Testing Audio -DK Principessa

by kibass91

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29. Finally Seen

Summary:

After two failed seasons in the marriage mart, public humiliation from the man she loved, and a painful fallout with her closest friend, Penelope Featherington had endured more than enough.

Determined to take control of her life, Penelope—armed with her wit and intelligence—crafted a meticulous plan. A plan to leave heartbreak, disappointment, and the pressures of Mayfair behind.

Her goal? To live freely as a spinster in the country.

Through careful steps and well-placed misdirection, Penelope succeeded. Away from the watchful eyes of the ton and the indifference of her family, she began to flourish in her new life.

But just as she had settled into a charming routine, a familiar face from her past unexpectedly arrives.

One late afternoon, four months after Penelope's escape, Anthony Bridgerton—the stoic and duty-bound viscount—shows up at the house across the street. In a Bridgerton carriage. With all his belongings.

Chapter 1: As Good As Ruined

Chapter Text

At the first ball of her third season on the marriage mart in March 1815, Penelope Featherington came face-to-face with the repercussions of the Featherington Ball of July 1814.

On that night many months ago, the vicious, heart-wrenching fight between Penelope and her best friend Eloise Bridgerton—the fight that had effectively ended their long, beautiful friendship—transpired. In almost the same breath, her unrequited love had been torn asunder by the object of her affections himself, Mr. Colin Bridgerton.

In the middle of the Featherington Ball last season, Penelope ran to her bedchamber, flushed from drink and dance, only to find her room in a state of chaos. Her mattress was displaced, pillows recklessly ruined, chairs and tables overturned, drawers thrown haphazardly about, and loose floorboards removed to reveal the deep secrets underneath.

And seated there amid the chaos and relentless disarray was Eloise, her face clouded with disappointment. Her eyes brimmed with tears, yet not one fell.

Eloise had found her out.

Eloise had discovered that Penelope had been the wicked Lady Whistledown all along.

A screaming match, harsh words, and a trail of tears and disappointments had commenced after Penelope's initial shock at finding Eloise in her chambers.

She never wanted to see or speak to Penelope ever again. And that was a promise Eloise had kept over the country season and beyond, with 42 of Penelope's letters that have been left unanswered to prove it.

Penelope had continued trying. She persevered to make amends. She had been resolved to bring goodness back into her life, and goodness can only come from a friendship with Eloise.

Because everything wonderful that Penelope had and treasured—an affectionate family in the Bridgertons, falling in love with Colin, and the warmest of friendships—all began that fateful day she met Eloise.

Yet today, all she is left with is the constant longing for the company of her most favored companion.

That very same night of the very same ball, amid the flowers in the garden and under the vast night sky, Colin Bridgerton had boldly laughed at insinuations of a courtship between him and Penelope Featherington, and declared that one 'had to be mad ' to court her to an impressive set of about half of the eligible bachelors of the ton .

"Ah, are you mad? I would never dream of courting Penelope Featherington. Not in your wildest fantasies, Fife."

What was he playing at?

Penelope never asked to be courted.

Penelope had never asked to be loved back.

Penelope had been happy in the mere knowledge of how it truly felt to love someone.

For love, whether reciprocated or not, was precious and sacred—worth cherishing, worth experiencing.

She had never once asked nor begged for Colin to love her back. But she had always expected his friendship. His compassion. How could he have ridiculed her? How could he, with one careless sentence, backed by the power of his family name, disintegrate Penelope's marriage prospects entirely?

The tragic conversation had been overheard by Penelope herself. The horrible mockery of Penelope's character and desirability had occurred the same evening Colin had told her that she was special.

The same evening Colin promised that he would always protect her as they danced.

The same evening Colin took her by the hand and dragged her into a deserted room to talk.

An unattached gentleman, alone in a room with an eligible lady of gentle breeding—a scandal, indeed. And barely even taking the time for thought later, the same man that had taken liberties had announced Penelope as unmarriageable and undesirable.

Of course Penelope was as good as ruined.

And tonight, even after eight months from the wreckage that was the Featherington Ball, even after one full off-season and a brand new wardrobe of more flattering cuts and colors… even after retreating for months to the Featherington country estate… Penelope Featherington had still ended up planted onto the walls of Lady Danbury's ballroom, her dance card still empty, her hopes of an epic love story still crushed, her friendship with Eloise still nonexistent, and what little confidence she had—which had been admittedly very little indeed—still in tatters.

Truly an insipid wallflower.

Penelope was done. She had fully given up all hope of even just an agreeable marriage or of mending bridges with her dearest friend. She had let go of childish dreams of a grand romance. Of the childish infatuations over one Colin Bridgerton.

After the rather substantial tear in the hem of Penelope's emerald green evening dress—care of the vile and vapid Cressida Cowper—the youngest of the Featherington sisters, now all tears and broken dreams, ran from the Danbury ballroom and had taken the family carriage home.

Upon her arrival to her bedchamber, Penelope tore out her hairpins, changed into her nightclothes, and began making plans to turn her life around.

Penelope Featherington had given herself a voice as Lady Whistledown, her treasured non de plume, a notorious gossip columnist who held hundreds of the ton's secrets. Through collecting, writing, and selling the sordid yet true stories that circulated in Mayfair, she had been able to build her empire.

With nothing but parchment, ink, a quill, and an abundance of skill, she had given herself unbelievable power only second to the Queen's.

And so, it had been with these very tools at her disposal once more, along with the cunning and wit she had learned and earned through Whistledown, that she had taken her story back into her control.

It was time for her to get to work.

Lady Whistledown, Mane & Tail, and Household Diaries

The morning after the dreadful Danbury Ball, with red-rimmed eyes and a puffy face from crying and sobbing through the night, with a firm resolve to change the trajectory of her own story, and with a determination to grow and thrive, Penelope Featherington, published author and successful gossip columnist under the pen name Lady Whistledown, had started working on two new pamphlets to expand her empire and build her wealth.

These new pamphlets were to be released daily to add quite a bit more income into her discreet bank account and her investments portfolio, both under the care and protection of her father's solicitor (now hers), Mr. Banks.

'Mane & Tail,' authored by a 'Mr. Robert Penny' (a new pseudonym of Penelope's) was a pamphlet that focused on the care of horses and the maintenance of stables, as well as news and developments in the business of raising and racing horses; theories, betting strategies and statistical analyses of popular race horses (Penelope was a gambler's daughter after all), and other relevant tidbits of information.

'Household Diaries' by a 'Mrs. Annie Williams' (yet another of Penelope's pen names) was a publication that shared tips in home and kitchen maintenance, as well as unique recipes for pastries, cakes, and other delectable food items fit for every Mayfair abode. This pamphlet also included design and decor trends in Paris and Germany that Mayfair residents may easily execute in their homes.

Penelope discreetly worked with the Featherington cook and stableman in writing content for these pamphlets. Both of her pamphlet partners were compensated through profit-sharing arrangements and were given completely transparent reports of their income weekly.

With these two pamphlets released daily, along with Lady Whistledown's now thrice weekly distribution, as well as risky yet incredibly smart investments by Mr. Banks and Penelope, her nights were almost always sleepless and her mind constantly restless.

But these very steps, and Penelope's healthy and growing bank account, were vital to her big plan towards her even bigger goal: a life as a spinster in Yorkshire.

An Inheritance and An Allowance

One morning, the Dowager Baroness Portia Featherington received a letter from Miss Anita Featherington, a distant spinster cousin of Penelope's father, the late Baron Archibald Featherington.

In this letter, the aged spinster bequeathed her Yorkshire cottage to Penelope Featherington. Anita had stated in her correspondence that this cottage, as well as a modest monetary inheritance, would serve as a gift 'from one happy spinster to another.'

In return for Portia's agreement to Penelope's move to Yorkshire to reside independently as a spinster, a yearly allowance of 430 will be sent to the Featherington Mayfair residence for the next seven years.

The elder Featherington spinster also requested that Penelope and her lady's maid move into the Yorkshire residence within two months time and no later.

Unbeknownst to Portia, there is no Miss Anita Featherington. There is no inheritance.

Penelope had secretly worked with her solicitor to create the identity of the caring distant aunt, who had appeared all too familiar with the spinsterhood Penelope had found herself in.

With the Featherington matriarch faced with the promise of a stipend and two less mouths to feed, Portia eagerly and easily agreed to the arrangement. The naturalness she did so created yet another tear on Penelope's already fragile heart, in spite of her knowledge of the fact that Portia's greed and indifference were essential in proceeding with the current stage of this complex master plan.

Regardless of any feelings of Penelope's—or a lack thereof on Portia's end—this show must go on. And what a fantastic show it had turned out to be.

After the success of Mr. Bank's and Penelope's forgery of dear Anita's identity, wishes, and riches, the bright and cunning woman inched closer to her new life.

More Clothes and Even More Arrangements

Within the same week of Anita's correspondence, Penelope made her way to the modiste.

Genevieve Delacroix, who Penelope fondly calls Gen, had played a vital part in the Whistledown-Penny-Williams publication enterprise through her assistance in delivering the manuscripts to the printers.

During this particular visit of Penelope's, Gen had been required to play all her three roles to perfection—that of the talented modiste, the cooperative business partner, and the kind and dear friend.

After Penelope placed her rather large order of day and evening dresses, underthings, chemises, stays, and corsets fit for Yorkshire, she had assigned the following tasks to the modiste:

Monitor the remaining 70 'Mane & Tail' and 'Household Diaries' publications and ensure that the printer held up their end of the agreement by releasing the prewritten pamphlets daily, even after Penelope's departure. One free copy per publication will be sent to Genevieve's shop for her convenience

Deliver a letter to Bridgerton House the day after Penelope leaves for Yorkshire

Take advantage of Penelope's open invitation to Genevieve and the Granvilles (who the writer had grown close to due to her existing friendship and partnership with Gen) to visit Penelope in Yorkshire at any time forevermore (with an advanced notice of at least one week, of course), provided that they promise to keep her Yorkshire address to themselves

Deliver to the printer a massive Whistledown tell-all and farewell pamphlet containing carefully selected secrets from the gossip columnist's armoire, to be sold at thrice the regular price, one week after Penelope's departure to Yorkshire

After the discussion between the modiste and the writer, a tearful farewell, and Gen's proud and giddy acceptance of Penelope's open invitation, the two friends and partners parted ways for the time being.

Tired yet satisfied with her progress, Penelope went home.

(7 May 1815)

The fateful day had finally arrived. After two months of saving, investing, writing, scheming, and planning, on the night of the Bridgerton ball, Penelope and her lady's maid Rae hastily packed their Mayfair lives onto a hired hackney, rode to the modiste after hours to pick up Penelope's wardrobe, and secretly began their journey to Yorkshire in the dead of night.

Penelope had left a farewell letter for her mother and sisters on the center table in the main drawing room. Further correspondences from the Featherington household were to be addressed to the General Delivery of Helmsley in Yorkshire, with the promise that the freshly assigned, thoroughly resigned spinster would collect her mail twice weekly. Penelope also requested that her family keep her location secret, especially from the Bridgertons, hoping that the Featherington ladies she had left behind would listen.

Penelope had always wanted to marry. She had always wanted to be free. She had always longed to flourish and be successful.

But the brave and brilliant Penelope Featherington had always—at least in the back of her mind—planned for spinsterhood, despite the incessant hope and dream of a loving marriage and a boisterous family.

Spinsterhood had always been in the awful cards Penelope had been dealt with in life.

Where her sisters were lithe and tall, with dainty apple-sized bosoms, Penelope was shorter in stature, shapely in figure, and a buxom woman.

Where the Bridgertons were rambunctious and loving and kind, the Featheringtons had been cruel at worst and apathetic at best.

On this night, Penelope had finally come to terms with the destiny that had been meant for her, written in the stars of her slightly abysmal reality: She will find no love in Mayfair. There will be no loving family waiting for her in London. There will never be joy and comfort and calm and peace for her in the Featherington home.

With the wealth she had earned through her sheer audacity and the unrelenting trust she had placed in her intelligence, she would start again. Begin again. Breathe again.

With a heavy yet hopeful heart, Penelope Featherington left Mayfair, leaving behind the heartache that had long taken residence in Grosvenor Square.

Chapter 2: A Quiet Breakfast

Summary:

The Bridgertons break their fast.
The Bridgertons unknowingly support Penelope's livelihood.
The Bridgertons receive a letter.

Some musings over the events of the past season from Violet.

Notes:

This will be a quick wait. I'll follow this part up with Pen's letter shortly. Thank you!

(Sorry I kept changing stuff. From a Series, made it into just one story so it'll be easier to read. Thanks for your patience!)

Love all the Penelope/Anthony writers on AO3. You've inspired me to write this story! (Hi, Tluz)

Chapter Text

(8 May 1815—One day after Penelope departed for Yorkshire)

Anthony Bridgerton sat at the head of the table as he perused his morning broadsheet. He just finished his daily 'Mane & Tail' pamphlet, which contained a riveting article talking about new tips on hoof care. Anthony was eager to relay the advice to their stableman and try it with his stallion, Aethon. He was nursing his tea when his mother entered the room, gracefully taking her seat at the other end of the table to await the rest of her children. Violet Bridgerton went on to take a cup and pour some tea for herself.

"Good morning, dearest," Violet said to her eldest son. Anthony nodded and replied "Good morning, mother," before putting down his paper and making his way to Violet to fix her a plate of breakfast.

"Darling, you do not have t—" she started, but was silenced by her son's stern but loving look.

"I am aware I do not have to," said Anthony, while he picked up a piece of toast and proceeded to spread some butter and honey on it, just as Violet preferred. "But I want to, mother."

Filled with warmth, Violet only smiled at her eldest before placing her hand on his forearm in thanks. Anthony, once he was done with his mother's plate, went back to his seat and continued reading his newspaper.

He had not always been like this. Anthony hadn't always known how to separate the viscount from the family man. Of course, he loved his family fiercely. However, he was often misguided, rigid, and very strict.

But being jilted by one Sharma sister and rejected by the other at the end of last season had made quite a difference in him, as it would anyone—even a man with stronger resolve.

Anthony had started last season in search of a viscountess, armed with a handwritten list of qualities she must possess, and the names of eligible ladies he was determined to interview .

Indeed, he had approached courtship in all the wrong ways, driven by a promise he made to himself not to marry for love. He believed love had no place in his marriage, fueled by his fear of loss, of melancholy, and of dying young like his father.

Miss Edwina Sharma had been the viscount's perfect candidate, ticking all the boxes: tolerable, dutiful, with suitable enough hips for childbearing, and at least half a brain—with a half more to spare at that.

But it was the challenge posed by Kate, the elder Sharma sister, with the fire in her eyes and the hardheadedness engrained in her being, that made her the viscount's perfect match.

Anthony had fallen in love.

Despite any and all promises made of a loveless marriage, despite his fears and doubts, he had taken a risk and had fallen hard and fast.

Alas, the risk had not paid off, as Kate fled to India, never to look back, leaving Anthony without a wife.

Since then, after a brief period of wallowing in heartbreak and failure, Anthony had begun his evolution. Unable to find love in a match, he had poured his heart and soul into loving what he already had. What he already treasured and had sworn to care for and protect: his family.

At the breakfast table, beyond her musings of the past season, the Bridgerton matriarch continued to watch her eldest son over the rim of her teacup. There were always surprising moments when a small wave of sadness would fall over her, even in seemingly mundane times. Much like now.

A random Monday.

At breakfast.

Anthony had only been eight and ten when Lord Edmund Bridgerton, husband to Violet and father to the Bridgerton siblings, had been felled by a bee in the gardens at their country home, Aubrey Hall.

That very day, Anthony immediately had to step into the rather large shoes his father had left the moment he breathed his last, right before Anthony's eyes, and right in his arms.

Anthony had to take over the role of viscount, father, and provider the minute he reentered the family home—right after Edmund Bridgerton, beloved husband and doting father, had fallen to the ground after he was stung by a bee.

A bee. Even the doctor was perplexed. How could a bee—

The arrival of the rest of the Bridgerton children brought Violet back to the present. All her children—sans Colin, who was in Scotland, and Daphne, who was in residence at Clyvedon with her husband Simon and their little Augie—said their morning greetings, and in true Bridgerton fashion, began tucking in their breakfast while bickering too loudly for this early in the morning.

Violet scanned the table where her life and love sat, and watched as Eloise tossed a sausage and two slices of toast onto Benedict's plate while he fixed Eloise a cup of tea exactly to her liking. She saw Francesca lovingly hit Greg when he tried to steal a biscuit from her plate, then proceeded to grab a biscuit for him from the plate nearest her. Their mother watched as Hyacinth walked to Anthony to give him a kiss on the top of his head, something she had been doing every morning at breakfast time, earning a smile and a sweetly whispered "Morning, my love," from the viscount.

As Hy took her seat, Anthony was about to ask the table their plans for the day, when a footman entered the room, walking towards Violet with a silver tray in hand.

"Your 'Household Diaries,' ma'am," the footman began, "and correspondence from Miss Penelope Featherington."

Some silence fell on the table, as the three youngest of the siblings eyed Eloise with caution.

"I do not wish to receive nor read it," Eloise spat, angrily stabbing her sausage with a fork.

"Eloise, darl—," tried Violet but was halted by the footman who cleared his throat. It seems that today was not a day for her to finish her words, spoken or otherwise.

"Apologies, my lady," said the footman, belatedly realizing his error of speaking—or in this case, coughing—over the lady of the house, "but this letter was brought to the house by a messenger, whom I believe is in the modiste's employ, and is addressed as such."

Pushing the tray closer to Violet, the footman pointed to the writing on the envelope.

To the Bridgertons,

Please find time to read this together.

With love,

Penelope Featherington

Chapter 3: With all my love, Penelope Featherington

Summary:

Penelope's letter to the Bridgertons

Notes:

Initially, I wanted to include the reactions of the family in this chapter, but ultimately I decided to post a separate chapter that contains the letter their reactions.

I felt like the breaks, where there's dialogue and such, take away from the feels.

Please enjoy. Thanks to the Penelope/Anthony writers here on AO3 for the inspo to start writing! (Hi, TeaWitch13)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

7 May 1815

Dear Bridgertons,

My family not by blood, but by my choice (and yours, I hope), and my own relentless pursuit,

It pains me to not be able to face you all to say goodbye. I fear that this letter will be the last you will know and hear and read of me or from me for a long time yet.

I have thought about dropping by Bridgerton House—the home I have always wished my own could be—to bid my farewell, but I felt that the moment I set foot across the threshold… the moment the kind Humboldt directs me to the drawing room where we all take our morning and afternoon teas… I might just change my mind about leaving Mayfair, no matter how things currently stand.

The past seasons have not been kind to me in my hopeful yet hopeless search for a match, and as you well know, there is also the falling out between El and myself. I am completely to blame in that regard, and I do hope that Fran, Greg, or Hy have not been giving my dearest friend too hard a time.

For more than a decade, you have all welcomed me constantly. You have always treated me as one of your own. The shy girl from across the square found home and sanctuary in your presence, and for that, I will forever be grateful.

By the time you receive this by messenger or by my trusted friend, I would most likely be already on the road, nearing my destination and the future that awaits me. I have decided to take up my aunt's offer of taking residence in the home she had gifted me, and I quote, "From one happy spinster to another."

As much as I would want to have you all over and welcome you to retreat in my humble cottage, I cannot. At least, not yet. I need time to lick the wounds of the past two seasons and to take meaningful steps toward discovering myself—who I am beyond the expectations and judgments of the ton, and away from my Mama's and sisters' scrutiny.

If I should ever be so lucky to welcome guests and friends in my own drawing room in the country, I shall think of you all.

I shall look back fondly on Francesca's skill when I hear a pianoforte. Fran, I must compare every single one of them to you, but rest assured that you will always win in my mind, every time. When I get overwhelmed at an assembly, I will always remember how we took a secret respite together, away from the sometimes too boisterous Bridgerton family, be it five minutes or 10, at that secluded little alcove in your family's garden. I guess the secret is out now. I apologize, but I simply cannot help myself from mentioning our hiding place as it holds some of the quietest, yet fondest moments we have shared together. Fret not, I will refrain from mentioning our other hiding place. We may or may not grow out of these feelings of awkwardness or unease, and the longing for peace may or may not abate, but this is who we are now. We should both find no fault in our ways, just because we are different to those around us. You will always be the wonderful lady that you are, no matter what, and for that, your family and I will always be proud.

Greg and Hy, continue to try and be good for your mother and Lord Bridgerton. Whom do I fool, you two will always be exactly as you are: stubborn, sweet, and the best little siblings and children anyone could ever ask for. I am certain that no matter what happens, you will grow up to be the Bridgertons you were meant to be. Should I return next season to visit, I hope you indulge me in a promenade and some games at Hyde Park. When you tease your older siblings at the dinner table, I hope you include a barb or two on my behalf, especially directed to Benedict! Bring joy to the home and be the sunlight the elders need, for we all know that as they age, they get broody and pensive and angry. We cannot have that!

Ben, believe me when I say that you will find your place in the world one day. Your skill will be honed, and your craft will continue to improve and grow, and I am certain that in a few years' time, I will find the fruits of your labor at a private exhibit at Somerset House, or taking pride of place at The National Gallery. I also feel that you will soon find your family to need you, so take that time to practice and practice and practice, and soon enough, you will be able to build your confidence and apply to the Royal Academy of Arts, just as you have always wanted to do. They will accept you, they will love you, for though they are a bunch of toffs, they must be doing something right for you to be holding them in such high esteem. I jest, of course. I think. Be great, Benedict. Be wonderful!

Speaking of someone finding their place in the world… Daph, I know you no longer reside in Bridgerton house, but I also just wanted to let you know how much I look up to you! You are the woman and mother I have always wanted myself to be, and I am happy for you for finding the love you deserve. Though I am now a self-declared spinster, I will always follow your example and instruction to being a proper lady and brilliant hostess. Bouquets and flower arrangements should always be bigger, the tea should always be fresh, and the seating arrangements perfect. I shall only drop my fan at the most opportune moment and only at the most dashing gentlemen! I may find a match in the country yet. Again, I jest. Continue to be brilliant and kind, Daph, even in this world that can be quite cruel and unjust to women.

Colin, I hope you find in your travels whatever it is you are looking for. I hope that you have healed from your heartache and have grown and learned from it. I hope you continue to travel and write. I am no longer around to receive your letters, I am afraid. Do acquire a journal for the safekeeping of your thoughts and words instead.

El, I am deeply sorry for everything. I know I may not be able to win back your trust, but I hope you will open your heart to new friendships in the absence of mine. You are my dearest friend, my sister in all but blood, and it is my greatest sorrow to be apart from you, my one true confidant. What I did, I did out of love and concern and I hope you can forgive me one day. We have always dreamed of a life in the country, together as spinsters, chatting the days away in one of your family's more modest estates, but you have yet to give love and companionship a real chance. Please try, if only for me. Allow me to imagine you in a dance and to live vicariously through you as a strapping young gent twirls you about the dancefloor, wincing in pain as you step on his toes in laughter and (evil) glee. I am no longer there to encourage you to agree to a dance or accept an invitation to promenade, but I hope you continue to do so, if only to try. And if you do find yourself a spinster in the future, I am here for you. Once I have recovered from my own hurts and flaws and insecurities—once you have forgiven me of my errors, I will open my home to welcome you and show you to your very own bedroom. I will read to you and with you. I will make your tea exactly as you like and leave all your favorite sweets in the tin especially for you in perpetuity. (I may have a stash of my own but that is neither here nor there.) I will take you to the bookshop and to the pub in the village! I love you dearly, my friend. Always and forever.

Lady Bridgerton, thank you for opening your home to me. Thank you for being the mother I have always dreamed of having. My days spent in Bridgerton House were all the more wonderful when I got to spend time with you deeply immersed in an embroidery pattern, or gossiping over already lukewarm tea, or just taking time to sit quietly. The warm embraces we have shared and the cheek kisses you have given me remain imprinted on my heart and mind. I will long for your motherly love and affection in the country. I will miss your guidance terribly. I may not be an actual Bridgerton daughter, but know that every lesson you have instilled in me, I will cherish forever, and execute to the best of my abilities. I adore you, Violet.

Lord Bridgerton. Anthony. I hope you do not mind my use of your Christian name. We may not be as familiar with each other as I am with your siblings, but I want you to know… you are exactly the protector I would have loved and needed on my side throughout my entire life. I found myself in a situation that was much like yours in certain aspects, though not in as vast a scale, and it was indeed trying. It was difficult to aid my family without any guidance from someone who isn't a gambler or dumb. (Forgive me.) Being thrust into a role I was not at all prepared for had me once more thinking of you and what you have done for your family. You are a remarkable man to be able to guide, love, and provide, no matter the heartrending circumstances that have led you to the role you live today. I have always been aware of your past and have always been in awe of you because of how you got yourself and your family through it, but personally living it and experiencing it for myself… It was a whole other matter entirely. I do not think I could have done it as well as I did without you, or at the very least, the thought of you. You were just around my age when your father passed and you had to take up the mantle, yet you did it. And exceedingly well at that. Anthony, I know you have your duties. I know you live for your family. But I hope you can find time to discover yourself outside of your responsibilities. Because admittedly, in the little amount of time I had to act a fraction of who you are, I had almost lost myself completely.

Now, this letter has gone on for long enough, and I apologize to whoever was assigned to read it out loud to the family. To the rest of my family. My Bridgerton family.

Oh, I better end this here, lest I soil this parchment with the tears now threatening to spill out from my eyes.

Again, thank you for a wonderful life.

With all my love forever,

Penelope Anne Featherington

Notes:

Up next: The Bridgertons read Pen's letter. I will try to update as soon as I can! Thank you

Chapter 4: Know You, See You

Summary:

The Bridgertons read the letter together. In this chapter, we shall read along with them. Only, unlike us, they have no idea what's coming haha.

Notes:

Lots of feels mixed in with bits of Bridgerton family dynamics Please enjoy. It's lengthier than the previous chapters because I wove the letter in throughout it so that you know which part they are reading and reacting to.

The comments I received from the letter were out of this world, and I will share them with you soon.

Thank you so much. I sincerely pray this chapter does not disappoint.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

(8 May 1815—One day after Penelope departed for Yorkshire)

A certain tension, made up of curiosity, delight, and apprehension filled the room as the family—especially the three youngest of the siblings—eagerly awaited the reading of Penelope's letter.

Penelope had been absent from Bridgerton House for nearly a year, following a quarrel or some such with Eloise. As soon as breakfast was finished, the Bridgertons hastily made their way to the sitting room.

After those of the family in residence got comfortable on seats and settees and on the floor, Benedict approached his mother.

"Mother, would you like for me to read it out loud to everyone?" he asked, his eyes crinkling at the outer corners as he smiled kindly at his mother.

"Of course, dearest."

Benedict sat beside her on the dark blue sofa and gently tugged on the envelope, freeing it from the matriarch's grasp.

Violet was eyeing Eloise out of the corner of her eye, who was trying to appear nonchalant, staring at a page of her book—which was curiously upside-down.

After carefully opening the envelope at the wax seal that bore Penelope's initials surrounded by a wreath of three quills, Benedict scanned the letter and let out a low whistle.

"It's quite long, but based on previous correspondences with El and Col, this is just in true Penelope fashion," Benedict said with a light chuckle.

After some teasing grins and murmurs of agreement from everyone—except El, of course—he proceeded to read out loud.

'Dear Bridgertons, my family not by blood, but by my choice (and yours, I hope), and my own relentless pursuit—'

"Brother…" Francesca said, brows furrowed. "That does not sound very… normal?"

Benedict sighed. "I agree, Fran. Let's see where this leads. Perhaps she was in a teasing mood?"

The second born Bridgerton son then continued with the letter from Penelope.

'It pains me to not be able to face you all to say goodbye. I fear that this letter will be the last you will know and hear and read of me or from me for a long time yet. '

"Wait, what? Goodbye? " Hyacinth squeaked.

Anthony held her hand that was resting atop his knee. "Hy, let's wait, all right? Breathe, Hy. Benedict, continue, please. Family, I know some of you may be worried, but we will not be able to finish with this letter if we keep stopping."

Eloise had now completely abandoned her feigned reading, and Violet was staring at the discarded envelope on the sofa, carefully placed between where she and Benedict were seated.

Benedict continued. Again.

'I have thought about dropping by Bridgerton House—the home I have always wished my own could be—to bid my farewell—'

Hyacinth gasped, and Anthony squeezed her right hand in comfort, while his other hand held onto Greg's left shoulder from where the younger was seated on the floor, his own smaller one on top of his big brother's.

'… but I felt that the moment I set foot across the threshold… the moment the kind Humboldt directs me to the drawing room where we all take our morning and afternoon teas… I might just change my mind about leaving Mayfair, no matter how things currently stand.'

Benedict paused. His eyes darted from the letter to Eloise, who had taken a sharp inhale.

"Penelope is… leaving—has left—Mayfair? What?" She whispered, eyes swiveling, moving and searching nervously from sibling to sibling. "I'm sorry, Ben. Pl—please proceed."

'The past seasons have not been kind to me in my hopeful yet hopeless search for a match, and as you well know, there is also the falling out between El and myself. I am completely to blame in that regard, and I do hope that Fran, Greg, or Hy have not been giving my dearest friend too hard a time.

'For more than a decade, you have all welcomed me constantly. You have always treated me as one of your own. The shy girl from across the square found home and sanctuary in your presence, and for that, I will forever be grateful.

'By the time you receive this by messenger or by my trusted friend, I would most likely be already on the road, nearing my destination and the future that awaits me. I have decided to take up my aunt's offer of taking residence in the home she had gifted me, and I quote, "From one happy spinster to another."'

"My dear, darling girl," Violet murmured to nobody in particular, willing the breeze flowing through the open window to carry her whispers of affection to the the girl she had always considered her own.

And, indeed, Penelope had always been one of Violet's girls. Penelope had always been loved by Violet.

The youngest Featherington daughter, the ton's shy wallflower, had always been appreciated by Violet in ways that Portia Featherington herself had not.

In ways that society had not.

Tears hovered on the verge of falling, almost as if teetering at the edge of a cliff. They rolled down her flushed cheeks as she closed her eyes, the warmth of a calloused hand covering her own.

Benedict looked at her with a sad little smile, his deep blue-green eyes dull with sorrow. He squeezed his mother's hand once before turning his attention back to the letter and continuing to read.

By now, everyone in the room was at a loss, sitting in quiet anticipation as an air of gloom filled the sun-drenched room, bright rays mocking the somber mood.

'As much as I would want to have you all over and welcome you to retreat in my humble cottage, I cannot. At least, not yet. I need time to lick the wounds of the past two seasons and to take meaningful steps toward discovering myself—who I am beyond the expectations and judgments of the ton , and away from my Mama's and sisters' scrutiny.

'If I should ever be so lucky to welcome guests and friends in my own drawing room in the country, I shall think of you all.

'I shall look back fondly on Francesca's skill when I hear a pianoforte. Fran—'

Francesca looked up longingly from her seat, twisting her hands, watching her elder brother as he read from the parchment in his grasp.

