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“...it’s just that you’ve been there for days now.”
“It’s been less than a week, Mum. Everyone’s plan is to stay through the 2nd. And Eloise is my ride back to the city.” Penelope picks at a thread on her jumper sleeve, worrying it between her fingers. She studies the way it spins into a neat little rope as she pulls it taut and twists. If she focuses on this, and on the crisp winter air stinging her cheeks, she can keep Portia’s cutting yet predictable words at a bird’s eye view.
They’ve been having this same conversation for the past decade. Ever since Penelope was first invited to join the Bridgerton family tradition of a Christmas holiday at Aubrey Hall.
Portia huffs. Though the argument is worn, she is far from done with it. “First of all, Penelope, you really need to be careful you aren’t encroaching on their family time. Honestly, they are far too kind to you and you take advantage.”
They think of you as family. You are not taking advantage. Love is not a transaction.
Penelope repeats the mantra in her head as the loose thread of her jumper grows longer and she twirls it around her thumb. She says nothing. Her breath makes little clouds as she exhales. She glances around, hoping she’s still alone. She was alone, enjoying the afternoon quiet in the library and reading a book in front of a burning fire, when Portia called. Not wanting to risk a like-minded Bridgerton stumbling in on the likely stressful conversation, Penelope stepped outside into the rose garden just outside of the library to answer. Avoiding the call altogether wasn’t an option. Portia would just continue to escalate until she was heard.
“You were there for Christmas Day, which is more than enough. You left your family to be there—
Rolling her eyes, Penelope can’t stop herself from engaging. “I was there when we celebrated Christmas Eve as a family as we’d planned ages ago. You went with Phillipa and Albie to his parents’ house on Christmas Day! You didn’t see Pru either!”
Frustration, futile as it is, burns in her throat. It isn’t fair. She knows this. They’d all agreed to the plan: a Featherington Christmas Eve, then Phillipa and Pru’s respective families could have Christmas morning in their own homes. The Finch’s invited them all for Christmas dinner, though Prudence and Harry had gone to his family’s for the meal. But fair rarely matters with Portia. Tears begin to well in her eyes. Her fingers are burning with the cold.
“I am lactose intolerant. It was miserable.”
Penelope sniffles and hopes Portia can’t hear it. “Mum, I am not coming home for New Year’s Eve. I am spending it here, at Aubrey Hall, with my friends. Who explicitly invited me.”
Portia sighs, a sound always heavy with implied guilt. “Penelope, it’s just such a shame. You know my plans were canceled. So you will leave me to wallow, all alone? Abandoned by my own daughter for yet another holiday?”
“Pru said you could—
“They are celebrating an early midnight, whatever that means.”
Penelope wraps an arm across her own body, whether for warmth or comfort she won’t examine too closely. A chill ripples through her. “Going to bed early because of the babies. That sounds lovely, Mum.”
“Oh really?” Portia’s voice lifts with righteous hope. “Well then, by all means, come join us.”
Penelope winces. She walked herself right into that one. “Please, Mum. I’m 27 and single. I’m supposed to be out, celebrating with my friends.”
Portia’s irritation seeps through the phone’s speaker. “Yes, because you are so likely to find a man who is interested in what you have to offer at a Bridgerton party. Be realistic, Penelope. Chasing after Colin is pathetic at this point.”
No matter how expected and familiar Portia’s attacks are, no matter how well Penelope believes she has shored up her walls, her mum’s shots never fail to find their target. A dull ache or minor bruise is often the best she can hope for. She’s learned to live with them, learned to see them as little wounds she can tend to and heal, reminders of how far she has come in dealing with her family.
But this one? It’s a sharp knife that slices deep.
Across her throat, it seems, as she gasps for breath but gets nothing but frigid, dry air. Her voice is gone. Tears stream down her face, first hot and then icy, but stinging their whole journey. Her heart hurts. It’s the brutal opening of old wounds; every insecurity and carefully hidden desire pours out of her like blood.
She’s frozen. Numb. Her near lifeless body is a statue in the winter-barren rose garden. She knows Portia expects her to fight back but she’s too shattered.
“He’s my friend,” Penelope finally mutters before the silence can suffocate her. Her lips are now too cold and chapped to move much. It doesn’t matter anyway. Portia will not hear her.
