Chapter Text
I wish you knew that
I'd never forget you as long as I live
1824 – Albany, New York
He looks around with great interest as they are led into the foyer of the graceful old mansion. His friend had not been exaggerating.
He hears a throat clear, a gentle reprimand in it as Beekman reminds him of the niceties.
“May I introduce my friend Mr. Thomas Dorset?” says his friend.
He steps closer, smiling politely and extending his hand to shake their host’s.
But when he really looks at the other man, he has to swallow down a gasp, for the infamously genial Mr. Alexander Ledger is none other than his old friend’s long-lost little brother.
The blood drains out of Colin Bridgerton’s face.
—
A little over ten years ago, the ton was rocked to its core by the last edition of Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers, which revealed to the whole of society that the mysterious author was none other than one Miss Penelope Featherington, the third and youngest daughter of the late Baron Featherington. A shy little wallflower whom he might not have known from any other young lady but for her friendship with the Bridgerton family and her mama’s penchant for dressing her in extremely unfortunate frocks. It was whispered that the girl had vanished after publishing her swan song.
Eventually, the rumor that Mr. Colin Bridgerton’s equally sudden departure from town was connected to Miss Penelope’s disappearance, that the pair had run away together, began to spread like wildfire.
(He was always too familiar with the chit, sniffed one particularly disapproving old dowager in his hearing.)
The Bridgertons met the rumors with an icy silence that did not dampen the flames of the gossip.
Six years ago, without the Bridgertons ever confirming or denying the connection, word was quietly put about that Lord Bridgerton was offering five thousand pounds – a king’s ransom! – for information that resulted in the safe return of his brother and (the likely former) Miss Penelope.
—
But neither hide nor hair has been seen of either Colin Bridgerton or Penelope Featherington in the last decade.
Until now.
“Mr. Dorset,” Colin finally manages, voice a little higher than he remembers, shaking ever so slightly over the syllables, obviously having seen the recognition in his eyes. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance,” he continues, lower and firmer, but sounding rather more like the Americans who surround them than a man raised in the highest echelons of British society, before shaking his hand.
“Mr. –” He pauses ever so slightly.
The younger man’s grip tightens.
“Ledger,” he finishes, “the honor is all mine.”
Colin releases his hand.
“Right you are, Dorset,” says Beekman with a grin.
Impressively, Colin seems to have managed to charm even the old Knickerbockers, who so rarely take well to outsiders, despite the fact that he purchased the estate of one of their own – the late Revolutionary War General Philip Schuyler, whose heirs were eager to sell the property after his death.
(Had it for an excellent price, said Beekman, with the slightest hint of envy in his voice.
Had it for a song, he translated from the old Knickerbocker reticence.)
“Ah,” says Beekman with obvious pleasure, “and there’s the lovely Mrs. Ledger.”
He turns away from their host to follow Beekman’s gaze.
Just as he suspected, it is the former Miss Penelope Featherington walking down the stairs toward them, though her hair is no longer the bright, bold red that served as banner and beacon at the edges of crowded ballrooms. Her curls are now a far less remarkable reddish brown, as though whatever dye she uses cannot quite manage to overcome their natural color despite its best effort. Pretty enough, but the hue will certainly not make her stand out in a crowd and nor would her attire (a dark blue dress that is flattering but eminently forgettable), which he knows is precisely what she must have wanted.
The petite woman pales to match her husband when she catches sight of him, her faint freckles now standing out in sharp relief. Stopping two-thirds of the way down, she simply stares at him. Then she sways ever so slightly.
He steps forward, preparing to catch the lady if she should swoon.
Mrs. Bridgerton places a shaky hand on the banister until she reaches the bottom step.
“Mr. –” She catches herself, remembers not to acknowledge their prior acquaintance.
“Dorset, ma’am. I am honored,” he says, bowing over her hand. “Beekman here speaks so highly of you that I was most eager to make your acquaintance,” he continues when he straightens.
An amiable and courteous lady, well-bred and well-read, Beekman had called her. She has a lively wit, as does her husband. They are an excellent match. Difficult to believe their families so disapproved of it that they were forced to leave everything they knew to be together. At his confused look, Beekman had explained: They are your fellow countrymen, Dorset. They left England when their families opposed their union and came to America for a fresh start, to build a life here together.
They say that in New York you can be a new man.
And it seems that if anyone embodies that, it is Colin Bridgerton.
Anyway, that is why I thought the Ledgers might be more amenable to hosting an Englishman than most of my family’s neighbors.
Their stay in Albany is meant to be a brief one, for what Beekman has really brought him north to see is the beauty of the falls on the border between northern New York and Canada. But his friend had not wanted him to be entirely without social intercourse and so to The Pastures they hied.
Mrs. Bridgerton smiles tremulously, fiddling nervously with her wedding ring. “Shall we have a drink before dinner, gentlemen?”
“Lead the way, darling,” says Colin, walking closely behind her, a protective barrier between them, as they follow her to the drawing room.
—
After a dinner during which the “Ledgers” do their level best not to betray their unease, regaling him with tales of the wonders of their country’s former colonies, and he debates himself internally, struggling to decide whether he simply ought to confront the couple mid-meal, Colin is seeing them out when he suddenly clears his throat. “Beekman, do you mind if your friend stays back for another drink? He can take my carriage after. You see, I – I believe he is acquainted with our families back home and I’d like to have a private word.”
“I am,” he says instantly.