'… I must compare every single one of them to you, but rest assured that you will always win in my mind, every time. When I get overwhelmed at an assembly, I will always remember how we took a secret respite together, away from the sometimes too boisterous Bridgerton family, be it five minutes or 10, at that secluded little alcove in your family's garden. I guess the secret is out now. I apologize, but I simply cannot help myself from mentioning our hiding place as it holds some of the quietest, yet fondest moments we have shared together. Fret not, I will refrain from mentioning our other hiding place. We may or may not grow out of these feelings of awkwardness or unease, and the longing for peace may or may not abate, but this is who we are now. We should both find no fault in our ways, just because we are different to those around us. You will always be the wonderful lady that you are, no matter what, and for that, your family and I will always be proud.'

Francesca pursed her lips together as she cried in earnest. Penelope had always understood her, without question or judgment, even when her own family had not.

Penelope had always simply honored Fran's need for space and quiet—and yes, a break—from the family she so adored, but were often not at all like her.

Oh, Pen. Please, no, Francesca sobbed in the corners of her mind, aching at the loss of a trusted companion. The friend who had always indulged her pleas for duets on the pianoforte. The friend who had always walked with her in her many a search for a moment of peace.

'Greg and Hy, continue to try and be good for your mother and Lord Bridgerton. Whom do I fool, you two will always be exactly as you are: stubborn, sweet, and the best little siblings and children anyone could ever ask for. I am certain that no matter what happens, you will grow up to be the Bridgertons you were meant to be. Should I return next season to visit, I hope you indulge me in a promenade and some games at Hyde Park. When you tease your older siblings at the dinner table, I hope you include a barb or two on my behalf, especially directed to Benedict! Bring joy to the home and be the sunlight the elders need, for we all know that as they age, they get broody and pensive and angry. We cannot have that!'

Anthony glanced down at the girl beside him, finding Hyacinth already staring up at him, as if his dark brown eyes held answers to questions she had yet to ask. His own heart broke the moment he saw that hers had.

He removed his hand from Hy's and planted his arm around her shoulders, pulling her into an embrace. He looked down to see to Gregory, only to find a teary-eyed boy staring longingly at him.

"Oh Greg, come here," he said. Instantly, Gregory stood up from the floor and took a seat on Anthony's other side, burying his face into his brother's shoulder, gripping tightly onto the lapels of Anthony's tailcoat.

'Ben—'

Benedict paused as a traitorous lump formed in his throat. He had always cherished his conversations with Penelope. When she wasn't monopolized by Eloise or Colin, she was there for Ben—ready to talk about anything and everything.

Together, they wove their dreams and regrets into words, painting portraits of what life had been and what it could still become.

He grasped a bit too tightly onto the parchment, causing the letter to wrinkle at the edges where his hand held on for dear life. He found comfort for a while when his mother laid a gentle hand on his person.

'Ben, believe me when I say that you will find your place in the world one day. Your skill will be honed, and your craft will continue to improve and grow, and I am certain that in a few years' time, I will find the fruits of your labor at a private exhibit at Somerset House, or taking pride of place at The National Gallery. I also feel that you will soon find your family to need you, so take that time to practice and practice and practice, and soon enough, you will be able to build your confidence and apply to the Royal Academy of Arts, just as you have always wanted to do. They will accept you, they will love you, for though they are a bunch of toffs, they must be doing something right for you to be holding them in such high esteem. I jest, of course. I think. Be great, Be—'

His eyes processed the words ahead of the rest of his senses, and what he read broke his resolve. His breath and his voice had lost their way somewhere along the path from his lungs to his throat to his mouth.

Benedict cleared his throat to continue reading his section of the letter, all while Violet kept her hand warm on his knee.

'… Be great, Benedict. Be wonderful!'

Violet sobbed quietly at the end of Penelope's message for Ben. She closed her eyes in awe of the woman who had proven to be a part of their family in all but name, time and time again.

Penelope had known them all. And loved them all.

That same love that Penelope felt for this family had led her hands and her mind, moving and guiding her to say exactly what they needed to realize. What they needed to know.

After gathering his composure, Benedict read on for the family.

'Speaking of someone finding their place in the world… Daph, I know you no longer reside in Bridgerton house, but I also just wanted to let you know how much I look up to you! You are the woman and mother I have always wanted myself to be, and I am happy for you for finding the love you deserve. Though I am now a self-declared spinster, I will always follow your example and instruction to being a proper lady and brilliant hostess. Bouquets and flower arrangements should always be bigger, the tea should always be fresh, and the seating arrangements perfect. I shall only drop my fan at the most opportune moment and only at the most dashing gentlemen! I may find a match in the country yet. Again, I jest. Continue to be brilliant and kind, Daph, even in this world that can be quite cruel and unjust to women.'

"Colin's is next," Benedict said while he stared seemingly unseeing at the parchment before him.

Eloise looked up. "Well? What does it say?"

Benedict then read ahead for a while. He let out a hum, furrowed his brows and said "It's… something," before continuing to read.

'Colin, I hope you find in your travels whatever it is you are looking for. I hope that you have healed from your heartache and have grown and learned from it. I hope you continue to travel and write. I am no longer around to receive your letters, I am afraid. Do acquire a journal for the safekeeping of your thoughts and words instead.'

"That was—" Fran started.

"—quite underwhelming," Anthony continued.

Everyone in the room laughed nervously, clearly very curious why their brother, who seemed to sometimes be overly familiar with Penelope, did not get as much as the rest of the siblings in sentiment or even word count.

"Maybe she had written to Colin privately? They have corresponded before." said Hyacinth.

"Yes, quite," Benedict said. "Rather inappropriate of our brother to be corresponding with an unmarried lady of the ton , but that is not what's most pressing right now."

"I don't think she wrote to Colin," Eloise said. "Colin wrote me to tell me that Penelope has not replied to a single letter from him over the off-season. She would not know where to send it since Colin had paused sending letters a month ag— why are you looking at me like that, Ben? Stop reading ahead of everyone! That is most unfair!"

Benedict looked at Eloise, a sheepish grin tugging on the corners of his lips. "If you all would stop interrupting me, I wouldn't have enough time to read ahead! But… ah, sorry, El, yours is next." he hesitated, his smile fading slightly. "And it is… I'll just read it,"

'El, I am deeply sorry for everything. I know I may not be able to win back your trust, but I hope you will open your heart to new friendships in the absence of mine. You are my dearest friend, my sister in all but blood, and it is my greatest sorrow to be apart from you, my one true confidant. What I did, I did out of love and concern and I hope you can forgive me one day. We have always dreamed of a life in the country, together as spinsters, chatting the days away in one of your family's more modest estates, but you have yet to give love and companionship a real chance. Please try, if only for me. Allow me to imagine you in a dance and to live vicariously through you as a strapping young gent twirls you about the dancefloor, wincing in pain as you step on his toes in laughter and (evil) glee. I am no longer there to encourage you to agree to a dance or accept an invitation to promenade, but I hope you continue to do so, if only to try. And if you do find yourself a spinster in the future, I am here for you. Once I have recovered from my own hurts and flaws and insecurities—once you have forgiven me of my errors, I will open my home to welcome you and show you to your very own bedroom. I will read to you and with you. I will make your tea exactly as you like and leave all your favorite sweets in the tin especially for you in perpetuity. (I may have a stash of my own but that is neither here nor there.) I will take you to the bookshop and to the taproom in the village! I love you dearly, my friend. Always and forever.'

First, silence. And then, gut-wrenching and choking sobs. Eloise was a mess. She laid down on her right side on the settee she and Penelope had once favored. She clutched onto the bodice of her day dress, as though the fabric was the only thing restraining her heart from fully leaping out of her chest.

She could not believe what had become of them. Her heart refused to accept that Penelope was gone from Mayfair, and quite possibly gone from her life as well.

Eloise clung desperately to the small hope Penelope had written into the parchment. But for now, her despair had won.

"How could I not have made up with her sooner? Was it my pride—my privilege?" Eloise squeezed her eyes shut, holding back more tears. "Did she leave because of me? Would she have stayed if she still had me? My friendship?"

The words spilled uncontrollably from Eloise's lips, her anguish betraying the stoic mask she had worn since last season's end.

Violet stood from the sofa she shared with Benedict and made her way to her daughter, kneeling on the floor before her. She slowly and reverently ran her gentle fingers through the locks of hair that have escaped Eloise's informal coiffure. "Sweetheart, this is not entirely to blame on your quarrel with Penelope," said Violet. "This decision that she made, leaving a life in Mayfair behind, is not one the smart girl would have taken lightly."

Violet then kissed her daughter's temple before continuing, "It appears that your disagreement is but one of many factors that may have played a role in her departure."

She gently urged Eloise to sit so that she could take her seat beside her. "We can never know for sure if she would have stayed if you had made amends. But considering everything she had written, I believe she would have proceeded with her plan regardless, my darling."

Once again, she embraced Eloise in her obvious distress before asking, "Eloise, are you better? We can continue later if you want to take a break. Do you think we can proceed with the letter?"

"Yes—No, Mama. Please continue, Benedict. I… Forgive me for my disruption."

"No, El," Anthony said. "You are no bother. Of course, you are distraught, sister." He then offered a small, kind smile. A miniscule upward tick of one corner of his mouth which Eloise returned in kind.

The eldest once again spoke, "Brother, please continue." And Benedict did as he was asked.

'Lady Bridgerton, thank you for opening your home to me. Thank you for being the mother I have always dreamed of having. My days spent in Bridgerton House were all the more wonderful when I got to spend time with you deeply immersed in an embroidery pattern, or gossiping over already lukewarm tea, or just taking time to sit quietly. The warm embraces we have shared and the cheek kisses you have given me remain imprinted on my heart and mind. I will long for your motherly love and affection in the country. I will miss your guidance terribly. I may not be an actual Bridgerton daughter, but know that every lesson you have instilled in me, I will cherish forever, and execute to the best of my abilities. I adore you, Violet.'

"Penelope… so starved of love and affection, yet deserving of every last drop and morsel," Violet sobbed into the handkerchief that Eloise had gently placed in her hand during the reading of her part in the letter. "What is she to do now? Who will comfort her? Cherish and adore her? Oh, Penelope. You should have come here, indeed. You should have come. And you should have stayed."

Eloise timidly cried beside her mother. She tried to offer Violet a bit of comfort by placing an arm around her and gently patting her hair.

Anthony was quiet. He was heartbroken for his family over this massive loss of a dear friend. He was also heartbroken for Miss Featherington and the many reasons and experiences, the cruel words and deeds, that have pushed her to leave.

He wanted to comfort his family. He didn't know where to begin.

"If that is everyone, I believe we have earned a break. We should rest for a while fr—"

"But Anthony," Benedict interjected. "We haven't gotten to your passage in the letter yet."

" Mine? Penelope wrote to me as well?"

Anthony was surprised. Yes, they had shared a casual friendship. They were far from familiar but always cordial and kind and polite. They talked about some novels and books of fact. At times, he indulged Penelope's curiosity about the management of Bridgerton estates and properties, but no deeper. Anthony had no idea what Penelope had in store for him. Would she be just polite to him? Offer him placating words of vague gratitude inserted as an afterthought among the meaningful, beautifully heart-warming—and at times heartbreaking—words she had for the rest of the family?

Anthony hid his apprehension from the rest of the group and nodded for Benedict to resume reading. Anthony prepared for the least, yet somehow, inexplicably, hoped for better.

'Lord Bridgerton. Anthony. I hope you do not mind my use of your Christian name. We may not be as familiar with each other as I am with your siblings, but I want you to know… you are exactly the protector I would have loved and needed on my side throughout my entire life.'

" Oh, " Anthony said. His eyes widened for a fraction of a second, but he kept quiet. He nodded at Benedict once more.

Benedict glanced at his older brother, uncertain of how to proceed. This part of the letter seemed more personal than he had expected and hesitated before clearing his throat and continuing.

'I found myself in a situation that was much like yours in certain aspects, though not in as vast a scale, and it was indeed trying. It was difficult to aid my family without any guidance from someone who isn't a gambler or dumb. (Forgive me.) Being thrust into a role I was not at all prepared for had me once more thinking of you and what you have done for your family. You are a remarkable man to be able to guide, love, and provide, no matter the heartrending circumstances that have led you to the role you live today. I have always been aware of your past and have always been in awe of you because of how you got yourself and your family through it, but personally living it and experiencing it for myself… It was a whole other matter entirely. I didn't think I could have done it as well as I did without you, or at the very least, the thought of you. You were my age when your father passed and you had to take up the mantle, yet you did it. And exceedingly well at that. Anthony, I know you have your duties. I know you live for your family. But I hope you can find time to discover yourself outside of your responsibilities. Because admittedly, in the little amount of time I had to act a fraction of who you are, I almost lost myself completely.'

Anthony found himself unable to speak, his fists were clenched tight as his brain struggled to keep up with the heart in his chest threatening to escape through his throat.

No one spoke at all. Everyone in the room was just looking at him, as if a sheet had been suddenly drawn back, and they all saw the viscount, the father, the brother as naught but a man .

A man who once had lived an entirely different life, from what felt like an entirely different time.

Is this what it feels like to be understood?

The emotions—the feelings and thoughts he had not allowed himself the privilege of exploring or acknowledging in years—were raging within him. How could kind words from a friend be too much to handle? All Anthony wanted to do at this moment was to yell "Yes! Finally!"

But he just closed his eyes, allowed himself this moment of emotional turmoil, and cleared his throat before speaking.

"Is there more, brother?" he asked Benedict.

Benedict blinked once. Twice. "Oh, uh, yes, Ant. Just a bit more."

Now, this letter has gone on for long enough, and I apologize to whoever was assigned to read it out loud to the family. To the rest of my family. My Bridgerton family.

Oh, I better end this here, lest I soil this parchment with the tears now threatening to spill out from my eyes.

Again, thank you for a wonderful life.

With all my love forever,

Penelope Anne Featherington

— & —

After reading Penelope's letter in its entirety, one by one, the Bridgertons left the sitting room.

Anthony remained behind. He hadn't moved at all since they finished. He just watched as his siblings vacated the room.

"Dearest," Violet called.

"Forgive me, mother. I was… lost in thought."

"I believe we all are, son."

"Indeed."

His mother smiled at him knowingly. She made to leave the room when Anthony called out to her.

"Mother."

"Yes, Anthony?"

"Might I hold on to Miss Feath—Penelope's letter? I feel like… like I need it with me. For now."

Damn it all to hell—am I flushed ? No. Impossible. I don't—I'm merely tired , Anthony thought, as he glanced quickly at his mother, who was, in fact, already watching him.

"Of course! Here you go, Anthony," his mother said as she passed the envelope over to him, smiling kindly.

Anthony clung tightly to the letter, its weight far heavier in his mind than the paper suggested. It felt like a lifeline—an outstretched hand reaching out to grab him and keep him whole and grounded and understood.

He had never imagined that mere ink on parchment from a woman who had always been just there for years would have the power to peel back the layers and masks he had made and worn since his father's untimely demise.

Violet smiled at her son again. She placed her hand on Anthony's shoulder, making him look up at her from his seat.

"All will be well, son," she said.

"Yes, mother. All will be well," he answered.

And for the first time in quite a while, despite all the reflections and musings that this morning had brought upon the family—despite the war of emotions that raged in his very soul... Anthony actually believed it to be true.

All will be well.

Notes:

Did you enjoy it? I truly hope you did. I also hope it was as emotional as you all expected

The next update will be three chapters in one go:
• A short one (around 300 words) just to set future scenes
• Anthony dissects Penelope's message to him (Yes, this chapter is not the last of Anthony's feelings!)
• the LW article—this was tough to write! I am not very witty. My wordplay usually veers closer to 'dad joke' than wit haha

(Please note that in this story, Penelope did not release an 1814 end of season issue because if I was her, I would've been depresso with how everything turned out haha)

Btw, I asked AI to make me a photo for this story for fun. And it's hilarious. Let me know if you want to see it. I'll include it at the end of the next chapter. They don't look like Nicola or Jonny though but still fun.

Thank you, everyone. You have no idea how much your words and appreciation mean to me.

Chapter 5: Retirement Suits You

Summary:

Just a brief one to set future scenes. Mayfair is in chaos lol. More of the Bridgerton household unknowingly spending their money on Pen's ventures.

Chapter Text

(16 May 1815)

Warm, early morning light had just broken over Mayfair. Maids and footmen who had been up for hours began their short journeys back from the market stalls to the houses and manors they served.

The quiet hum of the day's beginnings, punctuated by the sounds of hooves and carriage wheels on cobblestone roads, mingled with the shouts of vendors eager to make their sales, grew steadily louder as it did every day.

But on this particular morning, something new and electric replaced the usual air of habit and routine that marked a typical morning in the ton .

— & —

"Get your Whistledown!"

"Whistledown here!"

"15 pence?! Has she gone ma—oh, now that is a lot of gossip."

"... her retirement? My mistress shall not be pleased. Two, please!"

And there it was. The cause of the shift in the atmosphere.

"Heavens, a tell-all? Has anyone been spared?"

Lady Whistledown's final issue.

"Her final issue? What's this woman playing at? What are we to read while breaking our fast from now on?"

"Get yer Whistledown here, ladies and gents! 15 pence for the hefty farewell edition!"

— & —

"Farewell?" Humboldt asked their usual delivery boy outside of Bridgerton House.

"Yes, sir," the boy answered. "Us delivery boys and runners will miss working for the lady, sir. She were always kind and generous with our wages," he continued as he looked down. "Oh, and I also have your usual 'Mane & Tail' and 'Household Diaries,' sir."

"Thank you," Humboldt replied as he paid the boy what was due, making sure to purchase an extra Whistledown for the staff to share.

Humboldt turned away from the street and made to face the steps leading to the manor's front door, all of today's pamphlets secure in his hands.

As the butler scanned the Whistledown paper with his eyes, familiar words jumped from the page, seeking his attention.

"Oh, goodness," he whispered, his eyebrows raising almost into his receding hairline of their own volition. "Seems like the Bridgertons were mentioned plenty this issue."

Crossing the threshold into Bridgerton House, he called for John the footman.

"John, be sure to get this Whistledown issue to Lady Bridgerton at once," Humboldt instructed. "It is important you mention that this will be the gossip rag's final column."

"She's retiring?" John asked.

"Indeed."

— Here's the AI-generated photo I was telling you about in the previous chapter —

Chapter 6: Anthony's Daily Internal Soliloquy

Summary:

Anthony is in his feelings. He further dissects Penelope's letter.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

(16 May 1815)

'Lord Bridgerton.'

'Anthony.'

The letter tucked away in his desk had been calling to him, like a siren beyond the sea. Like the ringing of wind chimes, or a whisper in the dark of night—insistent, loud in the silence.

Before sunlight had even penetrated through the gaps of the dark blue velvet curtains of Anthony Bridgerton's bedchambers, he was already up and dressed. He had been polished and cleaned, and looked quite dashing in a fresh ensemble: a pristine white linen shirt; an elegant navy blue cravat; a plain dark blue—almost black—waistcoat; and, of course, his breeches, stockings, and boots. A tailored, midnight blue tailcoat a shade lighter than his waistcoat, completed his attire for the day.

He stared at himself in the mirror, his eyes scanning his face and features.

Anthony was now one and thirty—not old at all, and still very handsome. But his reflection was rather far from the visage of youth he used to carry.

His shoulders are broader, his arms and legs more muscular. A few lines were faintly etched around his eyes and on his forehead. Stray gray hairs were hidden from others' plain sight, but not his own sharp gaze.

Definitely not old , but older—

Older than the carefree boy—the young man who was unburdened by the weight of responsibility.

Older than the son who, then fresh from Eton, could never have foreseen the grief that would press upon his shoulders.

Older than the man of eight and ten who had his entire future set and defined the moment his father breathed his last in the gardens at Aubrey Hall.

He closed his eyes, inhaled a slow, deep breath, and exhaled while counting to eight in his mind. He then blinked his eyes open, nodded once as if to steel himself for what lay ahead of him after his upcoming early morning ritual, and then made his way to his study.

— & —

Anthony had been occupying his study at an unusually early hour for the past week and more. This new habit had taken root since that letter arrived.

Penelope's letter.

He had read and reread it every day since receiving it. His early mornings were now carved out for this sole purpose: to study, examine, and memorize Penelope's words.

He had always been a meticulous man. Anthony was investigative in nature.

He was also confident and sure—bordering on arrogant, but no longer. At least not when it comes to family.

But this Anthony needed reassurance. He needed someone to tell him something . And he knew that what he sought could not be found at the bottom of a glass of brandy, or out on a morning ride with Atheon.

The solace he was searching for had been given to him in the form of words. Kind and empathetic words written in lovely calligraphy on choice parchment, sealed in compassion and a wreath of three quills.

On this sunny morning, as had been his routine the past nine days, he took his seat behind the desk. Once comfortable, he pulled out the top left drawer to retrieve the missive that had haunted and comforted him in equal measure.

He sighed in resignation as he held on to the letter, staring at it intently, as if willing it to speak.

In a way, it did speak. It had, in fact, spoken more about matters Anthony had kept stored and locked away than ever before.

He had never considered the possibility that the written word could evoke such strong emotions and awaken a myriad of thoughts.

Had he deprived himself of expression for so long that he would be so affected by a gracefully handwritten paragraph?

— & —

Pausing one train of thought, he hopped onto another.

He grappled with the fact that the past two seasons had been… abysmal at worst, disappointing at best. Anthony had placed his duty and responsibility to his family before anything else, which caused him to make hasty, irresponsible decisions on his and his family's behalf.

They were all better now—the family. They were much warmer and jovial compared to the strain and awkwardness that haunted them at the end of last season.

But the comfort and companionship they now found themselves in took hard work. It took a lot of mending and reconciling and talking. Especially between himself and his mother.

The last two seasons, he felt like a failure in his mother's eyes. The looks she gave him when he was left by his bride at the altar, or when he disparaged Daphne's suitors in the family's presence, were all fleeting but rather telling.

He never did what his 'father would have done,' as he was constantly reminded of by his mother.

Of course, he understood that his mother also grieved this loss alongside the rest of them. She was a mother to Edmund's children. She was his wife.

But her disappointment in not having a semblance of her Edmund in her eldest son only reminded Anthony of everything he lacked.

Anthony was not Edmund. And he never will be.

His father was a perfect gentleman. He was an exceptional father and a doting husband. He managed their estate in excellence.

Anthony was… Anthony . He was strict, rash, and hot-tempered at times. He was, however, always protective and unyielding when it came to his family.

But before he was the viscount, he was a young boy forced into an older, more experienced, more intelligent man's shoes by devastating circumstances and by accident of birth.

And he had been trying to fill those shoes since.

During this brief moment of reflection, he held the letter in his hand with as much reverence as you would ancient text. He mentally went back to what he had been meaning to do, carefully flattening the page which held Penelope's message to him on the surface of his desk. He gazed at every elegant loop, every dainty line of her penmanship.

And then, like clockwork, he began to read.

'Lord Bridgerton. Anthony.

'… you are exactly the protector I would have loved and needed on my side throughout my entire life.'

He scoffed while running his hand through his dark brown hair. Although everything that happened during Daphne's season on the marriage mart had since been water under the bridge, what with her almost-wedding to Nigel Berbrooke, he believed that the eldest Bridgerton daughter would've had something to say about this part of the letter.

Rather fortuitously, Daphne had found love and companionship in his best friend Simon, despite Anthony's meddling and callous actions.

But what if she had not?

Anthony winced and dragged his palm down his face, thinking about how things might have turned out if Lady Whistledown had not revealed Berbrooke's bastard, ultimately saving Daphne from an arranged marriage to the scoundrel.

Thinking about it, and looking at the events from Penelope's point of view, Anthony's dedication and duty, and his overprotective nature, may actually have been better than what the Featherington ladies had to put up with.

The late Archibald Featherington was a gambler, and not a very good one at that. He had lost most of his fortune and—if rumors at the club are to be believed—even the Featherington daughters' dowries. He spent them all betting and losing to boxing matches, cards tables, and betting clubs.

The new Lord Featherington, Jack, was a swindler who had spun tales and waxed poetic of nonexistent riches gained from his ruby mines. The consequences of his failed scheme left the Featherington estate in a much sorrier state.

The Featherington women deserved better.

No. Wait. Penelope deserved better.

Looking back down, setting his gaze and attention to the letter, he scanned the page looking for the next part that had caught his eye from his previous readings.

'… Being thrust into a role I was not at all prepared for had me once more thinking of you and what you have done for your family. You are a remarkable man to be able to guide, love, and provide, no matter the heartrending circumstances that have led you to the role you live today. '

A remarkable man? Truly? Was that how Penelope saw him?

What did she think of him beyond his duties? Could she see the man buried beneath the layers of obligation and expectation? Beyond the man masquerading as his father?

He was wracked with curiosity as to what circumstances had befallen the youngest Featherington, leading her to say that she knew and understood a fraction of what Anthony had to go through since his father's untimely passing.

Since becoming Lord Bridgerton, he had been stuck in limbo. His role was somewhere between viscount, father, brother, and son. Or, more accurately, his roles had been all four together and more.

He used to be just the eldest brother. Now though, he was the closest thing to a father figure for Gregory and Hyacinth, even Francesca in some capacity—an awkward, yet endearing 'father-brother.'

He was all Hy knew, having not yet been born when their father died.

'I didn't think I could have done it as well as I did without you, or at the very least, the thought of you.'

The thought of Anthony—

Sigh.

The thought of Anthony had helped Penelope fulfill whatever duties were required of her for her family to survive.

She had thought of him.

What did she think? He found himself eager to know and unable to explain why.

How did she perceive him? Did she think him prideful and unfeeling and arrogant? Or maybe she saw him kind, dutiful, and loving—exactly how he wanted his family to see him?

Everything he did for his family had been by requirement. He was the heir. He was the eldest son. He was the viscount.

But that did not diminish the love and affection behind his every action. The family had often misunderstood, calling him overbearing or compassionless.

Had there been someone all along who saw the devotion and adoration behind the duty? Behind the viscountcy?

His fingers tightened on the edges of the parchment, the weight of her words pressing down on his chest. For the first time in years, Anthony felt… validated.

Her words lingered on the edges of his mind. What role could Penelope have been thrusted into? What burden could she have carried on her own? How could she speak with such conviction and genuine understanding of his own struggles?

'Anthony, I know you have your duties… But I hope you can find time to discover yourself outside of your responsibilities. Because admittedly, in the little amount of time I had to act a fraction of who you are, I almost lost myself completely.'

Could he, though? Was it possible for him to discover himself? To realize the man he was supposed to be had his father lived longer?

Could he still have the chance to know himself outside of who he is expected to be?

If so, would he dare try and find out?

His past seemed to have set his future in stone. Hadn't it?

Hadn't it?

A sudden feeling of resolve came over him. He had made a decision after nine days of internal deliberation, and in the split second that he did, he had already started making plans. He had begun mapping his and his family's next steps.

And he needed help. For the first time in over a decade, he would ask for help. Could Ben—

—There was a familiar soft knock on the door. His mother. At this second, the world around him and outside his study had come to focus. He hastily put the letter back into its drawer. There were voices beyond his door, worried and hurried and—

"Anthony?"

"Yes, mother? You may come in."

Violet opened the door and hurriedly sat in the chair across Anthony's. She looked anxious. She was still in her nightclothes. Something was amiss.

"Anthony, Lady Whistledown is retiring."

Anthony started. That was definitely not what he expected.

"I beg your pardon, mother… Wha—"

His mother cut his words off. "Lady Whistledown is retiring and she has published her final, most revealing issue this morning," Violet said as she nervously fanned herself with the society paper. "Son, it appears that your brother's— Colin's —actions may have driven Penelope away."

All the blood drained from Anthony's face, and his heart plummeted to his stomach.

Violer handed her eldest the pamphlet. "Here, Anthony. Read it. That poor girl."

Notes:

Hope you enjoyed this chapter. Thank you for all the love for this story so far. I hope I continue to meet your expectations.

Up next: The LW article

Chapter 7: No Stone Left Unturned

Summary:

Lady Whistledown's Final Issue

Notes:

I had some fun with this. I hope you have fun reading it, too! Just some made up names and rumors plus a very OOC LW in the end, which will also be a subject for Anthony to ponder on in the future.

LW is not very nice to Colin here, but I imagined if I was Pen, I'd be pretty upset with him too.

Colin is not evil. Just young, maybe a tad immature, and completely oblivious.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Lady Whistledown's Society Papers

16 May 1815

Dearest Gentle Reader,

They say "time heals all wounds," yet this author has peeled back the bandages of the past two seasons only to uncover no scab nor scar, but an infestation of scandal, intrigue, and yes, dear reader, even more fresh wounds festering underneath.

While the doctor may be out, this author is all in. And in my own chest of potions and powders, there is only one thing that proves to be the most healing balm of all: the truth.

Ah, the truth: friend or foe? Will it be much like the trusty headache remedy that rids you of your pain, or will it be closer to a nasty tonic—bitter, burning, and biting? Tread this paper carefully to find out whether this issue's revelations will provide your soul comfort or further complication.

I confess, this is where your humble author grows weary of 'doctor' and 'healing' metaphors, but where this paper lacks in curative and medicinal wit, salacious stories are in abundance.

It will not escape your notice that this issue is thrice the usual fee, but my two cents will always be worth your pretty penny.

Much like the heaviest, most exclusive tomes found in Mr. Quinn's Bookshop, or the rather delectable cheeses and meats imported from France, Italy, and Spain—or better yet, the elegant fabrics and designs of the famed Genevieve Delacroix—this author's finest words always come at a premium.

Today's issue is worth more because it gives more.

You shall be gifted with my most closely-guarded secrets unearthed from the pits of despair and debauchery of the very ton we all call home. A home I fear some of you will want to vacate to abscond to the country immediately and, perhaps, never to return—for all our sakes.

My dear readers will also be rewarded with the last of my prized opinions and a slew of parting words, filled with wisdom and wit.

Yes, my humble correspondent, this issue, which is the last one my readers shall ever receive, marks Lady Whistledown's retirement.

Before retirement, first must come business. Let us get right down to it, shall we?

Should White's and Mondrich's be made aware of new competition in Mayfair? Is Lady Henrietta's townhouse now a gentlemen's club? Lord Jasper has been seen leaving the widow's dwelling at a scandalous hour, quite a number of times over the last few months. Mister Baggs, spare to Lord Baggs's earldom, was spied leaving through the back gardens of the same home over the same period of time as Jasper. These tidbits of titillating tales come at the heels of Lady Henrietta cutting her cook's wages for her 'failure' to raise a soufflé to precisely four inches. My, my—if four inches is the standard to which the lady of the house is accustomed, I surely hope Jasper and Baggs rose to much better heights than that.

Speaking of heights—or a lack thereof—Lord Garrett's shortness in stature had not hindered him from standing on his toes to secure a match. While it is no longer news that he is betrothed to Miss Prudence Selkirk and set to marry at the end of this social season, what follows is. I sincerely hope that the kind and graceful miss has room in her heart for a new babe. Whispers have reached this author of a shocking affair between Garrett and one of their maids, leaving the girl with child, yet without a home. The maid in question was dismissed from the household and sent away. Where to? Hopefully somewhere near enough to be supported financially by Garrett and his rather… modest estate.

