Solstice: A Bridgerton Story
by A. Sage Hartwell and L. Meridian Quinn
Chapter One
Penelope Featherington sat by the window, as she usually did at this time of day, staring out into the street as the rain fell in heavy sheets. She hoped to see any of her friends today, but knew that with the weather, the chances were slim. Not that she had many friends left now that Colin had left for his travels and Eloise was insistent on not speaking to her anymore. Her head ached at the thought.
Colin's remark at her mother's ball last season had deeply wounded her—much more than her current pain, at least. She had hardly been able to eat or drink since that night. Her mother, who had initially been pleased with the weight loss as a result, had grown rather concerned as she continued to wither away. Only three days ago, she had summoned a doctor to try to bring Penelope out of her shell.
"Miss Featherington, can you describe some of the symptoms you're experiencing?" asked a large, dark-skinned doctor, his voice gentle yet firm. He held a booklet in one hand and a quill in the other, waiting for her response. Penelope remained silent, her eyes fixed on the floor.
"Penelope," her mother, Portia Featherington, interjected, her voice tinged with both concern and impatience. "The doctor is here to help you. You must tell him what's wrong."
After a long pause, Penelope finally spoke, her soft, wavering voice breaking the heavy silence in the room. "I feel helpless... like I will never be happy again, Doctor. I find it hard to focus... time has lost all meaning to me... I cannot eat or sleep. I feel like I am lost, in an eternal fog, one I cannot escape."
Portia gasped softly, her hand fluttering to her chest. "Oh, my poor child," she murmured, glancing at the doctor. "Is there anything you can do for her? She's wasting away before my very eyes."
The doctor nodded thoughtfully, his quill scratching across the paper as he made notes. "I believe you need to take a sedative temporarily to relieve your mind of the weight of your grief, Miss Featherington," he said, addressing Penelope directly. "Whatever has happened, you cannot allow it to control you."
"But will it truly help her?" Portia pressed, her tone wavering between desperation and hope.
"It will not solve the underlying issue, Mrs. Featherington," the doctor replied carefully, "but it will provide her some relief from the symptoms, giving her the clarity to begin healing. I will give your maid a tea for her to drink each evening to relieve her anxieties. We'll start with two cups of tea in the morning and evening, and I'll return in a week to assess her progress."
Penelope looked up at the doctor, her eyes clouded with uncertainty. "And this tea... it won't make me... forget?"
The doctor shook his head. "No, Miss Featherington. It won't make you forget. It will simply help you manage the pain, allowing you to face it when you are stronger."
Portia placed a hand on Penelope's shoulder, squeezing gently. "You must try, Penelope. For your own sake. You've been through so much..."
Penelope nodded slowly, though the idea of drinking the tea still made her uneasy. "Very well, Doctor. I'll try it."
"Good," the doctor said, offering her a reassuring smile. "You're stronger than you think, Miss Featherington. We'll get you through this."
As the doctor rose to leave, Portia followed him to the door, whispering in a tone she thought Penelope couldn't hear. "Thank you, Doctor. She's my youngest... my only hope now. Please, do whatever you can."
"I will, Mrs. Featherington," he replied quietly. "But she must also find the will within herself to recover. It's a long road, but with time, I believe she can find her way back."
Penelope, who had overheard their exchange, felt a pang of guilt at her mother's words. But she was also struck by the doctor's insistence that her recovery depended on her own strength. Could she truly find that strength within herself?
After the doctor left, Portia returned to Penelope's side, her expression softened by maternal concern. "Penelope, my darling, I know how hard this has been for you. But you must trust the doctor. You must fight to get better."
Penelope's gaze wandered around the richly decorated room, avoiding her mother's eyes. "I'll try, Mama. I promise I'll try."
Her mother sighed with relief, though her worry was still palpable. "That's all I ask, my dear. Just try."
First Day of the Season
(5 months later)
Penelope Featherington hurried through the rain-soaked streets, her steps quick and purposeful despite the biting chill of the early morning. She clutched the folds of her worn grey cloak tightly around her, concealing her fiery red hair and the precious cargo she carried. The latest edition of Lady Whistledown's Society Papers, now the most sought-after scandal sheet in all of London, was safely delivered, and the printer's payment discreetly made at Lena's Tavern. She took care to avoid the gaze of those who might recognize her—though such concerns were likely unfounded, for Penelope had changed much since the last Season.
