a/n: We have discovered where we are going, haha! I was glad to see that last chapter's end snuck up on you guys. I know the early chapters need some refining, but my friend is reading and going to help me edit them soon, so you should go back and read them again at some point to get the new details there. I'll try to include any previous edits in later notes. Anyway, this is the longest book I have ever written. I have to say, I'm pretty proud of myself! Thank you for reading!
Solstice: A Bridgerton Story
Chapter Six
The sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the corridors of the Featherington house as Portia, Violet, and Anthony rushed up their the corridor from opposite directions. The air was thick with tension, every second stretching into an eternity. As they neared Eloise's room, the door creaked open just enough to reveal a scene that would be forever etched into their minds.
The sight that greeted them stopped all three in their tracks.
Eloise and Penelope were huddled on the floor, their bodies trembling with silent sobs. Between them lay Colin, his once-vibrant eyes now closed, his face peaceful in a way that only death could bring. Blood pooled around his torso, staining the carpet beneath him a deep, dark red.
"No…" Anthony's voice was barely a whisper, his breath catching in his throat as he stared at his brother's lifeless form. The world around him seemed to collapse, the weight of reality crushing his chest.
"Colin!" The cry tore from his throat as he rushed forward, his knees hitting the floor with a thud beside his brother. He reached out, his hands shaking violently as he touched Colin's face, desperate for some sign of life. But Colin was gone.
Violet let out a choked sob, her hand covering her mouth as she staggered backward. The strength she had always exuded crumbled in an instant, and she would have collapsed if not for Portia catching her arm.
"Oh, God… oh, God, no," Violet whispered, her eyes wide with horror as she took in the scene before her. Tears streamed down her face, her composure shattered as the reality of what had happened set in.
Moments later, Violet Bridgerton found herself at the top of the stairs, blocking the path of Gregory and Hyacinth, who had been awakened by the commotion. Their young faces were etched with confusion and fear, eyes wide as they tried to make sense of the situation.
"Mother, what's happening?" Gregory asked, his voice small and trembling. He tried to peer around her, but Violet gently pushed him back.
"Not now, Gregory," Violet said, her voice firm but laced with the weight of her grief. "Go back to your rooms, both of you."
Hyacinth clung to Gregory's arm, her eyes filling with tears. "Is someone hurt?" she whispered, her voice trembling as she looked up at her mother.
Violet's heart ached at the sight of her youngest children, so innocent, so unaware of the horror that had unfolded just moments ago. She placed a hand on each of their shoulders, guiding them away from the scene upstairs.
"Please, just go back to your rooms. Everything will be alright," Violet lied, her voice cracking slightly. She couldn't bear for them to see what had happened, to see their brother…
"Is it Colin?" Gregory asked, his voice rising with panic. "I heard someone shout his name. Is he alright?"
Violet felt the tears she had been holding back finally spill over. She couldn't bring herself to answer, couldn't bring herself to look into their innocent eyes and tell them the truth.
"Mother?" Hyacinth's voice was barely a whisper, her small hand clutching Violet's dress.
"Go," Violet managed to say, her voice breaking as she turned away from them. "Go to your rooms. I'll come to you soon."
Reluctantly, Gregory and Hyacinth allowed themselves to be guided away by a housemaid, their tearful faces glancing back at their mother as they disappeared down the hallway. The sight nearly broke Violet, but she knew she had to stay strong for them, for her family.
Upstairs, the room was filled with a thick, unbearable silence. Anthony knelt beside Colin's body, his hands trembling as he gently closed his brother's eyes, the finality of the gesture crushing him. He felt the weight of loss settle deep in his chest, threatening to overwhelm him.
"Colin…" he whispered, his voice choked with grief. The sight of his younger brother, so full of life just moments ago, now lying motionless and cold, was a reality he couldn't fully grasp.
