend it."

She doesn't need to even look at Eloise to know that her eyes are rolling at the mere thought of Lady Bridgerton's masquerade ball which marked the official end of the season. Even before she was allowed to attend as a guest, Penelope attended. Eloise would sneak her in through the servants' entrance in the kitchen and Daphne and Francesca would be lookouts — it was the one time of the year that she remembered Daphne being any fun. The four of them would sit in the dark of Daphne's bedroom, watching from her window as guests arrived, dressed in beautiful gowns and ornate masks. They played a guessing game of who was who and ranked the costumes from best to worst, and danced to the music they could hear from the ballroom. Then, Daphne grew up and everything changed. The clock began ticking for Eloise's own debut and she dug her heels in, jaded and on a mission to reject everything to do with the masquerade, everything to do with society as a whole.

Penelope had been happy to go along with Eloise's sour outlook — she'd dreaded her own season, her own debut to a society that looked down on her. So, while Eloise viewed the trappings of society as just that — traps — Penelope saw it as an embarrassment — because what could be worse than being a debutant no one wanted to trap.

"How many times do you think we've walked this path?"

"A thousand, easily."

For a moment, Eloise doesn't say anything as they continue their stroll, passing the willow tree for a second time, smiling at a group of little girls picnicking underneath it with their mamas — she and Eloise exchange glances, not saying anything, but remembering a shared memory of a dozen picnics, just like that one.

"Can I ask you something?" Eloise asks, breaking the silence with her tentative voice.

"Of course."

"Are you happy?"

Penelope looks over her shoulder at Eloise. "I am, more so than I ever knew was possible."

Eloise nods, and for a moment, she says nothing. "Even… with married life?"

"Especially with married life."

They both giggle softly, both a little flustered. "That's isn't… I mean…" Eloise stops, faltering. "Colin says you'll help him with his manuscripts."

"They are good," Penelope is quick to say. "They do not need a lot of work, just some minor things."

"He was always a good writer, especially when the topic is something he enjoys," Eloise agrees. "Even if I did not respond to his letters, I read and enjoyed them."

"Why did you not respond?" Penelope asks, trying her best not to sound defensive, reminding herself that she, too, did not reply to his letters, and though she had a valid reason, others could easily have their reasons, too. "He wrote so often and—"

"I was jealous," Eloise admits. "He was doing exactly what I wished to do." Penelope nods, but she can see that Eloise's train of thought has already moved on. "Do you think it is possible to fall in love with someone's words and their words alone?"

Penelope's brow furrows, not because the idea of someone falling in with another's words seems ridiculous, but because Eloise does not seem to be thinking in hypotheticals. "Eloise…"

"I sounds stupid, I know—"

"No," Penelope interjects. "Not in the least. I am just curious about why you are asking it."

Suddenly, Eloise stops and turns in front of her. "You cannot tell anyone, especially not my brother. He will either tease me mercilessly or become insanely protective, and neither of those responses are acceptable to me."

Penelope bites down on her lip — keeping secrets from Colin isn't something she ever wants to do again, something she promised not to do again, and yet, with Eloise looking at her with wide eyes, she finds it difficult to deny such a seemingly simple request from her best friend, and she cannot imagine Colin has any true interest in his little sister's love life. "Alright," she murmurs. "I will not tell. I promise."

Again, they continue along the path. "The one enjoyable thing about being at Kippendavie is that John subscribes to nearly every publication in England. While the selection in the library is rather unfortunate, there is no shortage of newspapers and pamphlets on all sorts of interesting topics."

"Is John Stirling political?"

"Not particularly," Eloise sighs, her disappointment evident. "He just likes to… know about things." Eloise's brow arches. "Not talk about them, just know about them."

Penelope smiles. "He and Francesca are such a match."

"Indeed."

For a moment, neither says anything and once more, Eloise's thoughts appear to be elsewhere. "Was there… something particularly rousing in any of these publications?"

"Nothing as cleverly captivating as Whistledown," Eloise says, a grin twisting onto her lips. "But there was this essayist from Yorkshire who was… particularly rousing." Again, she hesitates. "I wrote to the paper and shared my thoughts about a few of his pieces."

"Oh?"

"He wrote back," Eloise admits. "Then, I wrote back, and he did the same again."

Penelope cannot stop the smile that stretches across her lips. "So that is why you want to go and stay with Daphne!"

Eloise's eyes widen and her nose scrunches. "Is that incredibly pathetic?"

"Not at all."

"I… don't even know his name," she confesses. "He just ends each essay with an X."

"Not even a pseudonym?"

"Nothing. Just… X."

"Were his replies to you published, too?"

"No, letters."

"Which were also signed X?"

Eloise nods.

"So, you are hoping to go to Yorkshire and this… Mister X?"

Eloise stops, staring at her for a moment. "It is pathetic, isn't it?"

"I would call it romantic."

Eloise smiles at her friend's assurance, but still looks nervous and unsure. "And… I can trust this will not end up on the pages of the next Whistledown?"

Penelope nods. "I am done meddling… in that way, at least."

Together they both laugh and continue along the path, and as Eloise begins to tell her about her mysterious columnist, Penelope finds herself thinking of the letters that Colin wrote to her over the years—letters from when he was at Eton, letters written during the summers his family spent at Aubrey Hall, letters just because and silly notes he pressed into her hand as he passed her in church, and of course, his letters from Europe. Those letters had propelled her feelings for him, adding a sort of depth that would not have been possible without them—in letters, they did not need to worry about who was watching or who might overhear them, whether or not they followed the rigid rules of society, and in letters, they could truly be themselves. Her letters proved to Colin that Whistledown was genuinely a part of her and his letters to her proved raw talent he did not believe he had. In so many ways, their long correspondence put them on equal footing — and though it took years to blossom into more than mere correspondence, when it did, it felt so easy and natural that she never second-guessed it.

Together, she and Eloise leave the path, heading back toward Bloomsbury. Eloise continues on, describing what sounds very much like an intellectual sparring match — such a perfect fit for Eloise, Penelope thinks, as they round the corner toward the house. Then, with the Bloomsbury in view, she spots Colin, sitting at his desk facing the window, writing furiously with his favorite quill —a perfect match, indeed, she thinks to herself.