Gone was the round-faced girl with a plump figure and bashful demeanor. In her place stood a lady transformed, though her beauty was of a more subtle and refined nature. The five stone she had shed over the past months had altered her appearance considerably. Where once there had been soft curves, there were now elegant lines; her fingers, once chubby and unremarkable, had become long and graceful, more befitting a lady of her station. Her face, too, had slimmed, revealing a delicate jawline and high, aristocratic cheekbones that lent her an air of quiet sophistication.
Her height had increased as well, and she now stood at a statuesque five foot nine inches—a height that, combined with her newly developed figure, gave her a striking presence. Her once-vibrant copper hair had deepened to a rich, ruby hue, and cascaded down her back in luxurious waves. No longer was she the overlooked Featherington sister; she had grown into a woman of rare and unexpected beauty.
Portia Featherington, ever mindful of appearances, had eagerly embraced her daughter's transformation. The garish yellow dresses of seasons past had been discarded, replaced with gowns of rich jewel tones that complemented Penelope's fair complexion and striking hair. Her favorite among them was an emerald green dress, the fabric so fine it seemed to shimmer in the light, which her mother had declared was to be reserved for a special occasion—a ball, perhaps, where Penelope might secure the attentions of a gentleman of good fortune.
Yet, despite the changes in her outward appearance, Penelope's heart remained heavy with the memories of the previous Season. The cutting remarks, the cold stares, and above all, the rejection she had suffered at the hands of the one man she had thought might truly care for her. Colin Bridgerton. Even now, the thought of him brought a sharp pang to her chest, a reminder of the pain she had so carefully hidden away.
As she reached the safety of her home, she paused to catch her breath, her hand pressed to her side. The exertion of her clandestine activities had left her more winded than she would care to admit. Tomorrow would mark the beginning of the new Season, with the Danbury Ball serving as the grand opening event. Today, however, would be dedicated to the presentation of the debutantes before the Queen—a spectacle that Penelope would observe with keen interest, though she herself was far removed from the giddy excitement of a young girl's first Season.
Summoning her strength, she ascended the stairs to her chamber, where her lady's maid, Mia, awaited her. Mia had already laid out a gown of seafoam green with cream-colored lining—a choice that, though understated, would suit Penelope well. As she allowed Mia to apply a light touch of rouge to her cheeks and a hint of kohl to her eyes—a gift from Colin during his travels in Egypt—Penelope steeled herself for the evening ahead. The thought of him still twisted her insides with a mix of anger and longing, but she resolved not to dwell on it.
No, she would not let thoughts of Colin Bridgerton spoil this Season. She would find love on her own terms, with a man who saw her for the woman she had become—not the girl she once was.
To Penelope, the Queen appeared exceedingly bored, her expression one of almost imperious disdain as she observed the parade of young debutantes. Each girl, bedecked in her finest silks and jewels, passed before Her Majesty, hoping for even the slightest sign of approval. But Queen Charlotte's gaze, sharp and discerning, seemed to find each offering from the Ton lacking, as though she weighed them against some unspoken standard and found them wanting.
The Queen's boredom was palpable, her eyes narrowing as yet another girl curtsied before her with trembling knees. The flick of her fan was sharp, almost dismissive, as though she could scarcely be bothered to offer even the most cursory of nods. A few of the more perceptive debutantes paled visibly under that withering gaze, their smiles faltering as they retreated from the Queen's presence, doubtless already imagining the disappointment that would greet them at home.
Despite this, Penelope could not help but admire Queen Charlotte. The Queen, who had once been a princess from a foreign land, had come to England and, through sheer force of will, had altered the course of an entire nation. Her words were as sharp as her mind, her wits as keen as the finest blade, and she had used both to shape the world around her. The Queen's iron will was a force to be reckoned with, something Penelope deeply respected, even as she sometimes feared it.
Indeed, Penelope had poked fun at the Queen more than once in the pages of Whistledown, though she had always done so with care. The crown, after all, was the only family within the realm that could endure such scrutiny without fear of ruin. Yet, despite her playful jabs, Penelope harbored a secret desire—to one day reveal her true identity to the Queen herself, if only to witness her reaction. The very thought sent a shiver down her spine, for she knew well the consequences of such an audacious act. The punishment would no doubt be severe, and the very notion filled her with a nervous thrill. What would the Queen say if she knew that the sharp-tongued Whistledown was none other than the quiet, unassuming Miss Featherington?
