Chapter Twelve: Performance
It was warm and still on Monday evening when Penelope followed her Mama, Jack, and her sisters in exiting the Featherington carriage, emerging onto Bridges Street outside the Theatre-Royal of Drury Lane. Penelope looked up and admired the elegant white façade of its entrance, with the triple set of vast entry doors thrown open to allow the crowds to pour in.
Showtime would commence at 6:30pm, and they had arrived with just enough time to get to their seats. Penelope hurried after her family and Jack through the spacious entrance hall, into the adjoining rotunda, then from there to the wide corridor that led to the great staircase, which from there would allow them access to the upper floors, and their box. As they climbed the staircase, Penelope thought ruefully that she would be hard-pressed to navigate this maze to find Colin, and then Cressida, during intermission.
The Featherington box was on the second circle of boxes – still elevated above the common people in the pit of the theatre, but the boxes in their tier were not quite as large as those in the dress boxes level. Those ones tended to be purchased or rented by the more affluent families, including the Cowpers and the Bridgertons, and the they made their way through the crowds, Penelope noticed people noticing Jack, who was striding along in front of them all with his jaw set. Heads were turning and whispers and talk were breaking out all around them as the ton nudged each other and pointed out the subject of Lady Whistledown's latest column.
It has been surprisingly easy to manoeuvre this visit to the theatre. After Whistledown was published that morning, and the Featherington women had read it, Portia had taken it without a word over to where Jack had been perusing his morning newspaper. Penelope allowed herself a certain amount of vindictive smugness in watching his handsome face drain of colour as he read it.
While she always wanted to kiss Colin, she especially wanted to kiss him for adding the tidbit about the bar tab dispute. He hadn't mentioned that to her, but she was glad he'd happened to put it in - it was a detail that fit so perfectly with their purpose.
She saw the deep breath Jack had pulled in, followed by the smooth return of his indifferent façade. "Nothing but falsehoods," he said calmly, tossing the column aside carelessly. "And that is all I will say, both here and in public, if prompted. These are but Canterbury tales – all lies."
"My lord," Portia had entreated, "This is hardly something that we can merely ignore to make it go away. People will be talking, and saying nothing…"
"Words say nothing," Jack had replied testily, "and actions say everything. Just look at the Bridgertons. They kept their mouths shut this week, and their heir will be quietly married tomorrow, with minimal damage to their family reputation." Folding his newspaper, he rose from the plush lounge, still addressing Portia. "This Whistledown woman, whoever she is, clearly wishes to bring this family down, and we will not let that happen. We will not address these insinuations. We will present a united front."
But Penelope saw the grit in his teeth, the slight shake in his hands.
"We need to make a public appearance. As soon as possible. Today. Tonight. What can we-" and he'd broken off, gulping in air, clearly fighting a rising panic. The triumphant thrill Penelope felt watching the effects of hers and Colin's handiwork on this vile man was great indeed.
It was with a studied air of nervousness, of spontaneity, that Penelope had spoken up from her window seat.
"What about the theatre?"
Ah, the surprised and then thoughtful looks on Portia and Jack's faces. If only she'd had means to capture them, so she could treasure them forever.
Thus it was that they were now making their way to their viewing box, under strict instructions from Jack not to acknowledge anyone who looked at them or spoke about them, and to act above all else like everything was completely normal.
They finally reached their box, and Penelope approached the edge, looking out into the theatre. It was always a truly beautiful sight, with the brightly painted greens and golds of the walls and columns, the splendid crimson red of the curtains, the opulent soaring ceiling from which hung multiple massive chandeliers. Paired with the veritable rainbow of ladies' finery and gentleman's formal jackets, the visual effect was near overwhelming, and the din of noise even more so.
Mama, her sisters, and Jack were taking their seats behind her, but she chanced a few moments more to peer out, searching. From her second-tier vantage point, she could see lower down the dress circle boxes on the opposite side of the theatre, a height advantage (finally, for once in her life) that meant she could see both the Cowper and the Bridgerton boxes.