Modest is a word one does not easily attribute to the prideful and arrogant Lord Fife. He has been heard boasting of his very recent purchase of another country home in Kent! Congratulations on your new abode, Lord Fife. One wonders if the same news might reach the ears of those he owes a large sum—losses incurred at the Trowbridge Ball cards table. With this information as their ammunition, they might come knocking, guns drawn, demanding payment. Why the debt-ridden lord chose to purchase rather than pay remains a curious mystery to this author.

And oh, where debt resides, scandal seems a neighbor! The once-charming Baron Gilbert Townsend has vanished from society, leaving behind a trail of unpaid debts and an empty townhouse. Could his disappearance be related to his dubious business ventures?

While on the subject of odd disappearances, a drunk and disorderly Lord Lumley has been heard bellowing about 'misplacing' his youngest sister's dowry, before carelessly sharing his plans to marry the sister off to the old and graying brute, Lord Greer. Poor Miss Patricia—quite literally—was seen sobbing and confiding in her suitor, Lord Remington, at Hyde Park early the following day. Fortunately, Lord Remington is as chivalrous as he is aghast at the eldest Lumley's actions. Remington was overheard quietly vowing to his 'darling' Patricia that she shall be taken away from the irresponsible lord's clutches. The pair made a hasty retreat to Gretna Green to elope while Lord Lumley nursed his bottle-weary head. They have recently returned from an off-season honeymoon and were seen disembarking from their carriage flushed, smiling, and rather disheveled. One cannot help but be pleased with this love match, Lord Remington's honor, and Miss Patricia's well-deserved happiness, which she appears to have found seated atop the young lord's lap as he grins from his bath chair. Cheeky indeed—and this author approves.

The Featherington Ball at the tail end of the last season came with not one, not two, but three scandals as party favors for the entire ton.

Earlier that evening, the third Bridgerton son, Mister Colin, was seen rather indelicately dragging Miss Penelope Featherington to an unoccupied room unchaperoned! How he thought anyone could have missed such a ghastly shade of yellow fabric clashing with bright red hair fleeing the ballroom is beyond this author. After that, they were seen vacating the same room together still, yet no betrothal ring was sparkling on the young miss's finger. Such actions must at least result in a courtship or hasty nuptials, correct?

No, dear reader, because not even an hour later, Mister Colin Bridgerton drunkenly, rudely, and loudly announced to the eligible bachelors of the ton that he 'will never court Penelope Featherington' and that anyone would have to 'be mad' to do so.

Could this be the reason for the recent decrease of blinding sour colors out in the ton? Miss Penelope Featherington is yet to show her face and pineapple dresses to society, and was last publicly seen over one week ago.

Mister Colin Bridgerton left for the Greek Islands, as quickly as his wits deserted his brain that night, completely clueless and oblivious to the outcomes of his words and actions. Such rudeness and callousness to the Featheringtons, and in their home during their fete, no less! Was Mister Colin raised elsewhere? Did he live his young life far, far away from his family? One cannot help but assume so, since this is assuredly not how the Dowager Viscountess Violet Bridgerton and the Viscount Anthony Bridgerton raised the rest of the Bridgerton children.

When will fortune favor the Ladies Featherington? On the night of their ball, the new Lord Featherington—sworn to protect and care for the Dowager Baroness and her remaining two unmarried daughters—escaped to the Americas. And why, you ask, dear reader? Because the rubies he boasted of during the season were not only hideous, but also nothing more than mere glass. His American ruby mines have proven to be as empty as his promises of a good future for the Featherington household. This, most certainly, caused a great uproar amid the Mayfair investors!

Lady Featherington, however, was able to settle all debts using what remained of the Featherington funds, and with the help of a fortuitous inheritance from a distant Featherington aunt. A gambler for a husband (God rest his soul) and a swindler for a head of household… It is a blessing that the Dowager Baroness is a formidable woman, indeed.

Lady Featherington may be considered unlucky in Featherington men, but Lord Anthony Bridgerton appeared equally unlucky in matters of the heart. One cannot help but admire the grace and strength shown by the viscount and his former fiancée, Miss Edwina Sharma, in ending the engagement and parting ways with as much dignity as the situation allowed. No matter what occurred at the altar, it was evident to those who spared at least a glance for the Sharmas and Bridgertons on their many outings after the ill-fated nuptials, before all of Mayfair had all absconded to their respective country seats, that their friendship and respect remained intact, despite such an unexpected turn of events.

Since then, the rest of society has waited with bated breath for a match between the elder sister, Miss Kathani Sharma, and Lord Bridgerton, for the ton could not help but assume that an undeniable chemistry existed between the two. But can fierce—yet passionate—competition truly spark the flame of love? Can constant battles in wit and clever schemes mean passion? I think not. And, as usual, this author is correct. We are now well into the social season and there has not been an announcement of an engagement, nor a romantic elopement, between Lord Bridgerton and the elder Miss Sharma. Miss Kathani Sharma has returned to India with no viscount in tow, while Miss Edwina is in Prussia. The younger is currently being wooed and courted by Our Majesty's nephew Prince Friedrich, chaperoned by the mother, Miss Mary Sharma.

It is this author's hope that love will soon be kinder to the deserving diamond, the dedicated elder sister, and the honorable, dutiful viscount.

Alas, dear reader, this is where I bid you farewell. The past seasons have been the highlight of this author's life. The stories and secrets we have shared will always bring a smile to my face and, more importantly, a substantial increase to my coffers.

An interlude, if you please. A message to our Queen: Thank you for the exciting chase. Thank you for the long game of power, wit, and grace. I call this a tie, wouldn't you agree?

As my goodbye, I leave you these words of advice, admonishment, and reminder:

Duty to the self is as important as duty to the family, no matter how big or small a brood it is you manage. To find oneself and to learn to love what is discovered must never be set aside.

Love is a gift that is for anyone who chooses to open their eyes and really see. Once one does, one must embrace it with open arms and a welcoming heart.

Speak with care and compassion. Spiteful, hurtful words can never be taken back. Can one undo the damage caused by a knife thrust to the heart?

Offending actions done in ignorance are no less harmful nor painful than those done in earnest.

Remember, dear reader, love is forever. However, so is gossip. Sometimes, we thrive in both. Why? Because the flutters of the heart, the wagging of tongues, and the power of the word keep us on our toes, and will continue to do so in perpetuity.

So, who knows? Maybe you haven't seen the last of this wicked author yet. But for now, fare thee well.

Yours truly,

Lady Whistledown

Notes:

Hope you liked it. Thanks again for reading and leaving comments and kudos.

Up next: More of Penelope's country life We missed you, girly!

Chapter 8: Spinster At Last

Summary:

Let's take a peek at Penelope's new life as a spinster in the country

Notes:

This one here is the first chapter I wrote for this story. I am quite proud of it and it is, for me, a bright and light and joyful chapter. I see it as a story that is fitting for our romantic lead: kind and happy. Very different from the life she led in Mayfair. I hope you like it. Let me know what you think

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

(11 September 1815)

On a cool autumn afternoon in September, with a cup of mint and chamomile tea in hand, Penelope Featherington watched through the window of her sitting room as a carriage came to a halt at the gates of the house across the road. Penelope loved people-watching by the window of her country residence. It was a cozy home she had been fondly calling 'Quill Cottage.'

A sense of calm came over her as she put her near empty teacup down on a small table. A hint of a cool breeze blew through the open window as she sat upon a muted teal, comfortably worn leather chair. She continued watching across the way as two men exited the carriage and made their way into the house facing her own.

The house across from hers had also been for sale when Penelope's solicitor went searching for a cottage on her behalf, but the lovely gardens and the variety of flowers and little trees that surrounded Quill Cottage had stolen her heart and had encouraged her to seal the deal.

She momentarily paused her watching as the men were then out of sight. Penelope had realized that it had now been exactly four months since her well-planned, expertly executed arrival in Yorkshire.

She closed her eyes for a moment and sighed in utter contentment. Breathing in, she caught the familiar, warm, buttery aroma of Beatrice's apple pies. Her neighbor must be letting them cool on her windowsill. Penelope's mouth watered at the memory her first bite of Bea's pie, and she couldn't help but secretly hope that one might be brought over.

Penelope fluttered her eyes open, and with her dainty hands, she smoothed out imaginary wrinkles from her muslin skirts—a habit borne from the need to move and fidget that she had yet to retire, unlike her long-forgotten wallflower ways.

Penelope had not always been a wallflower—or at least, she was not always meant to be one. It was a role foisted upon her by her family and the ton , and the ruthless, judgmental society that thrived within it. She knew that within her breathed a confident woman—or probably someone who resembled 'confident.' The abilities that motivated and moved her to write and think and negotiate in the cutthroat world of publishing as Lady Whistledown had indeed proven—time and time again—that she was… more .

And yet, she had been relegated to the perimeter of every ballroom, the dingy, inconspicuous corners of her family's sitting room, or left well enough alone at the settee by the drawing room window of the Featherington Mayfair residence.

She had always believed that she would have and grow a loving marriage and a family that was the antithesis of her own. But that desire, that yearning, was reduced to ashes by relentless criticisms—too plump, too short, too bookish, too yellow.

The constant reiteration of her inevitable spinsterhood because she was both too lacking and too much had sealed her fate in the eyes of society, long before the events of the Featherington ball of 1814.

Four months ago, she officially started anew in the country. From her arrival, Penelope had been living a cozy, idyllic life in Yorkshire with her lady's maid Rae, and her cook and housekeeper Mrs. Dolores Cole—who works at Quill Cottage during the day, but heads back home to her husband in the village at the end of a day's work.

The past months had opened Penelope's eyes to the fulfillment of living in independence. Away from the ton . Away from her family. Away from… just away .

A spinster life in the country had once been a faraway dream Penelope shared with her bosom sister—or more accurately her former bosom sister—Eloise Bridgerton, despite Penelope's secret and once burning desire for a family of her own.

Even now, after months of successfully managing her own household and thriving in her writing career— oh , yes! More on that later—Eloise had been the one heartbreak she had failed to heal completely.

Memories of Eloise no longer sent Penelope into a rabbit hole of terribly missing and longing for her best friend. The fractures caused by the loss of her companionship had begun to settle and mend. Soon, she would be able to revisit these unresolved feelings. But the life she had been living, this story she had been rewriting, for now brought her the joy, contentment, and fulfillment she had always been seeking. And that was enough. Most truthfully so.

She gently shook her head to free herself from this moment of melancholy, causing some of her lush, red curls to escape from her simple plait. She was due for book club in an hour, but old habits die hard—her curiosity won over her gloom as she averted her attention from thoughts of Eloise to the two men across the road once again. They had just exited the house and were reviewing documents together on its porch. The taller of the two, who Penelope had assumed to be someone's solicitor based on their demeanor and more formal attire, signed the papers with a flourish.

Hmm… a new neighbor may be arriving in the village soon. Would they be as kind and welcoming like the rest of the villagers? Would they be as accepting of Penelope's spinster status as her neighbors and friends? Would they want to join her little book club?

Or would the incoming new arrivals bring more than just another friendly face? Perhaps, adventure? Intrigue?

Penelope cast those thoughts aside. She had probably had enough intrigue and adventure to last her at least a few more years. Thank you, but no.

Going back to the scene that played before her, she witnessed the two men share a firm handshake and a bit more small talk, their words lost in the breeze, a murmur carried away. They then gracefully stepped back onto the carriage, and a few moments later began their journey away from the quiet, quaint Helmsley village Penelope had called home.

Gathering the skirts of her lilac day dress, she had extricated herself from her favorite chair. It was time to freshen up and redo her hair to get ready for her book club meeting and welcome her favorite people from the village into Quill Cottage.

Penelope tried—and failed—to suppress an unladylike snort of laughter.

Penelope and a few ladies she had adoringly called her friends—yes, friends plural —started this 'book club' some time in June to discuss one of her favorite Jane Austen novels, Mansfield Park. They had made a truly delightful summer day of it, with tea and lively discussion flowing, and windows open to allow a summer breeze to weave through. They had talked, laughed, and bonded over their shared love of a good story and the written word.

However, three meetings and only a quarter of the book later, they collectively decided to finish Austen's work in their own time.

Dropping all pretense of a book club and of tea, the ladies had fully embraced the gatherings for what they were—afternoons of wine and gossip, of stories and giggles.

They had also started welcoming men into the fold, effectively expanding their little circle of like-minded friends, along with their selection of drink, of course.

After she had freshened up, Penelope made her way to the kitchen to check on Rae and Mrs. Cole. The Quill Cottage Trio had expertly prepared an array of pastries, as well as some meats and cheeses that complemented the wine Penelope had specially ordered and imported from Italy. They had also arranged for two bottles of top-shelf brandy for any of the ladies and gentlemen who wished to partake.

Upon entering the kitchen, Penelope inhaled deeply, relishing the warmth and the delightful aromas that greeted her. The scent of butter, flour, spices, and the tempting fragrance of freshly baked goods lifted her spirits.

"It smells absolutely divine in here," Penelope as good as sighed, as she looked over the toasty pastries Mrs. Cole had prepared.

"Yes, miss," Rae said, her anticipation evident as she gracefully moved and weaved through the kitchen. "Mrs. Cole has outdone herself once again. She's perfected her croissants and we are both eager to see the book club's reaction!"

Mrs. Cole indelicately guffawed at that. "You keep saying 'book club,'" she started, "but it has been ages since I last saw a book in the sitting room when you lot are around." She ended this astute observation with a teasing smirk.

Penelope laughed heartily at that, being that the statement was as true as it was quite funny. This gathering had ceased to function as a book club for some time now, and yet is still lovingly referred to as such by those who religiously attended it. A weekly late afternoon reprieve.

As they finished setting the tables, arranging the seats, and completing the spread of food and drink, a knock on the front door echoed through the sitting room.

"Ready, ladies?" Penelope asked her ragtag team of hostesses, clasping her hands together under her chin, her cheeks flushed with excitement. Rae and Mrs. Cole had so enjoyed hosting with the youngest Miss Featherington, as their mistress poured her heart and joy into their little soirées, tea parties, and gatherings. Penelope was in her element. Finally .

One by one their guests arrived: John Hamilton, the baker, and his wife Joanna; Christine Danvers, the vicar's daughter; Marcus Reynolds, who owned the tavern Penelope frequented; Viola Bennett, the village seamstress; Michael Roberts, who owned the village stables; Gerald Wynn, the bookshop owner; and David Crowne and his wife Beatrice, Penelope's immediate neighbors.

The late afternoon was filled with the joy of catching up with friends. Gossip and laughter filled Quill Cottage, bursting at the seams with fondness and companionship. As was habit, Rae and Mrs. Cole had sat with the group as well, reveling in the sheer delight of company.

Hours later, with the guests satisfied with good food and filled with drink—the pastries, wine, and brandy all a success—the book club bid farewell to their hostesses. But not before stubbornly insisting on helping with the cleanup wherever Penelope allowed them.

Every 'meeting' had so far ended the same way—with everyone wanting to help in some way or other, and Penelope trying and failing to stop them. Alas, the guests' country charm had won every single time. And Penelope wouldn't have had it any other way.

The book club was a hard headed bunch, and Penelope's dearest in Yorkshire.

With the dishes cleared and cleaned, and the seats and tables put back in their places, Penelope, Rae, and Mrs. Cole said their good nights, chests filled with contentment and hearts aglow with joy.

Tomorrow would be a brand new day, filled with the same promise, the same errands, the same responsibilities, but as welcome and definitely as exciting as it had been every day since their arrival. Life was good.

And as Penelope began to drift off to sleep, her mind repeatedly played images of tea and books, of departing carriages and an air of new beginnings. She was caught off-guard by the skip in her heartbeat, her drowsiness temporarily forgotten, replaced by a sudden feeling… an inkling… nay, a nagging idea tickling the back of her mind that despite the drastic changes of the past months in Quill Cottage, a greater, bolder change was still to come.

Setting aside those exciting thoughts not at all conducive to rest, Penelope then grasped onto the sleepiness that had earlier evaded her, and fell into a comfortable slumber, completely unaware that the evasive feeling, inkling, nagging thought would soon prove to be correct.

Life was indeed good. And her world had indeed changed. But little did she know, fate was not done with her yet. Hope had not left her yet. And a future of love?

What had once been never , tonight had shed its cloak and mask to reveal something new. Something far more optimistic, perhaps even promising: Maybe .

Notes:

Oh, my days! A new neighbor? Surely a stranger lol

Up next: More of Anthony and the Bridgertons
Then: Pen, Gen, and the Granvilles!
After: More plans, a little similar to Ch. 1 but not quite

Chapter 9: So Long, Farewell

Summary:

The Bridgertons say bye-bye to Ant! Everyone's teary and sad/happy. Anthony leaves, unsure of what's ahead but ready for his big adventure.

Please note the time jump. We went from May to September! More jumps in the future, maybe, so mind the dates if there are any in the chapters.

I hope you like this chapter. Let me know what you think

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

(21 September 1815)

It had been over four months since Penelope's letter.

Four months since Anthony's life had started to change.

Four months since he'd decided to leave Mayfair.

The state of things seemed to have taken a turn, whether for the better or for the worse, only time would tell—and what lay ahead was for Anthony to explore on his own.

On this chilly September morning, Anthony watched as the footmen loaded the last of his belongings onto two carriages in front of Bridgerton House.

His family—except Colin, off gallivanting wherever , and Daphne, pregnant and nauseous—was there to bid him goodbye and wish him well on his journey towards… something .

But what?

Maybe it would be entirely new and different. Maybe it would be innate and hidden and long-forgotten.

Or maybe this something would turn out to be his everything .

Such high hopes for a year away , Anthony thought.

He had no idea what awaited him but was resolved to uncover whatever lay ahead.

For the first time in a long time, Anthony had no clear goal in mind. All he had now was a house in the country, his belongings, his staff, and a heart that is set to just live .

For the first time in a long time, the man of structure—the head of the family and the Viscount Bridgerton—had a clean slate and clear mind.

He had no pressing tenant matters.

No urgent estate tasks.

No business appointments to keep.

He sighed, caught between feeling unnerved and at ease. His pulse danced to the rhythm of some erratic tune with no structure.

The situation in its bizarre nature only solidified Anthony's need to leave. His departure had become an absolutely non-negotiable necessity.

Anthony was used to overseeing everything—replenishing his mother's and sisters' coffers, managing the estate, balancing accounts, and more. His responsibilities never ended.

He knew where he was needed and when and why and how much so. He was always giving and providing. Teaching and leading.

But on this most important day… Anthony was the one being fussed over ? The one worried about ?

This was all new.

He stood still and gazed at his family as they walked around seeing to his carriages, inspecting his things, talking to the skeleton staff he was bringing with him to the country, and checking on him and his disposition over and over. Unusual, surely—but never unwelcome nor unwanted. It was… freeing.

Anthony hadn't even departed yet, but what he had set to heal had already started mending. What he had set this journey for had already begun to bare itself before him.

He had never before asked for help or assistance when it came to his own life and affairs—let alone acknowledge or recognize when he needed the aid.

But the moment he actually did… the moment he called on Benedict and his mother once he'd settled on spending a year in the country to perhaps rest and heal—even to mourn and wallow—or just to sleep and rot in bed… they had done nothing but support him and love him. They had assured him that they would be all right. That he would be all right, too.

That they would be there at Bridgerton House anticipating his return, praying for his safety, waiting with open arms to welcome him back in a year.

This morning, on the day of his departure, his two youngest sisters had been crying since breakfast.

Eloise was, well—Eloise. Teasing and jesting, yet lovingly and never unkindly. When tears were underway, she knew how to keep them at bay.

Benedict had been reassuring him that what he was about to do was brave and right and his mother had been watching him in awe and pride and sadness.

"Mother," Anthony began after Violet made him promise to stay in touch. "Of course I shall always write to you. You need not worry about corresponding with me as often as you desire. I shall now have—as they say—all the time in the world," he continued with a shy grin, a lump in his throat, and tears beginning to form in his eyes.

"Dearest," Violet called with a soft smile and a wistful look in her misty eyes. "I will miss you. Please believe that whatever it is you seek, you shall find. You have always been confident and resourceful. Do not doubt yourself, especially now."

She kissed him on his cheek, gently lifting her right hand to land atop his left shoulder. "I want you to know that I am proud of the man you are , son. And I look forward to meeting the man you will become. Whether it's the same one who leaves today, or someone new—or someone you were always meant to be—I shall love that man no matter what. I shall love you, whoever you are, when you return."

Anthony closed his eyes as he wrapped his arms around his mother, breathing in the familiar fragrance of roses in her hair. He squeezed her tightly, as though letting go would somehow unravel everything he had ever known.

He had never been away from his family for longer than a week since his days at Oxford. Stepping into the viscountcy so young had denied him the Grand Tour that most men of his status enjoyed. Now, uncertainty loomed ahead, and the thought of leaving weighed heavier than ever.

Of course he didn't want to let go of his mother. To break free from her warm embrace—her embrace that promised comfort and safety and home .

But he had to. Reluctantly, he eventually did.

"Hurry back to us, fa —brother," Hyacinth sobbed, her voice breaking at her almost-slip, no matter how hard she tried to hold back. "I shall miss you too m—much," she cried as her face crumpled, tearing a corner of Anthony's heart.

Hyacinth had always instinctively felt the uniqueness of her bond with Anthony, but it had never been more poignant than in this moment.

Gregory and Hy—Francesca, to some extent—had always felt more like his children than his siblings. He had been their only father figure for most of their lives.

Anthony scooped Hyacinth up, holding her tightly while whispering words of comfort, promising to write soon. Uncaring of the state of their rumpled clothes, Hy held onto him as though both their lives depended on this very embrace.

It had almost seemed a lifetime ago when he held her for the first time on the day of her birth. A lifetime ago when he lulled her to sleep or soothed her wails.

Hyacinth had always been his little girl—and always would be.

Anthony then felt a little tug at the back of his traveling cloak.

"Anthony, p—please."

"Oh, Greg," the eldest Bridgerton sobbed as he turned around. He then secured Hyacinth in one arm as he picked Gregory up with the other, giving the boy exactly what he needed—his big brother. His father. His everything.

Anthony was determined to make a brief return in January, just to take Gregory to Eton, and—well, he'd rather not think about that right now. This single instance of one leaving the other had already been more than enough to bear.

His cravat was now askew, his shirt wrinkled and wet with his siblings' tears. As he set both Hy and Greg down and kissed them on the tops of their heads, the weight of the responsibility of being their protector settled over him.

No matter how long he would be away, no matter how quickly they grew before his eyes, they would always be his children—in his heart and soul.

Anthony made his way to Eloise and Francesca. The two sisters were standing behind everyone else, eyes wet, waiting in silence as they held hands.

"Brother, do take care," Francesca said as he stopped in front of the pair, fresh tears falling from her pretty, brown eyes.

"Of course, sweetheart," Anthony replied.

"You must write to me. You should have more than enough time to practice being a better correspondent wasting away in the country, brother," Eloise then teased.

"El, you are impossible," her brother chuckled.

"Yet you love me still."

"That I do. And don't you ever forget it, nor doubt it."

Anthony held tightly onto his sisters' entwined hands, urgently pulling them both to his chest, memorizing the way they felt in his embrace, how their hair tickled under his chin.

He remembered the days when they would cling to him, on his legs or in the crooks of his arms. The days when they had told him everything —what they ate, what they played, when they napped, what flowers they had picked or what books they had read.

Moments of quiet reflection on the unconventional life they had all lived together stole their way into this somber, yet hopeful, morning of adieus .

The two ladies let each other's hands go to wrap their arms around Anthony. They held onto his back as they soothed and comforted each other as only loving siblings could.

Once Anthony let go and finished peppering kisses on both his sisters' faces, he looked around, searching for his brother. His only sibling who had always been just his brother. His dearest friend.

"Ben," Anthony whispered as he approached him, already struggling with his tears and emotions, already feeling the crush of guilt and—

"Ant, I know that look," Benedict said with a quiet but knowing smile, interrupting Anthony's thoughts and his self-chastising. "There is no need for you to feel guilty."

"I know this isn't what you had in mind to be doing. I know this is a lot and—"

"Brother, please," Benedict started. "I will take care of everything—if there is still any left to take care of. You have trained and taught me well. You have made sure that our staff are well-informed and prepared for your departure. I will do just fine overseeing everything."

Anthony opened his mouth to say something, but Benedict was quick to stop him and continued with his reassurances.

"And yes, I will watch over the family. Yes, I will support and assist our mother. And… yes, I will remind Colin of his promises to stay home while you are away. He shall not be making any calls on your funds for his travels whilst I'm in charge."

Anthony let out a bark of laughter, the movements causing his unshed tears to fall.

Ben knew exactly what Anthony needed to hear. He knew that his brother needed to know that his leaving was not an inconvenience.

Benedict had carefully and specifically summarized all the work they had done the past four months to soothe his brother's worries. Anthony was meticulous—he liked his lists.

Of course, it worked. No one knew Anthony better.

"You have always taken care of us, brother," Benedict said as he used his palms to wipe away his elder brother's tears, his words causing Anthony to stare at him in surprise.

Anthony swallowed, the words settling within him—uncomfortable yet warm in his chest, causing his heart to expand and grow in perfect adoration of his younger brother.

"As embarrassed as I am to admit it, your role in this family and this estate has become a thankless endeavor," Ben continued.

"Let us return a sliver of that now. Allow us to take care of you—by letting you be, by letting you go. You need this, Ant. I know you do."

Benedict then wiped his own eyes dry as best he could as he stood beside Anthony, slinging one arm around his shoulder to walk him to his carriage.

"We will be all right, trust me. You made sure of that, Ant. Not just today. Not just for your upcoming absence. But our entire lives, brother."

Benedict opened the carriage door and took a step back to look his brother over.

"You're ready, Ant."

"Am I?" Anthony nervously replied, as he once again took a breath to look around at his family, his heart already aching and yearning for them, moments before he even got on the carriage that will take him to a future unknown.

"Always."

Benedict came closer once more, enveloping Anthony in an unyielding embrace. He kissed him on his temple, eliciting a wet chuckle from Anthony again.

"I love you, Ben. Thank you."

"Love you, brother," Benedict answered as he gently pushed him onto the waiting seat in his carriage. "Now go. Live a life, Ant. We'll be waiting for you."

Once Anthony settled in and the door was secured, he took one last look at his family before signaling the driver to depart.

In that long moment, he etched their faces into his memory, holding onto the love and warmth they gave him in ridiculous portions.

This moment would have to last him through the year ahead.

He committed to memory the unique energy in the air—a glowing and growing feeling of adoration, promise, and trust.

He raised his hand in farewell. And for a fleeting moment, he wondered if leaving was the right choice. Can a year away truly mend what had been frayed for so long?

But that was all it was, at least for now—one final fleeting moment of uncertainty.

As the carriage turned the first corner, he finally let go, feeling a kind of grief deep in his bones—his chest tightened, his vision blurred, and his shoulders shook as he surrendered to his sadness at leaving. To his fear of the indefinite and unexplored.

He surrendered to his desire for this one year away from those he loved most to be worth the ache.

The pain settled deep, a heavy stone in his chest.

Soon enough, a little ways down the road en route to the country, the hurt and the ache had met with hope and anticipation—a cocktail of emotions that excited and terrified him in parallel strength.

Hope , he thought. How daunting.

The carriage drove on, taking him away from the role set upon him since he was eight and ten. Driving him away from his duties. Away from Mayfair. Further and further from everything that came with his life at Grosvenor Square.

Where to?

A place where everything, or perhaps nothing, laid in wait.

A quiet village in Helmsley, Yorkshire.

Notes:

Dun-dun-dun lol (As if you had no idea )

Thank you for reading! I will try to update regularly but we are almost done with the finished chapters I have ready.

Up next: Pen, Gen, and the Granvilles!

Then: Anthony's preparations. A collection of letters and correspondence to and from the desk of Viscount Anthony Bridgerton. From May to September 1815.

Then: Pen gets a new neigbor (almost there folks! Hope it will be worth your patience)

Chapter 10: Off to the Country

Summary:

• More of Penelope's country life
• Pen gets a letter from Gen
• Gen and the Granvilles visit!
• Penelope's guests from London enjoy their stay

This chapter is more of the lovely life our Penelope is enjoying in Yorkshire. Light, happy, fun

Notes:

Some crass language coming. Just a little bit.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

(12 September 1815 onwards)

"Miss," Rae called as she entered Quill Cottage, effectively catching the attention of the young woman. Penelope looked up from her book. Since sunup, she had been reading in her favorite chair by the sitting room window with a cup of tea and some of Mrs. Cole's biscuits.

"I've just retrieved your correspondence," Rae continued. "There is a letter waiting for you from Madame Genevieve Delacroix!"

Penelope's face broke into her warmest, most blinding smile, the very smile that had always brought joy and sunshine to a room.

"Truly, Rae? How exciting!" Penelope replied, practically jumping up from her favored seat to retrieve the envelope from her friend and lady's maid.

Just as Penelope was about to retreat to her bedchamber to read Gen's letter, Mrs. Cole arrived for the day, baskets hanging from her arms.

Only Rae lived with Penelope as the older woman had kept her residence in the village with her husband, Richard. All three of their children—Becky, Johnny, and Christopher—had gone and married. They occasionally still visited on birthdays and holidays. Penelope had met them and they had all been as kind and as caring as their parents.

She was usually much earlier to arrive and begin her day's work, but Mrs. Cole had to head to the market for some supplies for the cottage and to pick up Penelope's special orders of custom tea strainers from the local silversmith and woodworker.

"Heavens, Miss! What has you so excited?" Mrs. Cole asked as she made her way to the kitchen, bringing with her the two baskets filled with fresh produce, bags of flour, eggs, and other items Penelope hadn't yet ascertained. In one of the baskets sat a box, which Penelope guessed held her tea strainers. She eyed it eagerly, already anticipating the thrill of unwrapping its contents.

"A letter from London, Dolores!" Penelope exclaimed in delight. "Ladies, please excuse me. I am anxious to read this. I shall head to my bedroom. Please take a quick respite and have tea before starting your day."

As Rae and Mrs. Cole nodded their acquiescence and made their way to the kitchens, Penelope bounded up the stairs and into her room.

She sat at her desk by the window to retrieve her letter opener. Carefully, she slid the apparatus underneath the seal to lift the envelope's flap, and then pulled out the folded parchment.

As Penelope read, her face grew more and more animated with each passing line of the letter.

Ma petite,

How are you? I hope you've been enjoying your new life in the country, friend! London isn't the same without my partner in crime. I miss you dearly.

I write you bearing the most wonderful news! The Granvilles and I shall be taking you up on your offer, Pen. We will be staying with you for three weeks before we make our way to Milan to spend the rest of the off-season there.

After our time with you—talking, gossiping, drinking, eating, and drinking some more—we shall retreat to Italy to immerse ourselves in their arts and fashion scene. And, of course, to make passionate memories with Italian men (and women). Naturally.