Beekman frowns, suddenly seeming oddly, forbiddingly disapproving, but he nods and accepts his hat from the butler. “Farewell, Ledger. Dorset, I expect I shall be asleep when you return. I will see you in the morning.”
“We are rather well-liked here,” Colin explains ruefully after the butler has closed the door behind Beekman, “and I’m afraid I’ve made our families out to be quite the ogres to explain our lack of connections.”
“Yes, I’m aware,” he murmurs, now understanding his friend’s reaction.
“It had the added benefit of sparing us prying questions, for it was understandable we would not wish to speak of such a painful subject.”
He is not surprised to see Mrs. Bridgerton waiting for them when Colin shows him into the study. Odd, how it is so much easier to think of her as Mrs. Bridgerton than Mrs. Ledger, for all that he has heard her addressed with the false name all evening and only knew her as Miss Penelope in her old life.
Colin pours first a sherry for his wife, before asking him what he would like.
“Whiskey, if you please.”
Colin nods and pours a glass for each of them. Once Mrs. Bridgerton has settled into a seat, they sit down as well.
“Thank you for holding your tongue in front of Beekman,” Colin begins.
“Holding my tongue about what?” he asks innocently, daring the younger man to admit it outright.
“That you recognized us. That you knew who we’d once been.”
“Still are,” he corrects. “Just because you ran away and changed your names doesn’t mean you are different people.”
Colin sighs. “Ten years is a very long time, Dorset.”
“Yes, it is certainly a long time not to know whether your loved ones are dead or alive.” He has seen over the years how it weighs on his old friend still.
Colin flinches. “We’ve had no choice.”
“You certainly –”
Colin interrupts, “I’d wager you read the last edition of Whistledown along with the rest of society, didn’t you?”
“I did,” he says evenly.
“Let me tell you how it came about: Due to my sister Eloise’s reckless actions, the queen believed her to be Whistledown and threatened her. Eloise, not actually being Whistledown and not knowing who really was, panicked and shared the matter with her best friend, at which point Penelope realized there were only two real options: write something in the column that Eloise would never write about herself in order to prove that Eloise was not Whistledown without exposing her own identity or, failing that, expose her own identity in the column to prove that Eloise was not Whistledown. She sought my advice. I recommended that she tell Eloise the truth before taking action, hoping my sister could find it in herself to encourage the first path when she understood what was at stake. But when Penelope made her confession, my sister reacted . . . badly. Very badly.”
Mrs. Bridgerton flinches.
“Nevertheless, Penelope could not bring herself to malign Eloise in the column even to save her own life, so she decided she would reveal herself to be Whistledown and escape. Would leave everything and everyone she knew forever. But I could not bear to let her go alone. As I imagine you well know from your own extensive travels, the world is often a cold and unfriendly place to women, especially young women of limited means making their way through it without anyone to protect them. I could not tolerate such a fate for Penelope, nor could I accept the notion that I would never see or hear from her again, never know if she was well and safe or even alive. And so, we left together, never to return.”
Due to my sister Eloise’s reckless actions, the queen believed her to be Whistledown and threatened her.
It all makes sense now – why, only after four years, seemingly out of the blue, Anthony had begun to offer a princely sum for information about his brother and sister-in-law’s whereabouts: he had not dared to do so while Queen Charlotte lived.
Except –
“The queen is dead, Bridgerton. She’s been dead for a half-dozen years. And so is the old king; the Prince Regent now reigns as George IV and we all know he never cared about Whistledown. Why continue to stay away?”
“We didn’t know,” Mrs. Bridgerton whispers.
“You didn’t . . . know?” he echoes.
“When did she die?” Colin asks, voice not entirely steady. When he names the date, Colin swears under his breath.
He tilts his head curiously.
“We were traveling. Fleeing, to be precise. We’d been in Italy for some time, until one day I went to the market and overheard some Englishmen – Bow Street Runners, almost certainly – making inquiries to the vendors about an Englishman and Englishwoman fitting our descriptions. ‘The only English here are Signor Alessandro and Signora Anna,’ they said – for some reason, Ledger was a challenge for the Italians,” Colin adds in a wry aside. “They agreed that I fit the description, but Penelope did not; she’s been dyeing her hair for years. But then, it seemed, the men pulled out miniatures or perhaps sketches, at which point they positively identified us. So, I rushed back to our villa as quickly as I could and, deciding that we must put an ocean between us and Her Majesty’s men, we packed what we could within the hour – focused on securing our funds, since our things could be replaced as long as we had the money.”
“And by the time you arrived here, the news would’ve been so old as to be irrelevant, if anyone had ever cared about it at all,” he finishes.
“Precisely.”
“But now you know, and you can go home again.”
Neither of them says a word for a worryingly long time.
Mrs. Bridgerton chews her lip anxiously.
“We’ve built a life here,” says Colin weakly.
“And you have a family that desperately misses you there,” he retorts.
They look at each other, silently communicating in that vaguely annoying way close, loving couples can speak without words.
“What are you afraid of?” he asks, trying to rein in his impatience as he recalls the shadows that never quite seem to leave his friend’s eyes.
“They must be very angry with me,” Mrs. Bridgerton says softly.
He gives her a small smile. “You would be greeted with all the indulgence and wild joy with which the biblical prodigal was met, I assure you.”
“I –”
“For the past six years – starting just after the queen died, I realized now,” he interrupts, “Anthony has been offering a very large reward for information leading to your – both of your – safe return.” He nods briskly. “Now, shall I write and tell him the good news?”