Looking downwards, the Bridgerton box was slightly off to her left, and she could see several gentlemen in dark formal jackets milling near the edge of the box, although it was difficult to tell who she was looking at… she thought she saw Lord Fife, one of the Lieber brothers… ah! She spotted a flash a chestnut brown hair, and a tall form with broad shoulders, coming to stand close to the edge of the box, and she could see the gentleman with his face tilted upwards, searching the upper tiers for something. Searching for her.
Her stomach dropped and her heart flew into her mouth, and it was all she could do not to hang off the side of the box in eagerness to wave to Colin down below. In preparation for tonight, she had elected to wear the brightest, garishly yellow dress she owned, and while it had a distressingly girlish high cut waistline and an ungodly number of frills and bows, it would be hard to miss in a crowd – she needed to make sure Colin could see her, would know that she was here.
Down below, Colin raised the glass in his hand to her in a toast, and she allowed herself a small wave to him, much more restrained than she'd wish. Colin looked back at her for a few long moments before he turned back into the Bridgerton box, away from the edge, and Penelope's gaze lingered on the space where he'd been before she tore her eyes away.
She counted the boxes across from the Bridgerton box to the Cowper box. …three…four… She estimated they were perhaps half a dozen boxes away from each other. She could easily discern even from this distance the distinctive pale blonde hair of Cressida, sitting front and centre between her parents, wearing a bright, peacock blue gown. Cressida appeared to be raising her gaze upwards too towards the upper tiers, causing her to momentarily panic before Penelope realised that she was most likely searching for her betrothed.
Now that she was looking around at the crowd, there did seem to be an uncommonly large number of faces below tilted upwards towards the Featherington box; that is, if they weren't angling their heads to gawk at the Cowpers. Given the Whistledown column, it was clear that many theatregoers today were extremely interested in seeing Jack Featherington, as well as Cressida Cowper.
"Away from the edge, Penelope," her Mama called to her sharply.
"Sorry, Mama," Penelope said meekly, taking her seat at the end of the row, just as the first introductory strains of music sounded from the orchestra pit, and the actors came on stage to begin the first act.
She had seen this ballad opera before, and while she'd enjoyed it, this second viewing, paired with her nerves about intermission, meant her mind was free to wander during the performance. Particularly, she returned again and again to how it had felt yesterday in the garden when Colin had stepped forward and – she blushed anew at the memory – folded her into his arms, comforting her.
When she'd first summoned Colin to the garden, she hadn't intended to end up sobbing in Colin's arms, but… it couldn't be helped now, that was what had happened. It had taken a lot to drive her to that point of openly asking for his help with the Jack and Cressida situation, but her fantasies of calmly describing the problem and staying stoic did not last long.
She knew how dangerous it was, to unleash emotions around him, to be…unguarded. From the moment she had met Colin Bridgerton, she'd fallen in love with him, and it was an ingrained habit now to control herself around him, to control her unreciprocated feelings. In her heart of hearts, in her wildest dreams, the flicker of hope that they might one day be more than friends still burned.
But if all they were ever going to be was friends, well, that friendship they shared had always mattered supremely to her. And now, now that he knew about Whistledown, now that he was actively involved, helping her… he had firmly established himself, along with Eloise, as one of the most important people in her life.
So, if sometimes, when his eyes met hers…well, she was sure that the love, admiration, and desire that she felt for him must be plainly written across her face, indeed she was always surprised that he didn't seem to pick up on it, when it felt like it was consuming her. She had to suppress those feelings with him. He must not find out. It might ruin everything, and what they shared was too important, especially now.
She swore though that she should never be able to forget it, that feeling when she'd been in his arms. The scent from his soap – something spicy, like cinnamon, she'd thought dazedly at the time – had surrounded her, and his strong arms had wrapped around her, cradling her, and even as her heart beat wildly, she had felt immensely…safe, a feeling which had eventually helped ease her sobs and calm her down.
The way he had moved to comfort her, heedless of the risk, regardless of the chance that someone could have come into the garden, could have been watching from one of the windows… she frowned to herself, recalling it once more. When she'd calmed down, she'd come back to herself, realising the gamble they were taking in such an embrace. And - it was so clear in her mind's eye – he'd stepped back, and there was his handsome face, eyes flashing, defiant and unrepentant for what had happened, swearing she would never lose him…
For the first time, a prickle of resentment reared its head inside her. Easy enough for Colin to be defiant and unrepentant, when it was so much easier for gentlemen to come and go as they pleased, do as they wished, have secret rendezvous, with little to no repercussions to their reputations. Their Whistledown arrangement and meetings perfectly illustrated this.