I do hope they make love as well as they make wine, my sweet. It'll take us over two weeks to get there from Yorkshire! Their performance must be stellar for all the trouble.

But the trip will be worth the trouble already, as I'll be studying in Milan, just as I did in France some seasons ago. Mayfair needs something new and exciting in its fashions—and over my dead, beautiful, well-dressed body will I let another designer bring it to the ton. We shall not have that, non?

(Pen, is that a good rhyme? Lie to me and say it is when we arrive!)

Now, I hope you have enough time to prepare for our visit. We'll be arriving on the 15th of September —though between Henry, Lucy, and me, it is your company we crave most of all, dove!

Ah, yes! Belated congratulations—your final column was a success. So many sold, dear, and so much chaos in the streets! Such fun. I'll bring you a copy to keep as I know you treasure each and every one.

Now for some gossip for the retired scandal sheet writer: The Bridgertons have been asking after you! A LOT . The four youngest seem to be very obsessed with you—AND the sinfully delectable yet too-adorable Benedict.

Of course, Miss Eloise is as Miss Eloise does. She just interrogates me in too-loud whispers.

But here's the surprise: Viscount Bridgerton dropped by as well! Three times, chérie.

First was when he himself picked up some ribbons for the youngest, Miss Hyacinth—odd, I know—and the second time was when he chaperoned Miss Francesca. He waited outside during Miss Francesca's visit but I was still able to talk to him.

The third time, he had dropped his 'errand' charade! Lord Bridgerton saw that the shop was empty and grabbed that opportunity to quickly talk to me at my desk.

Naturally, I told them all the truth—that we haven't corresponded since your departure and that I'm visiting you at the end of the season with the Granvilles.

Oh, my dear, how exciting it is to be someone the Bridgertons are jealous of! They're much too spoiled by their mother and the viscount, and having something they want but cannot have—like your address and your friendship—is a thrill.

I'll admit, Lord Bridgerton nearly charmed your whereabouts out of me with just a few words and that devilish smile. The Bridgerton je ne sais quoi should be made illegal. No wonder Siena was smitten with him for a time. Si told me that the eldest of the brood was fantastic to tup but far too dutiful and brooding.

But worry not, Pen, I gave them no clue where you are. All your secrets are safe with me. And the Granvilles of course—I tell them everything, as you know.

Speaking of secrets and fantastic tupping, have you met someone yet? Maybe a baker who loves to knead and is good with his hands—or a tailor who pays attention to every little detail? Maybe a country doctor who gives a thorough examination?

Before you left, you begged me to tell you of the "marital act." Have you practiced yet? A kiss, at the very least? Tell me everything when we arrive!

(Your cheeks must be as red as your hair by now. I wish, I WISH, I could see you this second! Oh, you know how much I adore scandalizing you.)

Where was I? Ah, I've rambled far too long. My thoughts are all over the place. How do you do this so eloquently? I can barely finish a sentence without moving on to the next idea.

Anyway, we'll see you on the 15th, chérie, and we will talk endlessly then.

Love,

Gen

Shopping, cleaning, and preparing kept the household in a delightful frenzy—Penelope, Rae, and Mrs. Cole were nothing if not dedicated hostesses.

When Gen, Henry, and Lucy finally arrived, Penelope was overjoyed. As much as she had loved her life in the country, she missed her friends terribly.

The trio had spent their first night at Quill Cottage in rest and recuperation. Four days of travel can be quite taxing!

The larger guest room across Penelope's was assigned to the Granvilles, while Genevieve was given the smaller, yet equally charming one, beside the master bedroom.

The days that followed were exquisite. Gen and the Granvilles were introduced to the 'book club' and they adored the company and the experience. At first, they were quite apprehensive since they had never been voracious readers, opting to partake in more artistic endeavors. Penelope had decided to conceal the fact that it was no more a book club meeting than one of Henry's artist gatherings—without the debauchery—as a surprise.

When the guests from London arrived in the downstairs sitting room to meet the rest of the book club with Penelope, they had been pleasantly surprised that what the meeting lacked in books, it made up for in gossip, food, wine, and brandy.

Penelope's book club, Rae, and Mrs. Cole had gotten along splendidly with the London visitors, and they all loved hearing stories about life in society, and titillating tales about their art circle.

In the mornings, Penelope, Gen, and the Granvilles enjoyed the cool weather shopping at the village market stalls for trinkets and souvenirs.

Lucy had fallen in love with Yorkshire gin and begged Penelope to send a crate to London before the next social season begins.

Genevieve hoarded handcrafted wooden buttons, wool fabrics, leather, and tweed. Penelope will be sending these to London as well, the same time as Lucy's crate of gin.

They had also visited a local pub and reveled in the company of the vibrant villagers and other travelers.

Though they resided and conducted their business in high society, Genevieve and the Granvilles thrived socially in more relaxed atmospheres, and they had found a perfect one in Yorkshire, in the delightful company of their dear Penelope.

Quill Cottage was situated at the end of a cul-de-sac, where a handsome row of oak trees lined the far edge, starting to the side of the cottage and extending to the house across the road. In the afternoon, sunlight filtered through the branches and leaves, creating a beautifully warm and glowing scene.

One afternoon during the first week of their visit, Henry caught a glimpse of the treeline and was instantly drawn. He then hastily ran through the cottage, startling the ladies in the sitting room during tea, and retrieved his art supplies from his trunk upstairs.

He set up his station right at the end of the cobblestone street, facing the nature scene directly.

Since then, the three ladies took their tea outside to accompany Henry as he worked on his painting. At first, the painting was a lovely landscape, but as Henry spent more time immersed in the scene, it began to take on life. The final piece portrayed Penelope, Gen, and Lucy having tea, laughing and smiling in the foreground, with the captivating afternoon view of sunbeams and rays, and a line of majestic oak trees behind them.

Penelope's helpers, Rae and Mrs. Cole, had continued to do their very best, making sure that Penelope's friends were always satisfied with lodging, food, and drink.

Quill Cottage's guests had loved every single food item that Mrs. Cole had prepared for them: a rotation of Yorkshire bacon, porridge, kippers, fried bread, parkin, and toast with eggs for breakfast; scones, jam, croissants, ginger biscuits, and loaves for tea; Yorkshire pudding, various meat and cheese pies, and fish and chips for lunch; and roasts, stews, and crumbles for supper.

Gen, Henry, and Lucy rose in the morning and went to bed happy and contented.

" Chérie ," Genevieve murmured by Penelope's door before turning in to sleep one evening. It had been another eventful day.

Penelope and her guests had taken supper in one of the taverns in the village. The place was packed with locals and travelers, since it had been quite famous for serving the best Shepherd's Pie in all of Yorkshire.

"I am so happy for you, dove," Gen continued, as the corners of her mouth lifted to a small, secretive smile. The warm glow from the candle in Penelope's hand highlighted Genevieve's high cheekbones and her adorable beauty mark. "You are more yourself here than I have ever seen you outside of our company in London."

She reached out her hand, warm, gentle, and endearingly calloused from all her hard work. With this hand, she cupped Penelope's right cheek as she placed a chaste kiss on the left.

"I was already quite proud of the kind, intelligent woman you then were. But seeing you now in all your confidence and courage has made me love you more, my sweetest friend."

"Oh, Gen—I… I don't know what to say," Penelope stammered, never having been accustomed to such high praise.

"There is no need to say anything, ma petite . It is just a truth we've all been meaning to share with you and tell you to encourage you. Let's just leave the words out there on their own for a while. Should you need them, you'll know where to find them. Grab them and hold on to them then, and remember how the people who love you always see you."

(25 September 1815)

On a serene afternoon nearing the end of the second week of this short but fulfilling country visit, Penelope and her guests were having tea in the downstairs sitting room. Henry was idly sketching away on a pad, joining in on the conversation every now and then, when he suddenly spoke with casual importance.

"Pen, dear, I forgot something I've been meaning to share with you," Henry said. He placed his pad and charcoal down on the corner of the center table to avoid any possible mishaps with the tea.

"Benedict Bridgerton has postponed his application to the Royal Academy to the next social season. He has decided to extend his training and lessons under my tutelage before he formally sends his samples to apply."

Penelope's cheeks turned a hint more pink than normal as her mouth fell slightly open into a perfect little 'o.' With her peaches and cream complexion, even the lightest of pinks was obvious though.

Henry smirked mischievously before continuing with his story. "Benedict says that he has you to thank for that. He says that in your letter to the Bridgertons, you ordered him to be—what's the word?—Ah, yes, 'Be wonderful!'" Henry then laughed in such fondness for the woman in his presence. "How did you know what to tell him? How did you know he would listen?"

Her teacup was in her hand, but suspended somewhere between her mouth and the table. Penelope had written that letter months ago, and had been caught off guard with its mention.

She smiled at Henry as she placed her cup on its saucer on the table.

"Henry, like all the Bridgertons, Benedict is both stubborn and passionate, often diving headfirst into things without thought," she said with a chuckle.

"Oh, yes, I remember when he dived headfirst between my le—"

"Gen, please. No. He is a big brother to me."

"He definitely was not to me, ma chère ."

Penelope gave her friend an incredulous look, though the corner of her mouth betrayed a smile. She couldn't deny Gen's ways, but she wasn't about to entertain this line of conversation.

"I am an artist, too, though with a quill and parchment. I had read tons and wrote even more before publishing any of my literary works."

When Penelope arrived in Yorkshire, she had instantly felt bereft not having to do any researching or eavesdropping or any scribbling of notes.

Her finances were secured for life, but she was left to ponder exactly what kind of life it would be if she did not have her writing.

She yearned to write. To create.

Barely even a month after arriving in this Helmsley village, she had once again reached out to her trusted solicitor, to seek his assistance in publishing the stories for young misses she had tucked away in a well-loved journal under another pseudonym.

Herein began the journey of Bridgette Feathers, author of the literary series 'The Adventures and Misadventures of a Wallflower.' These books revolve around Clara, a young miss in society, and her stories of growth, self-acceptance, friendship, and confidence.

Though fairly new, her first book of the series had gotten quite popular among the upper class and had been very profitable thus far. 'The Adventures and Misadventures of a Wallflower: The Great Escape' was followed by 'Bookshop Destiny.' Soon enough, 'The Secret Artist' would extend the series and grace the shelves of every little miss who loved to read, just as a young Penelope did.

"Before I became Bridgette Feathers," she continued. "I was Lady Whistledown, Robert Penny, and Annie Williams. From one artist to another, I felt that he needed to know that there was no rush to apply."

She lifted her teacup to her lips and took another languid sip, relishing the taste of lavender and honey.

When she was done with her drink, she continued, "The school will always be there. There will always be opportunities for him to join the fray. But Benedict needed to grow and figure out who he is as a person before committing to something huge for him. He may be crude and funny, at times loud, but if he gets rejected, that will shoot down his confidence drastically. More practice and training under the great Henry Granville will do him well," she finished with a smile.

A full-bellied laugh erupted unbidden from Henry at her final quip. He wiped tears of mirth from the corners of his eyes.

It was getting late in the afternoon by this time. A warm golden glow shyly clothed the desk by the sitting room window as the sounds of hooves and wheels filtered from outside.

"Well," Henry said after drinking the rest of his tea. "We've been working on his projects since May, until we had to leave for the country. We will resume when I get back to London, and hopefully by then, the work he would do in the off-season will earn him my seal of approval, or at the very least, kinder criticism," he smirked.

"Didn't he also mention that Lord Bridgerton endorsed the estate to him and his staff?" Lucy asked Henry.

Penelope's eyes were as wide as the dainty saucers on her center table. If she had been surprised, which she indeed had been, she did not much show it.

Surely not?

Henry answered his wife, "Yes, my love. But with Lord Bridgerton's staff overseeing the estate with him, he'll have enough help to manage it all."

"Anth—Lord Bridgerton—what?" Penelope finally asked.

Anthony Bridgerton had always been all about his family, his duties, his estate, his investments, and his businesses. He rarely had time for anything outside of these most important priorities. This was… quite surprising indeed.

Surely her letter hadn't made an impact on yet another Bridgerton brother.

Right?

Right?

"Yes, dear Pen," Genevieve answered her friend's almost-question. "We were all surprised as well when Benedict shared the news during one of our soirées. He had always said that since taking over when the patriarch died, Lord Bridgerton had been solely focused on the estate. Benedict did not, however, tell us why he'd been left in charge."

In her head, Penelope had been trying to make sense of this news. Had he listened to her advice like his younger brother? Was he finally thinking of himself, much like Penelope did when she first decided to leave Mayfair?

Surely, he hadn't—

"... Are you there, Penelope?"

"Oh, I—"

Lucy was staring at her with a sly grin. "Where did you go, Pen?"

"Sorry, I was lost in thought. What were you saying, Luce?"

"I was wondering if I could trouble you with some of that delicious gin!" she replied, with a smile similar to a little girl's in a sweets shop.

Henry and Genevieve burst out in laughter. Penelope smiled as she got up from her seat. "Would the two of you like some as well?"

"Yes, please!" they replied in unison.

Penelope grinned in fondness at her dearest friends. "I better get a whole bottle, then. Let me grab one from the kitchen and ask Mrs. Cole and Rae to set supper up at the dining room."

"Have them join us, dearest."

"I'll do that."

Penelope walked to the kitchen and lively chatter resumed in the sitting room. Men's voices from faraway, from somewhere out in the street, drifted through the open windows at the front of the house. She talked to Rae and Mrs. Cole about supper before making her way to the cupboards that held her wine and spirits.

She grabbed a fresh bottle, three glasses, and a plate of sliced meats and cheeses. Penelope then placed everything on a silver tray. As she lifted the tray, she heard a startled gasp erupt from where her friends were waiting for her to return.

"Is everything all right?" Penelope called out. Holding the tray securely in her hands, she started walking to the sitting room.

"Penelope, sweetheart?"

"Yes, Henry?"

"Pray tell, why is there a Bridgerton carriage across the street?"

It was fortunate that by the time Henry had finished his question and Penelope had jerked her entire upper body up to look out the window, the tray had already been secured on the table.

Why the bloody hell was Anthony Bridgerton here… standing on the porch of the house across the street?

Notes:

Let me know what you think! I hope you enjoyed this chapter

Chapter 11: A Bridgerton Paper Trail

Summary:

A collection of letters, missives, and correspondence to and from Viscount Anthony Bridgerton, his family, and his staff before the viscount's departure to Yorkshire

I made edits for clarity. Sorry about that! *

Notes:

Exactly how busy is the viscount? What had been done to prepare for his departure? Let's rifle through his correspondence today!

I have another chapter to upload in a bit

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

A collection of letters, missives, and correspondence to and from Viscount Anthony Bridgerton, his family, and his staff before the viscount's departure to Yorkshire

From Eloise, Violet, and Anthony

To Colin Bridgerton

Bridgerton House, London

The White Mare Inn, Seville, Spain

16 May 1815

Colin,

Idiot. I have enclosed why you are an idiot. I even marked the passage that would be of interest to you and your idiot brain should you have forgotten how to read, you absolute idiot.

Your most displeased sister,

Eloise—not El!!

My dearest Colin,

I hope this letter finds you well and that you are enjoying your travels. We pray for your safety always and await each of your letters eagerly.

However, I must express my disappointment in your behavior with our dearest family friend and neighbor, Penelope, at the Featherington Ball last July. Your actions were unbecoming of a Bridgerton. I have tried to understand, but I cannot and will not condone it.

Especially now that Penelope has left. We do not know where she is, Colin. She left a letter for the family, but did not tell us where she was going.

Enclosed is a Lady Whistledown pamphlet, which may provide you clarity.

With love,

Your mother,

Violet Bridgerton

Colin,

I hope your tour continues to be as enriching as ever. You remain in our prayers for a safe return.

That said, I cannot overlook your conduct at the Featherington Ball last year. I was under the impression that Penelope Featherington is your dearest friend. I cannot comprehend how one can do such actions to someone one claims to care for.

And now, Penelope has left Mayfair. Our family is distraught and worried since she did not say where she was headed, just that she would be retreating to a country home bequeathed to her. For how long, she did not mention.

Though months have passed since that ball, your actions remain unacceptable. The consequences are abysmal. We all bear the name Bridgerton, and I expected better of you.

I also write to inform you that I am leaving Mayfair for a prolonged stay in the country. I understand you cannot return early, given your travel arrangements my funds paid for, but I trust you will return by the first of October to assist Ben with family matters.

I have enclosed a Lady Whistledown pamphlet. I trust it will awaken your memory. Stay safe.

Your brother,

Anthony Bridgerton

By Proclamation of Her Majesty

Queen Charlotte Sophia of Mecklenburg-Strelitz,

Queen Consort of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland

18 May 1815

It is with the utmost grace and benevolence that I, Queen Charlotte, extend an invitation to the esteemed Lady Whistledown, should she decide to make herself known to Her Majesty.

Lady Whistledown has amused the ton for years, and for that, I now offer the prospect of friendship.

After all, in the game we have played, we stand tied as champions.

Yours truly,

Her Majesty Queen Charlotte

From the Desk of Viscount Anthony Bridgerton

To his solicitor and man of business

Mr. Jonathan Fairchild

Fairchild & Dunston Solicitors

London

6 June 1815

Dear Mr. Fairchild,

I write to inform you that I shall be leaving the country for a period of one year. In my absence, I entrust the management of all matters concerning the Bridgerton estate and the viscountcy to my brother, Mr. Benedict Bridgerton, who, as my heir, shall act in my stead. I ask that you provide him with your full assistance, should he require it, particularly in legal matters and estate management.

Mr. Bridgerton will be receiving additional training and instruction within the next month to prepare him for this role. I have full confidence in your guidance and expect that you will keep me informed of any significant developments.

Sincerely,

Viscount Anthony Bridgerton

Mr. Thomas Blackwood,

Blackwood & Sons Business Services,

London

6 June 1815

Dear Mr. Blackwood,

I shall be departing for a year-long absence and during this period, my brother, Mr. Benedict Bridgerton, shall oversee all investments, business ventures, and partnerships. I trust you will collaborate with him as needed.

Please ensure that the Bridgerton interests in the textile mill venture, our shipping trade, and all other ventures remain prosperous in my absence. I expect regular reports and updates to be sent to Benedict. I trust him explicitly.

I place full faith in your discretion and ability to manage these affairs competently.

Sincerely,

Viscount Anthony Bridgerton

From Colin Bridgerton to His Family

The White Mare Inn, Seville, Spain

Bridgerton House, London

14 June 1815

Eloise,

I have received your letter. And the Lady Whistledown pamphlet. I deserve every single 'idiot' in your missive. I assure you, I am committed to making things right and making amends if I ever find out where Penelope is.

I return to London in the last week of September. I shall face all consequences like a true Bridgerton then.

Yours in shame,

Colin

Mother,

Your words weigh heavily on me, and I am deeply sorry for all that I have done. I do not blame you for your disappointment. I was reckless and thoughtless. I am determined to do everything in my power to make amends, especially with Penelope, wherever she may be.

I will return home in the last week of September, as Anthony requested, to assist Benedict in his absence.

Thank you for your prayers, mother. I hope to make you proud upon my return.

With all my love,

Colin

Anthony,

I am embarrassed to admit that your words are more than deserved. I have indeed wronged Penelope in ways I cannot even begin to explain my way out of. I plan to make things right when I return, and as soon as I find out where she is, though I understand that may never be enough.

I will, of course, be back in Mayfair before the 1st of October, as you requested, and will take my duties seriously in assisting Benedict.

Your brother,

Colin

From the Desk of Viscount Anthony Bridgerton

To the Bridgerton Tenants

3 July 1815

Greetings!

I trust this letter finds you well. I write to inform you that I shall be away for one year. During my absence, my brother, Mr. Benedict Bridgerton, along with my solicitor Mr. Jonathan Fairchild, my steward Mr. William Turner, and my man of business Mr. Thomas Blackwood, will oversee all matters pertaining to the estate.

Please be assured that the Bridgerton estate will be left in the most capable hands, and any concerns you may have will be addressed promptly.

I shall return for a visit from Monday, the 10th of July through Saturday, the 15th of July, 1815, during which Mr. Bridgerton and I will make the proper introductions and review any matters that require attention.

I thank you for your continued cooperation and trust. I look forward to seeing you in July.

Yours sincerely,

Viscount Anthony Bridgerton

From Fairchild & Dunston Solicitors

To Viscount Anthony Bridgerton

1 September 1815

My Lord Bridgerton,

Recalling our agenda at our last meeting, I am pleased to inform you that the cottage in Yorkshire, the one mentioned in passing by my colleague, Mr. Banks, is indeed available for sale.

As requested, I have handled the matter with the utmost discretion, ensuring that your identity remains confidential. I informed Mr. Banks that my inquiry is on behalf of another client, thereby safeguarding your privacy.

If you wish to proceed, I shall finalize the sale forthwith directly with the current owner and ensure the cottage is prepared for your arrival. Please let me know if you have any further instructions.

Yours faithfully,

Jonathan Fairchild

From the Desk of Viscount Anthony Bridgerton

To the Bank of London, the family physician, His Grace Simon Basset, and others

10 September 1815

Mr. Alistair Fielding

Bank of London

Dear Mr. Fielding,

I write to you to ensure that all accounts associated with the Bridgerton family are in order before I depart for the country, where I shall be residing for one year at most.

During my time away, my brother Benedict Bridgerton will be overseeing the estate's and the family's affairs. I trust that you will extend him the same level of service that you have provided me over the years.

Should any concerns arise, you may direct them to Benedict or to our solicitor.

I appreciate your attention to these matters and anticipate that everything will be in order prior to my departure on the 21st of September.

Sincerely,

Viscount Anthony Bridgerton

Dr. Jonathan Davenport

Harley Street, London

Dear Dr. Davenport,

I write to inform you that I shall be leaving London to reside in the country for one year. In my absence, I entrust the health of my family to you, as you have done for many years. Should any of my family require your services, I trust you will continue to provide them with the excellent care they have always received.

In addition, my brother Benedict Bridgerton will be overseeing the family during my absence. Please ensure that any matters concerning the family's health are promptly communicated to him.

Yours sincerely,

Viscount Anthony Bridgerton

His Grace Simon Basset

Duke of Hastings

Clyvedon Hall

Dear Simon,

I write to remind you of my upcoming departure to Yorkshire. During this time, I would be grateful if you could look in on the family when you are able. Benedict will be assuming my responsibilities, but I would be much reassured knowing you are there to offer guidance, should he need it.

I trust my sister and Augie are in good health, especially now during Daphne's pregnancy, and I hope to hear of your continued joy at Clyvedon. Please give my love to my sister and the little one.

I look forward to seeing you upon my return and wish you well until then.

Sincerely,

Viscount Anthony Bridgerton

(To Mr. Quinn, Owner of Quinn's Bookshop)

Mr. Quinn,

I am writing to settle the account of my sister, Miss Eloise Bridgerton. Payment will be enclosed, and I appreciate your services rendered.

Sincerely,

Viscount Anthony Bridgerton

(To Mr. Abbott, Proprietor of White's Club)

Mr. Abbott,

As I make preparations for my impending extended stay in the country, I would like to settle our family's outstanding account with White's Club. Please provide the final amount due, and I shall ensure payment before my departure. I wish to leave matters in good order for my brother during my absence.

Sincerely,

Viscount Anthony Bridgerton

(To Madame Genevieve Delacroix, the Modiste)

Madame Delacroix,

Please accept my deepest gratitude for your continued services to my mother and sisters. I would like to settle any outstanding balances for their recent orders. Kindly send the final invoice so that these matters will be concluded before my departure.

I then leave matters to the capable hands of my brother Benedict Bridgerton in my absence.

With thanks,

Viscount Anthony Bridgerton

(To Mr. Langston, the Tailor)

Mr. Langston,

I write to you to ensure that any outstanding balances for the orders placed by myself and my brothers have been settled. Please send the final amount due, as I wish to leave all matters in good order prior to my journey to the country.

Sincerely,

Viscount Anthony Bridgerton

From Fairchild & Dunston Solicitors

To Viscount Anthony Bridgerton

11 September 1815

My Lord Bridgerton,

I am pleased to confirm the successful purchase of the cottage in Yorkshire. The deed has been transferred, and the property is now officially yours. Congratulations, sir.

As instructed, I shall commence the hiring process for a small household staff, including a butler, cook, maid, and two footmen. I am aware that you shall be bringing your current valet with you to the country. Rest assured that only the most competent and trustworthy individuals will be chosen to serve you.

The butler, cook, and maid will arrive ahead of you to prepare the cottage for occupancy. The footmen will be traveling with you to assist with the rest of your belongings.

Should you have any further instructions or preferences regarding the staff, please do not hesitate to inform me.

Yours faithfully,

Jonathan Fairchild

Notes:

Busy man

Colin now has three copies of LW's farewell issue. Pen thanks you for your business, Bridgertons!

Hope you enjoyed this interlude. So many calls on his funds and his time. He needs this break.

Up next: Anthony's Yorkshire arrival in the viscount's POV

Chapter 12: Alongside Rolling Hills

Summary:

Anthony's Arrival.

In this chapter, we will be messing around in Anthony's mind.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

(25 September 1815)

The past four days being on the road, riding in a carriage, sleeping in inns, and dining in taverns were challenging.

They were only about an hour away from their destination now, and Anthony was tired. The muscles in his legs were aching and his arms were tingling. His back was sore, his arse cheeks stiff.

Sigh.

Exhausted. Truly, he was. His body longed to sink in his massive, comfortable bed, with all the curtains closed, to surrender to a deep, uninterrupted, dreamless slumber.

He pressed the base of his palms against his closed eyes, in an attempt to rub and soothe their tiredness away.

Knackered. With nary a doubt. But his mind was running wild, his nerves alight with anticipation. His heart and his spirit, thrumming with hope at the mere idea of change, of ease and decompression.

There it was again. Hope.

Anthony had utterly high hopes in this brand new endeavor. He was determined to rest. He looked forward to working outside as he used to at Aubrey Hall with his father when he was still alive. He wanted to explore the village, to browse market stalls.

He wanted to ride with Aethon with no worry of rushing back to keep appointments.

He wanted to feel connected to the villagers. To dine relaxed. To drink in comfort.

Anthony wanted to grow his circle of friends and acquaintances beyond Simon and his former school mates.

Looking out of his carriage, he saw vast fields where sheep and cattle grazed. He saw patches of trees that promised shade and coolness, and hills of green that beckoned to be explored.

He then thought of Benedict and how he might lend him his Yorkshire home by the time the next social season concludes. Anthony may not be an artist, but he could not deny the beauty before him as he continued in his journey to a future yet undiscovered.

He stretched his arms forward, trying to relieve some discomfort in his joints.

As he relaxed against the back of his seat, he contemplated the reality of his situation. Simon was his only dear friend. And now that he was Anthony's brother-in-law, he had become more family than friend.

Resolved to make connections in Helmsley, in a quaint village he was to call his home, Anthony decided that after a bath and a nap, he would visit a nearby pub or tavern to drink.

As the carriage rolled along its uneven path, he realized that no matter what happens, whether he becomes successful in forging relationships or not, he would have a friend in Penelope.

Penelope. She did not even know he was coming—and that he was coming to stay .

Was he so brazen to assume that his little sister's best friend would be accepting, even welcoming, of his sudden appearance in her new life?

Would she even want a friendship with Anthony? The one man in the Bridgerton household she hadn't talked to beyond pleasantries and polite greetings? A few conversations about books and the weather and—

'How is the social season treating you, Miss Featherington?' his mind mocked.

He shook his head and once again closed his eyes. He took in a deep breath and while he exhaled, he counted to eight, trying to calm his thoughts.

The reality was that she had been talking to him for a while now—through her writing. Penelope had always been there for him. A quiet presence in his life. Her letter had taken up space in his pockets, his desk drawers, his mind, his heart.

Anthony placed his palm over his chest, right atop the breast pocket where he kept the very object that inspired this entire journey.

Penelope's letter.

He carefully pulled the parchment out to read it once more, to see with his eyes and touch with his fingertips the loops and lines and curves that graced the page—because by now, he'd had the words and their meanings etched straight into his memory.

It was this familiarity with the musings on the page that enabled him to actually see what had been in front of him and his family all along.

He held the letter in his left hand. His right then retrieved a pocket-sized ledger he used to record his personal expenses.

Anthony pulled out a pamphlet that he had kept there, nestled between pages.

Lady Whistledown's farewell.

It was the recurring themes of 'healing wounds' and 'licking wounds,' that first stirred his interest. By the time this pamphlet was released, he had already spent nine days poring over Penelope's letter that the similarities between her words and Whistledown's were easy to catch.

From the echoing of 'healing wounds,' to the mirroring of 'duty to oneself,' this mystery was a simple solve.

Anthony had marked, 'No matter how big or small a brood it is you manage.'

Penelope was rather careless in writing these, but Anthony did not mind. Otherwise, he would not have been able to make this connection between Penelope and Whistledown.

He would not have known where to find her.

And he wanted her friendship.

Anthony slid his treasured letter back into his pocket. He placed the pamphlet back among the pages of his personal ledger.

He then turned to the other pages in the same notebook to pull out three sheets of paper—more letters. But not from Penelope. Not from his family.

From Mr. James Harcourt,

Bow Street Runner

To Viscount Anthony Bridgerton

12 July 1815

My Lord Bridgerton,

I trust this letter finds you in good health. I regret to inform you that my investigation into the hackneys for hire has not yielded the desired results. No one was forthcoming with the identity of Lady Whistledown.

However, I did discover that her manuscripts were frequently delivered to Harris's Printing House by an Irish maid in her service. The hackney drivers refused to disclose any further information, merely the maid's origins based on her accent.

As per the agreement, my lord, kindly arrange the compensation for my services at your earliest convenience.

Sincerely,

James Harcourt, Bow Street Runner

From Harris's Printing House

To Viscount Anthony Bridgerton

20 July 1815

Lord Bridgerton,

While I appreciate your generous offer, I regret to inform you that I shall neither confirm nor deny your suspicions on Lady Whistledown's identity, regardless of the sum presented.

Lady Whistledown has brought my shop the best business I have seen in years, and I value the partnership we have established.

My business will do anything for Lady Whistledown, including maintaining the confidence of her identity, and that of her maid. Should she choose to come out of retirement, my loyalty will remain. I hope you understand my position.

Humbly,

Mr. Harris of Harris's Printing House

From "Mr. Moneygold"

To Viscount Anthony Bridgerton

31 July 1815

My Lord Bridgerton,

I am pleased to inform you that my position has indeed allowed me to acquire the information you seek. The recent transactions related to the individual we refer to as "Red" have been confirmed as you suspected.

You are also correct in your theory that her solicitor handles all her business from London on her behalf.

All inquiries were made with the utmost discretion, ensuring no attention was drawn.

A gentle reminder, my Lord, regarding the agreed "payment" for services rendered. Please feel free to contact me should you require further assistance.

Yours,

Mr. Moneygold

Penelope Featherington, through her letter, had intrigued him. She had ignited a fire of curiosity in him that only grew every time he read her words.

This flame burned anew that morning when he read the Lady Whistledown pamphlet.