As the Queen's eyes swept the room with growing disinterest, Penelope could not help but recall her own first Season, when she had stood in that very room with her mother and sisters, feeling utterly unprepared and woefully naive. Her heart had pounded so fiercely that she had feared she might swoon, just as Prudence nearly had. The weight of expectation had nearly crushed her, the dazzling gowns and glittering jewels of the other debutantes only serving to underscore her own perceived inadequacies. Yet this year, she felt far more assured. The physical transformation she had undergone, coupled with the newfound fortune her late aunt had bequeathed to the family, made this Season decidedly less daunting than the last. Now, not even a flutter of anxiety disturbed her composure.
Across the hall, Penelope had spied her dearest friend, Eloise, yet a deep sense of guilt and nervousness had kept her rooted in place. The sight of Cressida Cowper, clinging to Eloise's arm with the familiarity of a close friend, had sent a sharp pang through Penelope's heart. Cressida had always been cruel and spiteful towards her, and to see Eloise now in such close company with that woman had felt like a betrayal most bitter. Penelope's heart ached with the loss of her once cherished friendship, the memory of happier days with Eloise now tainted by the cruel reality of their estrangement. She had felt the flush of mortification rising in her cheeks, though she had hoped it might be mistaken for the rouge she had so carefully applied.
The Queen, who had been presiding over the gathering with an air of increasing impatience, had suddenly let out a long, audible sigh. With a dramatic roll of her eyes, she had risen and swept out of the room, her retinue hastening to follow. The abrupt departure had signaled the end of what had been, for all intents and purposes, a rather dull assembly.
Penelope, however, had not been idle. As she had moved slowly about the room, keeping largely to herself, she had overheard several intriguing tidbits of gossip. The head maid and butler of the Longbottom household, it seemed, were carrying on an illicit affair without the sanctity of marriage. More scandalous still, one of the princes had fathered yet another illegitimate child, this time with the governess of his sister's children—another child unfit ever to ascend the throne. But the most stunning revelation had concerned none other than Anthony Bridgerton. It had appeared that the eldest Bridgerton, long known as a rake of the first order, was now in search of a wife. This news had been nothing short of astonishing, as most of the Ton had assumed it would be several more years before he entertained thoughts of marriage. Yet the cluster of eager mamas surrounding him had made it clear that they were more than willing to assist him in this newfound pursuit.
Penelope's mind had whirled with the possibilities for the next edition of Whistledown; it promised to be a most interesting one indeed. The scandalous tidbits she had gleaned were enough to fill several columns, each more tantalizing than the last. But it was the news of Anthony Bridgerton that intrigued her the most. Could it be true? Was the notorious rake finally ready to settle down? The very notion seemed almost laughable, yet the mamas of the Ton clearly believed otherwise. Penelope could already envision the headlines, the clever turn of phrase she would use to capture the attention of her readers. Yes, the next edition would be one to remember.
Anthony Bridgerton stood before the portrait of Sienna, his opera singer lover from three years past, a deep frown etched upon his brow. The news of her engagement had reached him like a blow, compelling him at last to relinquish his lingering feelings for the exotic woman who had once captured his heart. With a heavy sigh, he took down the painting from the wall, his fingers lingering on the delicate features of her face as if to memorize them one last time.
He instructed his manservant to have the portrait sold, the decision weighing heavily on him. It was clear now that Sienna would not return, and Anthony could no longer afford to cling to the hope of her return. He had held on for far too long, and the time had come to move forward.
The impact of Sienna's departure had been profound, leaving an indelible mark on his soul. As his younger brother Benedict, now happily married to a woman of both beauty and intellect, had pointed out, she had both wounded him and transformed him for the better. Benedict's insights, though often profound, seemed to apply more fittingly to others than to himself, as Anthony found himself struggling to heed them.
With a glance at his pocket watch and a muttered curse, Anthony knew he could delay no longer. He joined the bustling throng of his family in the hallway, ready to escort Eloise and Francesca to the Debutante ceremony. His thoughts, however, lingered on the past, even as he prepared to face the future.
"Good morning, Mother. How does the day find you?" He said to the beautiful and gentle woman.
Violet Bridgerton looked up from her embroidery with a warm smile. "Oh, Anthony! Just the person I hoped to see. I was contemplating Eloise and Francesca's prospects for the Season. Can you believe how quickly it has arrived?"