For a gently born unwed woman, such freedom was impossible, unless achieved furtively, at desperate risk of the loss of one's honour and reputation in society. Why, even Colin's assistance with Whistledown had originally stemmed from his own horror at the idea of her travelling around unaccompanied. Their secretive meetings… indecorous incidents like the hand holding, and then the hug… it was a risk for both of them, to be sure, but by far a riskier undertaking for her.
And if they ever happened to be caught, well. The honourable thing would be another forced marriage for the Bridgertons – she had no doubt that Colin's honour would compel him to marry her to save any scandal. And while a younger version of herself might have jumped at the mere chance to marry Colin Bridgerton, under any circumstances, she now shrank from the idea of marrying the man she loved. For while he might care about her to some extent, he would certainly never love her back. To believe otherwise… that's where madness lay.
The opera continued on, and Penelope ruminated on these points and more in her head, her thoughts ranging over all of the events of the last few weeks, thinking it all over, completely in her own world. At length, a sudden burst of applause snapped her back into the here and now, where the theatregoers were clapping thunderously, and the actors were taking their bows on the stage. They had reached the halfway point of the opera, and intermission was about to begin shortly.
As the applause faded off and the stage emptied, the theatre audience collectively turned and began chatting to their companions. Before anyone else in the Featherington box even opened their mouths, Penelope had gotten to her feet, turning to address Portia.
"Mama, might I be excused?" Penelope asked her Mama breathlessly. "I wanted to find a fruit seller. And… to freshen up."
Her Mama eyed her doubtfully, and Penelope made a show of fidgeting uncomfortably a little from one foot to another, hoping the message was clear, but after a few moments, it seemed she'd need to be more exact. "I need a chamberpot, Mama," Penelope hissed, and finally, that was enough to allow Mama to nod assent, and excuse enough for Penelope to scoop up her reticule and hurry out of their box, intent to move as fast as she could to get downstairs to the Bridgerton box. She prayed as she went that Colin had completed his part of the plan.
A few minutes before the intermission began, Colin stood and moved quietly to the back of the Bridgerton box, threading past the rows of seats where his elder brothers, his gentleman acquaintances and friends were seated. Benedict met his eye and raised his eyebrows questioningly, and Colin grimaced back, mouthing, 'chamberpot,' prompting a nod of understanding from his brother.
Safely out of the box, he beckoned to one of the theatre messengers waiting dutifully near the entrance. The theatre was well supplied with them, boys eager to courier messages between theatregoers in exchange for compensation. As expected, the boy moved over to him and bowed smartly. "Sir?"
"Please take this note at once to the Cowper box," Colin murmured, taking the folded paper from his formal jacket and handing it to the messenger, then pressing a coin into the boy's palm. "Please ensure it is delivered to Miss Cressida Cowper, let no one else see it." At the boy's blank stare, he hastened to elaborate. "She'll be the pale blonde girl with the look on her face like she's stepped in something horrid. Can't miss her."
The boy nodded eagerly, touching his cap and scurrying off down the corridor. Breathing a sigh of relief, Colin turned and decided to wait out the remainder of the performance at the entrance of the box, watching the end of the opera disinterestedly. He enjoyed the music, but this only cemented it – the theatre was not for him.
At the final musical flourish, the theatre erupted into applause, signalling the beginning of intermission. Colin stayed where he was, watching as Anthony, Benedict and others of their acquaintance all stretched, talked and laughed, many getting to their feet and preparing to adjourn to the grand saloon and the bars, coffee and refreshments therein.
Lord Fife and the Lieber brothers hailed him as they walked past, inviting him to join them, but he declined them politely, as he did with multiple others of his acquaintance who called out to him. Then, it was Anthony and Benedict's turn.
"Are you coming, brother?" Benedict smiled at him quizzically. "Why are you lurking like that in the shadows?"
