Chapter Text
The house was asleep.
Eloise had been seated at her writing desk for what felt like hours, a book open in her lap and her gaze fixed on the same line since night had fallen.
The words no longer held meaning; the ink might as well have been smudges upon the page. Not since she had returned home and read Lady Whistledown’s latest column.
My dearest gentle readers,
It is a rare occasion indeed when this author finds herself at a loss for words, and yet today, I write with a heavy heart.
As you all must know by now, Lord Bridgerton and Miss Kathani Sharma have at last found their way back to each other, sealing their devotion with a promise that shall soon be sanctified at the altar. Love has triumphed, and the Ton could not be more delighted.
But what of those who have been swept away by this tempest of emotions? What of poor Miss Penelope Featherington, whose fate is now sealed?
And so, my dear readers, I ask you — what use is a chronicler if her words change nothing? What purpose is there in revealing injustices if they stir only a fleeting thrill of scandal before being forgotten?
This author is weary. Weary of this cruel world, weary of her own voice, weary of telling stories where justice does not exist.
And so, with this final edition, I lay down my pen.
Writing brings me no joy anymore.
Farewell,
Lady Whistledown
With those words she had realised that Penelope was gone. Really gone.
She had told herself she did not care. That she did not need her. That they were all better off without her.
And yet...
Some part of her knew— had always known — that she had been the true betrayer of their friendship.
Her silence had driven a deeper wound than words ever could. One that perhaps could not be forgiven.
A child. She could scarcely believe that Penelope had been with child. Her brother’s child.
Anthony had believed it.
Had she trapped him, as Marina had once tried to do?
A vindictive part of her wanted to think so.
But... that was not the Penelope she had known.
And even if, for months now, she had questioned whether she had ever truly known Penelope at all, she still understood one simple truth: To carry a child, one must first be a lover.
And Anthony had had many over the years and no children.
Not even now.
Because she did not speak.
And now, it was likely she had lost her friend forever.
She rose abruptly, as if the room itself threatened to suffocate her. Without thinking, she snatched a cloak from its hook and slipped out into the corridor, moving quietly until she reached the garden.
The air was sharp and still, the sky an endless curtain of dark velvet above her.
She made her way to the swing, the old one that had borne witness to so many of their childhood confidences, and sat down.
Her hands gripped the damp ropes tightly, her knuckles white, the wooden seat cold and unyielding beneath her.
Back and forth she swayed, the slow rhythm stirring memories she could no longer silence.
She missed Penelope. The realization struck like a blow.
The first tear slipped down her cheek unbidden. Then another. And a third. Until a sob broke past her lips, low and aching, unable to be contained.
She wept freely then, and almost didn’t notice that someone had joined her.
Only when a cigarette was offered to her in silence did she realise she was no longer alone.
She accepted it without a word, fingers brushing Benedict’s as she took it. The smoke was warm, the scent oddly grounding.
A thought crept into her mind, one she had not dared to voice until that moment. Benedict had once had an arrangement with the modiste. Madame Delacroix. And Penelope... Penelope had been close to her. Closer than anyone realised.
Perhaps Madame Delacroix knew where she was now.
She turned to her brother. “Would you come with me to the modiste tomorrow?”
Benedict turned fully toward her, his brow furrowed. “What did you say?”
“I asked if you’d accompany me to the modiste. You know her, don’t you?” A wry expression flitted across her face. “Did the two of you not have a... past arrangement?”
She was nearly certain of it, but she wanted confirmation.
The flash of indignation in his eyes was answer enough, though he chose to ignore the second half of her question.
“You are thinking about dresses? Now?”
Eloise scoffed. “Of course not. I believe Madame Delacroix may know where Penelope is. They were friends.”
He hesitated, clearly taken aback. “How is that possible?”
She faltered. He hadn’t been present when Prudence had so publicly declared her sister’s identity. He didn’t know. Not for certain. And she could not, would not, inflict that betrayal upon Penelope, not now.
So she looked at him steadily, her voice low but unwavering. “They were. Will you come?”
“…Very well.”
Eloise gave a short nod. “I shall try to sleep then,” she said softly, rising to her feet. “Good night, Benedict.”
And with that, she left him in the quiet, alone with the dying embers of the cigarette and the hush of the sleeping house behind them.