Chapter Text
May 1834
Colin peeked around the door of Thomas’ bed chamber, where Penelope had fallen asleep in the chair next to him, keeping watch over their feverish son. He tiptoed to the big bed and felt Thomas’ head. It was less warm than previously. His son stirred, opening his eyes.
“Sst, don’t wake your mother, she is exhausted,” Colin whispered.
Thomas nodded, looking at the slumped form of his mother in the chair and his father lifting her up with ease, her head resting against his chest.
“I will be right back, after I take care of your mother. You both need a rest, but she might need it more.” Colin slipped out of the door.
He returned half an hour later with a book in his hand. “I thought I might read you a story.” Colin caressed the book, the cover worn. Not with age, but with use. He loved to read this story. He had told Agatha the story when she was ill, last year. And now Thomas, who would be eight next month, would hear it.
“Does it have any dragons?”
“Dragons? No, though your grandma could be considered one,” Colin chuckled under his breath, “No dragons, but it has thieves, giants, chases, escapes, time travel, true love and miracles.”
“That doesn’t sound too bad. I’ll try to stay awake.” Thomas leaned back against the pillow, the blanket drawn up over his chest against the cold and Colin settled in the chair that Penelope had just vacated.
“Okay, let’s get started. ‘The Time Traveller’… by Penelope Anne Bridgerton. Chapter one.”
“Wait, wait,” Agatha hurried into Thomas’ bed chamber, carrying little George on her arm, Jane following swiftly behind. “We want to hear this story too.”
Colin checked with Thomas, who just nodded. George reached out for Colin and Agatha put him gently in Colin’s lap, while she and her sister joined Thomas in the big bed.
“Can I start now?” Colin asked and three heads bobbed happily. “‘The Time Traveller’… by Penelope Anne Bridgerton. Chapter one.”
April 24th, 1824
Penelope snuck into the hallway of Featherington House, ignoring her mother who was instructing the servants on decorations and drinks in the ballroom. Tonight was to be her engagement ball. After having failed at the marriage mart for over a decade, her mother had arranged for a hefty dowry and a seduction of suitors. They would all be here tonight, to dance with her, to get to know her. And around midnight, she would name the man who she was to marry. It was a farce. She did not want to comply to her mother’s scheme. But she also did not want to end up a lonely spinster. Shaking her head at the abundance of decorations for her ball, she took to the stairs. She was halfway up the stairs when she was spotted.
“Penelope!” Portia called from the open doors towards the hallway.
Penelope cast a quick glance down to her mother, picked up her dress and hurried further up the stairs, not responding to her mother. Her ladies maid, Rae, following as quickly as she could.
“Penelope, where have you been?” Her mother stepped towards the stairs, but Penelope did not stop.
“Penelope!” Her mother raised her voice, but to no avail. “Rae, I demand an explanation. It is half past five and she is not even dressed.”
Rae stopped halfway on the stairs, facing the lady of the house. “She will be ready, milady. I assure you.”
“I do not want her ready. She needs to be resplendent if she has any chance. Ah, my nerves,” Portia took a whiff of her lavender scented kerchief, before turning towards the ballroom again. Varley bumbling behind her with her notebook.
Rae nodded once, before she followed Penelope into her room. “Let’s get you dressed. Are you ready?”
Penelope gave a single nod, standing in front of her mirror. Her cheeks pinked as she remembered her afternoon. She had visited Hatchards again, the bookstore on Piccadilly. Whenever she opened a book, she was transported to a better place. She had found a new romance novel, a stirring tale of love and connection. She ached for the same, a man who loved her. Who would woo her for who she was. Not for how much money she would bring to the table. She wondered how the story ended, for she did not know. She was interrupted.
A young lady, probably her age, with chestnut coloured hair had caught her attention. Her dress was way too short, Penelope could see her ankles and the waistline was not in the latest fashion. She had tried to read on, but the young miss had picked up several books and scoffed at their content. How very strange? Then, the young miss had taken a pocket mirror out of her reticule and had pointed that little mirror this way and that. Penelope was amazed at the vanity of such a badly dressed lady. In the end, Penelope had made up her mind to warn the young miss of her terrible state of undress. Putting down the book, she had started to walk over, but the young lady had clocked her and had disappeared from view. The clock of St. James’ struck four and Penelope realised she had to run to make it to her own ball.
“Wait, papa.” Thomas stirred, “I thought this was a book about thieves and chases. All you talk about is books. Is this a trick?”
Agatha giggled.
