Breathe
Summary: Anthony wanders in Penelope's garden.
Mid – Late March 1815
You need to breathe, he thinks to himself.
He stepped outside for a breath of fresh air, seeking refuge from the chaos of his home. The moment he crossed the threshold, the cool mid-morning breeze wrapped around him like a comforting embrace, starkly contrasting with the heated atmosphere he had just left behind. His mother was at it again, her voice rising in frustration as she pressed him about Kate, the name echoing in his mind like a persistent reminder of a past he was trying to move on from. She insisted that since Kate was back in the city under Lady Danbury's watchful eye, he should reach out and mend their fractured bond. But he couldn't fathom why his mother failed to see that his feelings for Kate had faded. The thought of her possibly leaving again, of her making a choice without informing him, was a burden he no longer wished to carry.
But he couldn't fathom why his mother failed to see the truth that lay before them both. To him, the idea of rekindling anything with Kate felt like trying to revive a long-dead ember. His feelings for her had faded, dulled by time and distance, and the memories that once sparked joy now only served as reminders of a relationship that had unraveled.
It was a weight that had settled heavily on his shoulders, one that he had tried to shake off but found impossible to discard. He remembered the last time she had walked away, the way it had felt like a part of him had been severed, and he had no desire to relive that pain.
As he stood there, inhaling the crisp air, he closed his eyes and let the sounds of the city wash over him—the distant laughter of friends gathering, the soft hum of conversation, the occasional clatter of a passing carriage. It was a world that felt vibrant and alive, a stark contrast to the turmoil that churned within him. He longed for peace, for a moment of clarity away from the relentless pressure of his mother's expectations.
A profound emptiness gnaws at his core, a fleeting fragment that remains just out of reach, like a whisper lost in the wind. It is a void that seems to stretch infinitely, a dark abyss that swallows the light of joy and hope. A tumult of sounds crashes in his ears—distant voices, the hum of life continuing around him, the relentless ticking of a clock—each noise amplifies his sense of disconnection. His heart races wildly as if desperate to break free from its confines, pounding against his ribcage like a caged bird longing for the open sky. Air slips away from him, elusive and intangible, as if it has conspired to abandon him in his moment of need. This feeling is hauntingly familiar, a ghost that lingers in the corners of his mind, yet he finds himself ensnared in a relentless loop where the comfort of normal life feels like a distant echo, a memory fading into the background of his consciousness.
His chest constricts under an unbearable heaviness, the pressure intensifying with every fleeting second, each tick of the clock a reminder of his mounting despair. It feels as though an invisible weight is pressing down on him, squeezing the breath from his lungs and leaving him gasping for relief. His breaths become shallow and labored, each one a struggle to capture the air he so desperately needs, a reminder of his fragility in the face of overwhelming turmoil. The world around him blurs, colors fading into a muted palette of gray as he grapples with the suffocating reality of his existence.
In a frantic search for liberation, he yearns for a spark of hope to guide him through the consuming shadows that threaten to engulf him. He reaches out, grasping at the remnants of optimism, but with every attempt, he feels himself sinking deeper into the chasm of his own anxieties and doubts. The crushing weight of his troubles becomes too much to bear, suffocating his spirit and leaving him isolated in a barren expanse of despair. It is a desolate landscape where echoes of laughter and warmth are mere phantoms, and the vibrant hues of life have been replaced by a monochrome existence.
It could have been a few minutes or even a few hours. Each moment stretches into eternity, and the shadows whisper insidiously, feeding his fears and amplifying his sense of loneliness. The world continues to spin, indifferent to his plight.
He had experienced this before, after his father died. He could count on his hand how many times this has been. All except the first were hidden from his family. The little ones didn't need to see him like this.
"Anthony?" a muffled and distant female voice calls out. The female voice he heard seemed both close and far away.
He opens his eyes to focus on the face in front of him. It's Miss Penelope Featherington. She crouched in front of him, her eyes meeting his.