Portia lets out one final, long suffering exhale; she is the victim here and unconcerned about the damage her dagger inflicted. Penelope knows that at least it signals the end of the conversation. But likely not before one final jab for good measure: “Fine, Penelope. You’ve made it quite clear which family you prefer and it’s certainly not the one that raised you.”
You’re not wrong. You’re not wrong. She wants to yell it into her phone. But she’s learned better than to give Portia the ammunition she wants. No, holding herself distant and quiet is safest. It’s how she makes it out alive.
Her mum can’t see the tears anyway. So she lets them continue to fall, steady and sure. Her whole body is shaking.
“That’s not fair,” is the closest thing to a defense she can give herself and only the skeletal remains of the garden seem to hear her.
“I don’t know why I even bother anymore. Goodnight, Penelope. Happy New Year.” Satisfied with her last words, Portia hangs up.
Penelope quickly stuffs her phone into the pocket of her jeans. Every muscle in her body shudders and trembles back to life, urging her to move, run, go . A soul-deep sob escapes before she can wrestle it back. Shit. She knows once she starts it’ll be impossible to stop. It’s too late. She’s crying and pacing in the middle of Violet’s famous rose garden, freezing her ass off though she can barely register that discomfort anymore, as Portia’s words reverberate in her head.
Fuck. How can her mum still do this to her? Why does she let this happen? Why doesn’t she learn? Fight back?
Everything hurts.
“Penelope? What are you doing out in the cold, dear?”
Startling at the familiar voice, Penelope turns to find Violet standing at the open French doors to the library, rubbing her arms against the winter air. Any distant hope Penelope has of blaming her surely red, tear-stained face on the cold fades when Violet’s face softens in sympathy at the sight of her.
“Oh, honey.” Then Violet’s arms are open wide, inviting, and with just a few steps they wrap around Penelope. The unexpected comfort of the woman she’s always wished was her mother is too much. When kind hands gently wipe her cheeks, their warmth almost painful, Penelope breaks down again. She’s ugly crying into Violet’s chest as the woman walks her slowly back inside the library.
Violet is on a mission. One arm keeps Penelope tucked into her side while the other collects a box of tissues and a throw blanket. She murmurs soothing words as she guides them to the small sofa in front of the fireplace. With practiced ease, she folds them to sit and wraps a blanket over their laps. Warmth seeps back into Penelope’s skin as her shivers subside.
It’s the fact that Violet doesn’t even ask what’s wrong that makes Penelope curl into the woman. Her cries begin to slow. Violet always smells faintly like her Chanel perfume but mostly like something soft and cozy. She seems to know just the rhythm at which to stroke Penelope’s hair that soothes her into an exhausted calm.
Relaxing into the touch, Penelope’s tears eventually dry up (thank goodness; she couldn’t live with herself if she got snot on Violet’s blue cashmere.) She feels like a child again, though she can’t recall her own mother ever offering such easy affection. She’d cry all over again at the thought if she wasn’t utterly drained.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Violet asks. She dabs a tissue at Penelope’s cheeks then offers up another so Penelope can blow her nose.
Penelope lets out a cleansing sigh as she crumples the used tissue into her fist. “Not really,” she admits. “I’m not sure why I’m so upset.”
“Hush.” The admonishment is gentle but affirming. “I have a fair idea.”
Violet is silent for a long moment, making Penelope wonder if that’s all she’ll say. It’s not. When she speaks again, there is an unfamiliar edge of anger to Violet’s tone. “It breaks my heart that she can hurt you like this, Penelope. Her own daughter. I know she has wounds of her own, reasons that she thinks she can play the victim. But know this: whatever words of anger she throws at you, you do not deserve them. It is not okay to speak to someone you love in such a way. You are a beautiful, kind, intelligent, amazing woman. Please don’t let her tell you otherwise.”
A fresh wave of tears cascades down Penelope’s cheeks at Violet’s words. They come from a different sort of ache in her heart, though. A place that hurts in a good way. Like it hasn’t been used in awhile.
“Thank you,” Penelope whispers. She grabs another tissue and tries to staunch the flow of moisture from her eyes. She doesn’t dare say more.
Violet kisses her temple. Her eyes seem a little watery too. Then, she pulls Penelope back into her embrace and just holds her.
For a few minutes it’s them and the crackling fire and the quiet. Penelope can breathe again. She focuses on inhaling through her nose, then a long, steady exhale. She’s so zoned out that she doesn’t register Colin entering the room even though she can usually sense his presence without looking.
