A Stormy Evening
Summary: The aftermath.
Early – Mid-April 1815
The rain hasn't started to pour, but the air is thick with the promise of a downpour. Dark clouds loom overhead, heavy and swollen, casting a shadow over the landscape that seems to mirror the weight in her heart. A chill hangs in the atmosphere, making the April evening feel even more somber, as if the world itself is holding its breath in anticipation of the storm. The scent of damp earth and impending rain mingles in the air, a bittersweet reminder of the life that thrives in sorrow.
She arrives at the designated time, her footsteps soft against the cobblestones, wrapped in a gray cloak that seems to echo her sadness. The fabric clings to her like a second skin, its muted color blending seamlessly with the overcast sky. It billows slightly in the breeze, but it offers little warmth against the biting chill that seeps into her bones. Her heart races, each beat a reminder of the weight of the moment, the gravity of what she is about to face.
He sent a brief request through his footman to her personal maid, asking Penelope to come so that he could explain himself and possibly apologize for his behavior. He was shamed.
Anthony observes her as he steps out from the servant's quarters, his breath visible in the cool air. Penelope watches Anthony dressed in a dark colored pants and a simple white undershirt. He watches her with a mixture of concern and admiration, noting the way her shoulders hunch slightly as if she is trying to shield herself from more than just the cold. Beneath her cloak, her hands tremble, seeking refuge from the cold as she stands sheltered under the wooden awning of the house. The structure creaks softly, a reminder of the years it has weathered, much like the emotions swirling within her.
He takes a step closer, the gravel crunching softly beneath his feet, and for a moment, the world around them distorts and dwindles. The distant rumble of thunder echoes in the background, a low growl that seems to resonate with the turmoil in her heart. She glances up, her eyes meeting his, and in that fleeting moment, a silent understanding passes between them. They both know that the storm is not just in the sky but also within her, brewing and ready to unleash its fury.
"Lord Bridgerton," she greets with a detached, cold familiarity, her head bowed.
"Penelope," he replies and watches as she winced at the sound of her name.
Anthony clears his throat and starts, "I wanted to apologize for my behavior," he states. "There is no excuse for my behavior. So, I have asked you to come here so that I may apologize." His tongue feels heavy as it sticks to the roof of his mouth, and he carefully chooses his next words.
"I apologize for getting angry at you… when I found you, I wasn't thinking," he states, "I was drunk and couldn't hold my tongue." Anthony takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself.
He was enraged when he found her. At first, Anthony was worried that she was lost in downtown London and potentially in danger among the working lower classes. He was troubled by the idea of a lady of her stature being in such a situation. He was furious and unhinged when he came across her alone on a dark street, draped in a dark cloak and having just arrived from the printers to drop off her latest manuscript.
When he stumbled upon her, he was visibly inebriated, having just departed from White's after an exhausting day contending with the state's affairs and, most significantly, his domineering mother. She had persistently harangued him, insisting that he should seek out a different debutante if Kate were no longer the object of his affection. As the week drew to a close, she had incessantly prodded him at every opportunity to pursue another woman in the quest for a suitable wife.
As he stepped through the door that evening, a wave of deep regret washed over him for how he had treated her. The memory of their last encounter replayed in his mind like a haunting melody, each note a reminder of his harshness. He had raised his voice, unleashing a torrent of anger that had erupted from a place of frustration and insecurity. The way her eyes had widened in shock, the hurt that had flickered across her face, was etched into his memory.
He could still see her, standing there, her expression a mix of disbelief and sorrow as he had roughly shoved her into the carriage she had arranged. The sound of the door slamming shut echoed in his ears, a finality that felt like a door closing on their relationship. With a sharp command, he had instructed the driver to take her home at once, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. At that moment, he had denied her the chance to speak, defend herself, or even offer a single word of explanation.
The silence that had followed was deafening, filled only by the clatter of the carriage wheels against the cobblestones, a stark contrast to the storm of emotions raging within him. He had been so consumed by his own feelings, so blinded by his pride, that he had failed to see the hurt he was inflicting. Now, as he stood in the dim light of his home, the weight of his actions pressed heavily on his chest, suffocating him with guilt.