Penelope and Eloise were still huddled close, their sobs the only sound in the room. Penelope's hand was still gripping Colin's, her tears falling steadily onto his bloodstained shirt.
"Anthony…" Violet's voice broke through the haze of grief, and Anthony turned to see his mother standing in the doorway. Her face was pale, her eyes red from crying, yet she held herself with a strength that only a mother could muster in such a moment.
He stood up slowly, his body heavy with sorrow. "Mother…"
Violet crossed the room, her steps measured and controlled despite the storm of emotions raging inside her. She knelt beside Colin, her trembling hand brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. Her other hand found Penelope's, squeezing it tightly in silent solidarity.
"I'm so sorry," Penelope whispered, her voice shaking. "I'm so sorry, Lady Bridgerton. This is all my fault."
"No, Penelope," Violet said, her voice soft but firm. "This is not your fault. None of this is your fault."
Penelope shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. "He was trying to protect us… he was trying to protect me…"
Violet looked at her, her heart breaking for the young woman she had always considered a daughter. She could see the guilt and pain etched into Penelope's face, and it tore at her own soul.
"Colin loved you, Penelope," Violet said gently. "He would have done anything to keep you safe. We all would."
Anthony, still struggling to keep his emotions in check, reached out and placed a hand on Penelope's shoulder. "Penelope, you're family to us," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "We're going to protect you. I'm going to protect you. No matter what."
Portia Featherington stood in the doorway, her face as pale as a ghost. She took in the scene before her—Colin's lifeless body, Penelope and Eloise's tear-streaked faces, and the blood that stained the floor—and her legs almost gave out beneath her.
"Oh, dear God," she whispered, her hand flying to her mouth as she took a shaky step into the room. "No… no, this can't be…"
Portia's eyes locked onto Colin's body, and she let out a strangled cry. "This… this isn't real. It can't be real…"
Violet squeezed her hand, her voice steady despite the tears that continued to fall. "It is, Portia. It's real. But we'll get through this together."
Portia's gaze flickered to Penelope, and she moved toward her daughter, her steps faltering. "Penelope… oh, Penelope…"
Penelope looked up at her mother, her face etched with pain. "Mama…"
Portia fell to her knees beside her, pulling her daughter into a tight embrace. "I was so scared, Penelope… I thought I'd lost you…"
"I'm here, Mama," Penelope whispered, her voice raw with emotion. "But Colin… he's gone…"
Portia's sobs echoed through the room, mingling with the quiet grief of the others. Violet watched them, her heart aching for the Featheringtons, for her own children, for the family that had been irrevocably changed in an instant.
Anthony, his face a mask of sorrow and anger, turned to the guards who had now filled the room. "Find the man who did this," he ordered, his voice cold and commanding. "Search every inch of this house. He can't have gone far."
One of the guards, a seasoned officer, nodded sharply. "We'll find him, my lord."
As the guards began their search, Anthony turned back to his family, his gaze lingering on Colin's still form. His heart ached with a grief that felt too vast to contain, and he knew that nothing would ever be the same again.
Eloise, still clutching Colin's hand, looked up at her brother, her eyes filled with tears. "Anthony… what are we going to do?"
"We're going to protect each other," Anthony said, his voice firm despite the crack that threatened to break it. "We're going to get through this. For Colin. For all of us."
Violet moved to her son's side, placing a hand on his arm. "We're a family," she said softly, her voice filled with quiet strength. "And we'll get through this. Together."
Anthony nodded, though his heart was heavy with the weight of loss. He knew that they had to be strong, for Colin's sake, for each other's sake. But as he looked down at his brother, he couldn't shake the feeling that something fundamental had been ripped away from them.
And nothing, no matter how strong their resolve, could ever bring it back.
The sky was a somber gray, a fitting backdrop for the grief that hung heavy over the Bridgerton estate. A steady drizzle fell from the heavens, as if the sky itself mourned the loss of Colin Bridgerton. The family chapel, usually a place of quiet reflection, was now filled with the low murmur of voices and the soft rustling of mourning clothes.