Penelope Featherington was Lady Whistledown. His neighbor, his faraway and unseen friend, was the most notorious gossip writer in London.

Penelope had intrigued him.

But Lady Whistledown captivated him.

And they were one and the same.

However, he needed confirmation. He wanted to know if he was not only seeing things due to him obsessing over that modicum of understanding and compassion from an unexpected person.

Anthony thought of approaching Eloise, but he surmised that Whistledown may have been the cause of their quarrel, so he changed course to alleviate suspicion on his sudden curiosity about Penelope's activities.

Instead, he reached out to his Bow Street Runner connection to help him with Whistledown.

Although the investigation conducted on hackneys for hire did not lead to a confirmation of the writer's identity, it did lead Anthony to her printer.

The printer was unforthcoming, but he did not need his explicit words to move forward with his plans. He just needed to know if Mr. Harris was Whistledown's printer.

As loyal as he was, he had given her away still.

Lady Whistledown has brought my shop the best business I have seen in years.

Another connection with the banks in London helped Anthony trace a large sum transferred into Penelope's account from Mr. Harris around the time Whistledown's final issue was released. In her records, "Mr. Moneygold" found her solicitor.

Anthony's own solicitor asked after a home in the country, and Mr. Banks was quick to suggest a cottage his client had turned down for another. This would become the cottage Anthony purchased.

A few discreet inquiries helped the Bridgerton solicitor confirm that Penelope indeed resided in that same village.

A winding path of contacts and connections, of inquiries and schemes, had led Anthony to where he was.

Lost in his thoughts, he had failed to notice their arrival in the village and was caught unaware by the sudden stop.

When Anthony's carriage came to a halt, so did his beating heart.

'What am I doing,' he thought.

He quickly alighted from the carriage, ignoring the calls of his footmen and waving them off to continue unloading all their remaining belongings.

'Am I absolutely unhinged? I am, aren't I? How could I have let this get away from me? Have I become a man obsessed?'

He jumped up onto the porch and discarded his coat.

'How did Penelope make her way into my thoughts and my heart, make me itch for her conversation, make me want for her friendship and attention, with just her writing?'

He couldn't breathe.

'To be completely honest, they were the right words. Right? Words I've deprived myself for so long. Deprived myself of hearing and knowing.'

He couldn't think.

'She knew what to say to me. She knew what I needed. How? Why? Why did she care?'

He couldn't focus.

'How am I so confident that this would work out? How am I so sure that I have found a friend in a letter? A savior in a pamphlet?'

He loosened his cravat and removed it, throwing it onto the porch as he paced and paced—back and forth and back again. His doubts flooded his brain. His unease ate at his chest.

A fear lingered within him.

Would Penelope think him mad?

Was he crazy to think that the friendship he had longed for for months went both ways?

Would she hate him for intruding? For barging in her sanctuary, her home ?

He felt sick. He felt bile act up in his stomach, finding its way up his throat.

How could he assume that his little sister's best friend, this girl who was as good as his sister—

'Is she? Is she a sister to me?'

—this tiny girl from across the square, this quiet girl, this—

"Anthony?" a soft voice called from the steps leading to the porch.

He was vulnerable. An exposed gash that had only begun to mend. Anthony was open. Raw.

Yet he could not help the smile that took over his face when he turned abruptly and saw Penelope.

Penelope, with her red hair vibrant and fiery, and her blue eyes like clear skies in spring, smiled in return. Blinding. Warm. Beautiful.

Anthony walked toward Penelope as she made her way up the first step to the porch. A feeling resembling the glow of an afternoon sun, inviting and almost nostalgic, began to spread in his chest.

His friend was here.

She was not his sister—she was his friend . And with the way his heart was jumping about and his face was warming up, it seemed she was his dearest friend.

She was no longer a girl. This person in front of him, she was—

'What a phenomenal woman,' he thought.

He looked at her, his dark brown eyes basking in her bright blues, and uttered—

"Penelope."

Notes:

Was it good? Some of you have already guessed the events in this chapter, but I still hope you found it satisfying!

I'm tickled at the thought that we are now 12 chapters in and they have only said one word to each other. Their names

I love to read romance and crime/detective thrillers. So I love me some paper trails, clues, and intrigue.

Let me know what you think

Again, thank you for reading. Thank you for the love you've been showing this story!

Up next: Penelope's POV

Chapter 13: Welcome to Yorkshire

Summary:

Anthony's arrival through Penelope's eyes.

We will be rummaging through Pen's brain in this chapter, with everything occuring almost at the same time as Chapter 12.

Notes:

I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as Alongside Rolling Hills. Chapters 12 and 13 were the most difficult chapters for me to write.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Over one year ago, amid the revelry, laughter, and dancing that came with the end of the social season, two hearts found themselves hopelessly broken.

Two dreams shattered, knowing they would never witness their fruition.

Two promises torn to pieces, never to meet their fulfillment.

Penelope Featherington and Anthony Bridgerton had both loved and lost.

For this reason, Penelope felt a silent affinity begin to take root. Unbeknownst to the other, she saw an unlikely friendship in the advent of a bloom through the continuous and constant echoing of their circumstances.

Penelope had only ever loved from afar. She had given her heart to Colin. In the end, he remained oblivious to her womanhood and careless with her affections, causing her to take her beating yet beaten heart back.

If she could love Colin Bridgerton from afar, she could offer a friendship from that same breadth to Anthony, without the constant fear of another unrequited love.

Apart from their mirrored broken hearts, Penelope had more in common with the viscount than anyone ever knew.

In secret, under forgeries, fake letters, and a fabricated story of an inheritance, she had provided for her family. Lady Whistledown and the coffers she filled saved the Featheringtons from financial ruin.

Through her efforts, Penelope repaid debts, recovered funds, and restored her sisters' dowries.

Much like Anthony, Penelope became head of her household at eight and ten, albeit clandestinely, and she found herself closer to truly knowing what Anthony had had to go through his entire adult life.

Whenever she was sequestered away in her father's study, buried in papers, balancing ledgers and managing investments, Penelope had felt strongly for Anthony—feelings that were neither romantic as the tendre she once held for Colin, nor the familial affection she felt for Eloise.

She had never experienced such a connection with anyone before.

A quiet kinship had formed in her mind and heart and she was determined to be a friend, even when Anthony hadn't asked. Even when he didn't know.

Some days, when drawing inspiration from the viscount's life story, all she could think was—

How is Anthony not an angry, rampaging lord of the ton yet? Or touched in the head even? How is he still so composed—so regal?

Since handling the estate, all Penelope wanted to do was scream at her mother and sisters for spending beyond their means. She wanted to yell at her father's grave for gambling away their dowries, effectively throwing away his daughters' futures.

She was constantly moments away from tearing her hair out in her frustration with her family. In her disappointment with her father.

Her temples throbbed all the time from calculating sums, writing correspondence to be signed by her solicitor, and conceiving plans to safeguard the family's financial future—and acting upon them with Mr. Banks.

She worked in secret, often late into the night, alone.

She was in pain. She must now be close to insane.

How was Anthony not?

And in that moment, like a key fitting in its rightful lock or like a cravat settling into a proper knot, it all fell into place in Penelope's mind.

Anthony must be feeling the same. He must have been going through the same headaches, the same pains, the same problems.

But he had never expressed it. He had never talked about it. He had never had anyone to share his fears and feelings with.

Who else would have understood?

Fortunately, at least for Penelope, she had. And as she needed a friend who knew her struggles, she was certain Anthony needed one of the same just as much. Perhaps even more so.

She wanted to be that friend. Whether he was aware or not. Whether he reciprocated or not.

She was determined to be that friend. For Anthony.

She was resolved to rescue him from himself.

When the opportunity arose and the situation called for her, with the same mastery of the written word that had saved the Featheringtons, she endeavored to save someone else.

Before leaving Mayfair for good, she wrote her advice, her counsel, her experiences, and her pains, and all the ways she related to the viscount in her farewell letter to his family.

As Lady Whistledown, whose word was as good as law, she wrote his redemption.

Of course Penelope knew it hadn't ended well for the Bridgertons and the Sharmas. Aside from Edwina's hasty departure from the altar, she knew that Anthony's marriage proposal was a failure, with Kate choosing a life in India, away from the ruthless ton , and with him choosing to stay with his family. To stay for his family.

But she wrote otherwise, choosing to focus on their charade of amiable relationships rather than their actual disdain and the underlying tension that followed the families on their outings.

She had insisted that the Lady Whistledown was correct in assuming it was only the fire of competition and of fighting for dominance between Anthony and Kate, and not the kindling of the flames of love.

If there was anyone in Penelope's world who deserved saving—who needed it—it was Anthony.

With a quill in her hand and her heart on her sleeve, she clothed compassion in parchment to save Anthony through a passage in a letter—through paragraphs and lines in a scandal sheet. Unnoticed from a distance, she had tried to be his friend.

What Penelope failed to grasp was that she was not as unnoticed as she believed.

Anthony saw right through her. Right through Penelope. And right through Lady Whistledown.

Penelope looked at her guests as they stared right at her from their places in the sitting room, wearing matching expressions of shock and intrigue—the gin and meats and cheeses, the sketch pad and charcoal, momentarily forgotten on the center table.

All Genevieve and the Granvilles could see in their friend's countenance was confusion, a slight apprehension, and maybe… a glimmer of excitement?

She glanced at the trio and nodded once. She smoothed out her skirts and fiddled with the fiery red curls that framed her face before making her way to the front door of her home.

"What will you do, Pen?" Genevieve asked kindly as her dark eyes spoke only of concern for Penelope, wondering how she must be faring in this surprising situation.

"I do not know, but I believe I must make myself known to him," Penelope replied. "I apologize if this disrupts the merriment and joy of your visit so far."

Her friends were quick to wave off her concern and, as always, they had been understanding. Especially since, undeniably, this event in their country stay had them drawn in and curious, eager to see what would unfold from this encounter.

Penelope tried to calm her restless heart, taking tentative steps to the door. Once the door was opened, she internally solidified her resolve but made no changes in her stride.

Her guests from London made to follow her out of the cottage, set to support her even at a distance.

"Anthony?" she called out as she walked away from Gen and the Granvilles, who were watching from the gate.

She slowly sauntered toward the man who had not yet made any indication that he had heard her speak, who was wearing a pained expression, pacing on the front porch of the house across Quill Cottage.

As she walked, a tornado of thoughts and calculations swirled and tumbled in her ever-busy, forever turning mind.

Lady Whistledown loved a good game, whether it was the cat-and-mouse chase she played with the Queen, or the one she played with the ton , gliding along the walls of a ballroom to collect secrets—a game where she always ended up the winner.

She knew exactly what she did when she left. She had dropped breadcrumbs here and there, in the form of a farewell letter to a family she loved as her own, and a scandal sheet that spoke directly to the Bridgertons—specifically, directly to Anthony—practically telling him that hers was the face behind the infamous name.

Whistledown would always possess a certain pull. A cause for curiosity. Everyone always had burning questions.

When Genevieve, and then the Granvilles, found out her secret, she was assaulted with a conversation that was nothing short of an interrogation.

Eloise knew, but even in this rift, in this distance between them, Penelope was certain she would never betray this secret—it was up to Anthony to figure Whistledown out on his own.

The Bridgertons were innately stubborn—especially the head of their family. (Anthony wouldn't have been determined to marry one sister while in love with the other if he wasn't as hardheaded as the oak door to his study.)

Knowing that about him, Penelope was certain that once Anthony had connected all the dots in his mind, he would have his suspicions.

From there, he would be focused on having these suspicions confirmed.

Confirmation of Whistledown's identity was but a certainty. Anthony knew the right people. He had the right resources. These privileges would always go a long way.

She tried to still her mind as she continued to take her time walking toward him, still invisible to the utterly distracted viscount. She glanced around at the carriages, steadying her breathing. She looked to her left and saw the row of oak trees that had endeared themselves to Henry. She paused for a while to take in their calming energies, breathing in the freshness of the air in the country.

Resuming her journey toward Anthony, her mind continued with its tirade—swift in its succession of thoughts, jotting down and summarizing the events that transpired four months ago in Mayfair.

Penelope's breadcrumbs came in many other forms, such as her solicitor's strategic whispers and careful 'passing mentions' of a cottage in Yorkshire his client had turned down—intended only to hint at her whereabouts.

"Anthony?" she uttered once more as she glided even closer, almost reaching the steps to the porch. A breeze calmed her, enveloped her in a coolness she welcomed.

A trail of clues would have led Anthony to where she was—a path from her letter, to her Whistledown pamphlet, to her solicitor.

She had escaped to the country to live a life under her own control. She knew the Bridgertons would be saddened by her departure, just as she was crestfallen leaving them.

Penelope worried they would hate her for her sudden leave. For not allowing them an opportunity for proper goodbyes. Or an opportunity for them to convince her to stay.

Her fear of their resentment and rejection led her to decide that their first correspondence would be on their terms.

If the Bridgertons attempted to find her, it would mean they had forgiven her—that they hadn't loathed her.

She had hoped the Bridgertons might write to her. She had hoped Anthony might write to her.

But no letters sealed with the Bridgerton crest had ever arrived for her, even through General Delivery.

She had already decided to ask her solicitor to disclose her address to the Bridgertons come Christmas time, regardless of her worries and doubts about their feelings towards her. Regardless of her fear of their rejection.

Penelope had resigned to the possibility that the crumbs she had left behind had not been enough—easily blown away by a strong gust of wind. Lacking and far too subtle.

Until this day.

Penelope had only expected letters— letters! And maybe even a scheduled visit after the letters!

She had anticipated letters from Anthony, and from the rest of the Bridgerton family she had been dearly missing.

She had not expected this—that the Bridgerton head would acquire the house across the way and fill it with his staff and his belongings.

Why?

Had he felt that same quiet bond? That same silent understanding?

Did he crave to talk to her after reading that letter, just as she longed for many a conversation with him when she wrote it?

How did he feel about the secret he had uncovered with her pamphlet?

Did he also want a companionship that was uniquely and only theirs?

It couldn't have all been happenstance, could it? He was here, and on his own.

He is here, and on his own, Penelope thought, and as her nature dictated, her curiosity tried to take over and demand satisfactory answers.

But before she could even form a question in her mind, Anthony's pacing stopped as he turned toward her and his frown vanished, replaced by a smile so genuine and childlike that it startled and warmed her, causing her own thoughts to halt and her heart to leap in her chest.

The world stilled in that moment, and all the tension that had coiled within her melted away.

It was a smile Penelope had never seen before.

A smile Penelope couldn't help but return in equal, radiant measure.

All words failed. All questions were left unasked.

Penelope was wonderfully surprised that she felt only relief and joy when their eyes met in silent understanding.

My friend, her mind whispered. He is here.

They were wholly unaware that what they sought was lying in wait for both of them.

They were oblivious to the fact that their fates had begun to collide and entwine the moment they met at the steps of Anthony's porch.

Penelope's nagging feeling of change had finally materialized. Her 'Maybe' had arrived.

Anthony's yearning for something that was to be his everything had turned out to be someone.

Alas, as fate would have it, they hadn't known it yet. And they wouldn't. At least, not for a while.

Because for the writer and her new neighbor, both nestled in this cozy cul-de-sac in Yorkshire, the only thing that mattered now is this inexplicable connection. This spark.

A spark not of romance. Not of 'she's family.' Not of 'he's like a brother to me.'

But a spark of friendship—a deeply understanding friendship that exuded warmth and truth.

A bond that from this day, would no longer be unspoken, no longer be unseen.

In both their books—in both their stories of life and love and pain—this friendship was the best unforeseen development. A surprising yet welcome revelation.

In both of the hearts that splintered over a year ago, this friendship was the balm needed to soothe and heal.

"Penelope," he replied, his voice soothing and calm—his eyes and his smile wide and full of hope.

There it was again. Hope.

Notes:

It turns out, they matched each other's freaks

Both crazy, both unhinged, both obsessed, both craving for the kind of friendship only the other can offer.

sunforyou shared a quote by marsadist in one comment:

"No, we're not soulmates. This is not divine intervention. And this is most certainly not chance. I willed this. I knit the threads of fate myself until they spelled your name…"

Perfect

I hope you liked Chapter 12's and 13 's internal monologuing. I think we are done with the slowest of burns in this story. I'm sorry if 13 chapters in, all they have managed to say to one another are "Anthony" and "Penelope"

(Btw, no angst here. They both did their fair share of dubious schemes lol)

Plot is now fully established and their brains and motivations thoroughly inspected.

Updates will be slower now because this is the last of my polished chapters. I'll try and be quick, I promise!

I sincerely hope you liked this. Thank you so much for reading. The next chapters will be focused on their budding friendship.

Again, thank you. Let me know what you think

Chapter 14: Out for Dinner

Summary:

Let's have dinner with Ant, Pen, Gen, the Granvilles, Dolores, and Rae!

Notes:

Some warm, light, fluffy fun

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

After some time of grinning like a pair of satisfied cats—much to the amusement of their audience across the street—Penelope was the first to break the silence.

"What brings you to Yorkshire, my lord?" she asked.

Anthony let out a sound between a snort and a huff. "What happened to 'Anthony?'"

"My lord?" Penelope responded, stifling a laugh behind her ungloved hand.

"Penelope," Anthony teased.

"Lord Bridgerton," she quickly replied.

The two dissolved into a fit of laughter, the release of tension allowing them both to breathe easier. As they caught their breath, the setting sun painted the sky a deep orange, fading into hues of pink and purple. It felt as though the heavens themselves had painted a scene for them alone, the row of oak trees framing the masterpiece.

"I came here to live a new life, Penelope," Anthony answered after a comfortable pause, placing a hand briefly over his heart. "At least, for a while."

Penelope hummed, searching his face for any trace of humor, but found none. "And you?" he inquired, his eyes tracing over her as the sunset's colors danced in her hair.

"I find I'm here for much the same reason," she said softly. "Mayfair was not what I envisioned for myself. So, I left to live here at my auntie's cottage."

She looked around them as shadows crept slowly over the cobblestone road, failing to notice Anthony's smirk at her reply. Taking a deep breath, she met his gaze. "I came here to find a life as well—perhaps not a perfect one, but one that suits me."

"And have you found it?" he inquired.

Penelope noticed his discarded coat and cravat on the porch and assumed he'd been eager for comfort after his long journey. Anthony looked tired—more than just from the road—perhaps from life as a whole.

"Not yet," Penelope said with a warm smile. "But I believe I will soon."

The bright, uninhibited smile, the same one she had gifted him earlier, lifted some of Anthony's weariness. He felt unencumbered, as though a weight had been taken off his chest.

"I hope you do as well, Anthony," she continued. "The country offers you a fresh start. The people here are kind, the shops are wonderful, and the village we live in is rather quiet and serene. I'm sure you'll find what you seek."

Boldly, as though their bond had formed and solidified long ago, she placed a gentle hand on his arm. "And should your search for this new life tire you, you've a friend just across the street. It's almost like we never left London, is it not?"

Caught off guard into a laugh, Anthony placed his hand over hers in gratitude. "Thank you, Penelope."

They let go of each other as Penelope asked, "Would you care to join us for supper?"

"Us?" Anthony glanced across the street just in time to catch Genevieve and the Granvilles suddenly fascinated by the rose bushes.

With a chuckle, Anthony said, "Ah, yes. Madame Delacroix mentioned their plans to visit you during the off-season. My siblings were quite envious."

"Just your siblings, my lord?" she ribbed.

Why am I flirting with Anthony Bridgerton?

For the third time that evening, Anthony laughed. "Well, I am here, am I not?"

Is Penelope flirting with me?

"That you are, Anthony," she said as she grinned at him once more.

I think she is. I think I am, as well.

"I'll freshen up and join you shortly."

"We'll be dining with Genevieve, Henry, Lucy, my cook Mrs. Cole, and Rae. I hope that's all right?"

"More than all right, Penelope. It'll be good to get to know my neighbors," he responded cheekily.

Penelope giggled and began walking back to Quill Cottage. "We'll see you soon. Please let yourself in."

As he readied himself for dinner, he couldn't help but secretly be pleased at the familiarity they both displayed. Their comfortable banter and conversation helped ease his earlier anxieties.

Perhaps the affinity he had felt for her, regardless of their distance, had not been conjured by his imagination after all. He was eager to converse with her, eager to get to know her fully. And he felt that Penelope wanted the same with him. With the man that he was—not the viscount, neither brother nor father.

He was her friend, as she was his. Now, what a wondrous thought that was—what a sublime feeling.

When he arrived at his new home, he was looking forward to sleeping for a while before heading out for a drink—perhaps something strong. But now, he had set aside both ideas of a nap and a visit to a tavern in favor of spending more time with the woman across the way.

Penelope had always been a constant presence at Bridgerton House, but with Eloise, Colin, and even his other siblings—including Ben—often vying for her attention, and Anthony's ever-busy schedule, they had rarely found opportunities to converse beyond pleasantries and small talk.

Their earlier interaction showed much potential for the both of them to grow and settle into a wonderful companionship.

He checked his image in the reflection. Satisfied with what he saw, he made his way out of his chambers and down the stairs. Soon, he was out the door and walking to Penelope's.

When he got there, he opened the door and was across the threshold when he loudly and happily called out for the lady of the house.

"Penelope?"

"We're in here, Anthony!" he heard her say from somewhere down the hallway. He found the dining room with ease and was welcomed inside by Penelope, excited to make introductions.

"My dears, Viscount Anthony Bridgerton has arrived. Of course, you already know Madame Delacroix and the Granvilles," she began. "This is Mrs. Dolores Cole, my cook."

"It's a pleasure, Lord Bridgerton."

"Please, Mrs. Cole. Lord Bridgerton remained in London. I should like to be known as just Anthony or Mr. Bridgerton here," he replied kindly to the woman.

Penelope smiled at her new guest and said, "Rae went to our neighbor's to fetch Bea's apple pie. It is simply delightful, Anthony! I must have you try it."

Being used to seeing her shy and quiet back in Mayfair, the Penelope before him stunned him.

This woman was confident, cheerful, and unapologetically intelligent. Yet her compassion and her gentle demeanor remained unchanged. He assumed correctly that no matter where she went, she would always be kind and a wonderful conversationalist.

The spread on the dining table was a welcome sight. At the center of it all was sumptuous gravy-covered roast, surrounded by smaller plates of Yorkshire puddings, and a generous serving of parkin, which was a confection similar to gingerbread made with treacle and oats.

Bowls of vegetables, such as roasted carrots and cabbage, were spread throughout the table, along with plates filled with Wensleydale cheese and ham slices.

A jug of pease pudding and a plate of fresh bread rolls rounded out the traditional meal, enabling everyone to savor the comfort of the best that Yorkshire had to offer.

Those present around the table had just started to take their places when they heard the front door close with a loud thud. Rae, having gotten comfortable with their guests from London, started to speak loudly while making her way to the dining room.

"Apologies for my lateness, Bea wanted a quick chat about our drinks tomorrow! Miss Penelope, is the formidable Lord Bridgerton here in Helmsley?! I saw his valet walking outsi—Oh!"

Penelope started laughing, and soon enough the entire room was laughing with her at the creeping crimson blush that had started to take over poor Rae's face.

"Yes, Rae. Anthony is here and he is joining us for dinner. I apologize, I seemed to have forgotten to tell you after I told Dolores about preparing for one more guest," Penelope said, sheepishly and regretfully.

"That you did, Miss," Rae responded, aghast, before clearing her throat and turning to Anthony to curtsey. "Apologies, my lord. You are most welcome here."

"None of that, Rae, please. Call me Anthony or Mr. Bridgerton," Anthony said with a small smile gracing his features. "I fully expect that to be the last curtsey you give me. I shall be your neighbor indefinitely and I wish to maintain the rapport this household has established regardless of my presence on occasion."

Rae smiled kindly at the man and tried to quickly look for the commanding, stern, yet generous viscount the Bridgerton House staff had always talked about. He seemed to have left stern behind in Grosvenor Square.

"Thank you, Mr. Bridgerton," Rae replied as she placed the warm apple pie in the space allotted for it on the table.

A throat cleared from somewhere in the room. Everyone turned to find Genevieve as its source. She was wearing a secretive smile on her face, her eyes shining with mischief.

"Oh, yes!" Penelope exclaimed. She looked at Anthony with a smirk and asked, "Anthony, can you keep a secret? You must promise me that word of… this shall not reach Mayfair."

"Of course," Anthony replied with confidence. He did not want them to feel uncomfortable by his presence. He was a guest, and this ease that the household was used to seemed important to Penelope. "You have my word, my lips are sealed."

"Thank Christ for that," Genevieve then said, and not in her genteel French accent. "I bloody well thought I would need to watch my accent for the rest of our stay, which is no good since I can be reckless when drunk. And we do drink a lot here, Monsieur Bridgerton ."

Anthony's eyebrows shot up and he barked out a laugh. He was laughing. Again.

The rest of the table joined in the glee, before settling down. The dinner went on without a hitch; the affair was comfortable and jovial, much like a private family supper at Bridgerton House.

As chatter, laughter, and the clinking of plates and cutleries filled the air, he glanced around the table. A sense of contentment came over him, filling his chest. He turned to his left and caught Penelope's gaze and smile. He smiled back—he could not have helped it even if he tried.

Anthony felt light. Less burdened. And he had arrived just today! It wasn't just the country, nor the delicious food that had caused this strange and welcome feeling. It wasn't solely the lack of responsibilities and never ending tasks.

It was the company. It was the intimacy and ease that radiated from every person in the room.

Penelope adored her staff, and they regarded her the same, and with how Genevieve, Henry, and Lucy looked at her with affection and fondness, her friends loved her and thoroughly enjoyed her company.

It was difficult not to. Seeing Penelope in all her sunny, confident, and beautiful glory was astonishing.

It seemed that this wallflower had finally bloomed—or, more precisely, transformed . That is, if she had ever truly been a wallflower in the first place.

Gone were the excessively embellished, frilly, citrus-colored dresses forced on her by her sour mama. Penelope was a pleasing sight in a deep purple dress with a square neckline and dropped waist, framing her best features nicely.

The childish ringlets her hair had been previously styled in were replaced with bouncy soft curls that cascaded down to her lower back. The top half of her red hair was coiffed in an easy bun, with loose tendrils framing her face.

She was a vision.

But it wasn't just her fashion nor her hairstyle that revealed her secret self-assuredness, Anthony was sure of it.

It was the fact that this Penelope was free.

Free from the mamas that gossiped about her and sentenced her to spinsterhood. Free from the hostile competition of the marriage mart. Free from her daft sisters and cruel mother.

This Penelope—the real Penelope—was resplendent.

She moved with ease and laughed effortlessly. She delighted in conversation and company. This person was undeniably herself.

Phenomenal woman , Anthony thought once more. Seated on her right, he could not help but be drawn to her. Her laughter reeled him in, and her sarcasm and quick-wittedness delighted him. The soft-spoken, whispered words that she meant just for his ears calmed him.

The occasional touch of her right hand on his left forearm when she was lost in her giggles pleased him. When she turned to look at him when he spoke, with a smile that seemed a permanent fixture on her face, he felt warm and at home.

Penelope had been surprising him since their first conversation on his porch—nay , since her letter. He felt honored to be a part of her intimate circle of trust so quickly. Anthony reveled in being able to see a side to her that no one in Mayfair, not even Eloise, had ever seen. He felt fortunate to behold and marvel at such a masterpiece of a woman. He found himself eager for whatever else she had in store for him to discover and covet.

Genevieve, Henry, and Lucy were engaged in a silent conversation. They exchanged amused and puzzled looks, occasionally glancing at the pair seated at the head of the table.

Bollocks , Gen thought. What the hell did I miss? When did this happen?

Anthony and Penelope seemed completely unaware of how they gravitated toward one another, their heads often inclining together as if sharing a secret none of the others were privy to hear.

What the f—are their elbows touching right now? Gen thought amusedly. She snorted indelicately, catching the attention of both Granvilles and the Quill Cottage staff.

They all looked at each other and uncontrollably fell into a giggle fit.

"What are you lot giggling about?" Penelope teased as Anthony averted his gaze from Penelope to the others at the table.

"Oh, nothing, dove," Genevieve answered. "Lucy just told us how excited she was for Mr. Bridgerton here to try the Yorkshire gin she would not stop talking about. Isn't that right, Luce?"

"Oh! Why—yes! Mr. Bridgerton, I do hope you will be joining us for drinks after supper."

"I would be most delighted, if my lady would have me," he said with a devilish smirk directed at Penelope.

She lightly slapped— slapped! —Anthony on his bicep, missing the sly glances and teasing looks occuring at the table around them.

"Why of course, my lord , I would be happy to host you for drinks!"

It was their turn to giggle and snort with each other—the lord and lady quips had become a running jest. They were in their own little bubble as the others watched on fondly.

When did this happen, Henry thought to himself.

Genevieve told them everything, and she never did mention a familiarity between their Penelope and Lord Bridgerton. Her stories about their friend had always featured only Eloise or Colin. So did the stories from Penelope herself.

But tonight, they appeared to have a secret language, understood only between the two of them. They had touched and had stolen glances throughout the meal. Lord Bridgerton had Penelope in constant giggles that it was quite exciting to see! Henry had never known the man to jest or tease a lot, as the family left those tasks to Benedict.

It was refreshing for both Anthony and Penelope. Henry was glad to have over a week left at Quill Cottage, and secretly hoped to witness… whatever it was between the two to grow.

"How long shall you be staying in Yorkshire, Mr. Bridgerton?" Henry asked.

"I have arranged to stay for one year at the most, Mr. Granville," he responded, briefly placing his hand over his heart.

"Please, call me Henry."

"Then I insist you all call me Anthony," he replied. "What about you? How long have you left in your country visit?"

"We leave for Milan on the 6th of October," Henry replied. "Then, we shall return to London a month prior to the presentation of the debutantes of the next season. In time for Gen to dress the ton ."

"My mother, my sisters, and my funds shall be waiting and ready for you, Madame," Anthony said, earning a startled laugh from the modiste.

" Merci beaucoup, Anthony," Gen giggled in reply.

Lucy was lost in her musings. I think it's time for my gin, she thought.

She glanced at the yet again giggling and whispering Anthony and Penelope at the head of the table. She then rolled her eyes playfully before smiling mischievously at Henry and Genevieve.

Those two dunderheads best be ready for the three of us. The matchmaking season has commenced at Quill Cottage.

Notes:

I hope you liked it! Let me know what you think Thank you for reading!

Next: Drinks after Dinner

Might be a day late updating this story with the next chapter. Need to polish

Chapter 15: And Then There Were Drinks

Summary:

Some drinks after dinner, some heart-to-heart

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Tonight was a revelation. Penelope was in awe.

Back then, in London, Viscount Bridgerton intimidated her. He had always cut a dashing, yet imposing figure. He was tall, muscular, and rather devastatingly handsome.

Of course, Penelope was in love with Colin at the time, but that love had not made her blind.

The head of the Bridgerton name was also one of the wealthiest, most powerful, and most influential men in the ton. He commanded every room he entered. He had always moved with such purpose and confidence. It was no wonder that no matter the scandal attached to his name, misses in the mart fell to their feet, fanned their bosoms, and fluttered their lashes—all for a chance to grace the dancefloor with the viscount. A chance he had seldom given any young lady, if at all.

