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1823
It started with kinship.
She could remember the day so vividly, from the stickiness of the heat wave to the garish yellow, almost orange dress she was stuffed into to the absolute shock on her mother’s face.
There they stood in the middle of the table. Deep violet blue, delicately shaped with six petals and with tips that curled back, a smell so sweet it put her in mind of raspberry tarts. Bluebells, a large exuberant bouquet of bluebells framed their unworthy foyer. Furthermore, the bluebells were sent to her.
Her, being Penelope Featherington.
The shame, the insecurity and the crushing realization of being pitied like a pathetic little creature would come later - but at the very moment she saw them, she’d known. And she smiled. She glowed.
Someone had sent her flowers.
Not just someone, Benedict Bridgerton.
Benedict Bridgerton had sent her flowers.
Her mother could hardly believe, blabbering nonsensical sounds as she had been pointing the card at her face with all her might. Even the poor footman that had received the flowers had re-checked twice if the florist had the name right.
“Penelope?” Her mother asked, a question evident in the bent of her head, the lilt of her voice. Her conviction that her youngest daughter was worth nothing was quite evident in her disbelief.
But, Penelope didn’t care. Her hands went to the signed card her mother had dropped to the floor. Her hands traced over the embossed stamp on its front, and the simple but powerful words written in elegant hand on the inside.
Miss Penelope,
I am honored to be the first.
Regards,
Benedict Bridgerton.
“...and while I’m certain my sister has suffered an apoplexy at the sight, and it's a true testament to my mother’s strength that she didn’t need smelling salts to recover. I assure you sir, no one was more shocked than me. I do believe I had to read the note thrice - even after being informed by my mother and the footman the recipient of the flowers were indeed, me - and yet I could hardly believe the words.”
Benedict looked more alarmed than she had ever seen him in her life, and took two deep breaths - and this only added to her anxiety, as she seemed incapable of controlling neither the words tumbling out of her mouth nor the high color on her cheeks and neck.
She was certain to look like a tomato right now.
He opened his mouth, perhaps to stop her or to perhaps apologize for the flowers and run, but she never gave him the chance.
“Truly, there was no need. I know you’re terribly kind, but there was really no need to go through such trouble and send me flowers. I cannot imagine that they were cheap - not that you’re poor, you’re quite rich.” And then she panicked, “Not that I think about such things, of course. I assure you I did not intend to.. Well, what I’m saying is I do not know how to show my gratitude for your most kind gesture…”
“Penelope, penelope.” Benedict cut her across with ease and with his hands. His quite large hands clasped over her tightly knotted ones, holding them tight as he bent down slightly to look at her. “You can show your gratitude by breathing for me.” He said alarmingly, as if he feared she’d drop dead at his feet.
In all honesty, considering how her nerves grated and how suffocated she felt in her dress and the vast expanse of the Bridgerton visiting room, she wouldn’t put it far outside the realm of possibility.
“Breathe,” he repeated, taking a deep breath in and indicating to her to follow his movement. She did so, letting her lungs fill with air and letting them out in a gusto, a small laugh escaping along with it. “Much better?” He asked teasingly, letting go of her hands gently and straightening up.
She laughed, feeling lighter already at the warm and slightly amused smile that graced his face, “Yes, much better. Can’t have me falling flat on your feet, as if I could possibly embarrass myself anymore in your presence.” She added with a self-deprecating laugh.
A little crinkle marred Benedict’s forehead as he regarded her with a tilt of his head, “Firstly, you would not fall, I would catch you.”
Years later, Penelope would look back at this moment as the first time when her breath had first hitched and her belly swooped low at Benedict.
“And secondly, you have not embarrassed yourself.”
It was now her time to furrow her brow, “You do remember that ghastly moment where I whispered about my spectacular failure at the marriage mart - and my despondence at never receiving flowers?” She attempted to add some mirth to the words, taken aback at the seriousness on his face. She had never known him to be serious. In truth, she had hardly known Benedict at all. He was older brother to her best friend, older brother to the man she’d been holding a candle for. But in the little she knew, Benedict was not the serious sort of fellow.
