A Most Bountiful Season (s3 rewrite)

by MariachiMermaid

England, 1815. A new year and a new social season. Young ladies from all over the ton will flock yet again for one purpose; finding a husband. Francesca, Penelope, Eloise, and Cressida must make it to the end, married or not Let's face it, season 3 was a disappointing for pretty much everyone. So I'm rewriting it, and filling in the many gaps and plot-holes that left us questioning

5. Out of the Shadows

Mid-February 1815

Mondrich's Gentlemen's club, St. James's

Will Mondrich moved swiftly about his club, after just under a year of ownership, he felt more at ease than he had ever been in any of his other occupations. Business was good, thanks in no small part to the kind intervention of the Bridgerton sons, and the drinks flowed freely. It was not the exciting life of travel and fame he had imagined for himself when he was young, but that was no longer the life he wanted. He had abandoned boxing for a reason. It was a fine sport for a youthful, unmarried, man, but William was no spring chicken, and not so spry as he had been in his early twenties. He could not recover as quickly as he used to, and the literal beatings that came with his former occupation would have taken a toll on his body before long. He had a wife and three wonderful children to worry about, a boxer's life was not for a family man. Will had prided himself in his success with the gentlemen's club, even if his means of acquiring it hadn't quite been above board. He, at least, had not ended up dead, as Lord Featherington had. It was a good, honest business; no more shady deals, no more gambling, no more pushing his body to the limit just to ensure that his family had food on the table. They had enough, now. The Mondriches were not nearly so affluent as the clientele they served, but Will didn't need that life to be happy, he enjoyed using his hands to earn a living. He was content how he was.

He had just about made his way to the Bridgerton's usual table for a chat when he caught Alice's eye. She jerked her head towards the door to his office and made a face that none too subtly told him he needed to speak with her, now. There was a man standing by her side, and he looked all sorts of posh and official. Will prayed that he wasn't a lawyer, he'd always hated lawyers.

"Esquire (1) Dundas is here to see us, Will." Alice did not sound terribly pleased as she said this. He was a lawyer, then, a barrister, the worst kind.

"Mr. Dundas," Will was as unenthused as his wife, "Would you care to step into my office, I can offer you a drink?" Will did not know what business an estate lawyer had with him, but he was sure it could not be good, nothing to do with lawyers ever was.

"No. No, thank you. I shall be quick; I am on a rather tight schedule." Dundas checked his golden pocket watch, as if he were somehow already late, "Are you aware, Mrs. Mondrich, of your great-aunt, Lady Kent?"

Will had not expected the lawyer to have business with his wife instead of him, and it seemed, neither did Alice, for she startled at the question, "Kent, yes. We met once in my youth, but never after. She was a very cold lady; did not seem to approve of her extended family much."

"She is colder, now, I am afraid." Dundas's tone offered no sympathy for Alice's loss. Not that it mattered, she had not known the woman very well.

"Oh, she has died?" She looked to Dundas, who nodded, "Well, that is a shame. Has she left us something?"

"She has not left you anything." The Mondriches looked at each other confusedly as Mr. Dundas spoke, why then was he here? "She has left your son, Nicholas, everything. While you have several cousins who are more closely related to her, none have male children. As such, Nicholas shall be the next Baron of Kent. Congratulations." He handed a rolled-up document to Will and made his swift exit.

The document was a will, bona fide and signed by the late Lady Kent, who had outlived her husband by some twenty years. The writing did not lie, she had truly left everything to Nicky, who was no more than eleven (2). Nicky was certainly not old enough to run an estate, which meant that, effectively, all control went to Will and Alice, at least until the boy was eighteen. Alice wavered on her feet, and Will felt as if he had mixed up dreams and reality. This stroke of luck was the type of which most working-class people merely dreamt of. Never did he think his family would inherit a title and estate. He had not even known Alice had aristocracy in her blood. Will gently clasped his wife's forearm and led her to the plush sitting chair in his office, where she flopped down unceremoniously.

"Perhaps it is us who need a drink, my love." Will was almost too shocked to celebrate.

Alice waved him off, still dazed, "Why don't you go share the grand news with your customers, Will. They are to be our equals now. I shall organise for us and the children to move into our new estate as soon as we can."