But Anthony—

Anthony was amusing. He was kind. He liked to tease and jest. He was soft-spoken and honest. He was still very handsome—that did not change despite being miles away from Mayfair—and the boyish grins and playful winks he had been sending her way throughout their dinner were unexpected but exceedingly thrilling.

What a wonder Anthony was to be around. The opportunity to get to know this man, the one behind the title—the one behind the father figure, behind the protective brother—fascinated and excited Penelope in equal measure.

"Hen, dear?"

"Yes, Pen?" Henry responded as they finished stacking the remainder of the plates and glasses on the table, a few minutes after they had decided to move the conversation from dinner to drinks.

"Could you handle the fire in the upstairs sitting room? I'll join you shortly."

"Of course, Pen. We'll meet you there."

"Why won't Penelope join us now?" Anthony quietly asked. He had just finished gathering the napkins from around the table, placing them in a near pile beside the few bowls Henry had stacked.

Henry had just told Genevieve and Lucy to go ahead, and was about to make his way to the stairs that would lead them to Penelope's private sitting room when he replied, "Penelope likes to assist her staff in the cleanup. At least until Dolores shoos her away," he chuckled.

"I should like to stay and help her then," Anthony began, already picking up the stack of plates carefully with both hands. "We'll come upstairs together."

"Oh, of course, Anthony. We shall see you there. I will get the fire started."

Henry then headed upstairs as Anthony made his way toward the direction Henry had pointed out, taking him to the kitchen.

"I come bearing plates," Anthony beamed as he stepped into the kitchen.

Penelope laughed as Rae retrieved the plates. "You didn't need to, silly man. You are a guest!"

"I know I didn't need to, I wanted to help you," he replied. "Now, tell me what to do. I admit, I am quite removed from familiar ground but I assure you, I am a quick study."

"Aye, that's enough from the both of you," Mrs. Cole said with an amused look on her face. "Just finish clearing the table. Then I want to be rid of you! You are crowding us now. Right, Rae?"

"Definitely," Rae smirked.

"Fine, fine," Penelope replied, both hands up in mock surrender. "Come along, Anthony."

He smiled at Penelope before following her back into the dining room.

After bringing the last plates to the kitchen, Penelope handed Anthony a tray of the snacks Lucy liked best with her gin, while she grabbed the bottle and four glasses. Together, they headed upstairs.

"Well, Mr. Bridgerton? What do you think?"

After taking another languid sip and swirling the clear liquid in his glass, Anthony looked at Lucy and said, "It does drink quite nicely, but I much prefer a brandy still."

Mock offended, Lucy scoffed and placed the back of her left palm on her forehead before leaning back toward her husband's right side, ever the dramatic. "Ah, you wound me, sir!"

Lucy, Henry, and Genevieve chose to sit together in one of the two sofas, leaving Penelope and Anthony to occupy the other.

Penelope clucked her tongue playfully. "You have offended my guest, Anthony."

He grinned and said, "Apologies. I am loyal to a fault, even in my choice of drink."

"It is no matter. I will make sure you have your brandy next time. For now, indulge Lucy and her newfound love for good ol' Yorkshire gin."

Penelope's private sitting room was comfortable and inviting. The walls were a muted, deep teal, adorned with flowers and little butterflies—subtle and not at all like the gaudy decor of her family's Mayfair home.

Two plush sofas in soft tones of green face each other in front of a crackling fireplace. A simple wooden table sat between them, holding a few scattered books and pamphlets, and their trays of gin and snacks.

Moonlight streamed in through the tall window, casting a soft glow over a comfortable armchair and a small table—a perfect space for quiet reflection or, as Anthony suspected, for Penelope's journaling and other writing activities.

Two towering, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves flanked either side of the hearth.

One was filled to the brim with books, and while the other had space for more, its empty shelves were lightly decorated with small vases, jewelry boxes, and trinkets as placeholders for future literary additions.

The lowest three shelves already held books, while the fourth one held an ornate wooden chest beside two new books.

This room felt most like Penelope. Anthony felt her touch in every piece of decor and furniture. He was pleased that she was finally able to express herself in her own home.

They sat in comfort and conversation for a while—drinking, chatting, and giggling. Henry and Anthony had been divested of their jackets and their cravats now hung loosely off their necks. Genevieve, Lucy, and Penelope had taken to removing several hairpins—their hairs now relaxed, free from their coiffures—and discarding their gloves.

Everyone was pink in the face from mirth and drink—and the scandalous nature of Henry's stories.

"Your artist circles are quite interesting to say the least, Henry. It is not surprising my brother enjoys the gatherings. Not only because of the excitement or the scandal, of course, but also the freedom. Freedom of choice, of company—for expression," Anthony added thoughtfully. "Freedom can be quite intoxicating, indeed."

He paused to sip of his drink, noticing that the gin seemed to improve with each glass.

"I have only been here a day and I find myself already addicted to this feeling of freedom, and it is not even a lot," Anthony chuckled and added a mirthful "Should I leave Benedict forever to his own devices and abdicate my title? Ask the Crown to transfer the viscountcy to my heir and brother?" while rubbing his chin with his thumb and forefinger conspiratorially.

"And let your mother and sisters host their turn of secret, hedonistic, artist gatherings? I would like to be invited to those!" Henry replied.

"I shall dress the Ladies Bridgerton so they all look the part," Genevieve added. Lucy then said "Yes, and I shall be there to... attend."

"I have been to two of the… more subdued ones with Genevieve and saw Benedict both times. He was quite angry with Gen for taking me! But she put him in his place, as was expected," Penelope told Anthony with a smirk.

Genevieve then tutted disapprovingly before saying, "It is no good for a phoenix to be caged, is it? You are an artist, ma petite. You must see more of the world, even if that world was then little Mayfair!"

"An artist, you say?" Anthony said with a knowing smile, while looking directly into Penelope's eyes.

"Yes, yes, that is neither here nor there," Penelope said dismissively, while tapping the viscount's knuckles as he laughed.

Henry saw a window and jumped right through it, height from the ground be damned.

"So, tell me, Anthony," he began while pouring himself another glass from their second, now only half-full bottle of gin.

"Did the same enchanting letter that led Benedict to his wise decisions lead you out here in the country as well?" he asked, his eyes darting from Penelope, to Anthony, to their comfortably joined hands in between them.

In no time at all, Penelope's already pink face was pinker. Her cheeks were flushed adorably, and her mouth was once again in a perfect little 'o' of surprise.

"Henry, dear, please y—"

Before she could even pull her hand back from Anthony's, he swiftly turned his. Palms now touching skin-to-skin, Anthony held on gently.

"Why, it did in fact, Henry," Anthony said as he looked at the woman seated to his left. He placed his free hand over his heart as it thundered in his chest.

He watched the firelight dance in Penelope's pretty blue eyes. Her long hair was now a blend of curls and waves from the heat, and a color leaning toward more copper tones than red from the glow from the fireplace.

A blush spread throughout her cheeks, and her eyes were wide, curious, and completely enthralled.

Anthony had instantly felt vulnerable under her gaze. In one short sentence, he had opened his heart a little more, leaving him in a quiet brand of fear. A fear of rejection. A fear of ridicule from the people seated around him in the room.

But he had promised himself a year ago, after the conundrum with the Sharma sisters, that he would only speak and live and act truthfully from then on.

Gone were the days where his eagerness to protect himself from pain prevented him from telling people what they meant to him.

He had decided in the off-season after their ill-fated nuptials—and the scandal that followed—that nothing was worth his sanity. His honesty.

Nothing was worth the torment of hiding the real depth of his feelings—feelings he had been forced to keep under lock and key since his youth.

And in this moment, his sworn honesty presented his choices: Now or never, Ant.

Anthony chose now.

"Penelope, please answer me," he began as his eyes searched hers pleadingly. "Am I correct in believing that our friends here tonight know about… about your secret."

"What—er—that is to say… oh, blast it. Yes."

"Then I no longer have a reason to hold my words back," Anthony said with a smile before looking at Henry to answer his previous question.

"My part in Penelope's letter was only one of many, as she wrote a passage for each Bridgerton."

He moved his gaze slowly from Henry, before fixing it on the face of his savior.

The angel-like features of his closest friend—her fair skin and flushed cheeks, her lips of pink roses and eyes the color of the ocean on a sunny day—welcomed him.

"Perhaps to her, and to the rest of my family, it had only been a single paragraph out of eight. But to me it was the world."

He glanced at their hands on the sofa before rubbing his thumb affectionately across Penelope's knuckles. He felt her shiver from his touch and was satisfied to know that he was not alone in feeling… something.

"Reading and rereading that letter for days had eased a knot inside of me that I never even realized had formed. It was a knot of expectations and disappointments, of regrets and hopes, of titles and responsibilities—over a decade's worth. A knot now fraying at the edges."

Recognizing that his heart and his mouth needed liquid courage, he took a sip from his glass with the hand that was not folded in Penelope's softness.

Looking at the trio before him, he continued, "And then soon enough, with my eternal gratitude to the farewell issue that rattled the ton, I came to realize that Penelope and Lady Whistledown were one and the same."

So mesmerized were they by Anthony's heartfelt words they could not even feign shock, even if they tried—completely enraptured by the truth he cared to share with such surprising company.

He then kept his gaze on Penelope, willing her to hear what he had to say.

"This phenomenal woman saved my family—saved me—in more ways than I can begin to explain. With every word she wrote, in her letter, in her farewell issue, and in countless other editions before, she had forged a bond with me unwittingly, until I began to see her as my dearest friend from afar. Unseen, unheard, but always there.

"She had been a savior to the Bridgertons, even to the expense of her own family's reputation. A savior to me, and I was not even aware that I was in need of saving."

He then squeezed her hand. She squeezed back, encouraging him to go on. And so he did.

"I was determined to trust my instincts for once—not those dictated by my mind, but those murmured by my heart."

He set his glass down on the table, the sound unnaturally loud in the stillness of the night, amplified by the rapt attention everyone had given him.

"I will not delve into detail, as that is a story for another time, or maybe one that should be just for Penelope's ears, but I trusted the letter and Lady Whistledown to guide me. And they did."

Anthony looked at Penelope and spoke directly to her, her eyes still wide but were shining with calmness and joy. He briefly rested his free palm over his heart once more.

"With your written word as my compass and my map, leading me only to your kindness and your companionship, I ended up here."

He paused to take a deep breath, and then… he smiled.

"In my search for a new life, I found my friend."

Penelope sucked in a sharp breath, her eyes misty with tears. Anthony had rendered her speechless.

Penelope was overwhelmed with warmth, affection, and gratitude for the man beside her. She was bewildered by the truth of his feelings for their friendship—utterly elated that what she had long held sacred was being reflected back to her in such a profound way.

Lucy began to speak. "That was—"

"Quite beautiful," Genevieve said.

"Yes," was all Henry had managed to say. His hands were itching for his materials, eager to paint such a divine scene of adoration. He would have to settle for sketching it from memory in the morning.

Without taking his eyes off hers, Anthony lifted Penelope's hand to his mouth to place a soft, gentle kiss.

"Beautiful, indeed."

Notes:

I hope you liked this chapter. Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think

Chapter 16: With Naught But Her Quill

Summary:

Let's go to Pen's fave tavern!

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

There was a knock on his bedroom door.

Anthony stirred, though he didn't open his eyes. He groaned, clinging onto remnants of sleep. He was not quite ready to rise, but his day must begin.

His plans included a visit to the stables. He had hoped to talk to the owner about renting space for his stallion, Aethon, as his own needed repairs. Later on, he would also be dining with his neighbor and their friends at Penelope's favorite tavern, The Stag's Hearth.

Last night, drinks had stretched until half past midnight. After their goodbyes, he walked across the way and sunk into his bed before the clock had even struck the next hour.

Overall, he was rather pleased with his first day in the village. His household staff had settled in and he had dined at Penelope's, thoroughly enjoying her company and that of her friends.

He had also, without planning to, completely bared his soul to his closest friend and three others who were barely acquaintances before dinner.

I guess we're friends now as well , he thought with a chuckle.

The knock came once more, louder and more insistent, jolting him from his reverie, effectively and fully waking him up.

"My lord?" his valet, Williams, called.

"Enter," Anthony replied.

Williams entered the bedchamber and proceeded to draw the curtains in the room open.

"I have drawn you a bath, my lord. If you make haste, we shall have time for a shave before dinner."

"Dinner? What time is it?"

"It is half past four o'clock, my lord. When you'd gotten back just after midnight last night, you advised me to ensure you are ready for dinner with Miss Featherington by six this evening."

He had slept for almost fourteen hours.

"I had slept for almost fourteen hours, Williams." Anthony said, wide-eyed and amused.

"Quite so, sir," he replied with a smile.

Anthony barked out an incredulous laugh before saying, "All right, let us get ready for dinner then. I am quite famished."

Upon arriving at Penelope's, he was greeted by the blinding grin of the lady of the house herself. She looked lovely in a blue dress adorned with flowers densely embroidered at the hems of her skirts, gradually thinning into a fade as they climbed like delicate vines toward her dropped waist.

He found himself holding his breath, as it felt that with every glance he stole—whether at her eyes, her lips, her soft cheeks, her perfect bosom (ho there!) or the gentle curve of her waist and the hypnotizing swell of her hips (her hips?!) —she stole the wind from his lungs in return.

If this is the last sight I see before I am stifled to my demise, I shall perish a blissful man indeed… Now, where did that come from?

To him, Penelope had always been pretty, despite the loud yellow and orange dresses her mama had made her wear. But tonight, she was radiant. It felt as though a star had descended from the heavens to grace his mere mortal existence.

Wha—When did I get so damned poetic? Breathe, Ant. Talk to your friend.

"Good evening, my lord ," she smirked. "You look dashing!"

Ugh, did I sound a little overeager? I did, didn't I? Still your nerves, Penny, he is your friend.

"Good evening, my lady ," he teased back. "Penelope, you are beautiful."

Anthony's compliment was rewarded with a glowing, pink blush on her cheeks. He then wondered what else he could say or do to elicit such a response, if only to see what had become his favorite shade of pink— as though he'd had a preference for the color before .

Meanwhile, Penelope could hardly believe the way Anthony looked at her. He had a certain softness in his eyes. His gaze made her feel as if she was the only person in the world worth seeing—worth beholding. Though it was just the two of them in the doorway of her cottage, he still effortlessly commanded the space. The way his focus was solely on her left her breathless. It was... intoxicating to say the least.

They proceeded to the larger sitting room by the foyer to wait for the others. Trying to maintain focus, Penelope reminded herself how excited she was for Anthony to see the tavern and more of the village. They were all looking forward to a boisterous affair, as The Stag's Hearth was popular and it could get lively and crowded in the evenings.

Almost as soon as they sat down to chat, Henry entered with a sheepish grin and a hint of mischief lingering beneath the surface.

"Good evening, friends."

"Hen! Shall we go?" Penelope inquired as both she and Anthony made to stand up.

"I am afraid you both shall have to go on to the tavern without us. Lucy has got herself a headache, while Genevieve still feels the effects of last night's three bottles of gin. I will look after our ladies, make sure they're rested and comfortable and all that," he said.

Turning to Anthony, Henry added, "You will look after our Penelope, will you not?"

"Of course, Henry," Anthony replied with a nod.

"Oh, that's too bad. But we—er—haven't got a chaperone?"

"Pen, dear, I've sorted it all out with Rae. She will be meeting you at The Stag's Hearth with Bea and they will be seated at the table next to yours," Henry supplied, his eyes twinkling with barely contained amusement.

"Now, best get a move on before the crowd gathers! We would not want to keep the ale waiting," Henry said loudly as he held both Penelope and Anthony on their backs, pushing them out the door.

"Are you sure you'll be all right? Should I call on Dolores to come back?"

"Nonsense, sweet. We'll be fine. Go on! Enjoy your evening!" Henry exclaimed as they went out the door.

As soon as the door thudded to a close, a fit of giggles erupted from somewhere down the hallway.

"Oh we are naughty, aren't we?" Lucy giggled.

Genevieve then said "They keep saying friends but half the things that bloody viscount said last night I've never said to my friends, and some of my friends I even tup!"

Henry laughed saying, "They needed a leg up, they'll be fine," before waving his hands dismissively at the direction in which Penelope and Anthony had left.

"Now, where does Penelope keep her wine?"

The soft light of dusk cast the village aglow. The evening air was chilly, carrying the cozy scent of damp earth and grass, and the faint wood smoke from the chimneys of the cottages they passed.

Penelope's hand was secured by Anthony's own in the crook of his elbow as they continued to talk about things the other may have missed during their time apart.

Along the cobblestones and gravel that lined the road they walked upon, their footfalls crunched—the sound mingling with the quiet hum of life in the village.

"I slept for almost fourteen hours last night, Penelope. I cannot recall the last time I had such deep, uninterrupted sleep," Anthony shared, smiling down at the woman on his arm.

Penelope looked up at him, relishing in their proximity and memorizing his scent of lavender, citrus, and spice. "That's wonderful, Anthony. I hope you continue enjoying pleasures such as that during your stay here. You deserve it. Truly."

Anthony could not help but believe her. Maybe he did deserve to rest. Maybe he did need it.

Glowing windows from small cottages lined their path. Every so often, Penelope glanced up at Anthony as he regaled her with stories about the Bridgerton brood. They basked in the way her cheek had occasionally brushed against his bicep, and the way Anthony squeezed lightly the few times he adjusted Penelope's hand in his arm—small comforts they both hadn't known they needed.

As the road sloped gradually downward, Penelope continued to point out houses and shops to Anthony while animatedly telling him all about their residents and owners—the very friends she had made the past four months. Her voice served as a cure to his weary mind and soul. Her joy was infectious.

The road led them to the heart of the village where light and laughter spilled out from The Stag's Hearth up ahead.

As they approached the tavern, the music grew louder—a lively country tune from a fiddle, with the accompaniment of a flute, and the beat of a tambourine.

A blend of aromas welcomed them as soon as they stepped into the tavern—meat roasting on the fire, the spice of ale, and the deliciousness that can only come from freshly baked bread.

Filling the tavern were locals and travelers alike, creating a stunning mix of voices, accents, and music. Some guests were engaged in conversation, while others have taken to gathering near the fire while dancing with unrestrained glee.

Anthony was amazed at how he felt. Excitement thrummed in his veins and palpable joy made his heart jump wildly in his chest. Despite this being the first time he had ever been here, he felt surprisingly at home.

"Marcus!" Penelope shouted over the noise. Anthony was startled into a little laugh at her antics.

"Penelope! We've been expecting you!" the man behind the bar replied.

As soon as they arrived by the bar, Penelope made quick introductions. "Anthony, this is Mr. Marcus Reynolds. He owns this lovely tavern. Marcus, this is my dear friend, Mr. Anthony Bridgerton."

The two men shook hands and exchanged pleasantries before duty called.

"We need yer help 'ere, boss! These pies won't plate themselves!"

"I have to go, Penelope," Marcus began. "I need to check on the specials you ordered for your friend here."

"Thank you, Marcus! Where are—"

"Rae and Bea are at the back. They saved you a corner table. See you at Book Club in a few days, yes?"

"Definitely!" Penelope replied with a grin.

"I hope to see you there as well, Mr. Bridgerton!" Marcus exclaimed as he finally made his way to his waiting staff.

Penelope and Anthony walked to their table, and as they made their way there, Anthony was surprised at how easily his companion made conversation and hasty introductions.

"—Mr. Bridgerton, Ms. Cartwright. Ms. Cartwright, Mr. Bridgerton."

"Mr. Bridgerton, Mr. James. Mr. James, Mr. Bridgerton—"

Almost all the locals present called out to Penelope, and she was quick to wave or smile or say hello.

"You are a marvel!" he said ecstatically as they took their seats at the table saved for them, after greeting Rae and introducing Bea to Anthony.

"What do you mean?" Penelope replied, laughing while she fluffed her skirts to get comfortable in her seat.

"It's amazing how different you are here—different in the most delightful way. You have been hiding, Penelope."

"I guess I have been. But you see me now," she said with a small smile.

He returned her smile and replied "I do," before squeezing Penelope's hand once under the table.

Anthony agreed—this was the best Shepherd's Pie he'd ever tasted. Whether it was the pie itself or the gorgeous company across from him, who made the evening all the more memorable, he wasn't sure. Though, he leaned toward the latter.

"Tell me how you did it," Anthony said after taking a long pull from his second tankard of ale. "Whistledown."

And she did. Penelope told him everything from the very beginning—how Mr. Banks accidentally discovered her writing and invested in her talent, how she made her deliveries in the middle of the night, how Genevieve discovered her secret in the market stalls of Bloomsbury.

Penelope told him about how she felt invisible her entire time in the marriage mart. How she felt disheartened by the disdain and apathy of her family.

She even told him all the details of the night she lost Eloise and Colin, which only reminded him to write to both his siblings to chastise them about all the bloody lines they had crossed when it came to Penelope. About their abysmal behavior—with Eloise wreaking havoc in her private bedchambers and Colin toying with her affections and her reputation.

And then she told him about—

" You wrote all the Mane & Tail pamphlets?!" Anthony asked, astounded.

Penelope laughed at how wide his eyes had gotten. "Why yes, Anthony, I did! Our stableman helped me, while our cook helped me with Househo—"

"You wrote Household Diaries as well?!"

"I did!" she replied, amused at his reactions.

"Mother would be so thrilled if she finds out that Bridgerton House played its part in supporting the livelihood of Penelope Featherington," he said as he tucked a stray curl of vibrant red hair behind her ear.

"Did you, now?" she teased.

"Yes, we did! I read my Mane & Tail before my broadsheet. Every morning, I was eager to get my hands on the pamphlet. I always practiced whatever it said with the Bridgerton horses and with my Aethon," he continued.

"You are amazing, Penelope. Your writing is entertaining. It's enlightening. And as we have proved recently, it's life-changing," Anthony finished, as he placed a hand over his heart.

Penelope's cheeks flushed, the faint pink color blossoming on her skin. "Thank you, Anthony," she murmured as she brushed the knuckles of his hand on the table.

After three mulled wines for Penelope and four ales for Anthony, they were now admittedly in their cups. The crowd in the tavern had significantly thinned after a few hours. Marcus had dropped by their table and then Rae and Bea's to say goodbye, promising to see them all at Book Club.

"So, book club?" he asked as his thumb found Penelope's knee under the table to brush against it absentmindedly and affectionately.

Penelope felt a shiver run up her spine, which she—of course—blamed on the chill in the air, or her drink, or whatever else was lying around.

"Ah, yes! Please join us at the next one. We are reading Mansfield Park," she said, with an inexplicable glint in her eye, almost conspiratorial, but also humorous.

"Do you think I would be able to catch up?"

"Of course! You don't even need to read it beforehand, just come and listen to us talk about it for now."

"Alright, I'll be there," Anthony promised as he pulled his hand away from her knee to pour her another glass of wine.

"I look forward to it! I love our meetings at Quill Cottage, I know you will too," Penelope said excitedly, while her knee felt suddenly bereft of Anthony's warmth.

"Quill Cottage?"

"Oh, it's—er—it's what I call my home," she admitted sheepishly, almost shy.

"Wonderful. How fitting. In Quill Cottage resides the Queen of the Quill, the benevolent and witty Penelope Anne 'Whistledown' Featherington."

Anthony laughed at Penelope's snort and giggle. He then brushed his fingertips over Penelope's hand on the table before bringing his hand once more to his chest, placing it over his heart.

"Anthony, can I ask you a question?"

He nodded as he took a sip of his ale.

"I've noticed since you arrived, you have this… this habit," Penelope said, as she replicated how Anthony placed his hand on his chest.

"I saw it first when we talked outside your house, and then again during dinner last night. And then a few more times over drinks. Tell me about it. Why do you do it?"

"Oh," Anthony started, the tips of his ears turning a light pink in the low glow from the candles surrounding them.

He took Penelope's hand in his under the table, resting both on her knee. He threaded his fingers through hers as he looked her over, from the red curls that flowed down her back, to the brilliant blue eyes that seemed to see through him, to her cheeks flushed from drink and glee…

She felt a swoop in her belly, the butterflies that resided there awakened once more tonight by his tenderness. She had tried to look away from his honest brown eyes, but couldn't, as they pulled her in. Deeper and deeper into his very soul.

"It's a habit indeed. And it began about four months ago. My left breast pocket," he then placed his free hand over his heart once more before continuing, "The one I have in all my coats and jackets, is where I kept your letter, Penelope."

She drew in a sharp breath.

"Folded and secure, the letter that carried the words I needed to hear and the things I needed to know—the letter that spoke of my hopes and dreams, of who I am as a person, of who I want to be—was my tether to reality. It grounded me when I needed it to. It kept me sane and calm through those days when I thought that this plan, my moving to the country, was impossible and outlandish. It helped me focus. It helped me breathe."

He continued to look at her as he fiddled with their entwined hands. The sounds inside the tavern had dwindled to a low hum, a reminder that they, too, must make their way home soon.

"When I needed your words to hold me, I would place my palm over my heart—over my pocket—safe in knowing that the letter that changed me and turned my existence upside down is right there."

He took a deep and steadying breath, trying to remind himself of his promises to always be truthful. To always be honest. No matter what.

"Since getting settled in my new home, I've been keeping the letter safe in one of my locked drawers, yet my habit persists. In my moments of vulnerability, I reach for it still. I find no need for the letter to ground me now, because… you are here with me. Beside me, in front of me, across the street from me. It has always been you, Penelope—my most cherished friend—who I held on to when I clutched the letter in my hand."

Penelope's soul seemed to soar. A liberating sensation flooded her body, lifting her spirit. She was elated to the point of bliss in hearing such beautiful and heartfelt words. She struggled to steady her breathing, her chest rising and falling as she attempted what seemed impossible at the moment—a slow and measured breath.

"Anthony, I—I don't know what to say…"

"Nor do I expect you to say anything, Penelope. I just… I wanted you to know exactly how much that letter means to me. How much you mean to me."

Notes:

I hope this was ok. I hope you liked the reason behind Ant's habit. And I hope there were moments when you went 'Awww' haha

Let me know what you think. I am behind in polishing the remaining chapters, so I am late in replying to your comments as well. But I read them all and I love them all.

Thank you for being with me in this journey

Chapter 17: Worship

Notes:

Please mind the change in rating and the tags. This is an important part of Penelope's self-love journey. There is no man, no Anthony here. Just Penelope.

If you're not a fan of the spice, don't worry. Stop reading at the third line break. There won't be any spicy chapters for a while. I needed this out now because I wanted this to be all about Pen.

This chapter is for all of us who struggle with loving our bodies.

Sorry about the typos. I edited like six times. Apologies. *

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

(02 October 1815)

A quiet routine had settled over this corner of the village. Since the evening at the tavern, Anthony had joined Penelope's household occasionally for dinner and drinks. During the day, Genevieve, Henry, Lucy, and Penelope made the most of the time they had left before the trio would have to depart for Milan. They visited shops, enjoyed the taverns, and called for tea at the homes of their new friends.

Anthony and the London guests also assisted Penelope in planning for the upcoming autumn assembly at the end of the month. They met with merchants, florists, butchers, and taverns, as well as the cooks from various volunteer households.

Penelope had always adored the intricacies of organizing a ball and had long dreamed of one to call her own.

With this in mind, Penelope had taken it upon herself to print invites and send them to every household and place of business in the village encouraging the villagers to contribute financially or in service or kind so that they could all enjoy an autumn assembly at the village barn.

Penelope was thrilled that most everyone had wanted to participate, with some businesses even committing their goods or services for free.

It had been a productive last few days, but it had also taken its toll on Penelope's mind. All the planning and meeting and organizing and shopping had her longing for time alone.

Today, she had left her guests to venture off on their own and explore more of Helmsley.

Finally free from any and all commitment in the late afternoon—with the London trio out and about, and Anthony at the village stables to attend to Aethon—Penelope went outside through the backdoor of her cottage.

Her patch of herbs was situated in the corner of her pretty garden. Donning her gardening gloves and with a pair of shears in hand, she walked under the bright blue sky. Basking in sunlight and country fresh air, she bent down to harvest her herbs for tea.

Before doing so, she made sure to take a deep breath and enjoy the harmony of fragrances that welcomed her. After arriving at Quill Cottage, Penelope taught herself how to make her own tea leaves. She had often experimented mixing herbs together, finding the perfect balance to achieve exciting flavors.

Today, she was focused on gathering lavender, rosemary, verbena, and mint. She cut away, tied the bunches together with twine, and placed them in her basket. She had also taken to harvesting some mushrooms as she had recently found them enjoyable with tea, bringing an earthiness that was quite delightful.

Once she was done, she made her way to the corner of her back porch where her writing table was located. She'd had this specially made to go from end to end at the left side of the porch. This particular spot was obscured from view by hedges and provided her privacy when she needed to stay outdoors.

One half of the table was neatly covered with books and writing instruments. A drawer contained her sheaths of parchment. The other half of the table held all the materials she needed to make her tea. Overhead was a line where she hung her herbs to dry.

After she had thoroughly rinsed the freshly picked herbs, she patted them dry with a cheesecloth and carefully placed them on the line with wooden clips and twine.

A sense of fulfillment came over Penelope, celebrating this little thing she had always loved doing by herself.

With this task done and dinner a few hours away, she had decided to indulge in her quiet time further, making the most of a relatively empty house.

Rae was busy with some cleaning and dusting in the downstairs sitting room in preparation for tomorrow's book club meeting, while Dolores was ensconced in the kitchen preparing for dinner.

A quiet anticipation stirred within her, beginning from a gentle heat pooling in her belly. She felt a thrill at the idea of indulging in the rest of the afternoon entirely by herself, tucked away in the warmth of her bed.

She then went to tell Rae that she would be taking a 'long nap' and that she'd be getting herself ready for dinner, ensuring that she would not be disturbed.

In her bedchamber, Penelope stood in front of her oval, full-length mirror. Her simple, pale green day dress draped lightly against her skin, as delicate as the quietude of the moment. In the front of the dress was a column of pearl buttons, holding the garment together. She was free of her stays and chemise as she spent all day in the privacy of her home.

Her eyes traveled from the top of her head, looking over her red curls. She swept her soft gaze to her blue eyes, watching her reflection with the kindness that was not afforded her in her family home in Mayfair.

She looked at her button nose, admiring the little thing in the center of her face. She watched her parted lips, pink and full.

With her new life came a new commitment. Penelope pledged to love herself wholeheartedly. She promised to love her mind, her body, her personality. She committed to treating herself with the tenderness deprived of her in the cutthroat environment of the ton .

Keeping this promise was surprisingly easy, as she found out that the things the ton seemed hellbent on disliking about her, she dearly loved.

She loved her curves. She loved her wild when untamed curls. She loved her small frame and had found it endearing. She loved her bosom and her soft, round derrière.

Penelope was thriving in her new life in more ways than she could even put to paper. She had friends, social calls, and salons. She had her book club. She had her home. She had a family in Rae and Dolores.

But more than that, she had learned to truly, deeply love herself.

