Chapter Text
You are not, by far, close to this family.
You can count your fair share of words spoken to Penelope Featherington, of course, because of Eloise.
Regardless, your Mama has bought a basket of baked goods to send the women. Even with your footman getting the chickenpox, it was supposed to be delivered, because ‘nobody should go through this alone, darling’.
Which means, of course, that, given you were the one sibling who had nothing to do today, you were the one sent with the basket.
It wouldn’t usually be a situation for you. Grief truly should never be felt in loneliness, that is one thing you know very well.
The sole thing on your way is the now-widow.
Portia Featherington is not exactly a symbol of status on the Ton, by any means.
It might be quite the contrary with her eagerness to triumph, cocky nature, and terrible fashion sense. All of that without mentioning the Marina fiasco.
To you, however, she is simply something else.
Completely breathtaking, enough to make you forget every single word you had once learned, enough to make your cheeks blush and knees weaken with but a simple glance in your direction.
You can’t make sense of it, she has never wronged you in any way. All that you know is that you need to avoid her.
But here you are, staring at the big, ornamented, wooden door of the household.
You suck on a small shuddering breath as said door is opened no longer than a second before your knuckles have touched it.
You suppose the footwoman has grown quite used to visits, this week.
“Good afternoon, ma’am”
You adjust your tone to a serious one and raise the basket slightly, to justify your presence.
“I would like to present my condolences in the name of the Bridgerton family, if the ladies will have me”
With a slight nod, the woman excuses herself to announce your arrival.
You wish, very selfishly (and immediately ask heavens for forgiveness) that they are not prone to conversation at the moment. So you can simply hand her the basket and leave.
Today, apparently, is not your day, as the footwoman returns, bowing her head and gesturing for you to enter the house and follow her.
You clear your throat as your steps follow the woman’s.
You try to ground yourself to the real reason you are here- the man of the house has died- and decide to dissuade your nerves by paying attention to the decoration.
It is certainly beautiful, but you had expected it to be a little bit more Featherington.
Maybe a little more citrus, and overall lighter-
“Miss Bridgerton, my ladies”
The woman announces to the four ladies and your attention is quickly drawn back to reality.
You didn’t know what to expect- everyone grieves differently, of course- but you are relieved to observe that, at the very least, they do not seem inconsolable or entirely consumed by his loss.
They do not seem anything but bored, in fact.
Well, the daughters, that is.
You cannot bring yourself to look directly at the matriarch, as you’re afraid your curtsy would not work if done so.
“Good afternoon, ladies”
You smile at the women and make a small curtsy by the door, before entering the living room.
The daughters smile greatly at the sight of the big basket, and bid you good afternoon.
With small time to prepare yourself, but with the urgency of a lifetime, your eyes finally allow themselves a look at Portia.
By God.
Her eyes almost drown you entirely.
They seem even more blue over the black dress she wears.
Her hair is almost incandescent, drooping from over her shoulders as a fountain of gold and copper.
She does appear to be upset, her eyebrows are knitted and a small pout is being worn. But her eyes are questioning upon you.
It is infuriating how she manages to lock your own eyes on her without a simple word.
“Good morning, Miss Bridgerton”
Portia finally acknowledges you as well, and it’s embarrassing how quickly you can feel your face burning.
“Yes- I came to express my condolences”
You shakenly announce, realizing the room was waiting for you to talk. You rest the basket on the table in the middle of the room.
“And to offer you a bit of comfort in the name of my family, I hope you know you can count on us for anything”
“Can we open it?”
Prudence all but jumps from the canapè from where she and Philippa are sitting, already studying its contents.
You are taken aback by her actions, your mother certainly would have a fit had you ever done such a thing.
But, you remind yourself, they are grieving, it’s not the time nor the place for judgment.
You can still remember how nothing felt quite right for long after your father’s passing.
Portia, however, thinks the opposite (as Penelope, apparently, if her exasperated huff is anything to go by).
She immediately raises from her armchair, shooing her daughter back to the couch.
“Prudence Featherington, where are your manners?”
And then, approaching you, with a suddenly pained smile, she apologizes.