Will gently kissed his wife's forehead before he turned back out to the clubroom. The men of the ton laughed and blustered about; they hadn't noticed the lawyer's presence at all. Of the upper-class men, Mondrich had really only cultivated a friendship with the Bridgertons.

The brothers smiled graciously as he approached, "Ah, Mr. Mondrich, we were just discussing how glad we are to see your fine establishment thriving! Won't you join us for a drink?" It was Anthony who made the offer.

"I think I shall, thank you." Will poured himself a generous glass of brandy, "I have received the most curious news."

"From that solicitor? I was wondering what a lawyer was doing here, they are all usually too stiff to drink. It was good news, I hope?" Benedict eyed Will's very full glass warily; mundane news did not drive men to drink.

"Good news indeed, Alice's great aunt has passed." He took a swig of the drink and relished in the burn.

"It is good that one of your wife's relations has died?" Colin asked, it had truly never occurred to him that anyone might be happy to see their relative's demise.

"It is good, because she has left everything to my son." At the still blank looks of the brothers Will realised that the Bridgertons likely did not know who Alice's great-aunt was, just as he had not known, "She was the dowager Baroness of Kent. Nicky, my son, is, according to her will, next in line."

That brought forth smiles on the faces of the Bridgerton's as Anthony lifted his glass up in a toast, "That is wonderful news indeed! A drink, in honour of this new entry to London society, may we all be the better for your company!"

The men drank, and Will knew his life would yet again take a drastic turn. He hoped it was for the better. It was not long before the Bridgerton brothers begged off, some excuse about needing to prepare for the first ball of the season. None of them sounded especially excited for such an event, and Will could not help but to think that this did not bode well for his future in titled society.

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Mid-February 1815

Danbury House, Mayfair

Lady Danbury's ball was truly a wonder of artistry, Kate could not help but marvel at the decorations. Each corner of the room was the absolute culmination of a different season which bled seamlessly together along the walls. False trees with painted iron benches scattered the sidelines of the ballroom. Their multicoloured paper leaved fluttered as people walked by, each one a masterful creation. Weaving vines trailed up the marble columns, and rose bushes crept up the walls in magnificent sprawls of carefully manicured flowers. The room was fragrant from the roses and the many curated bouquets that adorned showing tables. There was a reason Lady Danbury always threw the first ball of the season; no one else could dream of trying to match her extravagance.

Kate clutched Anthony's arm and smiled up at him as they walked around to make the obligatory pleasantries. Families had only just begun to make their way in, so the couple had the good fortune to behold the ballroom in all its glory before too many people started to crowd out the decorations. Kate was glad that she had managed to convince Anthony to leave on time, instead of late as he had so wanted. Honeymoon still fresh on their minds, the two had spent a great deal of time over the past weeks on aborted attempts at intimacy. Antony was far less concerned with his family's potential interference than Kate was; she could not bring herself to carry on with him when she could hear her siblings running about in the hallways or yard. It had been blessedly quiet before the ball, though, as the family had spread out to their various bedchambers to get ready. Anthony had jumped on the opportunity to have his wife to himself. As much as Kate would have loved to simply tumble into bed with him and accept that the family would be fashionably late to the event, her sensibility had won out. She had almost given in to her desires when, as she carded through her wardrobe for a gown, Anthony had lathed her neck with hot, open mouthed, kisses and teased his hands over her bodice. She had pushed him away, though; it would be her first official ball as acting Viscountess, she could not afford to muck it up by making the family late. First impressions were everything, and Kate had needed to prove, mostly to herself, that she was capable as the Lady of the house. So, the Bridgertons had, begrudgingly, arrived perfectly on time.

The Featheringtons had not.

Portia's flare for the dramatic had made the Featheringtons habitually late arrivals to any event they attended. Not late enough to be rude, God forbid, but late enough to make a scene upon entry. Penelope had grown to hate this about her family. Even more so in her new attire.

Truthfully, she had thought French fashion would be more different than what the English wore. Though the dress she had donned was noticeable, it was not quite the dramatic transformation she'd hoped. The waistline was higher than the English fashion, it fell directly under her bust instead of an inch or so below, and her skirts were ever so slightly fuller, but that was it. She had even asked Rae to style her hair in the French fashions, but unfortunately, the French styled their hair much the same as the English; like the gown, the difference was slight (3). In a fit of self-doubt, Penelope had slunk past the footmen and managed to keep her outerwear about her. As her family stepped into the ballroom entryway, she hid herself in the swaths of her mink-lined cloak. Such hidden security was swiftly taken from her, as one of the footmen caught up to her and apologised fervently for his failure to relieve Penelope of her coat. She had no choice but to hand the garment over.