She no longer looked in the mirror wanting to change anything. She no longer saw herself through the lenses with which her mother would watch her.

Penelope looked in the mirror without a hint of judgment or disdain.

She liked to think that the reflection staring back at her, here in the home she had built—in the life she had created—looked at her in gratitude.

She was free from rude comments that at times had come from her own mouth. Free from the wicked taunts about her weight, or disheartening words about her figure thinly veiled as 'concerns' about her 'health.'

Penelope had learned to see herself as beautiful. Simply beautiful. Not beautiful 'despite anything,' nor beautiful 'in comparison.' Just beautiful.

She had no need for anyone to tell her of her beauty; she saw it herself.

With this newfound understanding of love for her mind, body, and spirit, she had also learned to worship—to honor herself in her entirety with deep reverence and affection.

Penelope sat along the side of her bed facing her mirror. She stared at the image before her. She hadn't even begun, but the anticipation had already caused her skin to flush, and her breath to change in its pattern.

She started at her feet, touching and caressing her ankles up to her calves, taking her time to feel her legs through the fabric of her dress.

A quiet breeze blew through her open window, as though it attempted to tamp the heat building within her. A heat brought on by her unyielding desire to explore herself, her flesh. To worship her body—this glorious vessel that cradled all her dreams and fantasies, all her love and hope and adoration. This sacred temple that kept her secrets safe, sheltered her desires, and held the very essence of her being.

Her hands continued to wander upwards, from her calves to her thighs, her skirts slightly ruching up with her movement. She kneaded the sides of her thighs with both hands, reveling in their fullness.

Her grip drifted from the side to the back as she fondled her buttocks over her dress. A quiet moan escaped her lips as she shamelessly admired the curve of her backside.

She then moved to her hips, her fingers now facing forward as she continued her journey throughout her body. Her hands glided from her hips to her belly, swirling in soothing circles, lavishing the part of her she had once despised, with all the adoration it was due.

For years she had looked away from her reflection, viewing mirrors as yet another space in her family home where she hadn't felt safe. Her breasts and her stomach had borne the brunt of her self-criticisms—too large and too round.

And now, after months of work and healing, hand-in-hand with the woman looking back at her, every inch of her skin and flesh and bone knew only love.

Penelope journeyed upwards from her belly, sliding her hands over her breasts—full, round, beautiful. Her nipples immediately pebbled under her touch, her mind and nerves already thrumming with excitement from all her soft caresses. She gasped at the contact, her eyes now half-open as she watched her lashes flutter in her reflection.

Momentarily leaving her chest, her hands traveled to her neck, sliding toward the back of her head. Her fingers threaded through the hair at her nape, massaging softly before holding her tresses in a mild grip. She closed her eyes, enjoying this sliver of time where it's just her, her lust, and her body in the room.

She skimmed her hands from her hair to the front of her dress and she slowly and reverently unclasped her buttons. Her fingers trailed along the skin of her chest as she did so, leaving sparks in their wake. She then eased her arms out of her dress. Once that was done, she continued holding on to the front of the garment.

Penelope stood from her seat and watched herself in the mirror. She let go of her dress and it fell to the floor, pooling at her feet. She watched in awe as her breasts heaved from her breathing, her skin flushed and warm. She was a wanton goddess.

She sat once more and resumed her worship. She now poured her attention to the parts of her she once had struggled to appreciate.

Penelope examined the silvery lines on her breasts, reminders of her physical evolution—from a little girl to a woman, buxom and voluptuous. She traced the lines from the top of her breasts toward the pebbled tips in reverence.

She moved to the stripes that marked her growth on her belly, tracing downward and sideways, fondling the soft rolls and folds. She honored the lines that mapped her natural womanly changes—marks she had once resented, seeing them as betrayals of the lithe beauty she would never become.

But she had come to learn that she had always been beautiful. These lines were beautiful. They were symbols of her maturity, her womanhood. These marks on her skin told stories only women would ever learn. What an honor.

She flowed her hands downward, continuing her journey through all the faint striations on her skin, using her fingertips to touch the marks on her hips. She then languidly traced the lines on her thighs.

She slid her touch to her inner thighs and she spread her legs. The sight caused her to groan, her quim pulsating with need.

The breeze caused her nipples to erect once again. She moaned at the coolness touching her skin as she watched her parted legs in the mirror, tracing the reflection with her eyes, traveling from her knees to her center.

Penelope then glanced at the eyes staring back at her. Her pupils were blown black, her slightly open lips were moving with her breath, and there was now a slight furrow in her brow. She looked fully debauched by her own touch.

The hands on her inner thighs shifted inward and up, traveling past her mound covered in curls of a darker shade of red than the hair on her head, eliciting a soft gasp that turned into a whimper.

She floated her hold onto her belly, upward to the sides of her breasts toward her neck. From her neck, she faced her fingers downward as they slid through the valley of her breasts. She then lifted her hands to her nose, deeply inhaling the natural scent she had gathered—a heady aphrodisiac.

Without averting her gaze from her eyes in the mirror, her left hand swept toward her neck, as her right held onto her left breast, where she grabbed and kneaded. She arched her back, sensations slowly becoming overwhelming. She felt a wetness surge from her quim, her arousal evident in between her thighs.

She moved her right hand to her right breast as her left hand dropped to her other breast. Both kneaded in unison, reflecting the same patterns and movements, massaging with need and urgency. She pinched both her nipples at the same time. She keened at the sensation, feeling the wetness between her legs increase and the heat in her body spread.

Penelope watched her reflection as she put her middle and forefingers in her mouth and licked. She groaned at the image before her. She lapped at her digits. She put her tongue out to lick with abandon.

Once good and wet, she used her fingertips to circle her areolas, rubbing and pinching incessantly. When they had dried in the cool air, she tried something new.

She slid her fingers downward and gathered wetness from her cunny, groaning at the pleasure, before using the same fingers to circle her nipples once more, moistening them with her juices.

Moaning and writhing in her seated position, legs still spread, quim weeping with arousal, she continued to worship her breasts.

She drifted her left hand to her right breast with her arm brushing against the other. Her free hand then traveled downward to where her touch was craved for the most.

She spread her pussy lips lasciviously and obscenely, a silent act of rebellion against her former ignorance of carnal pleasures. Seeing her quim wide open to her made her even wetter.

Her right fingers gathered moisture from her slit once more before moving to her throbbing clit.

Her mouth fell open in a silent scream. Penelope threw her head back and closed her eyes, mouth still agape and brows furrowed, as she circled the area around the sensitive bundle of nerves.

Slowly at first, she then moved her fingers expertly, already having memorized what her pussy needed, what her body craved, to achieve sweet release.

She looked at herself in the mirror again. As her core throbbed, she increased her fervor; the wet sounds filling the room were lewd and arousing. Her hips undulated to the same rhythm as her left hand continued massaging and kneading her breasts one at a time.

She continued the circular motions on her clit, the pleasure building and building within her. She was at the precipice of her release, it drew nearer and nearer as she writhed, whimpering and gasping, grinding against the mattress.

And then she paused.

Penelope dragged her fingers from her clit to her entrance, easing up and down, teasing.

She wanted to delay her release.

Penelope had recently learned from her explorations that delaying her orgasm intensified them.

And so she will hold out this afternoon for as long as she can.

She was toying with the limits of her own self-control. And she loved it.

When the heat inside her had abated slightly, she placed her fingers on her clit once more and resumed her ministrations.

Circling, pinching, squeezing, until she is at the edge of the cliff. Wanting to jump but restraining. She paused once more.

Over and over she did this. Over and over she took herself to the edge only to draw back.

She indulged in her own flesh unabashedly, the scent of her sex and the heat from her body filled the air—sweet ambrosia. Beads of sweat had dripped down the valley of her breasts to her belly.

While breaking away once more from her clit, she pinched both her nipples. Penelope keened as she arched backwards. Her nerves went wild with pleasure and pain that she had almost orgasmed at the sensation.

She went back to her clit with her fingers, rubbing and circling as her hips and her ass continued grinding on the bed. She watched, her eyes scanned her physique, from her hair to her eyes, from her mouth to her heaving chest where her left hand continued to pinch and roll her nipples.

She was almost there. And she was now ready to give in.

As Penelope felt the familiar sensation at the base of her spine, as she felt the heat intensify at her core, as she felt as if she were on the very edge once more, she bent her head to her chest as she pulled her right breast to her mouth.

She sucked and licked her own nipple while she pinched her clit. And then she gave in.

She fell into oblivion. A thousand deaths and resurrections came over her as she experienced the best release she had ever gifted herself.

As her orgasm waned and abated, she rubbed her clit once more. Her mouth fell open and her back curved backwards as a smaller, yet equally electrifying orgasm followed.

As her pussy clenched and throbbed, she fell onto her bed panting.

Bliss.

Notes:

My take on the mirror scene! Thanks for the reminder, LillyMouse

I was so worried about posting this, that's why it was delayed. Let me know what you think. Constructive criticism is welcome, as always. I need smut notes if you have any. Thank you!

Small nod to ynnej2198's cumtrace only solo

Chapter 18: Penny's Book Club

Summary:

Some book club chaos. Fun games. A dance.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

(04 October 1815)

What the hell happened last night?

Penelope tried to open her eyes, but the bright morning light glaring through the sitting room window made it impossible.

Sitting room? Why am I here?

She blearily squinted, barely opening one eye, gathering all the strength and effort she could muster into trying to make sense of her surroundings.

Anthony lay sprawled on his stomach on the floor, sleeping soundly and snoring like a sawmill at the foot of the sofa where Penelope was trying to get up from. A few feet away, curled up together in an embrace, were Lucy and Genevieve. Both rested their heads on Henry's torso.

Why are we each missing a shoe?

As Penelope made to get up, she spied a peculiar sight—Christine's fiddle was perched precariously atop one of the high curtain rods of the windows. Over at the other side of the room, Rae, Christine, and Viola were dozing on the floor, a fork loosely held in one hand each. A partially consumed, medium-sized seed cake on a platter laid on the floor beside them with six forks still stuck in it.

She noticed that there was a huge open space in the center of the room where two sofas used to be.

Is that a makeshift dance floor? Where are my sofas?

Near the fireplace was a firkin—probably Marcus'—and on top of the small barrel was a copy of Mansfield Park. Surrounding the book were small candles and—

Flowers? Is it supposed to be an altar?

Penelope slowly made her way across the room. Everything she'd been seeing so far only painted an even more confusing picture in her head.

In another corner of the room sat a small table, and on this table was a pot. What looked like around 100 of Viola's and Genevieve's buttons were scattered everywhere—around the pot, inside it, and on the floor. Michael, slumped against the table with his head buried in his arm, sat awkwardly on the floor—also one shoe deficient.

Where are our shoes? This is so baffling.

Penelope continued to walk, making her way outside the sitting room.

Oh, there they are. Shoes and sofas.

In the hallway outside, she found her other two sofas... And the rest of her book club. John and Joanna were on one sofa, while Bea and David were asleep on the other. Marcus and Gerald were on the floor. And yes, they were all lacking one shoe.

In the middle of the hallway, right past the sofas and sleeping bodies, was a pile of shoes.

"What the hell happened last night?" Penelope muttered, her temples starting to throb.

About last night…

(03 October 1815)

"Ladies and gentlemen," Penelope said as she stood on top of a stool—which, in all honesty, did not do much for her height—cheeks flushed with excitement, flashing the brightest smile.

"Welcome to Penny's Book Club!"

The entire room cheered and whooped. Some were tinkling their glasses and cups, some were banging on the table, while Christine was playing a fun tune on her fiddle.

In attendance were, of course, Rae, Dolores, Genevieve and the Granvilles, and Anthony; John Hamilton, the baker, and his wife Joanna; Christine Danvers, the vicar's daughter; Marcus Reynolds, owner of The Stag's Hearth; Viola Bennett, the seamstress; Michael Roberts, who owned the village stables; Gerald Wynn, the bookshop owner; and David Crowne and his wife Beatrice, immediate neighbors to Quill Cottage.

Anthony was beaming as he watched Penelope have the best time hosting her 'book club,' emanating confidence and radiating joy.

Earlier that day, he arrived an hour before the agreed upon time to help out with preparations, carrying a brand new copy of Mansfield Park.

"Penelope, why did the bookshop owner laugh at me when I said I needed this title for your book club?"

Laughing, Penelope responded, "I'm so sorry, Anthony. I forgot to tell you that it's not actually a book club."

She then continued to tell the story of how Penny's Book Club started and how it evolved into what it was today—a weekly salon. Anthony was amused, always warmed and honored to see a brand new side to his Penny.

My Penny?

And now, here they all were, looking forward to a night to remember—which would turn out to be a night they'd barely be able to recall.

"For tonight's Drinking Fines, we have two taboo words: 'Nonsense' and 'Bollocks," Penelope continued. "Penalty is one jigger of gin. You will find four bottles scattered in the room for your ease of access in giving out to your nearest offending friends."

Marcus cheered the loudest, having the best record for Drinking Fines so far. "Mr. Bridgerton, I do hope you are ready. 'Bollocks' is one of the more difficult words to avoid!"

"Oh, I am definitely in a dreadful predicament. I think our Penny is aiming for my inebriation," Anthony chuckled while shaking his head at his hostess. Penelope grinned right back at him and he felt his face flush from her attention. Marcus then nudged Anthony with his elbow, wagging his eyebrows. "Enough of that, Reynolds," Anthony murmured.

Yes, Anthony and Marcus became fast friends after his first visit to The Stag's Hearth with Penelope.

"Viola!" Genevieve called, pulling Marcus and Anthony from their whispered conversation. "Did you bring what I asked you to?"

"Yes, Gen!" Viola replied. She then proceeded to hand Genevieve a small bag. Gen pulled out her own bag from her pocket and placed them beside a pot placed on a small table.

The bags contained over 100 assorted buttons.

"What's this then?" Penelope asked, already looking forward to figuring out the mechanics to whatever game this was.

Genevieve addressed the room in reply. "This table setup here is for the game 'Pitch-pot,' a fun drinking game my American friend taught me. We will all attempt to pitch a button into the pot from here," she said, pointing to a space marked with chalk a few feet away from the pot. "If a player misses, forfeit is one glass of ale, courtesy of Marcus!"

Marcus tapped the firkin he brought to the party. "We are all getting sloshed tonight!"

"I remember a naughtier version of this game in one of our parties, husband." Lucy said.

Henry grinned, "Yes, dear. I remember Benedict losing all his clothes by the end of the night."

Anthony coughed into his glass. "He what ?!"

"Oh, never you mind, Ant," Penelope chuckled.

Standing up once more on her stool, Penelope shouted, "Let the night begin!"

"... And she—oh, bollocks! Oh, no!"

"Nonsense! Oh, bollocks! Shit—"

"Boll—ah! Almost!"

Jiggers upon jiggers of gin and glasses of ale later, the book club was now the liveliest they've ever been.

Penelope was having the time of her life. She adored these evenings with her friends. She scanned the room, trying to see if anyone needed anything when she met Anthony's gaze.

Her heart stuttered, and she was unable to keep from smiling at him. Marcus saw this interaction and slapped Anthony on the shoulder and pushed him towards Penelope.

"Having a good time, Ant?"

"Why, yes. You are a good hostess, Penny. I haven't laughed this much in a long time!"

The London trio, taking a break from all the button-throwing, watched the pair with matching smirks.

"Boys!" Lucy yelled, grabbing the attention of everyone in the room. "Help us out in bringing these two sofas to the hallway to clear some space. Let's dance! Christine's prepared a couple songs for us, ain't that right, dear?"

"Yes, and Bea and David are gonna show you London folk how to really dance a lively country set!"

"Pen, are you and Anthony up for this?" Henry challenged, tipping his half empty glass of brandy in their direction.

Penelope and Anthony looked at each other and laughed. "Why not? But do you even know how to dance, Mr. Bridgerton?"

"I am the best of all of us, Penelope. You'll see," Anthony winked, causing Penelope to drunkenly giggle as she extended her hand.

"Shall we, then?"

A brief demonstration of the country dance later, Anthony and Penelope were now ready to join Bea and David on the dance floor.

Christine drew her bow across the fiddle once more and the tune of "The Triumph" filled the room. Genevieve and Lucy joined the other pairs on the dance floor as well, as Henry beamed and urged them on.

The remainder of the guests seated around the makeshift dance floor continued to accompany Christine on her fiddle by tapping their hands on the tables or their feet on the floor.

Anthony stepped forward to offer Penelope his hand, his face alight with a mischievous grin. She giddily accepted, feeling a shiver at the warmth of his hand around hers.

The first steps to the dance, a set to the beat of the music, seemed innocent at first, but as they moved through the circle round, their bodies leaned closer. A warmth radiated between them, causing both hearts to flutter.

"You are gorgeous, my lady ," Anthony teased as they twirled, his eyes lingering on her a bit longer than normal. "I don't believe I've told you yet tonight. Forgive me?"

Penelope laughed. "You are forgiven, my lord ." She breathlessly tried to ignore the chaos the butterflies in her stomach were causing as they chasséd across the room, side by side, shoulders brushing.

She briefly set aside the thrill she felt being strongly led about the floor by Anthony's sure and steady hands and feet. Penelope bit her lip to suppress a smile, his closeness new and exhilarating.

Anthony's gaze softened as they promenaded, the music from the fiddle filling them with joy. "I cannot recall being happier than in this moment dancing with you. It has been over 10 years since I've felt this carefree, Penny." He watched Penelope with a newfound appreciation and felt utter satisfaction at making her flush in his favorite pink.

"You're an excellent dancer. I am filled with regret not having danced with you in London at all," he murmured, his voice lower now, sending sparks up Penelope's spine.

"We both are making up for it now, Ant," she smiled. "And I, too, am quite delighted to share this evening with you."

Their fingers brushed with each turn and touch, each graze, lighting sparks on the embers of something wonderful between them. Penelope felt his hand slip around her waist for seconds longer than necessary when they passed, his grip steady yet teasing.

"Just one more turn now, I think," she said, while attempting to calm herself despite her frantic heartbeat. She was swept onto the last steps by Anthony, who grinned but complied.

Anthony suddenly drew her in as the final notes echoed, his arm gripping her lower back. Without warning, he dipped her elegantly before she could gather her breath, and she clutched his shoulder as her heart tried to break free, to escape its confines. She giggled as she tipped her head back, much to Anthony's delight.

Their friends erupted in whistles and cheers—another plan by Gen and the Granvilles, executed to perfection.

Penelope's eyes were wide with surprise and something else, while Anthony's were warm, playful, and intense. The world around them melted away as their laughter blended together, their closeness bringing emotions to their attention that neither of them had yet dared to name.

Back to the morning after…

(04 October 1815)

Slowly, Penelope pieced together the events that followed the dance. She stood staring amusedly at the pile of shoes on the floor as she did.

At one point in the evening, Gerald found Anthony's copy of Mansfield Parkand went on to tell everyone about their hilarious encounter at the bookshop.

"He said he needed the title for Penny's Book Club! I couldn't help myself; I snorted a laugh. Of course, I still sold him the book. A sale is a sale after all. Apologies, Mr. Bridgerton."

Anthony guffawed and accepted his apology. He smirked and clucked his tongue at Penelope who was thoroughly entertained at Anthony being hoodwinked into purchasing a book and reading two chapters.

Christine, who was deep in her cups, placed her fiddle on the floor before proudly announcing, "As one of this book club's first members, I recommend that we pay tribute to the book that started it all."

She made her way to the now empty firkin, grabbed a few candles from around the room, and set up a small altar of sorts near the fireplace. Laughing softly, Michael and Marcus collected a few flowers from the bush right outside the sitting room window and placed them on the firkin, reverently and on their knees in supplication.

Bea then found the fiddle on the floor and grabbed it, thinking she should keep it safe from any damages. How she ended up on her husband's shoulders and tucking the fiddle safely between the high curtain rod and the wall, Penelope never did find out.

Approximately another hour later, they had tried the delicious seed cake brought by John and Joanna. They had abandoned said cake to play another game. The drunken book club blew out all the candles to play "Find Your Shoe."

"Find Your Shoe," Dolores began, "is an exciting game my children used to play. We each place one shoe in a pile. Blindfolded, we will try to feel which one is ours and wear it. Once we select a shoe, we cannot change it. My naughty kids used to purposefully select the wrong shoe just to confuse the others," she finished.

"What would be more exciting is if we blew out all the candles instead of just being blindfolded!" Anthony suggested. "We then should all start from one place and feel and crawl our way to the pile!"

Apparently, everyone thought it was a capital idea.

The darkness enveloped them all in a sleepy haze—considering their inebriated states—causing them to hole up in corners, stumble onto tables and sofas, feel their way around and outside the room for quick naps before heading home.

Just quick naps, of course. The guests did not want to overstay their welcome.

A half hour nap would do quite nicely, indeed.

Notes:

I hope you enjoyed this update! I apologize for the delay. Hopefully I will have an update for you in two days! We've got Penelope and Anthony coming up as they think over a lot of things.

Let me know what you think. Thanks again for reading!

Chapter 19: Picnic-Schmicnic

Summary:

A hangover cure. A picnic. An evening of introspection.

Notes:

Thank you for all the love for Chapter 18: Penny's Book Club!

I love drunken shenanigans as well, having lived through (and survived?) a few.

There was one time when my girlfriends tried to tickle me while drunk and I pushed one of them straight across the room with my uninhibited strength. She bruised lol. The same night, they made me lay on my stomach on a mattress, hold on to the corners tight, as they tried to push me down a flight of narrow stairs because "I wanted to surf." Good thing our other friends stopped us. We were so mad at them. We ended up drinking beer straight from a pitcher having lost all our cups (mistakenly discarded as trash) and tequila from coffee mugs. We ate hotdogs and passed out. Good times. I miss them!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

(04 October 1815)

Although the book club awoke this morning with headaches and hazy memories, the remainder of the day made no adjustments for anyone. After a quick breakfast—with everyone's almost worship-like gratitude to Dolores and her kitchen magic—the book club departed Quill Cottage.

Genevieve and the Granvilles would be leaving for Milan in two days, and this was all the reason Penelope needed to put on a brave face and drink a rather disgusting concoction of raw eggs and crushed garlic—a remedy for bottle-sickness that Anthony swore by. The incorrigible man had actually watched her every swallow and made sure that not a drop was left in her glass, before making up another mixture for himself in the same glass.

"That'll help your headache, Penny. Trust me." Anthony grimaced as he pinched his nose tight and emptied his glass in two huge gulps. He then gagged, much to Penelope's delight and immediate regret as her startled giggle caused her temples to throb.

"Stop making me laugh, you idiot. You're making me sicker. More sick? Oh, bugger," Penelope huffed. In her mind, she swore to never drink again.

"Idiot?" Anthony repeated, placing a hand to his chest in mock offense, enjoying the fact that the Lady Whistledown seemed to have misplaced her vocabulary. "I believe that is my—"

"Stop yelling, Ant!" Penelope whispered through gritted teeth.

"I was not—" he chuckled. "Anyway, I shall take that idiot remark to mean that I must take my leave. I'll see you this afternoon for our picnic, my lady. " Anthony then stood up. He glanced at Penelope who was seated before him, admiring the mess of red curls that graced her brilliant, banging head. Before he could even think twice on what he was about to do, he bent down to place a soft kiss on the top of her hair.

Penelope froze and looked up at him with her wide blue eyes. And then… she smiled.

Of course, she did. How could she not when Anthony was looking at her as though her flushed face—once again, in his favorite pink—held the very cure for his own bottle-sickness?

"See you later, my lord. "

With a heart that was thumping and jumping in his chest, and the memory of Penelope's most recent pretty smile vivid on his mind's eye, Anthony left for his home across the street.

During the course of their country stay, Genevieve, Lucy, Henry, and Penelope had spent some early mornings and other late afternoons taking leisurely country walks. Around the time Henry had grown to love the row of oak trees at the end of the road, they had also discovered a cool, shaded clearing just a five-minute walk from the oak trees' edge. There was an old trail leading up to it, which meant that some time ago, villagers and tourists may have also sought peace in that secluded space.

They had spent some of their time there picnicking, packing a blanket and snacks and beverages along with them. Henry would sketch or complete some quick watercolors while Lucy and Gen lounged and gossiped.

Penelope would, of course, be reading or writing. On the days that Anthony had begun joining them, he would also be bringing a book with him, indulging in his newfound free time reading all the things he had always wanted to, but never had the time for. Penelope often teased him about his reading speed, warning that if he didn't slow down, Gerald's shop would run out of books long before his year in the country was through.

The lovely clearing had provided the perfect backdrop for their lazy afternoons. Serene and inviting, the space boasted of dappled sunlight that filtered through the leafy canopy overhead. The ground was covered in soft grass that Penelope—with the help of one of the village gardeners—had taken to maintaining, for the villagers to enjoy should they wish. But overall, they had yet to encounter anyone else there on their quiet afternoon picnics.

The occasional wildflowers added touches of color and vibrance while a constant gentle breeze rustled through the trees, making the haven an ideal respite from the warmth of the afternoon sun.

Painting a pretty picture, their sanctuary was also filled with distant birdsong and the earthy scent of nature.

On the afternoon of the morning after, Penelope made plans with her guests and her new neighbor to take one last picnic in the clearing before the London trio would leave for Milan. Despite the headaches earlier in the day, Penelope was determined to make the most of this time enjoying their company.

Anthony, too, was set to spend time with them before they leave, having found friendship in the unlikely trio. These were relationships he was committed to maintaining once he returned to London in a year. He would like to join Penelope at their more subdued artist gatherings, as she had so eloquently described.

Did he just assume that Penelope would be returning with him to London? He dismissed the idea and concluded that Penelope could always visit London. Nothing permanent. Of course.

On their way to the clearing, Penelope walked and talked, entertaining Anthony as he insisted on carrying the picnic basket Dolores had prepared and the folded blanket they would be sitting upon.

Genevieve, Lucy, and Henry would be catching up to them. Michael had invited the trio for tea at the office in his stables as his farewell.

When Penelope and Anthony got to the clearing, they laid out the blanket and sat in comfortable silence as they waited for their companions. A few minutes later, Rae arrived and was out of breath.

"Apologies, Miss," Rae huffed. "I was sent by Gen to relay their regrets. Michael had insisted they stay for another hour, claiming that he would be missing Henry's company soon enough. He—Michael—also assumed that you would be understanding." Rae laughed, shaking her head in amusement.

"Of course. Though it is rather disappointing; this was meant to be our last picnic together for a while yet." She smiled sadly at Anthony.

He then placed his hand over hers on the picnic blanket before asking, "Penny, do you want to return home? We could spend the afternoon reading in your sitting room instead."

"No, Ant. Let's stay here. The cool shade and fresh air is too tempting and inviting to resist. Join us, Rae?"

"Sorry, Miss, but Dolores asked for my assistance in preparing for supper. I shall take my leave."

Rae was making her way through the trail leading to the edge when she looked back. Penelope was rummaging through the picnic basket as Anthony prepared their books.

Anthony glanced at Rae, who—unbeknownst to Penelope—threw him a big wink and a mischievous smile.

Oh, they think they are being so inconspicuous!

Penelope was flushed pink once more as she checked the items Dolores had placed in the picnic basket for them. She immediately realized that something was afoot when upon opening the basket, she noticed an oddity.

There was a bottle for elderflower wine, roasted chicken sandwiches, a loaf of crusty bread, soft cheeses, and slices of fresh fruit. While the food seemed natural, the portions were not.

Afternoon plans were made for five people, but there were only two glasses, two plates, and the food servings were clearly meant for just two people.

Her eyes widened as she met Anthony's gaze with her own blushing one. Her heart raced as she came to understand that this picnic was not at all what she expected.

"What's wrong, Penny?"

Penelope merely pointed to the basket—her vocabulary and speaking skills had taken their leave again.

Anthony peeked inside and burst out laughing. "That is not very… subtle."

"Indeed it isn't." Penelope fidgeted with her skirts and wrung her hands together. "I apologize for their behavior. If you want to leave—"

"I most certainly do not." Anthony beamed. He reached out a hand to brush over Penelope's beautiful face-framing curls. Her breath hitched as she unabashedly leaned into his touch.

"I would love nothing more than to do nothing with you this afternoon, Penny. Amid the trees and birdsong, I hope we could find comfort and company in each other, regardless of the circumstances."

… If she could love Colin from afar, she could offer companionship from that same breadth to Anthony, only without the fear of another unrequited love.

'Without the fear of another unrequited love.'

Unrequited love.

'Am I yet again well on my way to falling in love? And with a different Bridgerton brother?'

Penelope stared at her reflection in the mirror. She groaned and briefly squeezed her eyes shut as she ventured deeper into a rabbit hole of emotions and thoughts.

In the comfort of her chamber, the flickering candlelight and the soft glow from the fireplace bathed the room in warmth and gentle illumination. A sliver of moonlight filtered between the panels of her curtains as she prepared for a good night's rest after supper with her household, her London guests, and Anthony.

Anthony.

'Bollocks.' Penelope threw herself onto the bed before screaming definitely unladylike expletives into her pillow, her fists clenching the fabric as she kicked her feet into the mattress.

'How could I have let this happen once more?'

She had wanted to be annoyed. To be vexed with her friends for their matchmaking schemes. But she could not do it.

Not when it meant more time with her friend. Not when it meant that Anthony could touch her and hold her hand. Not when it meant stolen moments alone where Anthony played with her hair as he read.

Not when it meant that Anthony could tell her things like "I am more myself here with you than anywhere in London," or "I find I regret nothing—not leaving my family nor leaving my brother in charge of the estate—as long as you grace me with your presence and indulge me with your wit and your stories."

Not when an orchestrated dance with Bea and David—and Christine on her fiddle!—meant that Anthony would hold her waist just so, or meet her blue eyes with his deep dark brown ones with such honesty and vulnerability.

Not when it meant that her heart had begun healing—had begun opening up to love once more.

As she laid on her left side, she played with her hair and thought back to days past. Moments with Anthony seemed filled with tension and things untold.

This morning, waking up to Anthony in her home made it feel as though everything was right and in their proper place—aside from the fact that he was snoring on the floor, of course. Having Anthony in this space that was hers and intimately hers alone, in this one thing she had worked hard on building and creating and loving… it just felt perfect.

So, so perfect that it frightened her.

She thought back to last night's book club gathering and gently closed her eyes as she remembered exactly how right it felt in Anthony's arms. How the firmness of his touch made her feel… things. Things she had only ever felt in recent months in the privacy of her bedchamber.

A heat pooling in her belly. A shiver up her spine. Gooseflesh all over her arms.

There were also certain feelings she had held off naming since the day Anthony had arrived across the street.

Has it only been nine days? How did I end up here, almost lovesick, with just nine days in his presence?

She had felt comfort. A new level of freedom. She had felt a sense of belonging. She had felt a deep and meaningful friendship. A unique connection.

How can this be?

Looking back in all seriousness and honesty, it really had been a lot more than just nine days. Anthony had been there for her since she had taken over for her father and damned cousin in managing the Featherington estate.

He had been there for her as she maneuvered through negotiations and investments that sought to elevate her family's security and standing.