"Lord Bridgerton?" Penelope called out once more, and she was shaking his shoulder.
"Anthony? Can you hear me?" Penelope asks again. He meets her eyes, focusing on her fiery red hair.
"Lord Bridgerton?" Penelope calls once more, almost yelling.
He blinks and watches as the world comes into focus. He blinks again and takes a deep breath. As his consciousness slowly returned, he became aware that he was lying on the ground, propped up against a tall, scratchy bush, feeling a sharp branch poking into his back. He takes a deep breath, trying to figure out how he ended up on the ground.
"Penelope?" Anthony questions breathlessly, "What…where am I?"
"The Featherington Gardens." Penelope answers, "I do not know how you got in, but here you are."
As he gazes ahead, Anthony spots Penelope mere inches in front of him. Her vibrant red hair seems to be illuminated by the sun itself, casting a mesmerizing glow. It dawns on him that the sun is positioned higher in the sky than he had initially perceived. Overcome by a feeling of overheating, he struggles to catch his breath. Desperately attempting to retreat, Anthony finds himself thwarted by the dense brush behind him.
"I am sorry for intruding," he said quickly as he attempted to get up. Anthony's surroundings seemed to tilt and spin as dizziness overcame him, causing him to stagger and then collapse back to the ground. Penelope rushed to his side, her arms wrapped around him, attempting to support his weight and prevent him from falling further.
As they leaned into each other for support, Anthony gradually managed to push himself upright. Stepping forward, the world swirled around him, and his hope for the dizziness to subside quickly faded. With Penelope's steady guidance, they made their way out of the Featherington Gardens. It dawned on Anthony that he had strayed farther into the gardens than he had realized, as they found themselves just a stone's throw away from what he would assume was the servant's entrance of the Featherington house.
When they enter the house, he realizes that it's not the servant's entrance but an entrance into a bedroom. Penelope helps him sit at one of the tables near the fireplace.
"Thank you," he says as he sits down.
"It is no problem, Lord Bridgerton," she replies, "Please don't rush." In that instant, he becomes acutely aware that he is sitting in more than just a bedroom. Every detail he notices—the pristine sheets on the bed, the intricate tapestries adorning the walls, and finally, the writing desk cluttered with ink bottles, scattered papers, and a myriad of books—indicates that he is in her bedroom.
"I should go home," he mumbled to himself.
Anthony becomes aware that he's grasping his top hat tightly in his hand as he looks around the room. He finds himself in the lady's bedroom unaccompanied. Penelope is wearing a delicate light pink day dress adorned with tiny fabric flowers. Her gloves, once pristine, are now marred by dirt and dust as she removes them before striding to the other end of the room. With swift and deft movements, she unveils a tea set embellished with an elegant design of gold and azure birds.
"Amelia, can you get some water ready for tea?" Penelope said, placing the tea set down on the sitting table. She looked over his shoulder to the maid dressed in lime green in the doorway.
The maid, Amelia, nods before leaving, shutting the door behind her with a click. Anthony takes a deep breath, wanting to say that he should leave and not be darkening her bedroom without some accompaniment.
As she gracefully arranges the tea set, she carefully places a teacup and saucer in front of both her and Anthony. She then steps over to the glass and wood tea cabinet to select a variety of fresh herbs, a pestle, and a mortar. Returning to the table, Penelope stands near the fireplace as she lovingly gathers the fragrant herbs and transfers them into the mortar. With a gentle yet deliberate motion, she begins to crush and blend the herbs, allowing their delightful aromas of lavender, chamomile, and lemongrass to waft through the air. Penelope then places the ground-up herbs into a metal strainer and places it into the teapot.
As quickly as she left, the maid returned with a canister of water, with steam raising from it. The maid then poured the hot water into a small silver canister, emitting wisps of steam. With practiced grace, she carefully poured the hot water from the canister into the delicate teapot, the aromatic steam swirling upward as she worked. Setting the canister down gently beside the fireplace.