Though the people on the dancefloor still spun around each other, and the musicians still played their music, Penelope felt as if the entire world had stopped. It was just a change of personal style, but she still felt as if all the eyes in the room were upon her. She heard Phillipa grouse about how much the dress must have cost, and Penelope could have sworn she heard her mother call the colour melancholy, but she took no note of the comments. She had thought the perceived attention would make her want to flee but found herself inclined towards the opposite instead. Madame Delacroix had been right; Drake's Neck (4) was a stunning colour on her, one that Penelope felt brought out the colour in both her eyes and hair splendidly. The adornments were not so over the top as the rest of the Featheringtons leaned towards, and Penelope marvelled at how the beadwork shimmered gold in the candlelight. Already, she noted that some men had taken notice of her. Good.

Penelope made her way to her usual spot by the refreshment table. She had eyes on her but had no clue what to do about it; she had never been the subject of so much attention before. She did not have to wait long before three men approached her from different directions. All three came to a close around her and smiled appreciatively at her outfit.

"Miss Featherington, what a pleasure it is to see you here." Said the first, after a respectful bow.

"What a striking gown you have on." Said another whilst failing to make eye contact, instead he was staring at her low-cut neckline.

Startled by the genuine compliment, Penelope stumbled over her words, "You as well, my lord" and then realised the foolishness of what she had said. "Ah. Not the gown part, obviously. The first part. About being striking. It is a pleasure to see you all in your evening dress. Which is not at all gown-like. Very masculine, and dashing." She floundered further.

The men smiled graciously, but shared glances that Penelope could not fully read.

"Perhaps you might tell us about your hobbies, miss?" The third man asked, though he seemed hesitant to do so.

"I like to read very much. Perhaps too much. My mama is always telling me to put my books down. She says I will grow wrinkled from all the dust they send about. Not that I think there is anything wrong with reading, of course. Or that I believe books are dirty. They aren't. Unless you don't take care of them, in which case I suppose they could accumulate some degree of filth. I'm not entirely sure of mother's dislike for books. Do you all enjoy reading?" She had barely taken a breath and found herself somewhat winded by the time she finished speaking.

The men seemed to rapidly lose interest, as their smiles faded from genuine to polite. "I do find the occasional almanack fascinating." One offered, breaking the awkward silence that had sprung up.

"Oh, that sounds lovely!" if the man was still interacting with her, then he couldn't be too put off. "I love a good romance, myself. They're just so magical. They make me feel… well… They're just so charming. I should like to be swept off my feet, not that such a thing is likely to happen, but the thought is nice."

Another bout of stilted silence, longer this time.

"I-"/"Perhaps-" Penelope spoke at the same time as the first man, and curtsied as a way of apology. "Uh, forgive me for interrupting, you were saying, my Lord?"

"I was simply saying that perhaps we ought to take our leave, lest we give Lady Whistledown something to write about."

The three men bowed, as did Penelope in reflexive response, and scattered like the four winds after which each seasonal corner was inspired. Penelope sighed in defeat and picked up a glass of lemonade. She could change her style, but not her personality, and wasn't that just the problem. Penelope could look as different as she wanted, but she simply couldn't charm the gentlemen like other ladies could, and she was not nearly pretty or wealthy enough for the men to overlook such a thing. She receded further closer to the wall, where she belonged.

Eloise had watched, albeit not heard, the whole exchange from her place beside Cressida. She sympathised with Penelope, despite her own wishes to leave the friendship behind her. It seemed to be a reoccurring problem; thinking about people who she had told herself she should no longer dwell on. Regardless, she understood what it was like to not live up to society's expectations, it had been one of the things that had drawn the two girls together in the first place.

Cressida tapped Eloise's foot with her own, and the middle Bridgerton refocused on the conversation at hand. Cressida had decided that Eloise needed to participate in high society and that, unfortunately, meant actually speaking with her fellow debutantes. Eloise would have rather been anywhere else, like hidden by a refreshment table, or out alone in the gardens, or employing Benedict as her shield to ward off unwanted suitors. Or dead. Death might have been preferable to a conversation about embroidery.