Anthony returned her smile with a touch of amusement. "Indeed, it seems but a moment ago we were discussing last Season. Eloise's vivacity and Francesca's grace will certainly make an impression, I am sure."
Violet clapped her hands together in delight. "Oh, I have no doubt! Their charms and our family's support will surely serve them well."
Anthony sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair. "I have yet to decide upon a prospective bride. I confess, after everything with Sienna, my confidence in matters of the heart is somewhat shaken."
Violet rose from her chair and moved to him, placing a gentle hand on his arm. "Oh! I did not know you were looking to find a bride this Season! My dear Anthony, I understand the scars of past disappointments. Your father and I faced our own trials, but we discovered a love that was both profound and enduring. I would hate for you to close yourself off from the possibility of such a connection." Violet gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. "Love is not always easily found, but it is worth seeking. Keep your heart open, and you may find someone who brings joy and light into your life. It's not just about finding someone suitable, but someone with whom you truly connect."
Anthony chuckled softly. "You make it sound so straightforward. I've been so preoccupied with the practicalities that I may have overlooked the importance of genuine connection."
Violet winked at him. "It's all too easy to focus on the formalities. Remember, while it is prudent to consider all aspects, it is the heart that often knows best. Stay open to the unexpected."
Anthony nodded thoughtfully, he had been caught up in the qualities he expected of a wife and had not considered to question her capacity for care. Children require plenty of love after all. "I'll take that to heart, Mother. Thank you for the encouragement. I'll certainly try to approach this Season with a more open mind."
Violet smiled warmly. "That's my boy. And do remember, while you're on your own quest for happiness, we are all here to support each other—just as you will support Eloise and Francesca." She finished firmly to remind him not to falter in his duties to his sisters.
Anthony grinned. "I'll certainly do my part. It seems this Season promises to be quite eventful."
Violet laughed lightly. "Oh, undoubtedly. With all of us looking out for one another, it will surely be a memorable one."
Anthony embraced her affectionately. "Here's hoping it's memorable for all the right reasons."
Violet returned the embrace with warmth. "Indeed. To love, new beginnings, and a most successful Season."
Anthony laughed. "To that, Mother."
His mother had conveyed his news to Lady Danbury, which was to say, she had inadvertently revealed his intentions. Consequently, he found himself surrounded by a bevy of charming but insipid young ladies, each devoid of any discernible intelligence. He sought a wife of substance—a lady who would care for him as he would for her, someone with whom he could converse meaningfully rather than being met with blank stares as if he spoke a foreign tongue. The latest discourse had proved insufferably dull, and he was relieved when Her Majesty finally took her leave. Francesca had received one of the few curt nods the group of debutantes were presented that day, which he considered a promising sign.
As he made his way towards the carriage, following his mother and sisters, he collided inadvertently with a young lady. She was exceptionally beautiful and somewhat familiar, with her deep red hair and the most vivid green eyes he had ever encountered. Her button nose, thick lashes, and full lips took his breath away. She reminded him of a sculpture he had once admired in Greece during a trip with his father—a work of art that had captivated him, leading him to believe that it had been crafted by God himself.
She quickly apologized and hurried off before he could utter a word. He stood there, momentarily dazed, before attempting to follow her. Unfortunately, he was soon surrounded by a throng of curious young ladies, each eager for his attention. He would be surprised if he could recall a single word they had spoken. He excused himself with haste and made his way to the entrance, only to see her climb into a familiar carriage. He observed Mrs. Featherington joining her, and deduced that the young lady must be a guest of the Featheringtons.
He hurried back to his family and assisted them into their carriage. "Mother, might you know of the guest who departed with the Featheringtons?" he inquired with a hopeful tone.
Violet furrowed her brow and shook her head. "I have not heard of any guest staying with them. Eloise, my dear, has Penelope mentioned any visitor the Featheringtons might currently be entertaining?"
Eloise's expression soured, and she responded with noticeable irritation, "Miss Featherington and I are no longer on speaking terms, Mama. Please do not broach her name. However, I have also not heard of any guest. Perhaps she is a distant relative? She did bear a striking resemblance to the Featheringtons."
Anthony pursed his lips and contemplated deeply. "I chanced upon her in the hall just now. To describe her as merely pretty would be a grave understatement." His face lit up with a sudden grin, his spirits lifting. "I must make amends when we return home. Mama, would you do me the honor of accompanying me so that we may be introduced properly?"