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Varley entered the bedroom with a light bow, their formality smoothed by years of secrets and economy. Portia Featherington had learned early that at least one of the servants would know every hidden thing about married life. She chose well.
“You’re needed at the front door, Ma’am,” she said. “Lord Bridgerton and his brother Colin have brought Miss Penelope home. The doctor is with them.”
“What is this now!? My God, I thought our troubles were in the past. I have only just managed my elder two into inexplicably happy unions, and now she starts acting like a real young lady.”
She had been prepared for the boy crazy adolescence of her first two daughters. Portia had supervised them and gotten them virginal to the altar. She had focused less on Penelope. She was the youngest and least ready to marry. She was least entranced by the lure of society. She was more likely to find a book than a scandal at a ball.
Portia hurried downstairs, her arm through Varley’s as they went. She had been exasperated that her youngest seemed unlikely to marry, then had grown used to it. It would be nice to have someone else in the house other than servants when she was too old to enjoy evenings out. Varley was wonderful, but she was not family. Penelope could be the hostess of their household and learn the trick of it gently when it was not stressful. Portia had struggled in the early years of her marriage. The late Lord Featherington had never been frugal, and his budgets left out some of her essentials. She had been forced to make pennies stretch.
Unmarried women needed to understand how to live on smaller means. Her girls would keep their baby sister fed and housed, but Penelope could not go to her brothers-in-law and demand money as she could to her own husband.
Portia was happy her daughters had kind and loving men. She had not been intent on that as a must, but she felt better seeing it. They were good girls and they had won security in a world that did not value them as it should. She was a little worried that both husbands were so easy of nature. Kindness to a wife was different from gullibility. As they were, Harry and Albion would likely fund Penelope without constraint if funds were not lacking.
The inheritance fell to male relations, and Portia resented all the money that had been gambled away after she had accumulated it with saving costs. She had been the one to handle accounts and nag until there was something in them. She was the one to deal with Jack and the scheme he attempted. But the Featherington name required another Lord, and they would be badgered until the first grandson.
Yet here she was, a widow with most of her children wed and still running behind disasters to correct them. Surely she was the one who had earned a title from her efforts.
Penelope was sitting in a chair moved from the drawing room. She looked abashed. Colin Bridgerton knelt next to her, with his hand on the arm of the chair. He was usually too close to Penelope when she saw them together. Portia didn’t want to bring more notice of it, but she didn’t approve. A man who did not want to court did not get to play at it.
Lord Bridgerton, another man who must be their doctor, and the maid were standing clustered around her open door. She was going to have flies in the house, and perhaps a heckling mention in Lady Whistledown.
“Good day, Lord Bridgerton, Mr. Bridgerton,” she said, making her voice bold and powerful. “Thank you for bringing Penelope home. What has led to this misfortune?”
None of her girls were terribly physical. They were luckily more prone to sitting or leisurely strolls.
“Lady Featherington, Miss Penelope fainted while taking tea at our house. She says she is well, and we are very relieved, but Dr. Crowder is here to be certain. He looked after her before we walked across the street. I asked him to accompany us in case of a relapse,” Anthony said.
The man had a confident delivery that made any nonsense feel more plausible. Penelope did not faint. She was not good at any of the little delicacies of feminine manners. She refused to play silly and uninformed, and would not fall over in an attempt to charm.
“My daughter never faints,” she said. “Penelope, have you been clumsy? What is going on with you?”
Varley had moved to put a hand to her forehead, her old nursemaid instincts demanding she act.
“She is not feverish. You did not come to luncheon, Miss. Have you been starving yourself for those pretty new gowns?”
The new wardrobe suited Penelope better than Portia liked. She hated most of the colours and the boring motifs. But Penelope seemed happy with her selections, and the change had garnered more interest in her than her debut. Perhaps part of the flattering aspect was a diet that was a step above starvation. She had always been short and her bust made her seem all the rounder for it.
Portia had tried to express the futility of worrying about the tastes of men. Her older girls happened to be long and slim. It was equally possible to be too tall and skinny. Men liked thinking they were strong and sheltering, looming above their wives like mighty oak trees giving heroic protection from the elements. They liked to be unconcerned about the value of a dowry or a title.
“Oh, Penelope, you will eat meals with me from now on,” she said. “Now thank Lord Bridgerton and his brother for seeing you home.”
The child actually glared for a moment before standing and bowing. “I am grateful for the trouble, Lord Bridgerton, Colin. I will not need you further, Dr. Crowder. I am well now, truly.”
Her tone was not overly gracious, but the Bridgertons were gentlemen and did not heed the ill manners. Likely they were thinking she was embarrassed and feeling weak. A lady could not afford weakness when a good constitution was the selling point of every non diamond debutante. Portia had thought Penelope’s unfashionable need to be smart would scare away men.
“Pen, you were in a faint for ten minutes or more,” Colin said. “Allow the doctor to supervise you this evening. I am sure it is no harm to be cautious.”