"You genuinely enjoy embroidery?" Eloise asked at the first conversational lull. She had tried to keep her contempt for the trivial hobby to a minimum, but several somewhat hurt expressions told her she had failed.

"Of course I do, there is simply so much one can do with it." Miss Keaton chewed on her lip, afraid of scorn. She looked to the other girls for support.

Eloise sighed and softened her voice into a tone of feigned interest, "For example?"

Miss Keaton practically lit up with joy, "Well, since you have asked, I make art with it!"

"What poss-" Cressida elbowed Eloise before she could finish the sentence. It was warranted, she supposed, 'what possesses you to call that horrible task art?' was what she intended to ask. Perhaps it was a bit harsh, she tried again, "I am not familiar with considering embroidery as an art form, do enlighten me?"

One of the other ladies, Miss North, piped up, "Oh, it is wonderful, like painting, but with thread."

"Yes, I can embroider the most resplendent butterfly, or any other pattern that suits my fancy, and then I get to wear it!" Miss Keaton spoke with obvious pride in her voice. She looked around surreptitiously and then lifted her dress, just high enough for the other girls to see her white stocking. Up the right side of the undergarment wound an elegant vine of embroidered ivy. It travelled up well beyond the little flash of sock that Miss Keaton showed. "I embroidered these myself, just finished them last month. I've been waiting for the perfect occasion to wear them, even if no one else will see my work."

The ladies oohed and ahhed over the artistry, even as Miss Keaton lowered her dress to where it naturally fell. It was, Eloise had to admit, a faithful depiction of the ivy that so often crawled across English buildings.

Miss Patridge pulled a kerchief from her handbag, in one corner glittered a canary, done in shiny golden thread, "I have done quite a few handkerchiefs, myself. I know it is foolish, but do you not think it a bit romantic to gift your betrothed with something you've embroidered yourself? It is far more personal than some piece done by a modiste." Once again, the other girls nodded in agreement.

"It is rather well done." Eloise conceded, "But do you not find the art, well, tedious?"

Miss Keaton shrugged, "I do have to be in the right mood for it. It is not as if I spend my every waking moment on my embroidery. How dull would that be, to only have one hobby? But I find the repetition relaxing, truly. And there is something beautiful about being able to capture an image and put it to fabric." She looked Eloise directly in the eyes, "It is the only art I am allowed to study. My parents think that even watercolours are too masculine a talent for me. I sometimes wonder if I would be any good with them."

"Do you dislike embroidery that much, Eloise?" asked Miss Patridge.

Suddenly, Eloise felt shame at her belittlement of the craft. She doubted that if she were to pick up a needle upon her return home, she would magically love embroidery, but her old disdain seemed unfair. "I must admit, it is not my favourite pastime. I do not have the patience for it, nor the artistic spirit. I cannot stand it when I make imperfect pieces, and I prick my fingers far too often. I have always thought it unpleasant."

"Oh," The other ladies looked disappointed once more.

"But I suppose it is not an unworthy artform. It is simply one I am terrible at. Perhaps it would please me better if everyone did not insist I ought to love it. But, it is no fault of the craft that people are so obstinate." It was almost an apology. Eloise felt she owed the girls that much. She still did not fully understand their deep love for something that boiled down to stabbing taught fabric over and over, but any hobby dressed down to its essentials sounded foolish, she supposed. Pursuing the limited art they could was not a reason for ridicule, and Eloise vowed to at least write a nice letter to Daphne for all the years she spent belittling her sister's hobby. Or perhaps not, on second thought, as Daphne would surely take it as a sign that Eloise had warmed up to the marriage mart. In that regard, Eloise maintained her distaste. The other ladies took the admittance in stride and assured Eloise that they did not dislike her simply because she did not care for embroidery. In turn, Eloise stated that she would not be opposed to hear about any new projects they were working on, should they be inclined to share. She still wasn't all that interested, but she did not care for painting either and she listened to Benedict, nonetheless.

The small group scattered, as a couple of gentlemen asked to dance with all but Cressida and Eloise. The taller girl turned with a smile, "I dare say, for someone who so vocally hates all things ladylike and civilised, you are far better at playing the social game than I expected. Better than I, even."

"It is not a game; it is just a litany of conversations that range from dull to insufferable. I have no reason to pretend to appreciate embroidery, if I had found their explanations lacking, I would have said so." Eloise scoffed.