Rows of pews were filled with friends, family, and members of the ton, all dressed in black, their faces etched with sorrow. The Bridgertons sat in the front, united in their grief. Anthony, the new head of the family, sat with his shoulders squared, but his eyes betrayed the deep pain he felt. Violet sat beside him, her hand tightly clutching a handkerchief, her tear-streaked face a mask of quiet dignity. Gregory and Hyacinth, their young faces pale and tearful, sat beside their mother, their small hands intertwined for comfort.
Across the aisle, the Featheringtons sat together, their grief no less palpable. Penelope, her face ashen and her eyes hollow, sat between her mother and Eloise. She had barely spoken since that terrible night, her voice choked by the weight of guilt and sorrow. Portia Featherington, usually so composed, now looked lost, her usual confidence replaced by a deep, abiding fear. Eloise sat close to Penelope, their hands tightly clasped together, a silent show of support that spoke of the bond between them.
The casket, made of dark mahogany and adorned with simple, white lilies, stood at the front of the chapel. It seemed too small, too final, to contain the life that had been Colin Bridgerton. The thought that he was gone, that his laughter and warmth were lost forever, was almost too much to bear.
As the service began, the chapel was filled with the sound of the priest's voice, delivering words of comfort and remembrance. But for those who knew and loved Colin, the words seemed to echo in a void, unable to fill the emptiness left behind by his death.
Anthony stood to give the eulogy, his voice strong but laden with emotion. "Colin was…more than just my brother. He was the heart of our family. He had a way of making everyone feel at ease, of bringing light into the darkest of days. He loved deeply, lived fully, and he deserved so much more than what this cruel world gave him."
He paused, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. "We will never forget him. We will carry his memory with us, in everything we do. And though he is gone, he will never truly leave us, because he will live on in our hearts, in our memories, and in the love we have for each other."
As Anthony spoke, Penelope's grip on Eloise's hand tightened, her heart aching with every word. She had loved Colin in her own way, had cherished his friendship and kindness. The thought that he had died protecting her was a weight she would carry for the rest of her life.
After Anthony finished speaking, the casket was slowly carried out of the chapel, followed by the Bridgerton family. The rain had turned to a gentle mist, softening the world in a shroud of gray. As the casket was lowered into the ground, the family gathered around, each throwing a handful of earth into the grave, their last act of farewell.
Penelope watched through a veil of tears as the casket disappeared into the ground, her heart breaking all over again. She felt Eloise's arm around her, pulling her close, offering a silent comfort that words could not convey.
Violet Bridgerton stood at the edge of the grave, her face pale and drawn. As the final shovelful of earth was placed over the casket, she turned to Anthony, her voice barely a whisper. "He didn't deserve this, Anthony. He was just a boy…"
"I know, Mother," Anthony replied, his voice thick with grief. "But he was also a man who did what he had to do. He saved them."
"And who will save us?" Violet asked, her eyes searching her son's face for an answer that he could not give.
Anthony's jaw tightened, his gaze turning to the guards stationed around the cemetery. Their presence was a grim reminder of the danger that still lurked, of the man who had taken Colin from them and who had, so far, eluded capture.
"We will protect each other," Anthony said finally, his voice hard with determination. "I'll protect us. I promise you that."
As the family turned to leave the grave, Penelope lingered behind, her eyes fixed on the fresh mound of earth. She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up to see Eloise, her face pale but resolute.
"We'll find him, Pen," Eloise said, her voice firm despite the tremor in it. "We'll find the man who did this, and he will pay."
Penelope nodded, though the words felt hollow. The man who had taken Colin's life, the man who had written those terrible words on the walls of her home, was still out there. He had disappeared into the night, leaving no trace behind.