Penelope, with a warm smile, gently inquired, "Would you like something to eat?"
After a moment of self-assessment, he nodded in acceptance. Returning the smile, Penelope turned to the maid and gestured for her to leave the room, which she promptly did. After a brief wait, Penelope meticulously removed the metal strainer and carefully set it aside.
"Here you are, Lord Bridgerton," she said as she poured the tea from the pot, "Tea." Penelope then pours herself a cup before sitting across from him.
"Thank you," Anthony replied, staring at the pale purple-looking tea.
"It is my pleasure," Penelope says.
Amelia gracefully walks back into the room, carefully balancing trays of delectable treats. The trays are adorned with a delightful assortment of pastries, including flaky croissants and buttery scones, as well as an array of vibrant, freshly cut fruits. Nestled among them are tiny, golden shortbread cookies, their delicate aroma wafting through the air.
"Do you need anything else?" Amelia asks as she sets down the tray.
"Yes," answers after she takes a sip of her tea, "Please bring papers to the study I'll review them later."
The maid nods with a smile. Anthony watches as the maid gathers what appear to be accounting books and tenant contracts. He made a mental note to ask why a Lady of her standing has account books in her room when she should be focusing on her daily pursuits of the pianoforte and embroidery.
He can feel his strength returning and his dizziness subsiding. Anthony takes a sip of his tea, picks up a shortbread cookie, and eats it. He wants to ask her about the accounting books, but something else on the sitting table catches his eye.
Intrigued by the sight of the extensive, tattered novel, Anthony inquires, "Miguel de Cervantes?" as he carefully lifts it up.
"Light reading," Penelope replies with a smile. She picks up one of the cream-filled pastries and places it on her plate.
"Light?" he questions, "It is in two parts and over one thousand pages long. I would not consider Don Quixote light."
"Ok, not light, pleasure reading," she admits. "Everything else that I read tends not to be entertaining." she grimaces at the remark.
Penelope inquired, "Are you feeling well, Lord Bridgerton?" as he indulged in a strawberry.
As he sipped his tea, he responded, "I'm doing okay, just got a bit lost." Anthony pondered whether he should disclose the truth, clicking his tongue in contemplation. Aware of the current strained relationship between Eloise and Penelope, he hesitated to avoid further straining their families' rapport.
"Less than 20 meters from your house?" Penelope questioned with a raised eyebrow.
Anthony parted his lips to speak but quickly shut them again. It was time for him to leave and return home. If he had been discovered in Penelope's room by one of her family members, by the end of the week, he would be walking down the aisle. He hesitated to share his thoughts, not wanting to weigh her down with his troubles.
His struggles revolved around his mother and the complex dynamics of his family, a web of expectations and disappointments that seemed to tighten around him with every passing day. The thought of disappointing his mother, of failing to live up to the image she had of him, gnawed at him relentlessly.
Deep down, he understood that Penelope, too, grappled with her own family issues and personal challenges. He had seen the flicker of pain in her eyes when she spoke of her own past, the way her smile sometimes faltered when the conversation turned to her family. Both struggled to communicate with their families about setting boundaries and discussing their fears.
He ought to wrap up this discussion and head back home. The urge to return was strong, yet the moment Penelope caught sight of him, a wave of relief enveloped him. A profound tranquility settled in as he sank into his seat and sipped his tea. He was determined to hold onto this sensation. For the first time that day, he felt as if he could truly breathe.
However, he was a Lord alone in a Lady's chamber. If his mother were to learn of this, the consequences would be dire. The thought sent a shiver down his spine, a reminder of the rigid social structures that governed their lives. He could almost hear her voice, sharp and disapproving, echoing in his mind. The scandal it would cause, the whispers that would follow, the potential damage to his reputation—it was all too much to bear. Yet, as he looked into Penelope's eyes, he felt a flicker of rebellion stir within him.