"Still, it is good to know you can, in fact, play nice." Cressida's voice took a serious turn, "You know, those girls barely speak to me about anything that is not gossip, yet they open up to you so freely."

"Yes, well, I expect they find me rather unintimidating, don't they. You cannot have your reputation ruined by a woman who was caught frequenting liberal lectures. I have nothing that I can hold over their heads."

"Maybe so…" Cressida trailed off in thought, "Since you have so graciously indulged me and your fellow women in conversation, why don't you and I hide over in the summer section. The Marquess of Ashdown has been staring at you, and I doubt you want to dance with him."

"I most certainly do not." Eloise laughed, "come, we must look very busy indeed in the summer corner if we are to ward him off."

The two laughed, and walked over to the section, arm in arm.

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The Queen surveyed the ballroom from her balcony vantage point, bored by what she saw. Though she had no interest in the season's debutantes, she would not disrespect Lady Danbury by not attending the first ball. Agatha stood at her side while Brimsley, as always, stood several paces behind the women. So early in the season there was not much gossip to be had, so the Queen would have to keep an eye out for it herself.

"And that one, who is she?" Charlotte pointed to a redheaded woman in a vibrant but dark green dress, she did not recognise her.

"That, your majesty, is Miss Penelope Featherington. This is her third season out. But there are several new impressive contenders for your Majesty's favour, should you care to grace them with such." Lady Danbury did not mean to push the Queen into any one decision, but there would be backlash if a diamond was not chosen.

"And why should I grace them with anything? They have failed to impress me, their Queen. If they cannot catch my eye, why should I waste my efforts by trying to find them husbands?" Charlotte was less than pleased with the implication that she owed anyone anything. She was the Queen, the only thing she owed anyone was heirs for her husband, which she had provided in spades. All other things were owed to her and not the other way around.

"Well," Agatha began, careful to not offend the Queen, "there is some anxiety amongst the mamas that you have not yet selected a diamond."

"A diamond is precious precisely because it is rare. I throw one diamond ball and anxious mamas expect a diamond every year." She harrumphed, "I threw a zebra ball, once. Do they expect a new zebra each year? If the cream of the crop does not rise up, then one must simply admit there is no cream to be had."

"Hmm, well you are right, you have only named the diamond once." Lady Danbury knew exactly how to pull the Queen's strings, "I believe it was Lady Whistledown who named the diamond the first year, and how right she was about the Duchess."

The Queen gave Agatha a withering look, she knew when she was being played. She also knew how fiercely she hated to lose to Lady Whistledown. The gossipmonger could not have a single victory. The Queen returned to her silent survey of the ballroom. She was not yet convinced that any of the girls were worth the effort, but was woman enough to admit that some had drawn respectable attention even without her regards.

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It had not taken long for the men to flock to Francesca. Barely a half-hour into the ball, and she had not been able to so much as take a bite from the tea cake she had picked up.

"Miss Francesca, tell us, what are your hobbies?" a man smiled at her hopefully, and stood with his hands respectfully behind his back.

This was not so bad a start to a conversation, Francesca thought, she knew how to answer this one, "I play the pianoforte."

Another man, Lord Fife, from the group nodded enthusiastically, perhaps overly so, "That is magnificent. And your other interests?"

Francesca did not falter as she maintained her polite smile and kept her voice deliberately sweet, "Pianoforte does take up a great deal of my time."

"Oh, I think what Lord Fife means to say is, who are you besides your hobbies?" the man in the middle spoke with just the slightest edge of condescension.

"Yes, what do you desire?"

"What do you despise?"

"What makes you tick?"

Francesca felt suddenly as if she were facing down the weird sisters (5) with how readily the three men expounded upon the thoughts of the others. It was as if they asked their questions as a collective. Francesca floundered; she did not know how to answer these questions in a way that satisfied these men. Pianoforte was her everything, it was more than a mere hobby. If Eloise had become queen tomorrow and made it so that women could, and had to, pursue careers of their own, Francesca would still choose the piano above all else. It was her greatest joy, her sanctuary, it was how she worked through her emotions and thought of her best ideas. "I-" Francesca cast a desperate glance to Anthony, who stood a bit further along the wall. He read his cue well and cleared his throat just loud enough for the men to hear, and then beckoned Francesca over. "I think my brother needs me, if you would excuse me for one moment."