He had always prided himself on being a man of reason, someone who could keep his emotions in check. Yet, in that moment of fury, he had become a stranger to himself, a man who had chosen anger over understanding. The thought of her sitting alone in that carriage, perhaps crying or feeling utterly abandoned, twisted his insides. He had robbed her of her voice and her dignity, and the realization struck him like a physical blow.
What had he been thinking? The questions swirled in his mind, each one more painful than the last. He had let his temper dictate his actions, and now he was left with the bitter taste of regret. He longed to turn back time and take back those harsh words and how he had dismissed her. He wanted to reach out, apologize, and explain that his anger had not been directed at her but rather at the situation that had spiraled out of control.
"You are forgiven, Lord Bridgerton," Penelope states flatly. "May I please leave?" She holds her hands in front of her.
Anthony gave her a slight nod and watched as she started to turn and walk away. In a moment of bravery or foolishness, he reached out and gripped her wrist. "Penelope," he pleads softly as he thinks about pulling her closer to him.
"What?" Penelope snaps back, turning her head to meet his eyes. He sees a tear slowly making its way down her face, and he wants to wipe it away. Wipe away the memories of his outburst of his ungentlemanly behavior towards her the other night.
"What do you want me to say," Penelope says, "That I will stop."
She pauses stepping closer to him, "You know I can't. Until I have enough."
The sky hung heavy overhead, rumbling with the promise of electricity in the air. A palpable spark of energy hinted not just at rain but at the imminent arrival of a fierce thunderstorm accompanied by lightning.
He knows what her plans are and has an idea of how much money she needs. He also knows that this could get her killed, along with her family. Looking back over the last few years, he realized that the Featherington family had resolved both the late Lord Featherington's debts and the last Lord Featherington's debts extraordinarily fast, especially considering that they did not have a male to take over the barony title.
Anthony moved in closer, wrapping her in his embrace. The instant his hands met her arms, she crumbled against him. All the strength and poise she had vanished as she wept uncontrollably, a tangled mess of emotions. They fell to their knees, just steps away from the cover of the house.
He first noticed the gentle tapping of raindrops on his back, a precursor to the deluge that followed as the sky opened up and unleashed a torrent of water. The icy chill of the downpour caught him off guard, nearly stealing his breath away.
"You can't, please," Penelope cried into his shoulder as the rain poured down, "Please, Anthony…please…please."
Anthony lifted them from their kneeling position and guided her toward the house. He ushered her through the entrance of the servants' quarters to shield her from the pouring rain. They were both drenched from head to toe, feeling the coolness seeping in from the rain, which stuck their clothes to their bodies.
"You can't, please," Penelope cried.
Penelope continued to sob quietly. The dim light illuminated her tear-streaked face as they made their way to their quarters in the vast, empty kitchen. The late hour ensured that very few servants would be awake and vigilant. As they entered, he glanced over her shoulder and noticed his loyal footman gesturing for him to summon a maid for her. He felt a pang of guilt, knowing that his carelessness could potentially lead to her developing a cold or even pneumonia.
"Ok," Anthony whispered into her ear, "It's ok."
He watches as the footman leaves and follows his orders. They are alone now in the Bridgerton kitchen, and much of his family was sleeping or out in the city.
The ironic thing is that he truly meant what he said. The next day, after gaining some clarity, sobering up, and enduring the hangover and headaches, he realized that this was the source of her income. This was how she managed to pay off her father's debts and cover her sister's dowries. She had lost her father and had taken on the responsibility of being the head of her household. Like him, she made decisions based on what she believed was in the best interest of her family, regardless of their opinions. She had to make tough choices and cut back on certain expenses to maintain their lifestyle.
The tempest outside continues to rage relentlessly, with deafening claps of thunder reverberating through the air and rain relentlessly pelting against the windowpane. Brilliant flashes of lightning intermittently pierce through the pitch-black sky, casting an eerie glow on the surroundings. As he gazes outside, his breath forms visible puffs in the frigid, damp air, accentuating the coldness of the storm.
"I'm sorry," Penelope whispers, as her cries quiet, her body shaking against his.
He can't think of anything to say but to hold her close, and his arms tighten around her.