"I am not lurking," Colin retorted. "I… am merely taking a few moments of pensive thought."
Benedict peered more closely at him. "Pensive thought? You?"
"Yes," Colin huffed. "You may not notice but I do like to reflect from time to time."
"The only one of us here in no need of reflection is our groom to be, anyway," Benedict said jovially, clapping Anthony on the shoulder. "While he's made some… questionable… choices, all has turned out for the good. A few drinks later at Mondrich's before the big day tomorrow won't go astray, eh?"
Anthony smiled warily, and Colin was pleased to see it, because his eldest brother had seemed even more tightly wound than usual this past week since his betrothal was announced. "One drink," Anthony admonished, and then considered. "Maybe two." He turned his dark gaze to Colin, raising an eyebrow. "Coming?"
Colin waved a hand, gesturing them onwards. "Go. I'll catch up to you later."
"Suit yourself. So serious," Benedict stage whispered to Anthony as they headed out of the box. "Anyone would think he's starting to take after you, Anthony."
Anthony's bark of laughter on the way out was gratifying to hear.
The box emptied out, and Colin waited, trying not to fidget with the sleeves of his dove-grey formal jacket or the buttons of the gunmetal blue waistcoat. The plan was for Penelope to meet him here first, at the box, and he wondered if they should have timed it better – it was some way to get through the crowds from the upper theatre tiers down to the dress circle, and from the opposite side of the theatre no less.
"Colin," a voice hissed behind him, and he spun around. There was Penelope, smiling shyly at him from the doorway. The bright yellow of her dress combined with the multitude of bows and frills incorporated into its design was a lot to take in visually, but she was wearing her vivid red hair in a pleasing half-up, half-down style that he thought rather suited her better than the usual tight, pinned up curls.
"Pen," he greeted her with a small bow of his head.
"Did you send the message?"
"Just before start of intermission," he confirmed, moving to join her near the doorway.
"Long enough," she nodded to herself, looking down and fiddling with her reticule. She looked back up at him, and the sudden bright blue flash of her eyes almost caught him off guard, although really, that was ridiculous when he knew perfectly well what colour they were. He looked into them often enough. He rather thought he'd be able to pick them out of a million, with their unique shade.
That, he mused to himself, is an odd thing to be thinking about.
"Ready?" she asked him, and he nodded seriously, resolved to focus on the task at hand. He proffered his arm to her, and after a few moments' hesitation, she took it, and he felt her delicate fingers hover and then rest carefully along the sleeve of his coat, as if she were afraid to hold too tightly.
The corridor outside was near empty, with the private box holders tending to flock to the main saloon during intermission – only a few stragglers remained in conversation around the edges of the corridor. Instead of turning left towards the main saloon, they turned right, heading for an antechamber coming off a side saloon that Colin remembered being deserted last time he'd come to the theatre. At that time, he had gone off separate to Anthony and Benedict, in search of refreshments, or snacks, which always took forever to get in the main saloon, and he'd been disappointed to find the side saloon just didn't cater for these. But he remembered seeing several antechambers coming off of the side saloon.
The first antechamber, painted green, was where his note had instructed Cressida to meet Jack during intermission. While Jack Featherington had ticked off many of the milestones of courtship very quickly, they were gambling on Penelope's hunch that Jack had not troubled himself to write any love notes to his intended during the courtship, so Cressida was unlikely to recognise that the handwriting on the note was not Jack's, but Colin's. He had kept it short:
Miss Cowper,
Please allow me the honour to request the pleasure of your company during intermission, at the green antechamber off the side saloon in the eastern wing of the theatre. Be sure to come alone.
Yours,
Jack Featherington
As expected, the side-saloon was sparsely populated, with only a handful of businessmen in serious negotiations with the noble and the wealthy, and they barely deigned to look up or notice the third born Bridgerton and youngest Featherington enter the room and sidle immediately towards the antechamber door.
Reaching their destination, Penelope dropped her hand from Colin's arm, thinking that they were best served not to give Cressida any ammunition – being seen like arm-clasped with a gentleman one was not related to, but also was not courting, would certainly raise some eyebrows. Colin glanced down and frowned at the loss of contact – the warmth of her touch had been oddly comforting, somehow – but he brushed this aside to step forward and open the antechamber door, walking in side by side with Penelope.
