Work Text:
Day 3 + 5 - Angst + Yearning
1828
In the summer months of 1828 - which in India spans March to June - Colin wrote an approximate of 18 letters.
Three to his mother. Two each to Anthony and Kate and Eloise. Two to Daphne and the girls. One to his University Chum. One to Franseca and Michael in Scotland. One each to Gregory and Hyacinth.
Two to Benedict.
And three to Penelope.
His hands shook as he wrote Penelope Benedict Bridgerton.
His letters were like a game. One truth and two Lies. Two he posted, one he kept.
April 9th, 1828.
Delhi, India.
Dear Penelope,
In Benedict's previous missive he mentioned how much you loved the ginger tea I sent over to the whole family. India is a treasure trove for tea-lovers, as yourself and I. I find the thought of sipping on our famous Earl Grey a let down after having experienced what the locals call Adrak Chai. The hint of ginger and the potent tea makes this a heavenly concoction. I’m terribly sorry I avoided it every time Kate offered me some.
Benedict also mentioned how much it soothes your morning sickness. Congratulations are in order! I am sending you as many bags of tea as I am allowed.
And how is darling little Agatha doing?
India is truly wonderful, I’ve been here for close to two years now - as my mother, Anthony, the rest of the lot, even your added commentary in Benedict's last letter informs me. And I know it’s the longest I’ve ever been away, but I find myself unable to leave. It’s a dichotomy of two worlds, this place. In the houses of the generals of the East India Company I feel like I’m almost in England, but out in the streets of Delhi it’s another world altogether.
Life is different in India. Free, colorful, humbling and terribly informative. I, of course, speak from a place of privilege, as a man of English birth in a British Colony. However, what I find I love the most here has nothing to do with the British Raj (Empire) as they call it. It’s simply the place. I love the culture, the people, the food, and the tea! Oh the tea! I love the terrain - there is everything here from mountains to beaches to desserts to husting towns. I miss home and my family terribly, but I find that I cannot leave.
There is more I must achieve in India. I’m certain of it.
No one understands my urge to travel and explore as you have, so in return for all the ginger teas to soothe your sickness I request your help. Make them understand if you can, mother especially, why I cannot return yet, why I must remain.
That, while I love them terribly, my heart has always been adrift.
Give my regards to Benedict! And whoever else you might meet.
Once again, congratulations on the upcoming babe!
Your Friend,
Colin.
April 27th, 1828
My Cottage
Dear Colin,
It was so good to hear from you! I’ll admit I’ve read over Benedict’s shoulder every time he received a letter. Even helping him word his thoughts - you know how terribly lacking he is when it comes to writing down feelings, he’s much better at verbalizing. That too on rare occasions.
Your brother communicates more in facial expressions and gestures than words I’ve come to realize in four years. He finally got irritated at one point and told me to just write to you if I was so concerned over the proper syntax and verbiage.
I wasn’t certain if you’d want to hear from me. But seeing your letter made me terribly happy.
Thank you so so so much for the tea. You’ll never know how precious this is for me. Every morning I find myself in a state, and this blessed, god-sent concoction calms it instantly. I won’t even let Benedict drink some in case I run out.
Agatha! What can I say about that little terror. I’m certain Benedict has chewed your ear off writing about her. She’s eighteen months old and the actual head of this household. While I write this letter, she is currently sitting in Benedict’s lap having a temper tantrum because he told her to choose a toy of hers to give the new baby when it arrives. She screams and cries about how the baby will take away his attention from her. I am, as you can see, inconsequential to her.
Benedict doesn’t help exactly; coddling her and pampering her at every turn. I have a sense of dread that if he doesn’t stop indulging in her every whim our daughter is going to grow up into one of those entitled women we made fun of. I cannot let that happen.
I hadn’t thought I’d ever have a child. My nieces and nephews were the only place I had thought to channel my motherly instincts. And then Benedict and Agatha came along, and then this little one causing me to hurl every morning. And Benedict, he hadn’t quite pondered on fatherhood until he quite literally became one.
And he’s taken to it with the furor he does everything in life. Agatha is his whole life, and he’s clearly her favorite person. I am not certain how the drama will unfold once the babe arrives. Stay tuned for our letters on the latest developments in the temper tantrums of one Agatha Bridgerton.
As for your family, they miss you terribly. I know, and I will do my best to explain to them how you only feel like yourself when you travel. I do not know if I will be successful, but I shall try.
And you do not need to bribe me with tea to help you Colin. You are my friend, always have been and always will be - even if I’m the last person you want to see. I’ll always be there for you.
I’m hoping you’ll settle a debate for me - as a friend. Everyone in the family has different thoughts on who Agatha resembles. I am sending you the latest sketch Benedict has made of her. He tells me to inform you that she has grown three - three inches since the last one he sent you. She’s definitely going to take his height.
I think she looks like Benedict, and he thinks she looks like me. Your mother thinks she looks like Benedict when he was a baby but Kate is certain she has my features.
Settle this debate for us will you?
Your Friend,
Penelope.
May 10th, 1828
Delhi, India
Dear Penelope,
Thank you for being a great friend, even when I am not deserving of it. I am most assuredly not deserving of it. A friend does not despair of opening his brother’s letters - eager and nervous all at once. I live for the snippets of your life, of Agatha, and I dread to see the happiness and how it affects me.
