Chapter Text
When Penelope Featherington accepted to be one of Francesca Bridgerton’s bridesmaids, the last thing she expected was for Colin Bridgerton to kiss her.
Penelope had a great relationship with the Bridgertons ever since Eloise became her best friend many years ago. She was close friends with Francesca and enjoyed lively brunches with Hyacinth where tea was both sipped and shared. Violet Bridgerton was the mother she wished she had, and she got along with the boys, too, who she saw from time to time when they visited Eloise in their shared flat or in meet ups. Gregory and Benedict were good fun, and Anthony, although much more responsible, loosened up after a couple of pints at the pub.
And obviously, she had a huge fat crush on Colin since she first met him a few days shy of her 16th birthday, when he tripped into a mud puddle after her yellow beret flew off and hit him in the face (talk about a meet-cute). She was absolutely mortified, he was very amused.
He was a few years older than her, handsome and a world traveller, but it wasn't just that he was good looking and interesting. Colin stood up for others, he was generous, funny, and charming. Penelope genuinely loved liked him.
She had long given up hope that anything would ever happen. After so many years, if it were meant to be, something would have happened by now. So that was it. A crush, not love. Definitely not.
That was her way of trying not to think that there was no way Colin would ever find her the slightest bit attractive. Penelope wasn't shaming herself. She knew she was a solid 7. An 8 on a good day, and maybe, just maybe she can push a 9 if all planets align. It took her a while but she found the right colours for her complexion and the best shapes for her curvy but short body. Even the right bras can make a big difference. Penelope finally grew into her own person, and she tried really hard to love herself even on the hard days.
It was a bright Sunday afternoon when Francesca had asked her to be her bridesmaid. Sunny days were becoming more frequent. Global warming, probably.
Eloise and Penelope’s little flat was in East London. They could have rented a flat in a neighbourhood on the West side, like Chelsea or Kensington, but Eloise refused her family's help and Penelope kind of liked putting a whole city centre between her and the rest of the Featheringtons.
Sundays were for resting and so Eloise and Penelope liked to stay in and cook. Or at least attempt it. Francesca came for lunch that day and was greeted by an assortment of triangle shaped sandwiches (avocado and tomato, ham and cheese, and tuna mayo). She seemed especially bashful, but then again the younger Bridgerton didn't enjoy being the centre of attention. It had finally made sense when she gave them both a small card asking;
Will you be my bridesmaid?
Well, actually Eloise’s card said, Will you be my maid of honour?
“Ugh wait, do I have to organise the hen do, then?” Eloise complained.
“Actually, you are a co-maid of honour,” Francesca replied, causing Eloise to raise an eyebrow under her bangs. “Hyacinth,” she smiled weakly. “Your main job is to not let her go too crazy. I am just happy with a nice dinner. Nothing big.”
“Thank God,” Eloise breathed out, “but also good luck to us all.”
Almost a year later, Penelope was packing to stay at the Bridgertons for the weekend of the wedding, and, as the only bridesmaid who wasn't Francesca's sister, she was grateful not only for the free accommodation but also because they really made her feel part of the family.
Bridgerton House was located in a charming town in Kent, just under two hours away by train. Penelope had been invited twice before and she loved the cobblestone streets and picturesque gardens that embellished the town. During her journey, Penelope took advantage of the quiet to read, but after reading the same paragraph four times, she gave up on it.
Her mind kept wandering to the wedding day, her dress… but mostly the fact that she was going to sleep a few walls away from Colin.
Instead, Penelope took out her laptop and opened up the latest draft of her romance novel. Well, that might be a bit misleading; she didn't have a deal, an editor or a publisher. Her day job, the one that paid her share of the bills, was writing click bait articles for online magazines. She enjoyed writing articles, especially the ones that had an underlying critique of celebrity culture, but the click bait part was what bothered her. It paid well, though, and she was admittedly rather good at knowing what made people want to read more.
She started typing. Closing her eyes, she exhaled deeply trying to get her flow going. It had been hard to write lately, like there was something missing, so she vomited words onto the page that she could shape into something better later, like chiselling a block of marble to reveal a sculpture hidden within.