“Pen? What’s wrong?”
Colin, of course, gets his sensitivity from Violet and knows immediately something is amiss. Penelope doesn’t bother to hide it from him. It’s not the first time he’s seen her a weepy mess, at any rate. At least this time it’s not over a video on rescue animals. Though maybe that would be easier to explain.
Lacking the energy to do much else, Penelope just shrugs and wipes at her eyes. She moves away from Violet, suddenly feeling a little silly practically crawling into a mother’s lap as a grown woman. Colin’s gaze remains sharp, glancing between Penelope and his mother, searching for an answer.
“Mum?” He prods, a bit desperately as Penelope continues to avoid him. She doesn’t miss the look that passes between mother and son, though.
With a sigh and a kind, lingering look at Penelope, Violet pushes herself to stand. Her sweater remains impeccable, as do her carefully ironed trousers though she still smoothes her hands over them. “That’s for Penelope to share. If she wishes.”
Violet’s warning look to Colin goes ignored as his gaze hasn’t stopped sweeping over Penelope with an intensity that makes her breath catch a bit. She’s never quite been able to handle the full wattage of his concern directed her way. She doesn’t know how to hide from someone who can see her so completely.
Violet clears her throat. “I need to see about dinner. Colin, can you take my place?”
“Yeah, of course.” Colin doesn’t hesitate to slide into Violet’s vacated spot next to Penelope, wrapping a solid arm around her shoulders and tugging her close before she can protest. And she tries to protest.
With a quick wink at Penelope, Violet reminds them that dinner will be served in an hour and leaves the room. Colin seems too preoccupied with arranging himself around her on the suddenly much smaller sofa. He settles for leaning back against one side so he can stretch his legs across the length of the thing (even though his feet still dangle off the edge.) Penelope ends up wedged next to him, between his sturdy frame and the plush sofa cushion. He urges her to lie back against his chest as he covers their legs (and most of her body) with the throw blanket.
Colin's life was always full of love. He had his share of tragedy, of course, but even with that he’s never not felt safe with his family. Never known a lack of compassion from the one’s closest to him. Probably because of this he, like his siblings, is free and almost careless with his affection. It’s been a struggle for Penelope, balancing this knowledge with her long-standing feelings for Colin. She feels like she’s always trying to discern what belongs in the box of “friend” or ( worse ) “sibling” and what touches are worth holding up to the light, examining more closely.
But this? Practically cuddled up by the fire together? This is the panacea: inhaling the earthy, masculine scent of him, feeling the press of his solid body against hers, hearing the steady beat of his heart under her ear, it soothes all of her ragged edges. She could melt into him. She could stay here forever. She doesn’t even care if this is meant to be friendly or something more. It’s everything to her right now.
Together, they watch the dwindling fire. The room is silent except for the occasional pops and crackles of firewood and their slow, even breathing.
“What happened, Pen?”
She doesn’t expect Colin to let it go. Worry still creases his brow. She snuggles more fully into his chest, a comfort she thinks she could never get tired of. Her hand clutches at his jumper like a security blanket. He seems to sense her unease, stroking at her upper arm with his fingers as his denim blue eyes reassure her.
“Portia happened. As usual.”
His whole body tenses. “What did she say?”
Penelope finds his hand and threads her fingers through his. Their gazes both shift to watch their fingers weave and play. It’s soothing. Distracting. She soldiers on.
“The usual,” Penelope says. “I have forsaken my family for yours. You don’t truly want me here. I am intruding on your family. I’m pathetic and ungrateful.” Now that she’s cried most of her hurt out, the words feel less powerful, less sharp.
Though maybe not to Colin. If he was tense before, he is now so tight with anger he’s practically vibrating. “Pen.” Even his voice seems ready to snap. She can tell he’s barely holding it together but knows beyond a doubt that none of that rage is directed at her. No, it’s for her. And she wonders what it would be like to always have someone to fight her battles with, to carry some of the load. “ None of that is true. Not a single syllable. She is awful. Vile. If she were here…”
He seems to know better than to voice whatever threat is on his mind. His fingers still, trapping her hand in his. He brings their tangled hands close to his chest. Over his heart.
Penelope sighs, trying, but mostly failing, not to lose herself in his impossibly kind eyes. “Yeah. But she’s my mum.”
