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Part 13 of bridgerton missing scenes
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Published:
2021-02-02
Updated:
2021-07-17
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5/?
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we dwell with peculiar interest on the little incidents

Summary:

Miscellaneous drabbles that go with the bridgerton missing scenes.

Drabble the First: Wherein Colin argues with Cook about his favorite jam.

Drabble the Second: “You want to play?” Colin repeats very slowly, as if his wife’s just announced that she wishes to leave him to go live with her mother again rather than play a simple lawn game.

Drabble the Third: “Did you know,” Michael murmurs to his sister-in-law, “that when Francesca tried to rile me about my impending downfall at the hands of London’s matchmaking mamas and their darling daughters, she thought to pair me off with you?”

Drabble the Fourth: Wherein Penelope enjoys Colin's favorite jam a bit too enthusiastically.

Drabble the Fifth: Wherein a suitor calls upon Mrs. Bridgerton.

Notes:

Title from a letter from Alexander Hamilton to Angelica Schuyler Church.

It’s my headcanon that Francesca regularly gifts her family Kilmartin raspberry jam and they’re all obsessed with it, but especially Colin (of course).

You can find me on Tumblr at your3fundamentaltruths.

Chapter 1: for your own good

Summary:

Wherein Colin argues with Cook. Takes place between the last chapter of Romancing Mister Bridgerton and the epilogue.

“Mr. Bridgerton, I am doing this for your own good,” Cook says sternly.

“You’re starving me for my own good?” Colin demands dramatically.

Chapter Text

“Mr. Bridgerton, I am doing this for your own good,” Cook says sternly.

 

“You’re starving me for my own good?” Colin demands dramatically.

 

“Starving you, sir?” Cook scoffs. “I know for a fact that I sent a plateful of perfectly good butter biscuits up with your tea not five minutes ago. I expect it is sitting on your desk even now, given how quickly you stormed down here.”

 

“But they don’t have the right jam,” he whines.

 

“Are you saying my jam isn’t good enough, sir?” Cook asks in a dangerously soft voice.

 

“Of course not,” he says, giving her just the sort of smile he’d have directed at an opera singer in his bachelor days. “It’s just that I wanted the Kilmartin raspberry,” he continues meltingly.

 

She shakes her finger at him warningly. “You’re not fooling me.”

 

“But –”

 

“No! And what’s more, you’ll thank me for it in the morning.”

 

“But –”

 

“I am saving it for Mrs. Bridgerton and that’s that,” Cook says firmly, tone brooking no argument.

 

“Aren’t I the one paying you?” he mutters.

 

“Yes,” she replies, ears as sharp as ever, “but are you really such a cur as to deny your wife the one thing she truly wishes to eat right now?”

 

He swears under his breath. “Surely she wouldn’t mind sharing a little – isn’t that what marriage is all about?”

 

“There’s hardly any of the Kilmartin jam left and I assure you that you do not want to know what will happen should there be none left next time Mrs. Bridgeton craves it.”

 

He shudders.

 

“Write to the countess and ask her to send down more,” Cook commands. “Nothing else for it. Until then –” She shrugs. “You will have to make do with mine.”

 

He sighs deeply.

 

“If you stop being so petulant about it, I will send up egg sandwiches,” she promises.

 

“With the –”

 

Cook nods.

 

Excellent. “Well, all right then,” he finally surrenders.

 

It’s times like these he’s reminded how wise he was to have hired someone who worked in his family’s kitchens for years before entering his employment.

 

“Good boy,” Cook praises, not quite suppressing a smile as he walks out of her kitchen.

 

(Yes, her kitchen. He knows better than to think it’s his, for heaven’s sake.)

Chapter 2: the mallet of death

Summary:

Drabble the Second: I wish you would write a fic where Penelope surprisingly destroys everyone at Pall Mall with a polite smile on her face and Colin isn’t sure whether to be proud, terrified or absolutely furious because it’s Pall Mall and he’s competitive (prompt)

“You want to play?” Colin repeats very slowly, as if his wife’s just announced that she wishes to leave him to go live with her mother again rather than play a simple lawn game.

Chapter Text

“You want to play?” Colin repeats very slowly, as if his wife’s just announced that she wishes to leave him to go live with her mother again rather than play a simple lawn game.

 

Not that Bridgerton Pall Mall is ever simple.

 

She's never played before; she’s always preferred to stand aside and stir the pot as a spectator with her sly quips.

 

(God, how did he never figure her out?)

 

“Well, it would be a bit of a waste if I didn’t,” Penelope says matter-of-factly, oh-so-slowly pulling out the Mallet of Death as she says the fateful words.

 

She has a marvelous instinct for creating the maximum dramatic impact, he thinks faintly. 

 

(Again, how did he never figure her out?)

 

He’s always loved the fact that his wife surprises him.