The royal guards had searched tirelessly, combing through every inch of the Bridgerton and Featherington estates, questioning servants and witnesses, but Jameson had vanished without a trace. It was as if he had never existed, as if the darkness he had brought with him had swallowed him whole. Anthony had ordered them to spare no effort, to dig into every detail of Jameson's life, to leave no stone unturned. The results of their inquiries had begun to trickle in, painting a chilling portrait of the man who had eluded them.
Jameson, it seemed, was no ordinary man. He came from an old, wealthy family, his fortune vast enough to keep him hidden from the prying eyes of society. His wealth had afforded him a certain level of protection, allowing him to move in and out of circles without drawing undue attention. He had properties scattered across the country, each more isolated than the last, providing ample opportunity to disappear when necessary.
But it wasn't just his wealth that set him apart—it was the trail of darkness that followed him wherever he went. The guards had uncovered records of a first wife, a woman named Lydia, who had married Jameson in her youth. She had disappeared under mysterious circumstances, only to be found weeks later in a shallow grave on the outskirts of his estate. Her death had been ruled an accident, a tragic misstep on unfamiliar terrain, but whispers of foul play had lingered in the shadows.
Jameson's reputation with women was equally disturbing. Several young women from nearby villages had come forward, their voices trembling with fear and shame, to tell their stories. They spoke of encounters with Jameson that had started with charm and ended in terror. He had forced himself on them, leaving them with more than just physical scars—many had borne his children, their lives forever altered by his cruelty.
These women had lived in fear, too afraid to speak out against a man of such power and influence. But now, with the guards investigating every facet of his life, their stories were coming to light, each one adding to the monstrous image of the man who had claimed Colin's life.
As these grim details emerged, the sense of urgency among the guards and the Bridgertons intensified. Jameson was no longer just a murderer—he was a predator, a man who had used his wealth and influence to destroy lives, to leave a trail of devastation in his wake.
As the days wore on, Penelope found herself retreating further into the confines of her thoughts, the weight of Colin's death pressing down on her like an unbearable burden. The lively spark that had once defined her seemed to have flickered out, replaced by a hollow emptiness that gnawed at her insides. Every room in the Bridgerton estate, every corner of her mind, echoed with memories of Colin—his laughter, his easy charm, the way he had looked at her that night, full of sorrow and regret. And now he was gone, his life snuffed out in an instant, and the thought that it could have been her fault was too much to bear.
It wasn't just that Colin had died trying to protect her; it was that his death seemed to be the final, tragic consequence of the web of lies she had woven. She had kept secrets, hidden parts of herself from those she loved most, and now the guilt of it all was suffocating. What if she had been honest with Eloise from the start? What if she hadn't allowed herself to become entangled with Jameson in the first place? Could she have prevented any of this? These questions haunted her every waking moment, the what-ifs and maybes tearing at her soul.
The thought of running away began to take root in her mind, a desperate urge to escape the guilt and the pain, to flee from the memories that threatened to consume her. What place did she have in this world anymore? Every look of pity, every whispered condolence, only served to remind her of the life that had been lost—a life that could have been so different if only she had been stronger, more honest, less foolish. If she left, perhaps she could start anew, somewhere far from the ghosts of her past, somewhere she wouldn't have to face the constant reminders of what had happened.
But even as she contemplated leaving, the thought of abandoning the Bridgertons, of abandoning Eloise, made her heart ache. They were her family, the only people who had ever truly cared for her, and yet staying felt like an unbearable burden. How could she remain among them when every glance, every word, seemed to accuse her of a crime she couldn't even begin to atone for? Penelope could barely stand to look in a mirror; how could she face the people she had wronged, the family she had inadvertently torn apart?
Yet the idea of running away was not without its own form of cowardice. If she left, she knew it would be an act of surrender, of letting the darkness consume her completely. Penelope was torn between the desire to disappear and the faint, lingering hope that somehow, in some way, she could make amends, could find a way to live with herself again.