…Lucille fell into Damien's arms, her breath catching as their eyes met. The warmth of his embrace enveloped her, a stark contrast to the cool evening air. "I never thought you would feel this way," she whispered. Damien's hand gently tilted her chin upward. "I've been a fool," he murmured softly just as their lips met.
She almost didn't register that her stop was next. Hastily, she pushed the laptop back in her bag and grabbed her small suitcase a few seconds before the train stopped. As she got off, she heard the familiar announcement from the British Transport Police. “See it. Say it. Sorted.” Catchy. Someone got a raise with that.
Penelope stepped onto platform 2, scanning from left to right for the Way Out sign. The station was relatively quiet, which was not unexpected for a Thursday afternoon. She made her way to the footbridge and crossed over to platform 1, where the main station building and exit were located. As she entered, the aroma of coffee greeted her, tempting her to buy a pastry from the small café next to the ticket office.
She decided against it since Eloise would probably be waiting outside for her. Before making her way to the ticket barrier, she checked her phone for messages.
Sorry, Pen. We're having drama with the flowers. Colin is coming to pick you up instead xx
Oh.
She wasn't ready to see him yet, especially not alone in a car.
Hopefully she looked okay enough, she quietly wished as she briefly caught her reflection on the café’s window and patted down any potential frizz in her wavy hair.
Her phone buzzed.
Hey Pen, I'm waiting in the car park. Go right when you exit the station. You'll see me right away X
Right. Let's do this.
Penelope had barely walked out of the main doors when she saw Colin leaning on his car in the distance. It was impossible not to notice him with his tall, lean frame and dark hair that caught the sunlight. His brow slightly furrowed, as if trying to find someone. Which he was. Her.
The moment he spotted her, he smiled and waved, walking her way with long strides.
“Pen!” He said once he reached her, his smile sent a thrill straight to her stomach, but also sadness of what could never be.
“Hi!”
They stood there, just a foot apart, unsure if they should hug hello. Colin's eyes softened, and his hands twitched as if trying to contain his excitement. Penelope’s heart pounded with hesitation.
Finally, Colin decisively said, “Let me carry those for you,” he motioned to her bags.
“Don't worry. They aren't that heavy,” but she didn't stop him. His hands brushed hers as he grabbed her suitcase and her backpack from her shoulder.
“Please. It's my duty this weekend. I can't let a bridesmaid get injured,” he explained with mock seriousness. “But on Sunday you are on your own,” he winked.
Penelope suddenly felt bold. She could pretend for a few minutes and humour herself.
“I'll have to make the most while you are my bodyguard then,” she joked, and got rewarded with a chuckle. "Who knows, maybe I'll even fake a few accidents just to keep you close,” a mischievous smile graced her lips.
“Someone has to keep you out of trouble, Pen,” he teased, his gaze playful.
They started laughing at their exchange, and Penelope felt the tension slip away. Just a moment later, he was putting her things in the boot and they started their short journey.
“So how have you been? You haven't replied to my messages in a while.”
The messages.
Her smile faded. Reality resumed.
Colin documented his travels on Instagram, which had about 43k followers, and it was his main way of communicating with his friends and family. Penelope and he often exchanged messages when he was away. She would comment on a recent story or post, and he would tell her all about it—why he chose to visit that place, the locals he had met, the lighting, the atmosphere… It was quite beautiful to read. Or maybe it was just her crush.
“Yeah, sorry. I'm cutting back on social media,” she said, suddenly really interested in the semi detached houses they were passing.
“Fair enough. I didn't think you cut it off completely,” he replied.
She didn’t. She was ignoring him, but it helped that nothing interesting had happened in the last few months so she hadn’t uploaded anything and she avoided watching any of his stories.
“Usually you are the one I talk to the most, so I guess it's been quiet.” He continued, giving her a bashful smile.
She looked away, “I would have thought you had many admirers to talk to now.”
He laughed and didn’t seem to realise that she hadn’t meant it as a compliment or a joke.