“You will have to forgive us, Miss Bridgerton. The girls are still very shaken"
With a slight shake of head, maybe a little poisoned by her sudden closeness, you grab both of her hand.
A gesture that your mother has done so many times to comfort you- and assure her.
“Do not worry about manners, I simply wish you are well- you all, that is. This basket is a mere reminder that my family is at your disposal during this difficult time, have you ever need it”
The fact that her eyes are slightly widened at your touch and an unsure smile is sent to you, instead of the plastic smile of always, makes you feel like maybe there haven’t been as many visitors to the family as you once thought.
Or at least, not ones that actually cared.
“We thank you for your thoughts, Miss Bridgerton”
The woman smiles, still a little taken aback, this time a little less stranded.
“Wouldn’t you, perhaps, enjoy the pastries with us? I’m not sure if it is too close to dinner time”
You appreciated she is giving you a way out.
But, with the way she smiles at you, almost with one foot at the door, and eyes twinkling with sudden delight, you don’t think you could have ever denied.
Unfortunately, you are still to pass by the modiste, bakery, and florist, as Daphne’s wedding has been moved to a closer date.
You curse her terrible timing before smiling sadly at the widow.
“I would love to, believe me, but Mother has asked me to run a few other errands until the sunset”
You answer and, with the courage of never before, you add, a little bit too hopeful.
“Perhaps I could stop by tomorrow? If you wish, that is”
You don’t miss how Portia is taken aback by your suggestion, not having actually expected a willingness to return to her house.
You are afraid to have overstepped, but she is already nodding, albeit a little hesitantly.
“I suppose we could make time for it. Right, ladies?”
She answers, not really taking the time to turn around and assess the answers of her daughters.
You can tell her eyes still doubt slightly over yours.
There is, however, a small twinkle swimming on them as she squeezes your hand briefly.
“Well, then, I should walk you out myself”
She offers and you nod dutifully, having already gotten yourself late for the modiste.
Sending her a small smile you make a quick curtsy, out of habit.
“Thank you, Ma’am”
And, then, turn to the three girls.
"Until, ladies, I hope you enjoy the gift”
Penelope is the first to send you a smile, followed quickly by Philippa, who is already two eclairs down.
The younger still stands up, giving you a quick side hug.
“Thank you very much, [Y/N]”
Prudence does not smile at you, but she does thank you quickly before picking a fight with Penelope over the vanilla biscuits.
Portia sighs and motions for you to follow her, as she leads you back to the (now not so scary) big, ornamented wooden door.
Her posture is a little antsy, a small contrast of her hesitancy in the living room.
You cast your eyes on the ground, not really used to being this close to her.
You fidget momentarily with the hem of your sleeves, before turning towards the door, and then, finally, at her.
“Well, I shall return, then”
You tell her, a little trembly.
“Tomorrow”
She smiles lightly, and you make sure.
“Yes?”
Portia does chuckle at your unquietness.
“Yes”
And, holding your hands in the very same way you did to hers, she tells you.
“Send my gratefulness to the Dowager and… do have a safe return home”
There is not a single thing you can do to stop blushing until the tip of your nose, so you simply nod.
“I will”
Before you can, crestfallenly so, untangle your hand from hers, she holds them tighter for another moment. You to take a step closer to her, in surprise.
“Thank you, again”
She whispers,now her eyes are as clear as the sky, terribly vulnerable.
“For stopping by and for your kind words”
You are caught by surprise by the fact that the first thing you wish you could do to soothe her is to simply angle your face and kiss her.
Your heart leaps inside of your chest at the simple thought. You have to take a step back to take a small breath-
What is wrong with you?
Women do not go around kissing other women.
Especially not old enough to be their mother.
And definitely not while they mourn their recently deceased husband.
You feel dirty and too sick to formulate a phrase, yet you smile at her.
You don't wish to make her think it was something that she said.
"I-”
You clear your throat.
“It’s not a problem”
She lets go of your hands (you shudder at the sudden lack of warmth) so you can finally cross the door, and smiles.
“Until tomorrow, Miss Bridgerton”
You force another one in return.
“Until then, Lady Featherington”