Chapter Text
That morning, he had decided to take matters into his own hands, allowing Penelope some respite. With four small children and work commitments, as she was trying to complete her second novel and he was engaged in the writing of another travel journal, they rarely found time for themselves.
Penelope rarely complained, yet Colin had decided she should enjoy a day entirely devoted to herself. He beamed as he passed by the drawing room, where his wife was currently closeted with his mother and his sisters, Daphne and Eloise, taking tea, as she had done in her youth, gossiping over salmon tarts and butter biscuits.
He had cheated, he had to admit to himself. He confined George and Jane, the youngest children, in their study with watercolours and charcoals, gifts from uncle Benedict, permitting them to soil their fingers and create as they pleased. He was curious about their drawings; the ones they would present to them in the late afternoon with pride. Thomas followed him like a soldier. He was just like him, except that his hair was the same coppery hue as his mother's, and he had taken that responsibility. He was walking next to his father, all serious, making sure everything was running smoothly and that his siblings were calm and busy.
Only Agatha was missing. Colin glanced at the mahogany clock in the corridor and noticed it was almost eleven in the morning. Agatha had remained abed longer than usual, shouting from her room that she absolutely had to write down a peculiar dream in her diary or she would forget its details, colours, and flavours. His lips curved gently as he thought of how his eldest daughter was already an accomplished writer, but he was worried by the thought that she hadn't left her room since.
He stopped eavesdropping at the drawing room door, sending Thomas to check on his younger siblings, and went up the stairs two at a time, heading for the bedrooms, almost colliding with a maid who was just emerging from Agatha's chamber.
"She will not rise, sir," Judith said breathlessly. "She says she only wants her mother. She won't allow us to enter or tell us what's the cause of her distress," she added, almost annoyed by the little girl's stubbornness. "But there must be something wrong. It has never happened before."
Colin blinked in surprise. "Does she feel sick? Did she hurt herself?" he asked, laughing at his own anxious questioning, sounding rather like his own mother he had once teased.
"We cannot say, sir. She wouldn't tell us," she added timidly, almost fearing rebuke. "She just insists upon her mother," she said, shrugging.
"No, sir, she does not look hurt or sick. But she seems upset," added another maid, Lucy, who was carrying freshly ironed linen to the closet. "She awoke weeping and hid beneath the sheets, begging us to leave."
"Yes, and Miss Agatha has never been rude. So we think it's something important, sir," Judith added again.
Colin seemed to ponder his options for a moment. "I shall attend her myself. Thank you." He approached Agatha's bedroom door, pausing with his hand in midair before knocking. He wondered if this was the right choice, since she had asked specifically for her mother.
He started to turn away, but then hesitated. He was his father, after all. He could solve this problem, too, whatever it was.
He approached the door and knocked gently. "Aggie, my love," he said softly, in a voice so delicate he didn't recognize it. The room was already filled with light, and he saw her hidden under the blankets, only a tuft of chestnut-coloured hair peeking out from the pillow.
Agatha didn't answer at all.
"Aggie, darling, it's Papa. What –"
He heard a muffled sound, like an annoyed sob. "I do not want you. I want Mama. Only Mama." Agatha's voice was high-pitched, angry, and unrecognizable.
Colin took a deep breath and closed the door softly behind him. "Has…has something dreadful happened, Aggie?"
"No!" Agatha's voice was high and trembling. "I want Mama, only Mama!"
"Aggie", he whispered calmly.
“Papa go away!” She sobbed in exasperation.
"Agatha," he said in a firmer voice, sitting at the foot of the bed, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible. "What are you hiding under there?"
“Not-nothing,” the little girl squeaked, clutching the covers so tightly her knuckles turned white.
"Are you sure?" Colin tentatively tried to lighten the situation. "Could it be a frog?"
“No!” she replied, her voice betraying a note of amusement.
"Are you really trying to make me guess?" Colin asked, smiling, thinking he was on the right track. "Agatha...surely you have not wet the bed, have you?"
“No, Papa!” she cried, a little too quickly.
