Chapter Text
If Colin found it odd—and admittedly a bit disappointing—that his correspondence with Penelope Featherington had not continued upon his second tour, it was a kind of passing concern. While he had enjoyed the witty repartee of their exchanges and the way she always listened, cared, and engaged with the things he had to say, it was understandable that the letters lapsed.
There were any number of reasons Colin could conceive of that might explain the phenomenon—the circumstances after the debacle of Lord Featherington likely left Penelope and her family reeling both emotionally and financially, and it would be no wonder that that might have led her to turn her attention elsewhere; Colin himself was so busy exploring new countries and cuisines that he didn’t often have an abundance of time to devote to his correspondence; there was also, if he was being completely honest with himself, the matter of propriety to consider, as unmarried young ladies and gentlemen were not, strictly speaking, encouraged to engage in an extended correspondence, so if anyone (such as her mother) were fully cognizant of the extent to which they wrote, she would likely put a stop to it to avoid further scandal.
Suffice it to say, Colin was not bothered by this turn of events, never once entertaining the idea that anything could be amiss. Actually encountering Penelope upon his return to London for the new season proved that Colin had been wrong to dismiss that passing concern, and Colin hated to be wrong.
The real issue was, Colin couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was that wasn’t right, couldn’t quite put his finger on the problem.
He sat staring out the window of the drawing room, his journal abandoned on the side table. He had meant to be making plans for his next sojourn, but he could hardly cast his mind to the future for more than five minutes before a preoccupation with his present predicament came needling back in. And so he ruminated on the elusive obstacle, flipping through every interaction with Penelope he’d had since his return, trying to pin down why each encounter left him feeling slightly dissatisfied.
Lost in his thoughts, he startled as a piece of biscuit bounced off his cheek, looking sharply in the direction from which the missile came. Apparently he missed both his elder brother’s entrance and his attempts to get Colin’s attention.
“Oh, Ben,” he said, nodding and gesturing to the chair opposite him.
His brother sat down, leaning back and appraising Colin with narrowed eyes. “What has you so transfixed? I haven’t seen you this disgruntled since that time when you were ten and Cook refused to make any more gingerbread because you kept sneaking off with it before she could get it plated.”
“Nothing of import,” Colin replied, turning his attention back to the window. “I was merely contemplating my next trip.” Absentmindedly, he picked up the piece of biscuit from the fold of his shirtsleeve and popped it in his mouth, chewing slowly.
Colin glanced up to see Benedict looking back at him, one eyebrow raised. Clearly he’d not been convincing enough, or maybe his brother just knew him too well.
“No amount of wanderlust has ever kept you from a biscuit, and this plate has been sitting in front of you, untouched and unnoticed, for at least five minutes.”
Colin shot his gaze to the table in front of him, laden with a plate full of delectable biscuits that seemed to have appeared out of thin air at some point. He glanced back at his brother, whose face looked smug and heaved a sigh—he knew Benedict would continue to push until Colin relented, so he might as well get on with it. Perhaps Benedict might even prove useful or insightful. (Benedict rarely proved either of those things, but Colin was willing to extend his brother a measure of grace.)
Colin shot another glance out the window, eyes catching on the front door of the Featherington home. His brow furrowed as he said, “There’s something amiss with Penelope.”
“Amiss with Miss Featherington? What can you mean by that? Is she sick? Injured? Is it something to do with her family?” Benedict straightened in his seat, a look of concern on his face.
Colin paused for a moment, unsure how to proceed in a way that would make Benedict understand the source of his discontent.
“Oh, no no. As far as I am aware, it is nothing of that nature, no illness or scandal. It is more…Well, you see, I am not quite certain the exact nature of the issue.”
“I don’t follow your meaning. There’s nothing wrong that you are aware of, but yet you are certain there is something amiss? By what means did you come to this…conclusion?”
Colin leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, staring intently at his clasped hands. “It is just that she doesn’t seem quite like herself.”
Benedict mirrored Colin’s posture. “How so? I have not noticed anything out of the ordinary. Perhaps you’ve just been gone long enough that your memories of Miss Featherington are a bit…faded.”