Penelope turned to him with narrow eyes and her shoulders bunched. “I am well, thank you. I will rest, I promise. You have done enough.”
The last was said with acid, and she was not lingering near him. The fault of etiquette between them was shared. Penelope often allowed him to take her hand and spent too long talking with him. It was part of the reason her first two seasons had been so fruitless. She was so busy with various Bridgertons she had ignored every other family with obtainable young men.
“I think you should go to bed now, Penelope,” Portia said sternly. “My goodness, gentlemen, please excuse us. Dr. Crowder, I think all is well now. You must bill us for your time. Varley, give him my card.”
Lord Bridgerton put his hand on his brother’s arm and held him away as he moved to crowd Penelope. “We will take care of the bill, Lady Featherington. We are very sorry Miss Penelope fell ill under our roof. An early night sounds very promising as a cure, but you must take the doctor’s card if he is needed again.”
The younger Bridgerton was gaping at Penelope with his hands flexing at his sides. “Pen, I am concerned. Will you not let me call on you tomorrow morning? We had not finished talking,” he said finally.
He had retained some boyish awkwardness despite growing up, and Portia believed that social deficit had been the seed of his friendship with Penelope. It was very well to have a respectable friend, but they forgot themselves. They were subject to the speculation of the ton. Holding hands with a boy was endearing, and with that same boy ten years and two feet taller was potential ruin.
“I thought all had been said,” Penelope told him coolly, and Colin slumped like she had kicked his leg out.
“I would like to content myself in your health,” he said, his voice lowering with a rumble that was too intimate. “Please?”
Portia took her daughter’s arm before he started playing with her fingers or some other imbecilic thing. “I am sure you will see one another soon. I must take my mother’s prerogative and say goodbye so we can attend Penelope. She will have a hearty broth and get off her feet.”
“Of course,” Anthony said. “Miss Penelope, when you are well you must visit us again. We owe you tea so you do not form a superstition that we are bad luck.”
Colin stepped in and took Penelope’s free hand. “You dropped this when you fell,” he said, leaving something small enough to hide in her palm.
“No, I didn’t. This is not mine, Colin!”
The boy frowned, and would not take it back. He nodded. “No, it is, Pen. Whatever happens, it is yours alone. If you look at it, and - and think on it, you might agree with me. It has to be yours. I am quite certain.”
His very direct look was matched by Penelope’s blushing look, and her daughter slipped whatever it was into the reticule hanging off her wrist.
“You seem out of sorts, Mr. Bridgerton,” Portia said, smiling tightly. “I cannot wonder with all the fuss. Do not worry about us. We will manage. I am sure you will see us at a ball very soon.”
She would not guarantee any personal visits. Eloise had been a safe choice of friends, and her brother was too bold in his familiarity. Lord Bridgerton pulled his brother to the door.
“Good day, ladies,” he said. “Come, brother.”
Once the door was shut behind her guests, Portia sighed. “My dear, what has become of you? You were never my greatest worry. I was even resigned that you would not marry. Your association with Colin Bridgerton is causing too much strife. You might live without a husband, but being exiled from the ton is serious. To be ruined is more than a philosophical thing.”
Her daughter pulled away and stared at her. “And that is the most important thing to you, isn’t it? People might talk about us and judge your parenting. People might see me seeking belonging from someone who knows what it is?! You barely see me unless there is gossip.”
Penelope was the quietest and gentlest of her children. She had been happy at home. She was the one who had baked cookies with the kitchen maids and called the footmen her friends. She did not ask for much from the outside world, and had not ventured far. She had been the baby of the family, her father’s favourite. His parenting was scant, but he had been tolerant of a wallflower. Even seeing her father’s faults had not soured it. But perhaps Penelope had been on her own modest quest for more. She had simply been doing so very close to home.
“You should be glad I care about reputation, as it is the only reason the Bridgertons ask you to tea,” Portia said sharply. “I think you must be ill. Go to your room and a maid will bring some food for you. And think on how you act. Colin Bridgerton and any man you name, honestly does not have to worry like a woman does. He is too forward. You must correct him in the future.”
Penelope looked around furtively, blinking wildly. “I am fine. I have errands to run,” she said.
She beckoned for the maid and was out the door before anyone could argue.
Varley leaned on the chair perched oddly near the door. “Take heart, Ma’am. She is a smart girl. She will come to her senses. Those new dresses have emboldened her, but she will always need her mother.”
Portia did not know if her daughter had any suitor worth noting. She had seen some interest, but men were fickle. The wrong man was worse than being on the shelf. Desperation led to poor decisions and Penelope was uncommonly confident in her mind. She was just smart enough to trick herself into a mistake that would close doors to every house in the ton.
“She does not seem to want me,” Portia said. “It is no matter. We will watch her. I did not think it necessary, but that young man leers at her unsuitably. Should he want to court her, he can do so during calling hours.”
“Do you think it is romantic between them?”
“I think it is possible Penelope believes so, and I am right to protect her.”