A friend does not ache for his sister-in-law.
A friend does not dream of his brother’s wife.
A friend does not hold onto the memory of the heat of her body, the taste of her lips, four years later.
A friend does not pray and pray and pray to turn back time and snatch away his brother’s happiness.
I wish I could say I return your sentiments Penelope, I really wish I could.
I wish I could be your friend. That would make my life so much easier.
I lay awake at night, unable to sleep in the sticky heat of Delhi and wish I could be your friend. I wish to go back to those twelve years before 1824 when you were my steadfast, lovely, kind, witty friend .
Before I realized you were my everything. Before I lost you.
I find that I cannot. I am adrift, and you are my anchor. But you aren’t mine are you?
You never have been. You are your own person. And I know you owe me nothing, you said as much the last time we spoke. And you’re right, you’re absolutely right Pen, but that doesn’t mean it hurts any less. That doesn’t mean I don’t feel wretched, l don’t feel like an ailment has taken me asunder. There are times when I think of you, of what I lost, of what I could have had - the same picture I saw in Aubrey Hall in 1826; only me with you.
Not Benedict.
It makes me a horrible person, I know. I am a horrible, horrible person.
But that is what unrequited love does to one does it not?
If I asked you now, if I asked you again - what would be your answer?
If I asked you now if you love him, would your yes be a lie? Or is it the irrevocable truth now?
If I asked you if he loves you, would you hesitate? Or would you smile and say with your eyes what you cannot with words?
So the horrible person that I am, I find I cannot settle your debate. Because my agony is ten times sharper every time I read about Agatha, every time Benedict sends me a new sketch - and I ask for more every time. I want to know more. I need to know more.
Because they fuel my dreams, Pen, they do. I feel like I know her, Aggie as Benedict calls her lovingly. I take the first sketch of you and Agatha with me as I sleep. I hold it close to my heart.
I cannot tell you who she resembles in real life. I can tell you how I see her in my dreams.
I see her with light chestnut hair - but with a hue of red.
I see her with waves that frame her cherubic face.
I see the hint of red in her hair when the light hits just right.
I see her with your peachy complexion.
I see her with piercing green eyes.
I see her with a lopsided smile.
I see her with your wit.
I see her with a winning charm.
I see her with your sharp intelligence.
I see her with a thirst for life.
I see her with your kind nature.
I see her with an insatiable appetite.
I see her as mine, Penelope.
I close my eyes and I dream of Agatha as mine. Mine and yours. In a world of my own making.
I seem to be living a parallel life with you in my dreams, where you are mine and she is mine and the new life blooming in your womb is mine.
I hunger for this life Pen.
So, it is clear to me that I am not your friend.Not yet.
Perhaps, one day, like you said my anger and my agony will lessen, and I will be your true friend. The kind you deserve.
Because, no matter how badly I covet what isn’t mine, I know you deserve all the happiness in the world Penelope.
I just wish it was I that could make you happy.
Love,
Colin.
Colin never posted this letter. It sat on his desk, blotched and smeared with ink and brandy and tears.
It was too real, too cruel and too honest .
So he tucked it into the confines of his shirts in the cupboard and went to sleep, the new sketch of Agatha and Penelope clenched in his hands.
May 11th 1828
Delhi, India
Dear Penelope,
It is good to hear from you as well. I cannot say that I wasn’t amazed at Benedict’s superior written skills. I had always guessed they were your doing. You’re quite right about him, he speaks less and does more. I’ve always admired and envied that about him.
I will ensure the Bridgerton Household is always equipped with the finest Adrak Chai going forward. It’s my pleasure to be able to bring you some relief in what I’m sure are difficult times.
I always want to hear from you Penelope, despite what my earlier interactions might say. I suppose I simply need time.
As for little Agatha, I’m unsurprised but highly amused at her tactics. She reminds me terribly of a young Hyacinth - which does not bode well for both of you as parents. I am sure though, that once the new babe makes his or her appearance she will be the bestest sister in all the lands. She takes after you in her temperament after all, or so Benedict informs me.
And once again dear Pen, you undervalue your importance. You never have been and never will be inconsequential.
I am forever indebted to you for speaking to my mother, she wrote to me last week telling me of your interaction. She told me - after years - that if travelling and seeing the world is what makes me happy then she will not begrudge me that. No matter how much she misses me.
This sketch of Agatha will be one of my most prized possessions. You must tell Benedict that he gets better and better every time, but his true talent comes out when he sketches you or Agatha. I can almost visualize her in front of me - all fat cheeks and sticky smiles. I am sorry that I have never met her, but through these letters I feel like I know her.
As for who she resembles I fear I might not be of great help. She has his eyes; the shape, the placement, the color, even the twinkle is downright Benedict.
But the rest of her that’s all you Penelope.
She’s a mini version of you, through and through.
Benedict is going to have to get a very large stick when she comes of age!
My best wishes to you all!
Your friend,
Colin.
In the winter of 1828 a letter reached Colin in Calcutta India announcing the birth of Charles Bridgerton. Mother and babe were both doing well, Benedict said. Agatha was a besotted big sister, just as he knew she would be.
The sketch that arrived had Agatha, Penelope and little Charles bundled up in her arms. Colin wondered why his brother never drew himself into the sketch, and then wondered if perhaps this was Benedict’s gift to him.
A gift of a dream.