 

But today - 

 

By God, today he’s not sure whether to be furious, proud, aroused, or terrified.

 

(Furious is winning out.)

 

“How much?” he whispers when he can finally form the words. 

 

“Not a penny, darling.” She shrugs modestly, stroking the mallet in a rather familiarly . . . loving way.

 

(Aroused is a close second.)

 

God, what a woman.

Chapter 3: sororicidal impulses

Summary:

Drabble the Third: “Did you know,” Michael murmurs to his sister-in-law, “that when Francesca tried to rile me about my impending downfall at the hands of London’s matchmaking mamas and their darling daughters, she thought to pair me off with you?”

Chapter Text

“Did you know,” Michael murmurs to his sister-in-law, “that when Francesca tried to rile me about my impending downfall at the hands of London’s matchmaking mamas and their darling daughters, she thought to pair me off with you?”

 

“I did not,” Penelope replies, laughing. “However, I must say I’m flattered.”

 

Meanwhile, the looks her husband is shooting his wife suggest that sororicide is uppermost in Colin Bridgerton’s thoughts.

 

Michael just barely manages to stifle his smirk. There is something positively delightful in tormenting this particular brother-in-law.

 

And it certainly doesn’t hurt that it’s so easily done in this case, as Francesca was right about Penelope – she is highly intelligent and enjoyable company once one gets past her initial shyness and that seems an eternity ago now. He’ll freely admit he quite underestimated her and that’s without even taking into account –

 

“Before Colin expires in a fit of jealous rage or ensures my expiration,” Francesca cuts in wryly, “I should note that I had previously considered Eloise, but could not own to myself why the thought of matching Michael with one of my sisters had become so repellent.”

 

He nearly leers at her. “Is that so?”

 

Francesca, being Francesca, merely rolls her eyes.

Chapter 4: spoon

Summary:

Wherein Penelope enjoys Colin's favorite jam a bit too enthusiastically.

Notes:

Follow up to Part 1 (for your own good).

Chapter Text

His wife lets out an all-too familiar pleased moan.

 

Unfortunately for him, it’s not at all in the usual circumstances. “Pen, stop it.”

 

She glares at him and the ferocity of the glare should frighten him, but it also means that she’s distracted enough to stop devouring his beloved raspberry jam straight out of the jar. “I most certainly will not. I know for a fact Cook already told you she'd set it aside for me.”

 

“I mean eating it like that.”

 

“Like what? Like I’m hungry?” she grouses. “Starving. All the bloody time.”

 

“Penelope!” he says her name with a gasp for effect. She’s not one for swearing, usually.

 

She shrugs, utterly unrepentant. “It’s true and it’s all your fault, you know –”

 

“My –?”

 

“Yes, Colin, your fault,” she insists before he can get another word in edgewise. “It's your absurdly hungry baby I'm carrying. Not like I'm craving any of my own favorite things,” she mutters. Stubbornly, she sticks her spoon back in the nearly-empty jar, scooping out a bit more jam, then licking it clean so slowly and carefully it’s obscene.

 

“Our baby,” he protests weakly. It's impossible that she really has no idea what it’s doing to him, he thinks, as he feels the last fraying vestiges of his self-control snap. “Christ, Penelope, can you please –”

 

She blinks innocently at him, twirling the spoon between her fingers, seemingly perplexed by his blasphemous outburst.

 

If she somehow really doesn't know, isn't it his husbandly duty to enlighten her? “You’re making me want to do things,” he says lowly. “You’re making me want you to do things to me.”

 

“Oh,” she says quietly, comprehension finally dawning.

 

He’s not sure if he should be relieved or worried, what with that sudden devious look in her eye.

Chapter 5: the curious incident of the calling card

Summary:

Wherein a suitor calls upon Mrs. Bridgerton.

Notes:

I envision(ed) turning this concept into a mini-series, but wanted to get this one out in time for Polin Week, so here you go!

DAY SIX: Favorite Show Scene / Fake Dating / Courting Rituals

Also, thank you to my fellow Dunwoody stans sofiyathealmostwriter and beautifultropicalfish for the push.

Chapter Text

1825 – London 

 

As usual, Dunwoody knocks discreetly – only Dunwoody knocks just so – on the closed bedchamber door to alert her to his presence.

 

Sprawled rather inelegantly in the most comfortable chair in the room, Penelope looks up from her book. “Come in.”

 

“A visitor to see you, Mrs. Bridgerton,” Dunwoody announces upon opening the door. 

 

It’s the oddest thing, but she’d vow that Dunwoody is . . . smiling.

 

Not that Dunwoody is a particularly dour sort – in fact, for a butler, he is positively cheerful – but she’s never seen him smile.

 

“Really? Who is it?” One of her sisters or one of the Bridgertons, naturally.

 

Dunwoody steps forward and hands her a card.