What was the point of living a life dictated by fear and obligation? He had spent so long adhering to the rules, playing the part of the dutiful son and the respectable Lord. But here, in this moment, with Penelope, he felt a sense of freedom that was intoxicating.
"How is the tea?" Penelope asked, pulling him from his thoughts. Anthony glanced at his hostess and realized that he had been sitting in the chair for the last few minutes, his mind drifting as he debated whether to leave or stay.
"It is wonderful," he said with a small smile. "I appreciate the snacks."
"Of course, Lord Bridgerton," Penelope smiled. "It's Eloise's favorite. It's supposed to promote calmness and serenity." She continued sipping tea and eating some of the fresh fruits from the tray.
Anthony reached for his teacup, expecting to savor the warmth and flavor of the tea, but he was surprised to find it empty. Placing the teacup back on the table, he took a deep breath. "I don't know how I ended up in your gardens, but I appreciate you looking out for me," Anthony said with a sense of gratitude. "I…I do not know how I got there. I remember taking a walk after I had a talk with my mother."
Anthony scoffed at himself, continuing, "Despite my mother's efforts to persuade me to speak with Miss Sharma again, I firmly declined. Naturally, she wasn't pleased with my decision." He bit into a strawberry jam-filled pastry.
"I see," Penelope said. She placed her cup of tea down and stood up to pour another cup of warm liquid for both of them.
He nodded in thanks. "She has been trying to persuade me to attempt to – you don't need to hear this," he said.
"You are not the first Bridgerton to regale me of your woes," Penelope states with a smile on her lips before taking another sip of tea.
"Eloise?" Anthony guessed light-heartedly.
She nodded with a small laugh on her lips.
"You are not the only one that has had a bad fight with their mother." Penelope states, then places her half-finished cup of tea.
"My mother can't stand that I read." Penelope sighed. "As you can see," she gestured towards her writing desk, which was adorned with stacks of books and an array of writing utensils, indicating her deep love for reading. "I am very fond of reading. She believes that books will 'confuse' my mind."
"I, you can see I have a collection of books, but if my mama had her way, they would be gone. Thankfully, most were gifts from my father." Penelope states while sitting at the table.
"Confuse your mind?" he questions with a raised eyebrow. He carefully places his teacup on the saucer and shifts his gaze towards her writing desk. Standing up, he walks over to the desk, observing her meticulously arranged collection of novels and writings.
She nods, taking another sip of her tea.
As Anthony browses through the diverse array of books, he observes the vast array of topics they cover. Nestled among the shelves are volumes on economics, mathematics, and science, mingling with a delightful selection of romance and mystery novels. The scent of aged paper and ink fills the air. He runs his fingers along the spines of the books, feeling the textured bindings and reading the titles that promise adventures, knowledge, and intrigue.
Yet, something on the table draws his attention. It's a small, unassuming stack of practice questions from a mathematics textbook, but it seems out of place amidst the more fanciful literature surrounding it. Curiosity piqued, he leans closer, his eyes scanning the pages for any hints of what might lie beneath. As he carefully lifts the top few sheets, he discovers a signature. It reads "Lady Whistledown," or so it seems, the elegant script flowing gracefully across the page.
The name sends a thrill through him, for Lady Whistledown is a figure of great intrigue in society—a mysterious author known for her sharp wit and keen observations of the upper echelons of society. Her gossip columns have captivated the hearts and minds of many, weaving tales of romance, scandal, and the occasional revelation that sends ripples through the ton. Anthony's heart races as he contemplates the implications of finding her signature here, hidden among the mundane.
"Anthony," Penelope called, bringing him out of his thoughts.
As Anthony hears her voice behind him, he whips around rapidly. Momentarily, his head feels a bit dizzy before he manages to regain his focus and finds himself staring directly at Penelope.