They fall into a moment of silence at the truth of it. Portia is her mother and sometimes she acts like it. For all the awful things said to Penelope over the years, there are just as many moments where Penelope felt her love and caring. She hasn’t reconciled how to navigate it all yet. She’s not ready to let go completely, even when it’s as bad as this.
“She doesn’t deserve you.” It’s a side of Colin she begrudgingly adores— when he seems to revert to the charming little boy he was, pouting his way through any castigation. His thumb strokes across her hand.
“Colin…”
“Well, it’s true,” he sulks, like someone has taken away his favorite toy. “I have half a mind to call her up right now and tell her exactly what I think of her speaking to you like that. What an evil bitch.”
Penelope appreciates how worked up he is about this; it eases much of her own stress, as if he’s taken some of her load. She tugs at their joined hands to get his attention, directing his gaze down to her. When he meets her eyes, most of his ire seems to soften.
“Hey.” She grins up at him, at his perfectly beautiful face that she loves so dearly. “Thank you. I appreciate you being willing to stand up to her, however ill advised that might be.”
But he isn't ready to play nice yet. His eyes are narrow and darken with emotion. “Pen. I would go to fucking war for you. You know that, right?”
Okay, so that intensity takes her breath away for real.
She blinks at him. “So…you don’t think I’m pathetically following you around?”
There’s a flash of confusion on his face that’s quickly chased by amusement. “If you are, then that might explain why we seem to be going round in circles lately.”
Penelope giggles at the image. Here, in this moment where she’s never felt so protected and loved, she can allow herself to see the truth in his words. Because, honestly, now that he points it out, there has been something strange and new happening between them lately. Something she was too scared to acknowledge lest she realize it was nothing at all.
“She was right about one thing though,” Penelope admits.
Colin pulls her hand to his lips and kisses her knuckles. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah…” she stutters a bit, damn him and his stupid sexy smirk. “I do prefer your family to mine.”
“Hmm… Okay.” He pretends to consider this, his expression thoughtful. Happiness begins to bubble in Penelope’s chest, easing the heaviness that has been present since her phone call. “But if we had to rank? Top would be?”
Since he is far too smug for her not to tease, she scrunches up her nose and replies, “Eloise?”
He feigns hurt. “Nope. Try again.”
“Violet,” she laughs. “For sure.”
“Well, obviously…” He gives her a look that nearly sends her tender heart into another round of tears, though this time out of the most incandescent joy. This playful, easy banter between them may leave her questioning the nature of his feelings for her at times but it never makes her doubt that he cares. It’s why she fell for him in the first place. Something about his inherent kindness always makes her feel so safe.
“Colin?” She makes sure she has his full attention. She tries not to lose her courage under the weight of his gaze. “It’s you, of course. You’re my favorite.” She imbues the words with the reverence they deserve. His eyes well up.
He leans his head down so that their foreheads touch. So close they breathe the same air.
“And you are mine,” he whispers. His gaze seems to flit between her eyes and her lips.
“I’m not a Bridgerton,” she can’t help but tease because he looks dangerously earnest. Her haughty tone makes him smirk.
“Well…” His eyes twinkle, mischievous as ever. He releases her hand so he can trace a delicate finger down her cheek. She will not whimper. “Not yet.
Penelope’s eyes go wide. Her breath hitches. Any possibility of tossing it off as a joke about marrying Gregory or even Eloise falls flat on her tongue. Because that’s how he meant it, right? A parry to her jest? But the sincerity in his eyes confuses her. Not yet. Not a Bridgerton…yet.
Her shocked reaction seems to chase confident Colin away. He clears his throat. “See…uh…the thing is, Pen…”
She just stares at him. Too stunned to move. Still processing.
But Colin doesn’t seem to notice as he tries to follow his own meandering words. “I was going to ask you tonight but no time like the present, I think. Well. Maybe there would be a better time but we’re here now. Literally and, like, conversationally…so. Oh, bloody hell.” He takes a deep breath that seems to focus his wayward words. He holds her gaze steady with his own. “Will you be my date for our New Year’s Party?”
“...what?” And now she is not only confused, she’s utterly disoriented.
“I know it’s kind of lame because we’re here with my family. Trust me, I would love to take you out on our own, on a proper date night. But needs must. I can still pick you up from your room and dance with you all night and, hopefully, be the one to kiss you at midnight?”