He had been her rock through the most trying times in her life.

The mere thought of Anthony had grounded her in more ways than she could ever express gratitude for.

And he hadn't the faintest clue then. He was there when no one was, and he hadn't even known it.

Then came a moment when she had a sudden pang of doubt hit her square in the chest: Was she once again putting another Bridgerton brother on a pedestal? Was she once again setting herself up for disappointment if Anthony would turn out to be a boy who was nowhere near the man currently taking residence in her mind and heart?

As easily as the thought came, she had dismissed it. Colin, her first love (infatuation?), was a boy who wanted to play the hero. And he had been successful, until he broke his own promise of protection by vehemently disparaging her and ruining her prospects that one fateful, awful evening.

She shook her head, focusing on the man who was probably also tucked in his own bed across the street. Had he removed his jacket by now? Unbuttoned his waistcoat? Had he removed his boots? Pulled off his shir—

No, Anthony was not a boy.

There was nothing boyish in the ways he was honest with her. There was nothing boyish in his confessions and declarations of friendship and affection. To Penelope, he was a man when he took over for his father over 10 years ago, because only a true man could have done what he did for his family, no matter how he had felt and hurt at the time.

He was a man when he told her that her friendship and her letter had kept him sane and whole and safe.

There was nothing boyish about the way he held on to her hips with such confidence as they danced. There was nothing boyish about the way he held her gaze. About the way he had stolen glances at her décollet—

Penelope stopped that thought—though not at a moment too soon—as another familiar thrill shot up her spine at the mere memory of Anthony's strong hands and steady gaze.

The Penelope of Helmsley, Yorkshire loved herself. She loved her mind and her body in equal measure.

That did not mean that doubt and the slight dwindling of her confidence never came.

And they both did tonight.

The years spent under the cruel thumb of Portia had engrained in her very little self-esteem, if any at all. Years spent in front and in the peripherals of the judgmental eyes of the ton had taken a toll on her ability to see her own beauty. Years sharing spaces with her sisters had taught her only heartlessness toward herself.

It had taken months away in the country to build herself back up again. To appreciate her own wit, grace, and beauty.

Of course, she still loved herself and thought herself handsome, regardless of the creeping doubt that made its way into her mind tonight.

But did Anthony feel the same? Did he find her pretty? Warm? Intelligent?

Did he see her as a woman? The one way she had always dreamed of herself to be seen as?

She looked back on the last nine days, and she realized that Anthony had never failed to give her compliments. On her looks. On her dresses. On her hair. Her wit. Her humor.

She knew she did not need anybody's validation for her to appreciate her own beauty and body and brain. But to receive it just the same, without prompt or provocation, was a heady feeling indeed.

Touch-starved, love-starved, and compliment-hungry because of her past in London had made her crave for the simplest of words from Anthony, because when they came from him—no matter how simple or complex a phrase or sentence—his very words that made her stomach turn in exhilaration were always sincere.

She let her thoughts drift into uncharted territory: What if Anthony felt the same? What if he felt the same thrill and comfort? The same calm and excitement?

What if Anthony also craved her presence— nay, her body and touch? Her mind and intellect?

But she did not delve further. No, not tonight. Tonight, she would revel in the memories of gazes and glances. Of touches and brushes.

She would close her eyes and slowly fall into slumber, as slowly as she knew she was falling in love.

Penelope had always believed love to be a privilege. Whether as the giver or recipient, it was an honor to experience love.

Another unrequited love. And yet, she found no regret in her heart, nor a trace of uncertainty in her mind. Should this day truly mark the beginnings of another one-sided love affair, then so be it.

Notes:

Thank you for your patience. My mom's best friend (my godmother) passed away last week. We are all doing better now that's why I was able to get this out. Love you all This is for you, Ninang!

Chapter 20: The Mind Wanders, the Heart Yearns

Summary:

Genevieve and the Granvilles leave for Milan. Anthony is alone with his thoughts. (Not totally alone, since we will be right there with him haha)

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

(06 October 1815)

This morning, Genevieve and the Granvilles said their goodbyes to Quill Cottage. To the little village in Yorkshire that had been their home for the past three weeks. To the household staff that had become their friends. To Penelope and Anthony.

"Write to us, my sweet," Henry said as he affectionately squeezed Penelope's hand. "Both of you," he added, looking at Anthony who had chosen to stand behind Penelope to afford the friends their privacy.

"We will, Hen. Oh, I shall miss you three so very much." A wet chuckle escaped Penelope's lips as she fidgeted with her skirts with her free hand.

Lucy approached Anthony and gave him quick pecks on both his cheeks. She then took a step back. "Thank you for lending us a carriage, Mr. Bridgerton. You did not have to, but thank you."

"Of course," he replied. "You are our friends, I would like for you to be comfortable."

As they talked, Genevieve threw both her arms around Penelope, capturing her in a warm embrace. "My dearest, be safe and happy. I love you, Pen. Thank you for having us. I hope we shall see you soon, yes? Maybe for a brief London visit this time," Genevieve whispered in the embrace as Penelope tried to keep from crying—she'd thought it silly, really.

"I love you, Gen. Thank you for everything."

"Anthony." Henry clasped his hand to shake before pulling him in for a brief hug. "Do take care of our Penny. Take care of each other, yes?"

"Do not worry, Penny and I will be fine. I am afraid that she will tire of me soon enough, being around as often as I am," he said with a laugh.

"Oh, I highly doubt that," Henry replied with a grin, "You have a wonderful friendship, born from such a unique beginning. I believe you both will be around one another for a long time yet."

"Mr. Bridgerton, be good." Genevieve exclaimed with a laugh as she gave Anthony a one-armed hug.

Anthony scoffed, placing a hand to his chest to express his feigned offense as soon as Genevieve released him. "When am I not, Madame Delacroix?" He grinned. "Do take care in Milan. Write to us."

" 'Us,' hmm?" a wicked grin played on Genevieve's face, whispering her teasing.

"Ah, clever. You know what I mean."

After a few more hugs with Rae and Dolores, and yes, a couple more with Penelope, the trio had left, gleefully waving from the carriage, toward their artistic Milan adventure.

Hours had lazily passed since their goodbyes. After Penelope's quick morning tea, Anthony went home only to start counting the minutes before he would prepare to return to Quill Cottage for supper.

After searching for something else to do to pass the time, Anthony secluded himself in his study to read The Swiss Family Robinson. A knock sounded at the door right as he was about to turn a page, after reading nothing and staring at the air between his person and the book.

"Enter."

The footman showed Rae in. Having remembered at the last minute about Anthony and his "no curtsies in the country" rule, Rae was stuck in an awkward angle, as if she had been about to reach into her pocket while simultaneously bending her knee. She cleared her throat and stood upright to face the grinning viscount.

"Good day, Mr. Bridgerton. My mistress sends her regrets for needing to cancel supper with you tonight. The activities of the past few days have left Miss Penelope feeling exhausted. She looks forward to seeing you for tea tomorrow."

"Oh—I see. Is there anything I can do? Is she alright?"

"Quite, Mr. Bridgerton. She has assured me that she is fine, merely tired. I bid you good day, sir. See you tomorrow."

With that, Rae left. Anthony had forgone lying and half truths, and he was not to start now, even if he was alone in his study. He let the feeling settle—he was disappointed. Anthony was anxious to see Penelope if only to talk to her… or just look at her, really. Maybe smell the air around her hair?

What? No.

Alas, it was not meant to be tonight. He would have to delay smelling her hair to tom—

No.

It had been dangerous to be left alone with his thoughts, for his mind often wandered recklessly, and it always ended up back at the house across the way.

Giving up on his reading, he went to his chambers to lay down for a while. Maybe a nap?

Ah, naps—they had become one of his favorite pastimes, as if making up for all the years he was deprived of them. He had arrived at his new home exhausted—perpetually tired. But in just two weeks, he was more refreshed and rested than he had ever been before.

He still went for rides with Aethon, he still fenced, he made repairs and did chores outside in the gardens, sometimes at Penelope's when she needed him. He also helped out at Michael's stables, taking some of the horses out for exercise.

But naps were something else entirely.

This country stay would do him only good. Anthony felt that after a year here, he would be all the better for it in London. He would grow to be a wiser viscount, a more patient brother, and a better father figure.

Anthony lay down on his bed, shoving thoughts of his London life and responsibilities aside, to the very back of his mind.

He closed his eyes, waiting for drowsiness to come for him, to take him away to a daytime dream land of nature scapes filled with bright hues of red and blue and green. Minutes passed, and he was still just lying there with his eyes scrunched closed. He tried counting backwards from 100, this had always done the trick for Hy.

100, 99, 98, 97, 96—

How can someone feel so right—so perfect?

He groaned.

No. This will not do.

96, 95, 94, 93—

Could she be unwell? Does she need me?

93, 92, 91—

Does she think of me, too?

He gave up then. Anthony opened his eyes and turned to lie on his left side. He allowed his mind to drift to the one thought it had been hellbent to dwell on the past two weeks.

Penelope—My Penny.

Every night since the book club, Anthony had been haunted with thoughts of his—

… neighbor. Yes, she is my neighbor. And my friend, one must not forget that. One cannot have too many friends. I now have around 10, which is nine more than the one Simon I had before leaving London. And she is one of those. Penelope. One of my friends.

Penelope.

Her smile. Her laughter. Her eyes.

Her hips, her waist, her hair, her—no. Best not go there.

He closed his eyes and sunk his weary head deeper into his pillows. He tried to control his breathing, to slow his heart's beating. But—

There was that dance. It was mesmerizing the way Penelope's body arched away from him when he languidly dipped her through the final notes from Christine's fiddle—the way she smiled and blushed and giggled. It was baffling to him as well, the way he— a gentleman —had toyed with the boundaries of propriety by holding on too tight, too long... Lingering touches, stolen glances. Whispered words of affection. Of gratitude. Of appreciation for his—

… friend? Is that really what she is to me?

Anthony shook his head and blinked his eyes open, trying to rein in his focus as he looked out the windows of his bedchamber. He was deep in his thoughts, wondering how so much had changed in so little time—thinking about how his mind had often tossed and turned before the embrace of sleep welcomed him at night... About how his body had been filled with boundless energy and unending longing. How his heart hadn't known a moment's peace since he alighted from his carriage his very first day in Yorkshire.

How could it, when most every waking moment he'd had since was spent with Penelope? Whether in her presence or lost in musings of her—of her words and her graceful movements, of her kindness and her wit—he'd been consumed by her.

His moments of reprieve were the hours at the stables with Michael, or at the tavern with Marcus—and how very few those hours had been when compared to the days of yearning.

One can yearn for a friend, right? One can long for a friend's presence, correct?

He briefly closed his eyes as he sighed, lingering on the question his mind had left him before turning his thoughts elsewhere.

Penelope had accepted him wholeheartedly into her home. She had introduced him to her friends who resided or worked in their little village to help him build relationships. She had welcomed him into her family.

Anthony was truly happy here. Penelope's Yorkshire family was unique—a collection of seemingly mismatched temperaments and personalities existing in harmony.

There was Rae and Dolores, and for the duration of a brief country visit, Genevieve, Henry, and Lucy. There was also Penny's Book Club. Altogether, this group of mischievous people were—at least in his mind—the Matchmakers of Quill Cottage.

He was not oblivious. Anthony saw through everything. Every matchmaking scheme and plan. They had not been subtle in their actions, nor their reactions. He'd been surprised. He'd been amused. He was secretly thankful.

Can they see something here? Can they see what I feel—as though this friendship is meant to be more?

He'd craved her company and her friendship for months in London, after breathing in and living with only her written word. And now that he was here, he would bask in every moment he was afforded to spend with her. With Penelope.

From the moment he saw her standing on the porch steps of his new home, he'd felt… whole.

Was he falling in love?

He would not do that. At least, not right now. Not when he'd just gotten here. Not when he'd just started getting to know the woman behind the letter—the woman behind the pamphlet.

Anthony had sworn off love once before. After Siena. And then came… Kate. When he'd welcomed love back, willingly and openly and ardently, he'd been burned once more. From then, he'd silently promised himself and his family that after he'd wallowed—after he'd been soused, been angry, regretful, broken—he'd be better.

And now, he was, and they were all flourishing because of it. He had always loved his family, and they had always loved him. A Bridgerton was made for love. Made to love. He had shown his love through his sacrifice. Through work. Through building and creating a life that is more than easy, more than comfortable, for his family. But he had since learned how to also be a friend, a brother, a confidant.

Anthony was better because he tried. He did the work on himself and with his family.

Can I be what Penelope needs? What she deserves?

He laid on his back and folded his arm behind his head as he stared at the canopy of his bed. He looked back on the past few days with wistfulness.

I might indeed be falling in love.

Anthony closed his eyes, trying to remember how the top of Penelope's hair felt on his lips. How her waist felt in his gentle grip as they danced. By now, he had memorized her perfume and how she took her tea.

He thought back to that afternoon in the clearing behind the row of oak trees at the end of their street. How his fingers ran through Penelope's hair as he read a novel. How he closed his eyes and listened to her voice as she read Emma out loud to him.

He continued with his wandering thoughts as his mind reveled in the recent memories of quiet with Penelope. His Penny.

As he lay awake, all desire for a nap long gone, Anthony couldn't help but relive one night's tender moments.

The night before Genevieve, Henry, and Lucy left, they'd had drinks in Penelope's private sitting room. The trio made their usual excuses before leaving the two of them alone, as they had been doing for the past three nights.

The first night, it had been awkward for Penelope. She'd apologized to Anthony for their behavior, as she did when their schemes strayed farther from subtle.

"Again, I apologize, Anthony. They seem to have no—"

"Do you not wish for me to stay?" he asked, a quiet smile gracing his face, hoping he showed that he would take no offense if she had wanted him to leave.

"Of course, I do. I adore your company, Ant. It is you I worry for. They can be too much, but they always mean well."

"Then, I shall stay. Would you like more wine?"

"Yes, please."

"Allow me, Penny." Anthony gracefully made his way to the table to pour Penelope her wine. She watched him move. He was sure of it. He saw her from the corner of his eye.

He had hoped her eyes reflected the same longing he had felt. He had hoped, that night, that as their friends left them alone, her heart had sped up the same way as his.

Anthony knew it was highly improper, but these stolen moments with Penelope had him shunning the gentleman in him somewhere distant and unseen.

But she was the lady of this house, and the woman in this scene. If she had trusted him enough to not turn him away as soon as the others had left, who was he to question that?

A brighter query would be why . Why would he doubt her trust if it meant they would spend time together? Why should he not keep his gentlemanly instincts locked away if these moments of intimacy—these seconds of truth and vulnerability, amid the warmth of the fire and the glow of the candles—nourished his weary soul? His tired mind?

He reached his hand out to give her back her wine. She had thanked him, and he felt that she waited with bated breath, wondering where he would sit.

If Anthony was a weaker, lesser man, he would have sat right beside her on the couch.

And that night, he was.

He would not kiss her. Not when, despite the growing feelings of care and—dare he say— love, he valued her friendship more.

What if things changed? What if our friendship is challenged? No. I will not have that. I will not risk that.

"Anthony?" she whispered, her eyes glassy with drink and oh, so pretty. Her plump lips parted as she breathed, her chest heaving as she tried to make sense of this tension in the room.

Oh my, he had been staring at her since he sat.

How could I not?

"Forgive me, Penelope. My thoughts have drifted."

"Oh, don't even worry about it. It's just… you looked like you were about to say something. Were you?"

"No, not at all. I must be more tired than I thought."

He was, in fact, at the very cusp of saying how beautiful he found her, bathed in the glow of the fire. How even without touching her, he knew her hands were soft, her cheeks were smooth. How even without kissing her, he knew that her lips would taste divine.

Instead, he reached out to place his hand on her hair. How bold, how brazen, yet somehow, he knew she would welcome him.

Does she have the slightest idea how she affects me so, without her even trying? Is she as starved for touch as I am?

And starved she was, because as soon as he held her, as soon as his warmth landed on her hair, she closed her eyes and leaned into his touch. Her breathing had sped up for a moment, before completely relaxing.

Anthony almost fell to his knees when she placed her hand on his—the one currently lost in the softness of her tresses—and gently brushed his knuckles, before lacing their fingers together. Her eyes were still closed, her breathing had still been even. She looked like a woman in utter contentment. In comfort. In bliss.

Oh, how he had wanted to just close what little distance was between them and kiss her. Slowly, gently at first. Until she discovered she could return the kisses. Until her breathing hitches and her lips part in a gasp. And only until then will Anthony show her exactly how much she meant to him, through his passion, through his need.

But instead they had stayed there, frozen in time. After a while, they gently flowed their joined hands to rest between them as their shoulders touched. They spent the rest of the night whispering stories and giggling in the silence, like two young children sharing secrets. Like two young children at the precipice of discovering something real. Something precious. Until it was time for Anthony to reluctantly go home. Until it was time for Penelope to prepare for bed.

As Anthony's thoughts brought him back to the present, he was left with the lingering warmth of Penelope's presence. The memory of her gentle smile. His bedroom had suddenly felt hollow and cold in comparison to the wholeness and radiance of the mere reminiscence of Penelope.

With a deep sigh, he let his surroundings ground him. The afternoon sun had crept through the curtains, casting a gentle light over the room.

Reluctantly, he let the memory settle and fade once more, to be kept safe in the secret corners of his mind.

I am not falling in love—I am already there.

Notes:

Let me know what you think. I hope you enjoyed Anthony's braining. I so love his POV. This was difficult for me to write—I didn't know how to get to where I wanted to go. But now it's here! I also want to thank the Penthony writers and readers for their company and encouragement.

Thank you for reading and enjoying this story with me.

Chapter 21: All in A Day's Work

Notes:

Hi We're picking up where we left off!

• Penny misses Gen and the Granvilles already
• Tony does a bit of work outside

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

(06 October 1815—Late Afternoon)

Anthony lingered by the window of his sitting room, his thoughts stubborn—unwilling to stray far from the woman who resided across the street. The late afternoon sun cast a glow over the landscape and his gaze instinctively drifted toward Quill Cottage. As though beckoned by his thoughts, he noticed her in all her petite, fiery, shapely glory, standing on her doorstep.

Penny.

She shut the front door behind her and briefly closed her eyes. He saw that her button nose was pink and the skin around her eyes red. Had she been crying? Her cheeks were flushed as she used a handkerchief to softly dab at her eyes.

Oh, she had been crying.

Anthony watched as her fingers glanced along the petals of the flowering plants of her little front garden before she swiftly walked to the side of her house, disappearing toward the back.

The sight unsettled him in a way he could not have articulated two days ago, but today he was sure— her distress caused his. His Penny, so strong and composed, was in tears. And the thought of her crying sent a pang of pain to his chest.

His body did not allow him to even think about thinking twice. In one swift moment, he took a deep breath and stood with a confidence that belied his growing nerves. Soon, he was out the door and crossing the street. He was but a man determined to be with his beloved.

He could not—would not—leave her to her sadness. A sliver of doubt over his impulsiveness began to inch its way into his mind, yet his resolve only firmed with each step he took, all the way through her front gate… all the way to the side of her home.

At her back porch, right where she often wrote her stories, made her tea leaves, and tended to her garden, Penelope sat. The quiet of the late afternoon was broken only by the rustle of leaves in the breeze. She'd forgotten all about her tea, which had now grown cold on her desk. In her hand, she clutched the soft handkerchief Genevieve had gifted her, the initials "LW" and "PF" on opposite corners stitched in gold thread. She brushed her fingers along the letters and let her tears fall freely.

This is ridiculous, she thought.

It was not as though Genevieve, Henry, and Lucy were gone from her life in perpetuity. They had simply returned to their lives outside Yorkshire, on a grand and artistic adventure in Milan, just as they had always planned.

But the knowledge that this was how it was always meant to be for the off-season did little to none in soothing the ache in her chest.

Throughout her last season in London, she had grown such a wonderful friendship with Gen and the Granvilles. They became her dearest friends. They had become her family.

Quill Cottage suddenly felt empty without Genevieve's laughter and teasing, without Lucy's steady presence and naughty barbs, without Henry chuckling and sketching in the corner. Before their arrival, she had already terribly missed them. And now? Now that they were gone again? Well, Penelope had never thought that she'd long for them even more.

She sobbed and sniffled, dabbing at her nose with Gen's present, when the sound of footsteps startled her. She looked up and blinked rapidly as Anthony appeared, his tall and imposing figure silhouetted against the glow of the setting sun.

"Tony," she choked, her voice thick. "What are you doing here?"

"I saw you from my window," he replied, his tone gentle. "You looked like you needed company, despite your stubbornness to go through things on your own, of course."

She laughed quite pathetically in her own opinion, only barely containing the snot that threatened to shoot out from her nostrils.

He stepped closer, his gaze unwavering as it settled on her tear-streaked face. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what?" she asked, her voice trembling.

"Whatever it is that needs telling, Penelope."

She let out a shaky laugh, brushing at the wetness on her cheeks with the back of her hand. "It's nothing—rather silly, really. They're just going to Milan. I'll write to them and they'll write b-back. It's not as though they're gone forever. They won't f-forg… forget me."

"It's never silly," Anthony said quietly, abruptly taking the seat beside her. "Never. Of course, you'd miss them. They are your dearest friends, and from what I've witnessed, as close as family."

Penelope's lips parted in surprise, her tears momentarily forgotten. She stared at him as he gave voice to the very thoughts that had been plaguing her moments ago. "Yes," she whispered, the word barely audible. "Exactly. I already miss them—very much so."

Neither of them spoke for a moment, allowing seconds of ease to stretch out between them. Anthony reached out, his hand hovering briefly before settling gently over hers. "It's not silly, Penny. You've been mostly alone here, and they've been such lovely and loving company."

Fresh and hot tears returned as she lowered her gaze to their joined hands. "I missed them so much before they came, and now that they've left again, it's like…" She choked on a sob, shaking her head. "It's like I've lost them."

Anthony squeezed her hand, his thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles. "You haven't lost them," he said softly. "And you never will. But it's all right to feel this way."

Penelope turned to him then, her watery gaze meeting his. "Do you always know the right thing to say?"

Anthony smiled, his expression warm and full of understanding. "I don't. I just say what I feel, fulfilling my pledge to be true and honest and all that, you know."

She let out a small laugh, hiccupping through her tears. "You… you make me feel less alone. Always. Thank you."

"Good," he said, his voice firm. "Because you won't ever be alone again, Penelope."

For a year, her mind screamed, and her heart broke for the future Penny who would have to say goodbye to her Tony, just as she did Gen and the Granvilles today. He would soon return to London, to his real life. He may even find a wife, build a family. A life that did not include her.

A sharp pain made itself known in her chest—a pain that came with the knowledge that his life and heart may one day belong elsewhere.

She shoved her intrusive thoughts to the back of her mind where they belonged, for now. Then, before she could even stop it, she threw herself onto him in a crushing embrace, burying her tear-streaked face into his neck. He exhaled sharply in surprise, but wrapped both his arms around her. He held her close, one hand cradling the back of her head while the other rested lightly on her back.

The heat radiating from his body anchored her—kept her grounded and whole. She closed her eyes to memorize how wonderful a fit they were together, wrapped up in each other. She committed to memory his scent, his movements, his breathing, and the steady yet rapid beating of his heart.

They stayed that way for what felt like ages. Sat there in silence as the sun dipped lower in the sky, she basked in his warmth and affection. Their hands entwined, the weight of her sadness shared and lightened by his presence.

"Thank you," she whispered softly, her lips and her warm breath brushing against his skin.

She felt Anthony smile softly against her hair before he brushed a stray curl from her face. "Always, Penny."

The silence between them comforted and thrilled her. She felt a connection so raw, so palpable. Is it all in my head? She had decided then, on this cool October afternoon, at the back porch of her cozy cottage—tucked in the arms of her beloved—that she'd feel only joy, living this very moment.

(13 October 1815)

A week had passed since that poignant afternoon on the back porch of Quill Cottage. Since then, Penelope had granted herself the freedom to seek Anthony out, to spend as much time with him as she could. She felt only safe and at home in his presence, and his company had proven to be the very best she could ever ask for.

Her pen was poised on a letter she was composing to Genevieve when the faint crack of wood startled her. She froze as she listened intently. Another crack then sounded, followed by the low murmur of Anthony's voice floating through her open windows. Curious, she set her pen down, smoothed her skirts more out of habit than necessity, and made her way outside.

The homely scent of damp earth and fallen leaves mingled with a cool, crisp autumn air, greeting her as she walked toward the source of the unusual sounds. The sky was a soft bluish gray, with occasional rays of sunlight breaking through the clouds, casting both light and shadow over the small patch of land that bordered Quill Cottage.

Rounding the corner of her home, her gaze fell on Anthony—he was crouched by the east fence along her herb garden. She stopped short, surprised to see a length of the fence sagging precariously, likely weakened by last night's strong winds and the weight of rain-soaked vines clinging to it.

"The damage caught my eye as I went for my morning ride with Aethon," he said, his voice light yet slightly sheepish. "As soon as I got home, I retrieved my tools and went to work. I hope you don't mind."

She scoffed internally—could he ever even do her wrong at this point, especially with her growing affections? She thought not. As he spoke, Anthony didn't look up, his focus fully on the fence.

She was stunned. Completely caught off-guard. He'd done this without asking, without being asked. He'd done this for her. And that was who Anthony was—who Tony was—quietly stepping in, ever ready to help, shouldering burdens without any expectations of thanks or repayment.

The thought made her ache for him even more, made her want to provide him the same steady support and care he did for her.

"Anthony," she called softly, stepping closer.

He turned toward her, and her breath hitched. Only then did she notice his coat had been discarded, slung over a nearby post. His shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows, exposing forearms that—oh. A thrill raced up her spine, leaving her feeling… unsteady.

Why is it so warm in here? Rather, out here? Wasn't it crisp just moments ago?

His forearms looked strong, defined, streaked with dirt and bits of leaves. They were damp—sweaty, she realized, as her tongue peeked out to wet her lips almost unconsciously.

"Penelope?"

She blinked, jolted by the sound of his voice. He had clearly been here for a while. His tousled hair clung slightly to his damp forehead, and a light sheen of sweat glistened along his brow, defying the chill in the air. Is there still a chill in the air? she wondered. Because what I am feeling now must be what my tea leaves experience as I leave them shriveling under the sun.

"Penny?"

Her eyes widened as she realized she'd been staring. No—staring didn't quite cover it. She'd been proper ogling. The realization left her mortified. But how could she not? He looked so at home, so natural, doing… rough, domestic labor. And doing it strongly.

So, so strongly.

"Penelope Featherington? Lady Whistledown?"

That finally startled her out of her daze. "What? I—er… what? I'm sorry," she stammered, feeling heat creep up her cheeks.

Had she just been caught… staring? Leering, even?

Her gaze darted to Anthony's face, and she judged—by his teasing chuckle, his lopsided grin, and the faint blush coloring his own cheeks—that yes. Yes,she had been caught.

Bollocks.

"Penny," he repeated, his voice warm, coaxing her out of her spiraling thoughts. He gripped the hammer in one hand as the other positioned a nail. "As I was saying, this fence had seen better days. I thought it could use some reinforcement."

"You could have told me," she said, crossing her arms and feigning a stern tone. "I could have hired someone. You didn't have to—"

"I wanted to," he interrupted gently, his gaze still on his work as he drove another nail into the wood.

Her breath hitched slightly as his arms moved with steady rhythm, the muscles flexing with each strike. The veins on his forearms were pronounced, adding to the ravishing image of raw strength he presented. He pounded and pounded away, the sound reverberating in the air as Penelope stood transfixed, almost missing —yet again— what he was saying. Or asking? She decided saying.

"Besides," he continued, his voice smooth yet distracted, "I find it rather… relaxing. There's something satisfying about fixing things with your own hands."

Why, yes. I would definitely let you fix… anything. Everything. Just… your hands.

She blinked, forcing herself back to the present and gathering her scattered thoughts. It would do her no good to be so thoroughly distracted by someone… so utterly distracting. She stepped closer, her curiosity piqued. "Relaxing, is it? I suppose the viscountcy doesn't give you much opportunity for that."

"Unless you count quill mending and correcting sums on ledgers," he replied, glancing at her with a wry smile.

Penelope laughed, her gaze lingering —again?!— as he turned back to his work. His movements were deliberate and precise. The muscles in his thighs strained through the fabric of his breeches it seemed, though that was impossible. Wasn't it? She felt her cheeks warm, and she was secretly grateful for the brisk air to explain away the color. At least this time.

He was so attractive and caring, so completely beautiful in his disheveled state, and so attuned to her and her needs. Realizing these did not help her in curbing her affections at all, yet what was baffling to Penelope was that she did not mind. Not at all.

And then, words spilled out before she could stop them. "You'll catch a chill," she said. "You should—should wear your coat."

Her eyes followed a bead of sweat as it trickled down from his neck, over his chest, and disappeared beneath his shirt. Oh, how she longed to see where the trail continued.

"I'll manage," he said, dragging her back to their reality. He brushed a damp strand of hair from his forehead with the back of his hand. The gesture was so natural and intimate that Penelope felt a flutter low in her stomach.

"Let me at least bring you a handkerchief," she offered, already stepping toward the cottage.

"No need," Anthony called after her, but she ignored him. Moments later, she returned with a fresh handkerchief in her hand, only to find him adjusting a stubborn vine that clung to the newly repaired section of the fence.

Christ—this man! How is he so sculpted? Probably from… fencing… riding… hammering?

In an unexpected wave of bravery, she reached her hand out to wipe his forehead herself. He startled, but welcomed her touch, his eyes briefly closing as he leaned into her hand.

She stopped and handed him the fabric, and he gave her a sheepish smile. "I must look a fright."

"Not at all," she replied before she could think better of it. His brow arched, and she fumbled to recover. "I—I mean, you've done good work. The fence looks sturdy now."

"High praise," he teased, folding the handkerchief before tucking it into his pocket.

She struggled to come up with a clever retort as her mind was too preoccupied with the way the sunlight caught the angles of his face, the slight curve of his lips as he grinned… the way his shirt clung to him, damp and hot and breathtaking.

"I'll finish up here," he said, breaking the silence that had settled between them. "Why don't you head inside? It's getting colder."

"Let me keep you company, please," she said, evidently—and unabashedly—hesitant to leave him.

"All right, Penelope," he replied, his voice softer now.

Her heart gave a small, inexplicable leap at the way he said her name, and she nodded. She grabbed a chair from her front porch and sat by him. They spent the rest of the time that Anthony worked immersed in each other, enjoying their banter and stories.

When he was done mending her fence, she smiled, her cheeks warming again. She thanked him profusely, waved him goodbye, and disappeared inside the house. But even as she returned to her unfinished letter, her mind lingered on the image of Anthony—shirt sleeves rolled, hair a mess, his hands working skillfully to mend her fence.

Her thoughts returned to the ease of their conversation, to the way he made her feel flustered and comfortable in equal measure. And at the same time.

A glow spread throughout her, an exhilaration she couldn't help but relish in. If this was love—if this was what truly being in love meant—then, she wanted it all. She needed it all. She would find joy in it all