"My mother wants all of her children to have love matches," he continues. "I thought I found mine last season with Miss Sharma." He watches Penelope give a questioning look.
"The elder." He clarifies.
"But?" Penelope questions.
Anthony looks around the room one more his hat on the sitting table, her books, and the lime-colored paint on the fireplace.
"But … she decided that her family was more important than her future with me," he states, then walks back to the sitting table and takes a seat, "While I value the importance of family loyalty, I had hoped that seeing her sister was safe, she might consider her own well-being. It seems, however, that my efforts of assuring her were insufficient."
"Mmm." She takes a sip of her tea
"I…my mother wants me to try again, but…it feels like…it feels like there is this void inside of me," he said, "And no matter what I try do to convince myself …I can't risk…." He trails off.
"You do not trust her," she confirms.
Anthony remains silent, grappling with the weight of Penelope's words, unsure of how to respond. She's spot on, and he can't help but ponder when she transformed into such a sharp thinker, a change that had slipped past his notice. Yet, reflecting on their past, it's clear that she must possess a keen intellect to have matched wits with Eloise for all this time.
He shifts in his seat, the silence stretching between them, heavy with the weight of unexpressed thoughts.
"It appears that you may benefit from taking some time and space to process your thoughts." She replies while taking a grape from the silver tray, "It is important to note that while time may not always heal wounds, it allows them to scar. Notably, like a scar, the memory of pain may persist, yet with the passage of time, it will gradually fade until the scar becomes the sole recollection."
"A scar?" he asked.
"Yes," Penelope replied quietly, her voice tinged with a hint of nostalgia. "But there's something intriguing about scars, don't you think? They tell stories of resilience and overcoming challenges. They remind us how far we've come and the battles we've won."
Anthony raised an eyebrow.
"They make us remember so that we can learn."
Anthony took time to absorb Penelope's words during their conservation.
Scars? Do I have scars? he thought to himself.
He adjusted his position in the chair, leaning in closer, his elbows propped on his knees as he pondered Penelope's words. The room around him faded into a blur, the soft hum of the world outside muffled by the weight of his thoughts. Gradually, it dawned on him that he bore numerous scars, both prominent and subtle, each one a testament to the battles he had fought, the losses he had endured, and the moments that had shaped him into the man he was today.
Is that why I can detach myself so easily?
Some of these scars were etched into him from the time of his father's passing, a wound that had cut deep and left an indelible mark on his soul. He could still remember the day vividly—the way the sun had shone through the window, casting long shadows across the floor, and how the air had felt heavy with unspoken words and unexpressed grief. That loss had been a turning point, a moment that had altered the course of his life, leaving him with a gaping hole that he had tried to fill with various distractions and pursuits, but nothing had ever truly sufficed.
As he sat there, the weight of his past began to feel less like a burden and more like a tapestry of experiences that had colored his life. Penelope's words echoed in his mind, urging him to embrace his scars, to acknowledge them as part of his journey rather than as blemishes to be hidden away.
Anthony settled into the chair and glanced back at Penelope. "The tea was delicious," he said as she watched him curiously. "Thank you," he spoke softly.
"You're welcome," Penelope said with a gentle smile, gracefully responding to the conversation. After delicately placing her intricately designed teacup on the satin tablecloth, she reaches for a small, ornate golden bell, its intricate engravings catching the light. With a soft, melodious chime, she elegantly signals for her maid.
"Have a good afternoon, Lord Bridgerton." Penelope states.
Amelia, her maid, walks through the doorway with stacks of paper and ledger books in her hands. She sets the books on the writing desk and turns towards Penelope.
"Miss?" Amelia asks with a smile.
"Please escort Lord Bridgerton off the property through the gardens, please," Penelope's statement resounded in the room, prompting Amelia to respond with a graceful smile and a courteous bow.