“Miss Penelope,” Benedict said softly, taking a step forward and bending slightly so he could look her in the eye, “It is not you who has failed - it is the bumbling, air-headed gentlemen of the ton who have failed.”
That would be the second moment he stole her breath. Also, the first when she’d notice how blue his eyes were and how compassionate his smile.
“Regardless,” She cleared her throat and shrugged lightly, “I thank you for the flowers Mr Bridgerton. They are beautiful, and… and they have brought me more joy than you can imagine.”
Benedict smiled, bright and wide, standing tall and giving her his elbow so he may escort her into the tea room, “It is my pleasure Miss Featherington. They might have been your first, but I doubt they would be the last.”
He was right.
She received another beautiful bouquet the week after, and the next, and the next and the next. Seasons changed, even her place of residence changed but every week like clockwork flowers would show up for her to her mother’s house, and later to her chambers in her own house. Right up until six months into her marriage when she finally broke down and declared that it must end. She could barely move around in her vanity without getting pollen on her. And besides, her new hand-maiden was terribly allergic and Penelope had had enough of being sneezed on every day.
Her husband had looked at her with a raised brow, lowering his paper to see her holding a large collection of hydrangeas and shaking her head looking quite irritated. And out of sorts - her hair undone and her face scrunched up adorably.
“Were you attacked by a small kitten?” Benedict quipped.
“No more flowers.” Penelope stated, putting the adornment down on the table, “No more do you understand?”
She softened her expression at the slightly wounded look on his face as he huffed and waved his hands in defiance. “Maude sneezes all over me, every day for the past six months. I adore these flowers and I adore you,” She blushed red at that but fought through the embarrassment - she forgot her promise to stay practical and blurted out what she’d promised to keep to herself - “But enough now. I get it Benedict, I really do.”
“Well fine,” he grumbled a few minutes later, crossing his hands over his chest like a child. “I still insist finding a new hand-maiden would be easier but I shall concede, if you agree that I kept my promise.”
“What promise ?” She asked incredulously, trying to get her unruly hair out of her face and ignoring the mischievous look on his face.
“That while the bluebells were your first, they would not be the last. And they were not.” He said proudly, as if spending an ungodly amount sending her flowers every week for a year was a great feat.
“ What ?” She groaned, “That was not a prom- you know what,” She decided to take the peaceful route, “You’re right. You have upheld your promise, oh most gracious of all lords, and bestowed upon me a beautiful creation every week and I thank you for it. You can rest now, I am forever delighted and grateful.”
He didn’t look like he believed her for a second, but seemed quite glad she’d picked up on his penchant from drama and hyperbole. Shrugging, “If that is what you want, wife.”
“It is.” She said slowly and collapsed onto the sofa, trying to untangle her curls. “Besides, I thought you’d meant that they’d not be the last flowers I received, not that you were going to hound the florist every week.”
“Well, what else could I have meant? Who else was going to send you flowers?”
She gave him a look and rolled her eyes, “Suitors or such.”
“What suitors or such?”
“Benedict.”
“Penelope.”
“ Benedict ,” she groaned, “I thought that you meant that while you gave me my first flowers, they would not be the last. As in, there would be gentlemen or even a gentleman - I cannot forget my wallflower status - who would send me flowers in the future. I thought you were trying to make me feel better.”
“I bloody well do not want to see you getting flowers from other gentlemen.” He sat up straight in his chair and looked around, as if men were hiding behind potted plants and armoires to offer flowers to her.
“Well not now .” She supplied, “We’re married now. But back then, when you said that -”
“I didn’t mean that others would send you flowers then either.” He said angrily.