Closing the door behind them, Colin turned and faced the room. He noticed first the deep green wallpaper, accented by a tasteful gold trim. He next noticed a circular wooden table set up in the centre of the room, lined with carved wooden chairs with plush golden cushions. The room was only sparingly lit by candles, making it rather dim inside, a space that was usually intended for use as a gentlemen's game room. One could picture it filled with roaring, laughing gentlemen throwing their cards down on the table, smoke from cigars wafting through the air.
A noise to their side drew his attention, and he and Penelope both looked sharply to the right to where Cressida was standing near the corner of the room, her back to them.
"How I've longed to see you, my lord," Cressida purred, and Colin and Penelope scarce had time to exchange one startled glance before she was turning around to face them, a slow magnificent spin, and both he and Penelope gasped – Cressida had tugged down the bodice and sleeves of her peacock-blue gown, revealing more than was socially acceptable of her shoulders and upper chest, with the neckline pulled down and lurking dangerously low-
Seeing Colin and Penelope standing there, instead of Jack Featherington, Cressida shrieked, immediately tugging her gown and sleeves back up into their conventional place, and you really had to hand it to her, Colin mused, even as he hurriedly averted his eyes politely. The girl clearly saw in the note her chance to seduce and secure what she believed to be her fabulously wealthy betrothed.
He thought again about his and Pen's conversation the day before, about how Jack and Cressida might be oddly suited to each other, in another universe. His sentiments remained unchanged. They were just as scheming and opportunistic as each other, it seemed.
"What is this?!" Cressida gasped, having made her outfit acceptable once more. In the dim lighting, she looked more closely at them. "Colin Bridgerton and…and Penelope Featherington." She practically spat the last part. Her gaze darted back and forth between them, and she narrowed her eyes dangerously, and a nasty smirk appeared on her face as she raised her eyebrows at Penelope, gesturing between them. "I could never have imagined this would happen, Penelope. Am I to congratulate you?"
Looking uncomprehendingly at Cressida's insinuating, mocking grin, Colin looked quickly to Pen, and saw the way those bright blue eyes widened in shock, and the flush that appeared in her skin. "Certainly not," Penelope said hotly, vehemently. "We are here to speak with you, Cressida, and that's all."
Colin blinked, looking back to Cressida, who was watching them both with an awfully smug smirk, and then back to Pen, who was studiously avoiding looking at him, her gaze trained on Cressida, breathing hard. Then realisation clicked into place; Cressida had thought she'd caught the two of them sneaking into the antechamber…in order to…for some kind of…illicit rendezvous?
The idea was laughable, truly. As if he'd ever treat Pen in such a way, especially when she was a friend he cared so deeply about. As if he'd risk her reputation like that. As if they'd ever even do anything like that with each other-
Wait.
Well. It was just… Penelope had denied that very quickly.
Which, he reasoned, was all to the good because it wasn't true.
But a hard, uncomfortable pit opened in his stomach remembering the passion in her denial.
Is the idea so repugnant?
He was after all considered each year to be a very eligible bachelor amongst each set of young debutantes…
It occurred to him that an uncomfortable silence was stretching out between them all, as Cressida watched Colin battle with himself with mirth in her eyes.
"Regardless," Cressida drawled finally, seeing him to be lost for words, and clearly bored with waiting, "Don't you have a wall to go cower against, Penelope? You two had better leave, immediately. I am expecting someone." She preened, patting the sweep of pale blonde hair pinned to the side of her head.
He felt Penelope flinch beside him, the barb hitting her hard, and a fierce surge of protectiveness compelled him to finally speak.
"That won't be necessary, Miss Cowper," he smiled frostily at Cressida. "Jack Featherington didn't invite you here…I did."
Cressida blinked at him. "You…you?" she echoed. "But I received a note…"
He waved that away, impatient. "From me, yes. We needed a way to speak to you away from prying ears."