But for now, all she could do was sit in the suffocating silence, her thoughts circling endlessly like vultures, her heart heavy with the knowledge that she might never be free from the shadows of her past.
The darkness inside Penelope grew, festering like an open wound that would never heal. She had always been good at keeping secrets, at tucking away the most damning parts of herself where no one could find them. But now, the weight of those secrets was crushing her, and the guilt over Colin's death was a constant, gnawing presence. It was becoming too much to bear alone.
The only person she could turn to was Anthony. He had been Colin's brother, her protector, and the one who had shown her a glimmer of hope in the midst of all the despair. But telling him the truth—about everything—terrified her. She feared his reaction, feared that once she revealed the depths of her deception, the small measure of peace she had found in his presence would be shattered.
But she owed him the truth. After everything that had happened, he deserved at least that much.
One evening, when the weight of her guilt became too much to bear, Penelope sought Anthony out. He was in the library, staring at a decanter of brandy on the table, his shoulders tense with grief and anger. The sight of him, so burdened by the loss of his brother, made Penelope's heart ache even more. She hesitated at the doorway, gathering the courage to do what she knew needed to be done.
"Anthony," she called softly, her voice trembling with the enormity of what she was about to confess.
He looked up, his expression a mixture of exhaustion and wariness. "Penelope," he replied, his voice flat. "What is it?"
She stepped into the room, feeling as if her legs might give out beneath her. "I need to tell you something," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Something I should have told you—and everyone—long ago."
Anthony's brow furrowed, and he set the decanter aside. "What is it?" he asked, a hint of impatience creeping into his tone.
Penelope took a deep breath, her hands shaking as she clasped them together. "I… I'm Lady Whistledown," she confessed, her voice trembling with the weight of the words. "It's me. I've been the one writing those columns, spreading those rumors, all these years."
There was a long, heavy silence. Anthony's expression shifted from confusion to shock, and then to anger. "You… you're Lady Whistledown?" he repeated, his voice low and dangerous.
Penelope nodded, tears welling in her eyes. "Yes. I've been lying to everyone, including my closest friends, for so long. I thought I was doing something clever, something that would give me a voice in a world that ignored me. But… but it's caused so much pain, Anthony. And now, with Colin—" Her voice broke, and she looked away, unable to meet his eyes.
Anthony stood up, his fists clenching at his sides. "Do you have any idea what you've done?" he demanded, his voice rising with anger. "The things you've written, the damage you've caused—do you even realize how many lives you've upended?"
Penelope flinched, feeling the full force of his anger. "I know," she whispered, tears streaming down her face. "I know I've hurt people. I've hurt you, and I've hurt Colin, and I can never undo that. But I never meant for any of this to happen. I never meant for Colin to die."
Anthony stared at her, his jaw tight, his eyes blazing with a mixture of fury and betrayal. "And what about Colin?" he demanded. "What does this have to do with him?"
Penelope's heart felt as if it were being torn apart. "I don't know," she admitted, her voice barely audible. "I just… I feel like it's all my fault. If I hadn't been so focused on my writing, on keeping my identity a secret, maybe I could have prevented this. Maybe I could have stopped Jameson before it was too late."
Anthony's expression softened slightly, but the anger was still there, simmering just beneath the surface. "You're not responsible for Colin's death, Penelope," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "That man—Jameson—he's the one to blame, not you."
"But I feel like I am," Penelope insisted, her voice breaking. "I feel like I've ruined everything. And now, I don't know what to do, Anthony. I don't know how to live with this guilt."
Anthony took a step closer to her, his anger tempered by the sight of her tears. He reached out and gently took her hands in his. "You made mistakes, Penelope," he said quietly. "Big ones. But running away from them won't solve anything. You have to face what you've done and find a way to make amends. And you can start by being honest, not just with me, but with everyone."
Penelope looked up at him, her vision blurred by tears. "Do you hate me?" she asked, her voice small and fearful.
