A Whistle's Secret
Summary: Anthony stumbled upon a whistle after commiserating with his friends for drinks at the Whites.
Late March 1815
A glimmer of red hair flickers in his peripheral vision. He's tipsy, stumbling out of White's and heading toward his bachelor apartments for some much-needed rest. The night is brisk but not biting, and the air is infused with the scent of recent rain, leaving the streets glistening. The cobblestones shimmer under the soft glow of the streetlamps, each puddle reflecting the muted colors of the city, creating a dreamlike quality that blurs the line between reality and reverie. The world in front of him trembles as he walks down the street.
And then, suddenly, a distinctive shade of vibrant red catches his attention. It's an unusual hue to spot in the dimly lit streets of London, particularly after dark. He squints, trying to focus on the figure that seems to dance just beyond the reach of the lamplight. The hair, a fiery cascade, stands out like a beacon against the muted backdrop of the night. It's not just the color that draws him in. It's how it moves, almost as if it has a life of its own, swaying gently with the rhythm of the night as it peaks out of a dark hood in ringlets.
Curiosity piqued, he slows his pace, his mind momentarily distracted from the comforting thought of the embrace of his warm bed. The figure turns slightly, and he catches a glimpse of a face framed by that striking hair—delicate features illuminated by the soft glow of moonlight. There's a spark of mischief in her eyes, a hint of adventure that seems to beckon him closer.
He takes a step forward, his heart racing with a mix of intrigue and the remnants of alcohol coursing through his veins. The world around him fades into a blur, the sounds of the city dimming as he becomes fixated on this unexpected encounter.
"Penelope?" he questioned to himself, trying and failing to imagine the girl he knew from their brief time together.
A girl clad in a dark gray maid outfit, ideally suited for the streets of downtown London, catches his eye. The fabric of her dress, a blend of elegance and practicality, sways gently with each step she takes. With a hood obscuring her face, she glances at him before swiftly turning away, her movements fluid yet deliberate. There's an air of mystery about her, a sense that she is not just another passerby in the city.
In a surprising burst of speed, she hurries off, her pace quicker than he anticipated. The sound of her shoes tapping against the cobblestones echoes in the air, a rhythmic beat that draws him in. He stands there, momentarily frozen, observing her as she strides away with urgency, her silhouette becoming more distant with each passing second. The way she moves suggests purpose, as if she is on a mission that cannot be delayed.
Determined, Anthony steps forward, making his way toward her vanishing silhouette. As he navigates the narrow streets, he catches glimpses of her dark gray outfit flitting between pedestrians, her hooded figure almost ethereal against the backdrop of the city's vibrant life.
He quickens his pace, adrenaline surging through him. The thrill of the chase ignites a spark within him, a feeling he hasn't experienced in years. He wonders if she even knows he's following her or if she's lost in her world, unaware of the impact she's having on his.
As he turns a corner, he spots her again, just ahead, her form illuminated by the soft glow of moonlight. The light catches the edges of her outfit, highlighting the delicate lace trim and the way it clings to her figure. She pauses briefly, glancing over her shoulder, and their eyes meet. There's a flicker of recognition, a spark of something unspoken that passes between them before she darts away again.
"Penelope," he calls, chasing after her, his feet hitting the cobblestone street.
Anthony takes a step forward, his eyes filled with determination. As he reaches out to her, his hand gently grips the girl's arm, turning her to face him. The hooded girl looks down, her features obscured by the shadows of her hood, making it even more difficult to discern her true identity.
"Sir, I think you have me confused with someone else," the girl states while pulling away from him. His grip on her arm does not waver. He tries to pull her in closer, but she pulls away again.
"No, I know you," Anthony replies. He pulls on the girl's hood to reveal her face to find someone familiar.
Penelope Featherington
Penelope Featherington stood out in her maid outfit, her vibrant red hair catching the dim glow of the streetlights. The fabric of her uniform, crisp and neatly pressed, contrasted sharply with the shadows that danced around her as she navigated the cobblestone streets. The bustling sounds of downtown London echoed in the night—carriages clattering by, the distant laughter of revelers spilling from nearby taverns, and the occasional shout of a street vendor closing up for the evening.
What could possibly bring her to the bustling streets of downtown London at such a late hour? It was a question that lingered in the air, heavy with intrigue. Penelope had always been the dutiful daughter, the one who adhered to her family's expectations, but tonight felt different. He could imagine the thrill of the unknown that would course through her veins, urging her to step beyond the confines of her usual life.