She proceeded to make her way to the opposite side of the room, her gaze fixed upon the door leading to the enchanting garden beyond. As she approached, she couldn't help but notice how the door seamlessly blended with the surrounding walls, its design rendering it nearly indistinguishable from the rest of the chamber's architecture. It was as if the door itself had been meticulously crafted to resemble an integral part of the wall, a cunning feat of construction that could easily deceive the unsuspecting eye.
As the maid leads him towards the door, he steals a lingering glance at the pile of account books resting on her desk, each one proudly displaying the Featherington family crest on its cover. Strangely, they bear a striking resemblance to the very same books he once used when overseeing the Bridgerton estate for the first time before he commissioned simpler ones that cost less.
"This is estate paperwork." Anthony points out, ignoring the looks of the maid as he looks over Penelope's writing desk again, "Why are you…?" he questions.
She stands from the sitting table, looks over to her maid, and then back to Anthony.
Penelope seems to be on the hunt for a plausible reason as to why the late Lord Featherington's account books are in her possession. The light of the room casts shadows across her face, highlighting the furrow of concentration on her brow. She fidgets slightly, her eyes tracing the edges of the leather-bound volumes as if they hold the key to her salvation.
He watches her intently, his gaze unwavering, as she puts the finishing touches on her explanation. The air is thick with tension, and Penelope can feel the weight of his scrutiny pressing down on her.
"I took over the estate when my cousin left," Penelope admits, exhaling.
"I have been taking care of the family finances for quite some time under the disguise of 'Aunt Petunia," Penelope says.
"But… this should not be your concern." Anthony thinks back to when his father first died and when he took over the estate.
"Unfortunately, I must do what my cousin failed to do," She replies.
"But… it was his duty to take care of you, your mother, and your sisters," he states. He remembers the feeling of duty, of honor, and the protectiveness of his family when his father was buried.
"That may be so, but he left as a coward, and now the estate is in such disarray that if somebody doesn't take care of it, then it will never get done, and we may end up in a boarding house," Penelope said, looking slightly angry.
Anthony looks at the books again and remembers what she has done for him.
"Let me repay your kindness." Anthony pleads, "Let me help you with your finances."
He is acutely aware that he should remove himself from the situation, understanding that her family's financial matters should not be his concern. However, an overwhelming sense of gratitude and debt drives him to desire to offer help. After all, she did extend her assistance when she discovered him within the confines of her gardens. If anything, she would have been within her rights to expel him from the premises at that moment.
"Anthony," Penelope sighs, "You don't have t—"
He cuts her off, "Let me help you."
He clenches the brim of the hat with his fingers, feeling the fabric bunch up under his grip. His knuckles whiten as he tightens his hold, and he swears under his breath, knowing that if he doesn't stop soon, he'll leave a permanent mark on the once pristine hat.
"Ok," Penelope accepts after a few tense moments of silence.
Anthony's face broke into a wide smile as he witnessed the acceptance he had been hoping for. With a sense of relief, he loosened his tight grip on the hat he had been anxiously clutching. His eyes then turned to the maid, who had revealed the existence of a secret door, and then back to Penelope. A gentle breeze from the garden brushed against his skin as he stood there, offering a moment of respite. Penelope acknowledged the maid with a nod and observed as she skillfully closed the secret door once again.
"Amelia," Penelope said.
"Yes?" the maid replies.
"Can you get me the current ledger from the study and inform my mother I am not feeling well?" Penelope says.
"Of course," Amelia nods, walking across the room towards the entrance of the room.
With a graceful nod, Amelia made her way across the room, her steps echoing softly on the polished floor. Meanwhile, Anthony retraced his steps back to the sitting table, perhaps with a thoughtful expression on his face. With purposeful strides, Penelope moved to her writing desk, where she carefully selected two books and a stack of papers before making her way back to the sitting table, her mind clearly focused on the task at hand.
"Let's get started, shall we?" Penelope states.
"Let's." Anthony agrees.