 

She can’t help but feel uneasy; so rarely does she receive a visitor who must stand on ceremony with her that she is unpleasantly reminded of Cressida Twombley’s nightmarish visit.

 

When Penelope actually reads the name on the calling card, she blinks. “Dunwoody,” she finally says very slowly, “you do realize you’ve just brought me my husband’s card.”

 

“I do, Mrs. Bridgerton.”

 

“May I ask why you’ve brought me my husband’s card?”

 

“I am not at liberty to say, Mrs. Bridgerton.”

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“Mr. Bridgerton has insisted upon my discretion.”

 

Curiouser and curiouser. “You really cannot tell me anything?” she insists.

 

“Only that Mr. Bridgerton wishes this to be treated as a formal visit.”

 

“But what is ‘this?’”

 

“My apologies, but I could not say, precisely,” Dunwoody says, but he looks as if he’s rather enjoying himself. “Are you at home, Mrs. Bridgerton?”

 

“Am I at home for my husband?” she asks blankly. “In our own home?”

 

“Are you at home for a caller?” Dunwoody corrects significantly.

 

“What sort of caller?” She has no idea what possessed her to ask the question.

 

Like a cat in cream, Dunwoody looks terribly pleased with himself as he answers, “Why, a suitor, of course.”

 

“I beg your pardon?” she says again, fully aware that she sounds like the veriest ninny.

 

“Shall I tell him you are not in?”

 

“No!” she nearly shrieks before she realizes how ridiculous she sounds. “Of course not.” But the entire situation is ridiculous. Her husband of just over eight months calling on her in the guise of suitor? What on earth is he thinking?

 

“Do you require time to prepare yourself?”

 

She shakes her head, as if that would clear it.

 

“No?”

 

“No – I mean, yes.” Clearly, her head is no clearer. “No more than ten minutes.”

 

“As you wish, Mrs. Bridgerton.”

 

She eases herself out of the armchair, walks over to her dressing table, sits down in front of it, and gives herself a firm look in the mirror, willing herself to be the mature married lady she knows she is and not act like a giggly green girl.

 

“Would you like me to prepare a tray of food?”

 

She nods. “Yes. Mr. Bridgerton is sure to be hungry. He’s always hungry,” she says, as if Dunwoody doesn’t know Colin’s appetite as well as she does, finally beginning to get into the spirit of this odd little exercise.

 

She scrutinizes herself more closely. Changing her gown would be going too far, wouldn’t it? Besides, this shade of blue does flatter her.

 

In the mirror, she can see Dunwoody nodding and giving her a knowing not-quite-smile.

 

“And send Sally in, please.”

 

The butler nods again and disappears out the door.

 

—

 

“My husband is a madman,” she informs her maid dolefully as soon as Sally crosses the room to stand behind her at her dressing table.

 

“Begging your pardon, ma’am, but I think it’s very sweet,” Sally counters cheerfully as she begins to unpin her hair.

 

“Oh, I didn’t mean to imply that it wasn’t. It’s both mad and sweet, though I confess I don’t understand it at all.”

 

Sally, it seems, is prepared to be a bit more forthcoming than Dunwoody. “It’s occurred to Mr. Bridgerton that you didn’t really have a proper courtship,” she explains as she picks up Penelope’s silver-backed hairbrush and gently runs it through her hair, “and that he’d like to remedy that.”

 

“Now?” Penelope asks dubiously. “It hardly seems necessary that he court me now,” she says ruefully, with a pointed look down at her belly.

 

“I think that’s the point, actually – to conduct a proper courtship while you can still enjoy it.”

 

When Sally puts it that way, it does make some sense, to the extent this makes any sense at all . . . Penelope shakes her head, unable to keep from laughing any longer.  

 

Sally clucks her tongue disapprovingly. “Please do sit still, Mrs. Bridgerton. I should hate to stick you with a pin.”

 

Chastened, she obeys.

 

After a bit of careful hair-pinning, a pinch to each cheek, a swipe of lip rouge, and a light spritzing of her favorite perfume, Sally deems her ready. “Off you go, ma’am,” she dismisses her with a wink. “Please do be sure to conduct yourself with the utmost decorum; this is a respectable household, you know,” she adds officiously.

 

Penelope bites her lip to contain a grin as she flounces out of the room and makes her way downstairs.

 

Except . . . the first thing she notices when she enters the drawing room isn’t Colin rising to his feet, flowers in hand, boyish smile uncharacteristically bashful.

 

It’s Cook, sitting in an armchair in the furthest corner of the room in her Sunday best, embroidery in her lap, but eyes quite firmly on the pair of them, as stern and hawklike as the most watchful maiden aunt or matchmaking mama.

 

A bubble of mirth rises in her throat. It seems that Colin has drawn the entire household into this ridiculously charming little scheme of his.

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