Colin thought for a moment he'd guessed right. He frowned, but tried not to make her feel judged or shamed. Agatha had never wet the bed, not even when she was little. Perhaps she had been frightened in her sleep?
"Aggie…it matters not,” he said softly. “Whatever it is, we shall set it right.”
"No—it's not that, Papa. Please, call Mama, I beg you." Agatha pleaded, her voice wobbly.
Colin sighed deeply, unwilling to disturb Penelope. And perhaps deep down, he didn't want to admit, or admit to her, that for one day he hadn't been able to solve every problem and take care of everything. He stared at the heap of sheets under which his daughter lay, still motionless, her hands firmly on the bedclothes and her feet dangling.
If there was one thing they had in common, it was stubbornness. Colin began tugging at the blankets, while Agatha, on the other end, pulled it towards her. She protested, even calling him immature, which made him grin, and in response, her father tickled her, earning a fierce kick from the little girl, who tried to free herself, amid a worried laughter.
At last, the blanket slipped enough to reveal what Agatha had been desperately trying to conceal. There was a dark crimson stain and unmistakable on the white sheets and her equally white nightgown.
A moment of silence followed, as heavy and thick as a bank of fog.
Agatha flushed scarlet and her eyes instantly filled with tears, struggling to breathe. She hadn't wanted this to happen, and especially hadn't wanted her father to see it. "I did not mean to! It was not my fault, it happened while I was sleeping. Perhaps I'm broken, or perhaps I'm dying.” She froze, her eyes filled with dread. “Papa, I'm dying."
"You're-you're not dying." That was all he could say, still shocked, cursing himself for his stubbornness. You're not dying, but maybe I am, my child. "You're-you're not broken, but..." It was Colin's turn to blush. "I think... yes, I believe it best that we call your mother."
And so, as soon as he entered, Colin Bridgerton fled the chamber, leaving Agatha perplexed and intent on wiping her nose with the sleeve of her nightgown.
He burst into the drawing room in a state of agitation. His gaze was wide, his face pale. Penelope, his sisters, and his mother stared at him in astonishment. "Colin?". They all uttered in unison.
He hadn't greeted them or said anything or even explained the reason for his abrupt entrance. He'd simply walked over to the cupboard, pulled out a glass and a bottle, and poured two fingers, maybe even three, of brandy, which he gulped down without much ceremony.
“Colin…it is morning,” Violet intervened, shocked by her son’s behaviour.
"Agatha…she…she is…" He stopped and took another deep gulp. "She has become…she…she…"
"For Heaven’s sake, Colin, breathe. You look like you're about to have an apoplexy," Eloise said with a laugh.
“Yes, it could happen,” Colin added, turning even whiter.
"What happened to Agatha, darling?" Penelope asked worriedly, having meanwhile joined him near the sideboard, placing her hands on his arms. Colin looked like a restless animal in a cage, and Penelope struggled to catch his gaze, which darted from one place to another, avoiding meeting hers.
"She is…she…oh Penelope" he said on the verge of tears.
“Colin, do you want to tell me what happened?” she blurted out exasperatedly.
"She…needs you." He said, swallowing loudly. "She got…got her courses."
The last two words came out in a whisper, his voice shaking, then he raised his glass and drained it in one gulp.
Daphne coughed to hold back a laugh, followed by Eloise, amused by her brother's panic, while Violet murmured how wonderful it was that she had blossomed into a young lady.
A young lady. Colin thought to himself. Dresses, balls, flowers, suitors, weddings. "No, Penelope. No. I can’t. I will not have suitors at the door."
"You won't have them for years, darling," she said amusedly, biting her lip. "She is but twelve. But it is only natural."
“Twelve! She’s a child,” he replied, running a hand through his hair, ruffling it.
"Good God, I can't imagine Phillip when it will be our Penelope’s turn. He almost had a heart attack with Amanda," she paused to look at Colin, "kind of like how Colin is now."