Things start to focus again. She can see the sincerity written all over Colin’s face. She can feel the way his heart beats faster under her touch. “You want to date me?”
“More than anything,” Colin affirms but then seems to reconsider. His face falls. “Do you…do you not want to date me?” It’s almost like he never considered she’d say anything but yes. Which is fair.
“ No! No. I do.” Penelope nods her head eagerly at him, flushing at her own choice of words. "I mean, I do want to date you. Of course." Her hand clutches at his jumper. She doesn’t miss the shiver that goes through him when her fingernails scrape at his chest in the process. “I’d love to be your date. And dance with you all night. And definitely, definitely kiss you at midnight. Maybe even before.”
As she speaks, a brilliant smile lights up his face.
“Yes, definitely before,” he says, his voice suddenly huskier. He uses his free hand to trace her eyebrows, her jaw. Like he wants to feel every part of this moment.
They smile dopily at each other for a few seconds. Then, once the fizzy anticipation becomes too much, Colin leans in to kiss her. Panic slams Penelope down to earth. She puts a hand over his mouth, ignoring his confused look.
She shakes her head as she removes her hand. Self-conscious suddenly, she swipes at her cheeks. She doesn’t want to think about how puffy her eyes are or how red her nose probably is. “Not yet, Colin. Not when I’m a gross, snotty mess.”
He pouts. Penelope almost gives in to it; she knows he probably doesn’t really care. But she does. He understands this, of course. So he backs off but not before giving her nose a little tap with his finger. Then he sneaks in and steals a kiss to her cheek anyway. “But you’re my gross, snotty mess, Pen.”
Penelope laughs and pushes him away. “You’re the worst. Okay. How about this? After we have dinner with your family, you can take me on a walk through the gardens. A nice, romantic moonlit walk.”
“Miss Featherington, how forward!” Colin chuckles as he grabs her wrist and presses a kiss there, then dots a few more up her arm for good measure. Always that little boy with his hand in the cookie jar, trying to sneak an extra treat. “Do we require a chaperone?”
She swats him away, even as she wants to grab him closer, because their juvenile flirting is far too fun. Colin seems to think so too because he goes straight for her ribs, her most ticklish spot, and scratches his fingers there. Her shriek of laughter fills the room, followed by his as she retaliates by going for his neck (his most ticklish spot.) Before it goes too far, they settle back together, breathing through lingering giggles.
“No chaperone, necessary,” Penelope assures. She can’t resist kissing his jaw. If she wasn’t so emotionally drained, she would let the look of desire that crosses Colin’s face in response urge her on, messy face be damned. Instead, she forces herself to pull back and extract herself from his arms. “Just don’t forget the thermos of hot chocolate.”
There’s nothing graceful about the way Penelope has to climb over him to get herself off the sofa, her limbs now sluggish and heavy. Still, that doesn’t stop Colin from watching her with a wolfish smirk on his face. He leans back, one arm propped behind his head in a devastatingly sexy way.
“Save me a seat at dinner?”
She doesn’t trust that charming look. “Only if you promise to keep your hands to yourself.”
Making a face, he gives her an exaggerated sigh. “No can do, Pen. I’ve got to up my game if I’m going to make you an official Bridgerton before long.”
“Oh my god,” Penelope huffs as she collects her belongings from the room. Her book, her water bottle, and her long-forgotten phone. She’s blushing hard. She isn’t sure if she wants to scold him or kiss him or fuck him right there on the antique sofa. Probably all of the above. “You really were never told no as a child, were you?”
Colin laughs, a deep brilliant sound. “See you in a bit, love. Don’t forget to dress warmly for our date.”
With a roll of her eyes, Penelope leaves him lounging, likely taking a little pre-dinner nap. She’ll have to send one of the children to wake him. The little ones love jumping all over Uncle Colin, after all.
As she makes her way to her room to freshen up, she finds her thoughts firmly on the highlights of the last few hours. It’s the kind and loving words from Violet and Colin that ring in her head. They’ve seemed to silence the echoes of Portia’s abuse.
They love her. They see her. She is family.
Love is not a transaction. Love is given freely and without condition. Love is letting someone cry all over your expensive sweater without question. Love is a warm embrace that asks for nothing in return. Love feels safe and protected. Love heals her heart and warms her soul. Love is (and always has been) Colin Bridgerton. But also Violet and Eloise and the whole Bridgerton family.
The family that she chose. And they chose her right back.