Anthony sighed, his anger finally giving way to something softer, something more human. "I'm angry," he admitted, "but I don't hate you. I could never hate you, Penelope. I just… I wish you had trusted me enough to tell me the truth sooner."
"I'm so sorry," Penelope whispered, her voice cracking with emotion. "I've been so afraid of losing everything, of losing everyone, that I lost sight of what really mattered."
Anthony squeezed her hands, his expression a mix of sorrow and understanding. "We'll get through this, Penelope," he said softly. "But you have to trust me. You have to trust that I'll stand by you, no matter what."
Penelope nodded, the weight of her guilt lifting just slightly as she leaned into Anthony's embrace. She didn't know what the future held, but in that moment, with Anthony's arms around her, she felt a glimmer of hope—hope that maybe, just maybe, she could find a way to atone for her mistakes and begin to heal.
The forest was dark, the dense canopy of trees casting long, twisted shadows over the cold earth. Jameson crouched low near the flickering light of a small fire, his eyes wild and unfocused as he stared at the bird in his hands. It was a simple, unsuspecting creature—its feathers a dull brown, its eyes lifeless now. But to Jameson, it was so much more than that.
He gripped the bird's neck tightly, feeling the small bones crunch under his fingers. His breath was shallow and erratic, his mind spiraling deeper into the dark corners where reality and madness blurred together. In his distorted vision, the bird was no longer just a bird; it was Anthony Bridgerton, with those arrogant, self-assured eyes that had always looked down on him.
A twisted grin spread across Jameson's face as he imagined Anthony's head in his grasp, the pompous Viscount helpless and powerless. He could see it so clearly now—the way Anthony's eyes would widen with fear as Jameson's grip tightened, the way his lips would part in a futile attempt to speak, to beg for mercy.
But there would be no mercy.
Jameson's hand moved with deliberate slowness, savoring the moment. He pulled out a small, rusted knife from his belt, its edge dull and jagged. It wasn't the cleanest of tools, but it would do. In his mind, it wasn't just a knife; it was a weapon, a means of justice, of retribution. He would make Anthony pay for everything—every slight, every condescending word, every moment he had dared to think himself superior.
With a sudden, vicious motion, Jameson brought the knife down, slicing into the bird's neck. Blood spurted out, warm and slick, staining his hands as he worked with an eerie, methodical precision. He didn't care about the mess; he didn't care about anything except the satisfaction of imagining Anthony's head rolling away, lifeless and defeated.
The bird's body twitched in his grip, the last vestiges of life slipping away, and Jameson's breath quickened with a sick kind of pleasure. He cut deeper, the blade sawing through bone and sinew, each movement sending a thrill of dark satisfaction through him. In his mind, he was victorious—Anthony was dead, his blood pooling at Jameson's feet, and Penelope was his at last.
Jameson's lips moved as he whispered to the dead bird, his voice low and raspy, "You thought you could take her from me… but she was never yours to begin with. You'll see… soon, you'll see."
His laughter was low and guttural, a sound that echoed eerily through the silent forest. He felt the head come loose in his hands, the connection between flesh and bone severed. He lifted it up, staring into the bird's empty, lifeless eyes, and in his mind, he saw Anthony staring back at him, defeated, broken.
"Now you know," Jameson muttered, his voice dripping with malice. "Now you know what it feels like to be nothing."
He tossed the bird's head aside, letting it roll into the dirt as he turned his attention to the body. The fire crackled softly as he began to tear the bird apart, his hands working with a manic energy. He would eat this bird, consume it, just as he would consume everything that Anthony had once held dear.
The firelight flickered across his face, casting grotesque shadows that danced and twisted, mirroring the darkness within his soul. As Jameson prepared his twisted feast, the line between reality and delusion blurred even further, leaving him lost in a nightmarish fantasy where he was the victor, and everyone else was just prey to be hunted, butchered, and devoured.