Anthony brought her in closer, looking around to see if he could pull her off the street before another Lord of the Ton spotted them. He spotted an alleyway a few feet away. Anthony pulled Penelope with him, weaving between people, making their way to the alley, and stepping off the street.
"What are you doing here?" he whispered close to her ear.
Penelope gazed up at him with a quizzical expression, her eyebrows furrowing slightly as she tried to make sense of his words. She took a step back and leaned her weight against the rough, cool surface of the brick wall, her fingers curling around the edges of her coat as she processed the unexpected encounter. In her hand, he noticed a collection of loose-leaf papers that appeared to be bent and crumpled.
"It is none of your business, Mi Lord," she said irritably in a thick Irish accent as she pulled away. "Sir, let me go. I must be on my way." She turns towards the street but is pulled back by Anthony.
Anthony can admit that she is stubborn when she wants to be. Holding her against this brick wall, as drunk as he is, he knows that she should be at home, safe and warm. Anthony worries about her safety. A gentle-bred lady should not be out alone at night in London.
He watched as she rolled her eyes at him. "No," he replied, "Where is your maid, Penelope? You shouldn't be here alone."
"Sir, I'm not this Penelope you speak of," she asserts in a thick Irish accent with unwavering confidence, lifting her chin. For a fleeting moment, he senses a prying gaze or an eavesdropping ear. As he scans the bustling London Street, he observes the indifferent passersby, oblivious to their exchange.
"Do not push me, Penelope," Anthony says, his voice low and intense as he leans closer to her. At that moment, a flicker of fear passes through her eyes, but it quickly gives way to a mask of indifference.
"Let me go," she persists, changing back to her normal voice and continuing to pull away from him.
"No, where is your chaperone?" Anthony questions and pushes her once again into the wall.
"If you let me go, I will be able to go home," she replies quickly, "And I will have no need for a chaperone."
"Let go," she states again before twitching out of his grip.
She spins away from him, stepping into the lively street, her hand elegantly waving at the hacks stationed across the street in a row. The vibrant energy of the night pulses through the air, filled with laughter and the distant sound of music spilling from nearby taverns. As she moves, a few papers slip from her grasp, scattering like fallen leaves, fluttering to the pavement in a chaotic dance. He watches her dress billow in the gentle moonlight, the fabric catching the soft glow and creating a halo effect around her as she strides forward with effortless grace. With a delicate gesture, she hails the line of hacks parked nearby.
Anthony looks down at the fallen papers and catches them before he follows her. Anthony runs up behind her.
"What is this?" he asks as she waves to the hacks, finally catching one of their attention.
Anthony starts to peruse the papers in his grasp and quickly discovers that he is holding a manuscript meant for a printing press. The pages are crisp, the ink still fresh, and the elegant script dances across the paper with a fluidity that captivates his attention. However, the true shock comes not from the manuscript's purpose but from the striking resemblance it bears to the writings of Lady Whistledown.
As he flips through the pages, a sense of familiarity washes over him. The sharp wit, the keen observations of society, and the playful yet incisive commentary on the lives of the ton are all present, echoing the very essence of Lady Whistledown's renowned style.
"Whistledown?" he asks as he grasps her arm again, spinning her towards him, "Why do you have Whistledown manuscripts?" He spins her to him, flashing the papers in front of her face.
Penelope's expression briefly ignites with indignation, only to quickly transform into a mask of indifference, her demeanor stiffening in response to his probing.
"It is none of your business," she snaps at him, pulling her arm out of his grip once more.
Anthony leans forward and then sways back, and the world goes slightly blurry at the edges before it comes back into focus. "Are you working for Whistledown?" he pushes in closer to her.
"No, now, if you would be so kind as to return my things to me," she states, jerking the papers out of his grasp.
Penelope seems so offended by the idea that he presented that something else struck him. Why was Penelope Featherington in downtown London? The part of downtown London that just happened to host many a print shop. The many print shops have the capacity and ability to print and distribute the Lady Whistledown pamphlets.
"Wait, are you Whistledown?" he asks as his mind races with possibilities and the conclusion that she must be Whistledown.
How long? When did it start? What in the world was she thinking? He thinks. Anthony cages her in, leaning in even closer. Someone passing by would mistake them for lovers.
"Anthony, let me go," Penelope hisses at him, stepping back for Anthony. She turns back to the hacks that line the street to look at them again.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the hacks move.