“Not at all. Actually, my family barely responds to me. Most of the time we communicate by liking each other’s stories, “ he rolled his eyes, “and Fife and the lot only care if it's got to do with partying or girls, which doesn't really happen,” he coughed awkwardly. “But anyway, you are the one who is ignoring me so tell me what's going on with you.”
“Same old,” she said nonchalantly. “Writer's block, but it's not too difficult to get something out. As long as you find a good topic and an interesting title, you’re halfway there.”
“Are you still writing your novel?”
Penelope gazed out the side window, thinking back to the night she drunkenly confessed to Colin that she was writing a romance novel. He had joined Eloise and Penelope for dinner and wine, but what normally would have been one bottle quickly escalated to three.
She remembers it well despite the alcohol. Colin was telling them about his upcoming travel plans. She was, of course, hanging onto his every word, trying to play it cool (and failing). Her head tilted slightly with a faint smile on her lips. Wine glass in one hand, fiddling with her other under the table to keep herself grounded and not appearing too keen.
At one point, Eloise announced loudly she was going to bed, claiming that if she heard more, she would jump off the window, but Colin and Penelope stayed up talking. There’s something about conversations late at night; it’s like reality bends into what could be instead of what it is. She succumbed to its spell and told him (almost) everything.
He was so unbelievably cute about it, which delighted and frustrated Penelope to no end because it caused this fluttering feeling in her stomach that she had worked so hard to push away.
Excited, Colin started firing questions at her. Why did she want to become an author (she wanted to help others like her favourite authors had always helped her with their writing), why she wrote romance novels ("they are stories of connection and hope for a better life"), if she had ever tried this before ("not for real"), what her characters were like ("just normal people", she shrugged, "with the desire to belong"), if he could read some of it (maybe in the future, it was still a first draft). Colin had a genuine interest, and she had the urge to lift her hand to his cheek. To kiss him. Penelope would never do that, though.
She blinked the memory away to the back of her mind.
“Yes, I'm still working on it, but I am stuck. Plus there's not enough time in the day to really focus on it.”
“Maybe I can help.”
Lord no.
She smiled, “I'm sure I'll figure it out soon, don't worry.”
“Maybe you are just not connecting with your main character anymore.” he continued
Penelope thought about this.
“I guess I'm not feeling the excitement of writing for her anymore.”
“So get the excitement back.”
“Easier said than done.”
“Maybe go back to basics. Put yourself in the scene that inspired you for the first time. What was she looking at? What were her motivations? Her desires?” He stopped abruptly as if ashamed of his enthusiasm. “You know, that sort of thing.”
“How do you have so much advice?”
“Uhm well,” he replied sheepishly. “I have been writing a journal about my travels, and I know it's not the same thing as writing an actual book, but it's what I do,” he shrugged. “It's silly.”
“No, it's not,” she said a bit more forcefully than she intended. “If you feel passionate about something and you enjoy it, you shouldn't be embarrassed about it.”
He gazed lingered for a moment, and the corners of his mouth turned up in a small, appreciative smile. It sent a small jolt through her.
They settled a comfortable silence as they continued driving, and the sun casted a golden hue. She watched the countryside, fields with sheep, trees, farm houses…such stillness outside the city. Here it didn’t matter how much engagement a post generated.
“Tell me more about your journal,” she broke the silence gently.
Colin glanced at her, his eyes softening, “It started as a way to remember the places I’ve been, the people I’ve met. But it turned into something more. It’s like... capturing moments before they fade from my memory.”
“That’s beautiful,” Penelope said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe that’s what I need to do; capture the scenes that live in my mind.”
Colin nodded, “Exactly. And who knows? Maybe you’ll find new inspiration in unexpected places.”
They shared a complicit and smile, the kind that spoke volumes without any words. A minute later, the car rolled to a stop in front of the Bridgertons house, a charming old Victorian with ivy creeping up the walls. He turned off the engine and turned to her.
“We’re here.”
Penelope looked at the house, then back at him, “Thank you for the ride. And for the advice.”
“Anytime,” he replied, his voice warm.
As she stepped out of the car, she felt a flutter of excitement in her chest against her best judgement.