"I…I see," Cressida finally said, and one could see the effort it took in her to draw herself up and pull herself together, her hopes for the evening clearly dashed. She darted a glare at Penelope. "Don't tell me, Penelope, that this is another feeble-minded attempt of yours to take me in with more of your pointless lies-"
"They aren't lies, Miss Cowper," Colin interjected smoothly. "Miss Featherington has told me everything."
Cressida sneered, unimpressed. "Everyone's known for years, Mr Bridgerton, that you only spend time with Penelope because you feel sorry for her. You don't need to keep pretending. It's a pity, really, for such an eligible bachelor as yourself to have to take up any of your time with someone so…" she placed a gloved finger on her chin, pretending to search for the word. "…forgettable."
"I'm afraid you'll have to rethink what it is you claim you know," Colin snapped. "You don't know me, or Miss Featherington, or anything about our – our friendship." He glanced to his side, where Penelope was watching him, eyes shining. "She has loyalty and goodness that I imagine you find hard to fathom, and I believe wholly what she has told me. She – we – are only trying to help you."
Cressida scoffed. "I can't imagine how she has taken you in to this extent, Mr Bridgerton, but I assure you, I simply shan't believe a word she says. She is jealous of me, and my fiancé, and the wealth and power we shall have together, and the influence that I will have, over her life." She smirked at Penelope.
Penelope, far from backing down, raised her chin and faced Cressida. "I no longer entertain the thought that you might listen to any reason from me, Cressida," she said, firm enough despite a slight waver in her voice. "I have already tried and failed. And it seems you view Mr Bridgerton as compromised by his friendship with me." She took a deep breath, her eyes glinting in a way that both impressed and scared Colin. "But tell me…like all members of the ton wanting to stay ahead of the societal on dit…your family has a subscription to Lady Whistledown, yes?"
Cressida stiffened. "Yes." And Colin could see it on her face – that morning's column had clearly struck closer to home than she'd care to admit.
"Interesting reading this morning, was it not?" Penelope murmured innocently. "I confess I was surprised to see the truth has spread so far that even she has heard rumblings of Lord Featherington's issues, but…"
"All lies," Cressida snapped, but there was the slightest wavering doubt in her voice.
"I don't imagine Lady Whistledown to be one to report false information, do you?" Colin put in conversationally. "She would hardly have gotten so far if she was not selective, and careful, on what she mentions, to make sure it's credible. People enjoy rumours, but it's far better for business when those rumours are true."
Provoked beyond measure, Cressida swung away from them, running a trembling hand over her lips, composing herself before she swung back around. "The rumours are false," she said finally, primly, nose in the air. "Everything you are implying, it is false. It will all die down – the banns will be read twice more – and then it will be over, it will be done, he will be mine."
Watching Cressida, Penelope shook her head sadly. "Just…think about it, Cressida, that's all I ask of you. Ask Jack about the mines yourself, if you want. Observe his reaction. You and I have no love lost between us," she laughed hollowly, "God knows. But no one should be entrapped the way you will be, if you go through with this."
The nervous darting of Cressida's pale blue eyes, searching between them, reminded Colin suddenly, and vividly, of a trapped and desperate animal. "For all we know," she snapped at Penelope, "you fed your lies to Lady Whistledown yourself! Everyone has been dying these past seasons to work out who she is, and wouldn't it make the most perfect sense if she was a nothing, a nobody, an insipid wallflower like you, with nothing better to do…" her eyes sharpened, and she went still in a way that was rather alarming. "Of course," she breathed, staring in turn at Penelope, then at Colin.
They exchanged quick, panicked glances, and Colin, despite his rising dread, fought the absurd urge to laugh. Of all people to be the first to find them out…Cressida Cowper? Really?
"You," Cressida snapped at Penelope, "tell your little friend, and you," her glare flicked to Colin, "tell your little sister, that I am on to her." She swept to the table at the centre of the room and scooped up her own peacock-blue reticule, facing them once more with a very nasty smile indeed. "All it will take is some proof."
She did not deign to curtsey or honour them with any kind of farewell, instead opting to march straight past where they still stood gawking at her, straight out of the antechamber and to the side-saloon beyond. The door closed firmly behind her, leaving Colin and Penelope staring at each other in stunned silence in her wake.