Good, reliable, Anthony gently touched her arm as she walked over to him, "Is something wrong, was the conversation not going well? I can send them away, if you'd like."

Francesca shook her head, though thankful for her brother's concern, the men had done nothing wrong, she simply was not as prepared as she had thought. "I should like a moment alone to collect my thoughts. Do not worry."

Without waiting for a response, she drifted over to the corner of the room where Penelope had hidden herself. Eloise had disappeared off somewhere with Cressida, and the redhead was the only other woman she knew who would not make a fuss over her reluctance to return to the eager men.

Penelope looked shocked to see Francesca join her but gave a genuine smile anyway as she shifted over to make room for the Bridgerton girl. The two sat in comfortable silence as they watched the partygoers dance on the ballroom floor. It was a rather lovely waltz that the orchestra had been playing, and just as lovely as the music were Kate and Anthony, who had taken their free moment to dance. Kate still glowed with the joy of a fresh marriage, Francesca thought, and Anthony had most certainly mellowed out. She wanted that for herself, but could not think of how she might achieve such a thing.

As the dance wound down, Penelope turned to Francesca, "You really ought to take to the floor again."

"Ought I?"

"Once one finds oneself on the wall, it is difficult to come off it. If you make yourself too much of a wallflower, you shall find yourself rooted in place as I have become." Penelope sounded downtrodden, and she looked wistfully at the dancefloor.

"At least the wall is not asking what makes me tick. It lets me exist in the silence I so prefer." At that moment, Francesca would have happily traded places with Penelope, would have happily given all the male attention to her. She knew the feeling would pass, that she would eventually feel grateful for the good luck that had made her an eligible lady, but she did not feel such a way at that very moment.

"Did you not enjoy conversing with those gentlemen?"

"I expected conversation." Francesca sighed, "What I did not expect was that I would be inspected as if I were some rare insect writhing under the microscope. And must men always travel in packs? I cannot be expected to get to know a man as an individual if he is constantly surrounded by others."

Realisation dawned on Penelope's face, "You do not much like attracting attention, do you?"

"Not really, no."

"Perhaps that does make you rare. It seems that every Bridgerton was born to attract notice, in one way or another." Kate and Anthony had once again taken to the dance floor, and distantly a distinctly Eloise-like cackle rang out, paired with a laugh that sounded much like Cressida's. "I am… different from my siblings as well. It can be difficult, can it not?"

"It would be better if I was not compared to them so often. Constantly I am told about how Daphne achieved her great success or that I must not be as stubborn as Eloise. There are days when it seems I must only fill in the gaps that my sisters left in their wake." Francesca paused, it felt unkind to voice such frustrations, her sisters did not intend for the comparisons, and they certainly did not relish in them either, "But they are wonderful, each of them. I would not trade them for the world."

"I know. You are lucky for that; tiresome that it may be to have so many siblings, you are all nothing less than supportive of each other." Penelope wished she had that. "And you are lucky to have so much notice, even if it is trying. For some of us, notice is very slight, even if we would prefer the light to the shadows."

Francesca thought on this. She felt sorry for Penelope, who so clearly desired the companionship that Francesca had at her fingertips. She knew she should have been grateful for the plethora of choices she had. Francesca noticed a lone lord staring at her, and she smiled at him. She ought to try, at least, she would not find a husband by hiding herself away. As the lord came over and offered her a dance, Francesca took one last look at Penelope, "You really ought to take to the floor again, it's difficult to come off the wall once you are on it."

Penelope smiled, how cheeky, to use her own words against her. Slowly, she made her way to one of the refreshment tables. If she was to try and put herself out there again, she would need some energy. The ice cream would do well to invigorate her. Or perhaps the ice cream was an unwise decision, as the cold dessert made her teeth ache and sent an indescribably unpleasant wave of frost across her temple. She held her hand to her forehead, as if that would help.

Quickly, a man approached. He was tall and blond, and unfashionably bearded (6), but not unhandsome. He looked down on her with concern, "Are you well, Miss Featherington?"

"Yes, ah, it is simply a cold headache. Forgive me, I do not mean to cause worry." Said Penelope, still somewhat stifled by the lingering ache of the chilled dessert. "Um. Lord Debling, is it not?"