"She's not so much a child anymore. And that means..." Daphne added amusedly, as Colin looked at her, squinting, "that you're growing old, my dear Colin. The same thing I told Simon. He had borne it thrice already."
Colin began to breathe quickly, labouredly. He found another glass of brandy in his hand, handed to him by his mother, who gave him a tender smile. "You shall need it, dearest. Believe me."
He nodded. "Penelope." He murmured her name like a prayer, as if she had the answers to all his questions.
"You stay here, drink if you must, and do not allow Eloise to torment you too much. I shall go to Agatha…she will be frightened."
And thus, Penelope departed at once, leaving him to his terror and to the clutches of his sister.
Agatha was still hidden under the covers when Penelope finally entered her room, but she emerged from her cave as soon as she heard her mother's voice.
Penelope sat on the bed, and Agatha threw herself into her arms, trembling. "Oh Mama, I ruined everything. And he... he saw me."
Penelope held her tightly, cradling her like she had when she was a child. "No, darling, you have not ruined anything. It's dreadful, yes...but natural. It is just a sign that your body is changing and growing. That you're becoming a woman."
“But Papa…,” she said, sniffling.
"Your foolish papa is more frightened than you are. And he's going to need some help. Even strong papas get scared sometimes, large as they are."
Agatha laughed through her tears. "He ran away so swiftly."
“And it’s not the first time he’s done it, when faced with the women of this house,” she replied smiling, cupping her daughter’s cheeks, and drying her tears with her thumbs.
"What…what happened?" Agatha asked curiously.
"You have begun your courses, darling. And unfortunately, it will only be once a month, until your body decides otherwise. It is nature’s way of preparing you for children, when the time comes. Many, many years from now."
"And didn't it have another way to tell us? It's filthy, mortifying...and painful."
Penelope smiled, kissing her brow. "You know…once upon a time, many, many years ago, when I was your age, I thought I was dying."
“I thought the same, Mama,” Agatha beamed, snuggling against Penelope’s soft chest.
"But Grandmama Portia explained everything to me calmly." Penelope smiled as she thought back to how her mother, on that rare occasion, had been truly kind and understanding, facing that frightened little girl.
"Your body will change too, my darling. You shall see...there will be some quick changes...and some slower ones...and sometimes you won't recognize yourself. Every woman endures it. You will, too. It is but another step towards growing."
"I don't think that is fair," Agatha said, wrinkling her nose. "Boys do not suffer this."
"Your aunt Eloise once said the same." She stroked her cheek. "No, it doesn't happen to boys, but they go through their own changes. Life moves swiftly, Aggie. Too swiftly. I thought we had more time. But you've always been impatient to grow." Her expression softened maternally.
"And what about the pain? It feels like someone's punching me in the front and back…and from within."
"Now, a warm bath will soothe you. And we'll change your linens, so you won't be scared anymore. Then a nice cup of chamomile tea with honey and complete rest. That helps restore order to your mind and body. And perhaps, darling, a hot water bottle upon your belly would be a good idea. I think it might help. You focus on resting, I'll take care of everything else."
Agatha listened with wide eyes, still a little pale and frightened, but definitely calmer. She bit her lip, as she always did when in doubt.
“Tell me, darling,” Penelope smiled at her.
"Do you think I should talk to him? He must be hiding." Agatha laughed, hiding in her mother's gown.
Her mother nodded. "I think you should, whenever you are ready. Perhaps he needs your embrace more than you need his." She kissed her forehead. "But in the meantime, I'll take care of him." Her mother hugged her once more and then went out to tell the maids, promising to return soon. And Agatha treasured that promise.
When she closed the door to her room, Penelope stood still for a moment in the corridor, her back pressed against the cold wood. One day, Agatha would grow and perhaps forget about this morning, the fear, the embarrassment, and that embrace. But not her. She would always remember her daughter's gaze and the way she'd snuggled against her chest as she had as a newborn. She understood Colin. It was terrifying being in front of something one cannot halt.
She, too, felt that terror inside... sure, she hadn't run away, but she understood it. The feeling of dealing with something that was moving away and couldn't be stopped, of no longer being necessary and perhaps only sufficient.