“I haven’t been gone that long,” Colin bit back. “Not long enough to unknow her. She’s…Penelope. I think she might be my dearest friend.”
His voice had gone a bit soft there at the end, and Benedict’s brow rose in surprise. “I had no idea the two of you were so close. We have all known Miss Featherington since she was a girl, but I have always simply considered her Eloise’s companion.”
“We weren’t always,” he spoke slowly. “Close, that is. I have always enjoyed her company, and taken pleasure in our shared conversations and dances since her debut. But during my first tour we—” Colin cut off and glanced at the door Benedict must’ve closed behind him when he entered and then at Benedict himself. “Obviously you mustn’t share this with anyone, especially not Ant.”
Benedict mimed locking his lips and tossed the imaginary key over his shoulder.
Colin continued. “During my first tour, we corresponded regularly. More than any other correspondent, Penelope replied to my letters faithfully, as full of my own musings as they were.”
“And something in one of her letters has led you to believe there is something wrong?”
“No, we didn’t write while I was away this time. I sent a couple of letters when I’d first arrived in Cyprus, but she didn’t respond.”
“And that led you to believe there was an issue!” Benedict added triumphantly.
“No, I didn’t really think anything of it actually. I noticed, of course, and I was a bit disappointed. But it seemed innocuous enough at the time, and I was busy myself.”
Benedict leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Then I am still confused. If not the lack of correspondence, then what on earth has made you believe that all is not well with her?”
Colin paused again, considering. If he couldn’t quite figure it out, he wasn’t sure how he was meant to explain it to his brother.
“I am quite sure I have seen the two of you converse at every event you’ve both attended in the fortnight since your return. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary from my perspective. Has she said something to you? Or done something out of character?” Benedict pressed.
Colin pushed off himself to his feet and moved to stand in front of the window, watching the carriages and pedestrians move about below.
“Not directly, no,” he admitted. “Yes, we have spoken, we have joked, we have danced! She is as amicable as ever, as witty as always. All seems as it should be. It’s just that…” he trailed off, a bit abashed at what he was about to say. “Her eyes don’t light up when she smiles at me. When she asked about my travels it felt…polite, interested even, but not invested in the way she was upon my last return, even after I’d already shared so much of my adventures with her in my letters.”
He let out a frustrated sigh and returned to his seat, snagging a biscuit off the still-untouched plate, turning it over and over in his hand rather than taking a bite.
Benedict watched his brother with a bemused expression, taking in the way he absentmindedly toyed with the biscuit and the note of anguish splashed across his face.
“So, you are telling me that Miss Featherington is acting entirely properly, has done nothing wrong, and has not made any mention of anything awry, nor have you observed anything untoward or amiss. And for that reason…you are convinced there is an issue?”
It was clear that Benedict was not comprehending Colin’s meaning, and who could blame him. He could hardly make it make sense in his own mind.
He scrubbed the hand not currently holding a rapidly crumbling biscuit across his eyes. “This is the problem, you see. Everything is fine and normal, and yet nothing feels right. I’ve never had to work to keep her attention, never felt the need to charm her as I do with other ladies of the ton. And now that I do, I find that she isn’t even especially charmed by me! It’s like I came back to my favorite book only to find that someone switched out words with synonyms. Close enough that most people couldn’t tell the difference, but different enough that it feels wrong, somehow, even if you cannot pinpoint why.”
Having held back as long as he could, but finally defeated by Colin’s metaphor, Benedict guffawed, shocking Colin such that he jumped in his seat, hand crushing the remainder of the biscuit to crumbs.
“Why are you laughing?” Colin exclaimed, torn between hurt and outrage, as he wiped the crumbs from his hand on the leg of his breeches.
Mastering himself once again, Benedict responded. “I apologize. I did not mean to laugh, truly. I am just very surprised that you’d liken Miss Featherington to your favorite book.”
“Well, that’s not— I didn’t—“ Colin spluttered as Benedict rose from his chair.
Placing a hand on Colin’s shoulder as he leaned down to his brother’s ear, he said, “This might be a conversation for Ant after all. Or maybe try Daphne.” He patted Colin’s shoulder once before grabbing the tray of biscuits and heading toward the door, leaving an even more confused Colin in his wake.