"Are you Whistledown?" he asked again, pointing a finger at her.
He feels a surge of anger as he reflects on the past, a tempest of emotions swirling within him. Memories of the Whistledown pamphlets flood his mind, each one a scandal that shattered lives with just a few carefully chosen words. The inked pages, once innocuous in their appearance, now loom large in his memory, each headline a dagger that pierced the hearts of those it targeted. He recalls the hushed conversations in drawing rooms, the gasps of disbelief, and the frantic whispers that followed the release of each new edition.
The realization that a single girl wielded such immense power, capable of turning the world upside down with a mere whisper, sends a chill down his spine. It is a power that should not rest in the hands of one so young, so seemingly innocent. How could she, with her quill and parchment, dictate the fates of the high and mighty, the noble and the proud? He remembers the faces of those who were brought low by her words—friends turned enemies, lovers torn apart, reputations ruined in an instant.
As he grapples with the weight of this knowledge, he feels a deep sense of injustice. The girl cloaked in anonymity, had become a puppet master, pulling the strings of society with a deftness that belied her age. He can almost hear the laughter that must have echoed in her mind as she penned each scandal, the thrill of knowing that her words could ignite fires of gossip that would consume the lives of others.
His anger is not just for those who suffered but also for himself, for the helplessness he felt in the face of such manipulation. He had watched as friends and acquaintances fell victim to the whims of a girl who seemed to revel in the chaos she created. The world had become a stage, and she, the playwright, crafting narratives that ensnared even the most cautious of souls.
He goes to grab her again, this time with both hands on either arm, hands, grasping forcefully. "No," he starts, "Why would you…how could you…?" he asks in another surge of anger.
"A-Ant-" Penelope starts, startled by his reaction.
The hack pulls up behind her, looking towards him with a knowing glance. His mood darkens more as he imagines what chaos she weaves, how much power she has, and how she wheels it.
"NO," he shouts and steps back without releasing his grip.
Anthony reflects on the countless hours she must have wandered through the shadowy alleys of London under the cloak of night, her footsteps echoing softly against the cobblestones, swallowed by the thick fog that often enveloped the city. He imagines the fate that could have befallen her had she vanished from those streets, lost to the darkness that seemed to pulse with danger. His mind races with the chilling stories he's heard of young women who have gone missing, exploited, or worse—each tale a haunting reminder of the fragility of safety in a city that thrived on secrets and shadows.
He envisions her, perhaps, caught in the grip of a sinister figure lurking in the recesses of a narrow passageway or stumbling upon a clandestine gathering where trust was a currency too precious to afford. The thought sends a shiver down his spine, and he can't help but wonder if she had ever felt the weight of those dangers pressing down on her or if she had navigated the labyrinthine streets with a sense of invincibility, blissfully unaware of the lurking threats.
Anthony can't think but to get her out of his slight, out of the streets of London and back home.
"Go. Get out of HERE." Anthony says, looking back at the hack and motioning for the door. The hack jumps from his place and turns away from him to open the door to the carriage. "I mean it. GO." He yells as he begins to push her to the carriage behind her.
"Ple-" she pleads, slightly pulling away from him.
He pushes her backward, gesturing toward the carriage, compelling her to enter. The ornate vehicle looms behind her, its dark wood gleaming ominously in the fading light. She offers little resistance as he settles her into the plush seat, the velvet fabric cool against her skin. A mix of fear and realization flickers across her face, revealing that she understands what he has uncovered. The weight of the moment hangs heavy in the air, thick with unspoken words and unacknowledged truths.
Her heart races, each beat echoing the gravity of the situation. The paper clutched in her hands slips slightly but remains intact, refusing to drop as if it, too, understands the importance of its contents. She can feel the edges of the document pressing into her palms, a tangible reminder of the secrets she had hoped to keep hidden. The carriage door closes with a soft thud, sealing her inside, and she glances up at him, searching his expression for any hint of mercy or understanding.
But his gaze is unwavering, a storm of determination and resolve. He leans closer, his voice low and steady, cutting through the tension that envelops them. "Penelope," Anthony hushes, "Go," he commends.
"Now to Number 1 Royal Crescent, Governor Square," he tells the hack as he throws him some money.
Anthony steps back onto the sidewalk and tries to breathe. He tries and fails to calm down and make his mind blank, but he can't. He watches as the hack pulls away into the street, and the fear that flickered in her eyes now ignites into defiance.
Penelope Featherington is Lady Whistledown, rings in his mind.