She had to seek him out and reassure him, and be reassured in return. But she loved him, even when he was imperfect, and especially for that. And in that moment, as she ordered hot water and chamomile tea, she loved him even more.
It was only late in the afternoon that Agatha found the courage to look for her father. The rest had been invigorating; her mother had been right. Yet all day, Agatha had thought about nothing but her father's gaze. He wasn't disgusted, he was...terrified. Perhaps because he didn't know how to help her, perhaps because she was growing up. And she, for the first time, had thought that perhaps they really were losing each other. She had prepared a plate of cinnamon biscuits, her father's favourite, as a sign of peace.
She opened the study door slowly and saw him sitting on the floor, a book in his hand, which he wasn't even reading, staring into space. He wished he had the right words, he wished he were ready, but perhaps you're never ready for the moment when your daughter begins to slip away. Perhaps his mother had always felt this way every time he went on a journey, arrogant and with all his life in his hands, leaving her helpless at home.
“Papa,” she said uncertainly.
“Aggie,” he replied, a little hesitantly, looking at her as if there was nothing else in the world.
“May I stay with you for a while?” she asked, tilting her head slightly to the side.
He nodded and motioned for her to come closer. She rushed to sit next to him, setting the plate on the floor, and hugged him, letting herself be enfolded by her father's strong arms, which seemed unwilling to let her go. They remained like that in silence for a few moments.
“I’m sorry I was cross today,” she said calmly. “I didn’t mean to.”
"You weren't cross, my love. You were…frightened." He paused, as if trying to find the words. "And I didn't listen. You asked me several times about your mother…I just wanted to lend you a hand, be useful." He said, running a hand behind his neck, embarrassed.
“I’m sorry if I scared you,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry I fled,” he admitted.
Colin looked at her for a long time, as if trying to re-draw her face in his mind. It was true that she was growing up. Her face had slowly abandoned the plump curves of childhood and was becoming more mature. And God, if before she had been a Bridgerton through and through, now he saw Penelope in her.
Of her mother, she only had the colour of her eyes, that warm, chocolate brown with golden streaks near the pupils, and yet now she was similar to her in the way a shy smile formed on her face, in the way she held back her thoughts, measuring her words, in the way her face tilted slightly when she thought.
It was as if a new awareness had formed within him, and simultaneously fallen upon Agatha, without warning. She was becoming a young woman, and soon her body would change too, and she would probably no longer want to be held and cuddled by him. Colin felt his eyes water and a lump form in his throat.
It was natural, she was growing up, yet it hurt so much.
Agatha frowned. "Stop looking at me so."
“How am I looking at you?” asked Colin, genuinely puzzled.
"As though I were different. I'm no different than I was this morning. I'm still Agatha. I feel like something's wrong." She paused to swallow. "And I don't want anything to be wrong between us. Nothing has changed between us, has it?”
He shook his head. “No, my darling. That's not why I look at you like that." He admitted, looking at her lovingly.
“So, what is it then?” Agatha blurted out.
"You're growing up" He cleared his throat. "You're becoming a woman and looking more and more like your mother. And you've never been more beautiful. That's it. And your poor old papa may find it difficult to accept." Colin cupped her face in his hands. "You are no longer my little girl."
She looked into his eyes intently, with that seriousness Penelope always had when he said something nice to her and she didn't seem to believe it. Then she seemed to darken, and Colin instinctively caressed her cheek.
"Papa...is it fine if...if I remain your little girl a while longer?" Agatha asked him, her voice shaking. She didn't want it to all happen suddenly, and she felt it would break her heart if her father pushed her away now.
He smiled through his tears. "For as long as you wish, Aggie," then he hugged her again. "Even forever, if you desire it. I shall never leave you."
Colin knew the day would come when he would have to let her go. The day a boy would hold her hand with the same gentleness he had caressed her cheek, as if she were something fragile and precious. But not today. Today she was still his daughter. And that was enough for him.