Lord Debling smiled and nodded. Penelope could not think of a single thing to say to the man and felt the great desire to back out of the conversation and return to her corner. She felt someone bump into her as she made to move away and heard the telltale rip of fabric as her skirts tore at the hem. Penelope whipped around, and to her horror came face-to-face with Cressida, who had also just turned. Her heel was on Penelope's torn hem, and she gasped.

"Oh, how mortifying, I am so clumsy. I do apologise." Cressida's voice was sugar sweet, and she looked at Lord Debling as she spoke, not at Penelope. Despite her insistences, Penelope knew it was not an accident. Eloise, who had been perusing one of the other tables of sweets lifted up her head and looked at the scene in horror; she too knew Cressida's mistake was intentional.

"Well, accidents do happen, I shall find a maid to help you." Debling nodded to the ladies as he left, "Miss Featherington, Miss Cowper."

Cressida's smile remained, but turned acidic, "It is a pity you did not choose a sturdier material for your gown. Perhaps if you had not bought such cheap fabric, it would not have ripped." She sounded entirely too self-satisfied as she walked away.

Eloise remained behind, shock still evident on her face, "Pen, I am so sorry," she had forgotten, in the moment, that she was not supposed to be friends with her, "I will talk to Cressida, she should not have done such a thing."

Penelope did not grace her with an answer and instead turned to run up the steps. She did not care if she missed Debling and his maid, surely, they would just mock her like everyone else. It was not even the cruellest thing Cressida had said or done, but it still hurt. Her dress, which was supposed to be a fresh start, was ruined. Penelope was a fool to think this year could have gone in any way different from her others. She was not a woman meant for the spotlight, and she was not a woman meant for love.

She stood by the entryway to Danbury house and tried her best not to cry. She failed in that respect, and resigned herself to not crying too loudly, so as to not make a nuisance of herself for the footmen who had been kind enough to fetch her coach. She leaned against an archway column and took deep breaths to try and calm down.

"Pen?" Colin had once again managed to sneak up on her. He seemed to do that more often, lately; sneak up on her when she wished only for solitude.

"Colin." She wiped frantically at her eyes, but the silk of her black gloves only spread the tears about her face and smudged her rouge. Colin was perhaps the last person she wanted to speak with, for it was him that made her realise just how much of a joke she was to the rest of the ton. She shivered in the night air. "What are you doing out here?"

"I am just getting some fresh air." Colin shifted restlessly from one foot to another. He did not know what to do with a crying lady. His own sisters were never ones to shed frequent tears, and when they did cry it was Violet they would turn to, or sometimes Benedict in Eloise's case, though he hadn't seen her cry once since Edmund died. "Why are you leaving so soon, especially in such a charming dress?"

"Do not mock me, please." Penelope had had enough mockery for the night. She saw her carriage arrive, and turned to give Colin a curt bow, "Goodnight, Mr. Bridgerton."

Colin looked between her and the unoccupied carriage, "Do you not need a chaperone?"

"Spinsters do not need chaperones." She responded bitterly.

Colin scoffed, "You are not a spinster (7)."

"I am on my third year in the marriage mart with no prospects to show for it, what else would you call me?" Penelope could not contain her temper any longer and made no effort to hide the anger in her voice.

"I would call you unlucky, but still perfectly eligible." Colin responded, "Is something wrong, Pen? I mean between us. I wrote to you while on tour, as I did last year, and you did not respond. Admittedly, very few did, but I cherished your letters last year. If you are going to make me say it out loud, I miss you."

Penelope felt an involuntary smile bubble up, this was all she had wanted to hear, a simple admittance that Colin still cared for her. Just as quickly, the hurt and pain from last season spilled in, Colin missed the idea of her, that was all. "You miss me? You miss me but you'd never court me, is that correct?"

"Pen…"

"I overheard you. At mama's ball last season. Telling everyone how you would never court Penelope Featherington."

Colin looked around at the few guests that had also taken to the fresh air, aware that he and Penelope were without chaperone. No matter what Penelope said, she was still an eligible lady, and he a bachelor. They should not have been alone together as they were. "Perhaps we should talk somewhere more private?"

"Because I embarrass you?" Penelope was on a roll, a whole year's worth of insecurity and perceived scorn had come to rear its ugly head, "You can barely stand to be seen around me in public, you never so much as speak to me unless we are off alone and hidden away. Of course, I knew you would never court me, But I did not think you would be so cruel as to dismiss me so readily in front of your friends."