“Well then what?” She asked frustrated, uncertain how her otherwise blissful Saturday morning had turned into them having a row over flowers. She took a second to think of how many wives in London would be glad that their husband was sending them flowers, but pushed that thought aside in favor of a childish fight.
“I meant that I would send you flowers, you daft woman.” He scowled, plopping down on the couch next to her and giving her a thoroughly exasperated look.
“But why?”
“Because I wanted to.”
“But why ?”
“Did you hit your head on the headboard a little too hard last night, wife?” He asked in a torrid whisper, slinking lower in the couch until he was barely a few inches from her. She drew in a deep breath as he winked at her.
“You cannot talk like we’re on our honeymoon anymore Ben,” She warned without any might.
“Oh, I plan on talking like we’re still on our honeymoon till I’m 90 and senile.” He added in a low whisper, bending closer to leave a ghost of a kiss on her collarbone, his breath ghosting over the open V of her robe.
How their silly fight had turned in this direction she knew not. Marriage, indeed, was an adventure. But it was alarmingly bright and their family was due to arrive in thirty minutes - a fact thankfully even her husband remembered.
He pulled back after loudly kissing her on the cheek and said, “Like I wrote, I was proud to be the first, but I also wanted to be the last.”
She looked at him funnily till he sighed and murmured, “Maybe not at that exact moment, but after I sent more flowers and after you thanked me everytime like I had saved you from maurarding creatures I realized I quite liked it.” His face took on a softer, warmer look as he turned to face her fully, his hand finding the roundness of her cheek. “That was the first time I realized you were beautiful. I didn’t say it - but I felt it.”
“I remember thinking I looked like a tomato.”
“Oh for sure,” He dodged the punch to his arm as he got up and took her along with him, “But a very fetching tomato.”
“That day changed a lot, Pen,” He said seriously, a languid smile on his face, “I remember thinking if some small shrub of bluebells can make you so happy then I didn’t want to stop making you happy.”
She didn’t know what to say, she had learnt - over the course of her eight and twenty years - that keeping things closer to her heart was best. No way to be crushed if you do not expect much.
And so, while he was faster and better and more open with his words - she was faster, better and more open with her actions.
Instead of telling him how handsome she found him that day, or how he’d made her breath hitch, or how he’d made her feel safe and seen, or how much he’d come to mean to her in their twelve months of friendship, courtship and eventual marriage. Or how terrified she was of feeling more of this adoration coursing through her - lest it turn to ashes in her mouth.
So, she smiled bright and wide and leapt into his arms, knowing he’d catch her.
1830
The pattering of feet outside the door brought her out of her trip down memory lane. Shaking her head and reclining further into the abundantly comfortable chairs of their chambers, she sighed and turned her gaze once more to the large bouquet of carnations that stood on her vanity.
On that fateful afternoon, almost seven years ago, Benedict had stopped sending her flowers every week, post receiving a confirmation of his promise kept and her adoration . And here, many years and two children later - another bouquet had shown up today. Bright yellow and beautiful - they put her in mind of the sun as they gleaned at her.
She smiled contently as Benedict entered the room, glancing at her lazily before getting to work on his clothes.
“Thank you for the flowers,” She whispered softly, watching as his body stiffened at her words and her smile fell off.
His back turned to her, she wasn’t sure what the matter was. But the moment he turned to look at her, his shirt out of his breeches and undone, she knew something was amiss. His jaw tight, his eyes troubled as he looked from the flowers to her with a small laugh.
“They aren’t from me.”
“What?” She almost didn’t hear him, so low was the whisper.
“They aren’t from me, Pen.”
“Whatever do you mean.?” She laughed.
He walked to the flowers, lifted the card and handed it to her without even looking at it, he’d know that hand anywhere. He’d known the minute the footman had received the flowers, the minute he’d declared they were for Mrs Bridgerton and watched him walk it to their chambers. A small terrified part of him had waited for this day since he had arrived back to London, since he had come back home.
“The flowers are not from me. They’re from Colin.”