"But, I-" Colin started.

"No. I have had enough ridicule for one night, leave me alone." She stormed off to the carriage and rode home. Though she had promised herself to keep the Bridgertons' names out of her Whistledown pamphlets as much as possible, she felt the urge to write.

Footnotes

1. At this time, Esquire wasn't just a title for lawyers; it was a courtesy title for low ranking and landless gentlemen. They weren't really involved in the ton activities despite technically being part of the upper class. They were not the type of upper class that held positions in parliment, and stayed in London year-round. The only legal professionals who would be able to hold the title of esquire would be a Barrister (surprised the show got that right, tbh). Barristers are just fancy estate lawyers, and do exactly as Dundas explains; they concern themselves with lines of succession. Barristers didn't usually visit their clients, or see them face to face at all, usually lower ranking lawyers did that, but presumably an exception has been made for the esteemed ton members.

2. The Mondriches have no canon age, other than that Will is friends with Simon, but didn't go to school with him. I'll assume Will is a bit older than Simon, and is in his mid-30s. That would make him in his mid 20's when he had Nicky, which would not be abnormal assuming Nicky was conceived in the first year of marriage. We'll say Alice is 30 simply for neatness. The ages of the other two siblings don't super matter because they don't show up a lot, but Daisy can be 8 ish, and John can be 6/7.

3. S1&2 dresses are actually closer to French fashions than what Pen wears this season. French dresses had the waist end right at the bust (this is a true empire waist) and had slightly fuller skirts, giving a bit more silhouette than the English style. Otherwise the dresses are pretty much the same in terms of sleeves, accessories, and colour preference. French necklines were maybe a bit deeper and showed a bit more cleavage. No one wore their hair completely loose unless they were a prostitute. So it is absolutely out of the picture for Pen to have her hair down, no matter how good it looks. Pen wouldn't be the only person in French style; the fashion quickly migrated to England once borders reopened in 1814 because the French ladies so mercilessly bullied English women for their style, namely the lower waistline. Also, no one in this time would be wearing corsets, that was part of the whole point of an empire waist; no hourglass figure. Instead women would wear stays, or short stays which were bra-like in shape but more rigid. Corsets and stays are so over-villainized by the media, they'd be no more uncomfortable than a bra, and if you got hurt by one it was because it was too tight or the wrong size (also like a bra, which have been villainized by the media). It's the Victorians who really took corsets to the extreme and used them to make you skinny. At this point in history, they're just long, stiff, bras. The fact that they give Pen and only Pen a tight hourglass bodice really pisses me off. Her dresses for the season start out with an OK waistline, but they gradually get get more form fitting to her upper body as S3 goes on, and I hate it. It only happens consistently with Pen, though we sometimes see it on others. Portia and the Queen also have hourglass figures, but that was in style in their youth so we can call it them just being unfashionable. So, no, Pen is not showing off her nice hourglass figure in this version, an accurate dress has the waist right under the tits and that's final. Idc if show Pen looks hotter that way, it's not accurate.

4. Another old colour, named after the neck of a male mallard. This colour doesn't really exist by that name anymore. Hex code #006F74.

5. This is what the Macbeth witches are actually called. They're meant to be unsettling, and they finish each others thoughts in the play. Shakespeare and Macbeth specifically were wildly popular in the regency era, so it's a reference Fran would be familiar with.

6. The cleanshaven look is the only good way for men to groom their facial hair at this point. Sideburns were just barely starting to gain traction in 1815, so proper men would be beardless. A clean shave would be considered refined and intelligent due to the neoclassical ideas of cleanliness and masculinity. Beards were thought to be uncivilized and wild, representing barbaric strength over cultivated thought. It's fitting for Debling and Will M. to be the only men with beards, as Debling would be called a wild man for his hermit and naturalistic lifestyle, while Will would be considered brutish for his former occupation as a boxer. There is something to be said about racism and Will and Simon's general depictions as angry black men who rely on fighting and shady deals, but in universe, racism has been cured by true love and I'd have to rewrite the whole show if I wanted to retcon that stupid idea and explore race properly.

7. He's right, women were only spinsters when they reached 23. Pen is 19, only on her 3rd season because she had to start early. She is still very much eligible aged, and has time left.