Thomas regarded his giggling sister, now certain he was being tricked, “Oh no, is this a kissing book? When does it get to the action?” Thomas protested.
“Oh ye of little faith. Let me read on. You will love it, trust me,” Colin replied, before he settled back with the book, George resting on his chest, sucking his thumb.
While Rae was tugging at the laces of her dress in front of the mirror, Penelope was dreading the evening. “Good evening my lord, are you enjoying your evening?” she stammered at her reflection. She even bowed her head a little at the mirror to show her good graces.
The mirror did not answer her.
Nor did Rae bat an eyelid. Not even a grunt as she pulled the laces tighter.
“Oh gosh, Rae, please let me breathe. I don’t want to make a fool of myself by swooning.”
“Of course Miss, you have to look perfect.”
“It will be the only thing that will be perfect,” Penelope murmured.
Rae met her eyes in the mirror, her lips a thin line of disagreement.
“It’s true, Rae. I am not good at these things. I’ll only make a fool of myself.” Penelope sighed at her reflection, “I hide at the edge of a ballroom because that is where I like to be. I am a wallflower, no one pays any attention to me. And now my mother wants me to make simpering conversation with the eligible bachelors, perhaps even dance. How can I pretend not to wince every time a man treads on my toes? I have never danced before. I have never been asked.” Penelope growled at the stupidity of her mother.
She might have felt less anxious if she had been better prepared. But no, of course not. This idea was sprung on her at the last moment, and when her mother said jump, Penelope only asked how high. She had resolved herself a long time ago, that she would remain unmarried. Yet her mother disagreed and had arranged this last minute affair. She looked like a prize calf, trussed up for auction. She pinched her dress and spread it out in front of the mirror. These ruffles really did not suit her. Dropping the hem of her dress, she stuck out her tongue.
But of course the mirror had the decency not to smirk at her silly behaviour.
“Good evening my lord,” Penelope tried again, as she tried to waltz in front of the mirror. “It makes sense to me that you seek a practical match. But do you imagine that, with time, love may one day grow?”
Her mother appeared behind her in the mirror, making Penelope stumble over the carpet.
“Do not become greedy in your success, Penelope. Don’t tell me you expect to find love tonight. Ugh! This is the very reason why I discouraged you from reading. Love is make-believe. It is only in your storybooks.”
Penelope turned towards her mother, her head hung low. Her mother would never understand what Penelope craved more than anything. A man who would love and cherish her, like the heroines in her book.
“Do you know what is romantic?” Portia asked, but she did not wait for an answer. “Security.”
Penelope thought that was the least romantic reason to marry, but she did not speak out loud. This was her mother’s wish, not hers.
“Be smart, Penelope. And if you will not be, then I will be for you,” Portia warned, as she entered further into the room. Picking up books, leafing through them. She reached Penelope’s desk, where a notebook was left open.
“Please, don’t touch that,” Penelope requested.
Her mother leaned closer, but did not touch. “Were you writing? Well, that would explain the ink all over your fingers. Oh, I declare Penelope, you must stop wasting your precious time on such pointless pursuits as writing. You write of love and devotion, yet what I offer you downstairs is reality. Take a husband. Marry. Stop dreaming, Penelope. Love matches are fantasy, well, at least they are uncommon.”
“Marriage is the promise of eternal love. How can I honour my love to a man eternally if I have never felt it momentarily?” Penelope crossed her arms across her chest, protecting her beating heart. Not the kind with butterflies, but the kind with hornets. It stung. Why could her mother not understand she wanted more in her life? Should she really give up on the one thing that kept her going? That gave her joy? Could she?
“You find things to love, my dear. Small things. Big things too. You will have a house to tend to. And babies. You will throw yourself into raising your family and eventually they add up to be enough. You are strong, Penelope. You will do well. Pick a good husband tonight, Penelope, it is your only security.” Her mother glanced once more over Penelope’s notebook, before she left the chamber with a flourish of her dress.
Penelope walked over to her notebook, her manuscript that she had been working on in secret for years, and sighed in relief when she realised it was not one of the more romantic scenes she had written. Her mother would go into conniptions, demanding to know how Penelope knew about these things. And she could not rat out Rae, could she now. Rae had been a treasure trove of knowledge concerning marital relations. She had bribed Rae to tell her, but it had been worth every penny.
Rae knocked on the door. “Miss, your guests are arriving.”
“You mean my mother’s guests are arriving,” Penelope replied with a jest. “I know, sorry. I will be down momentarily.”
“I will start working on your dance card,” Rae offered.
“If you wish to be entertained,” Penelope sighed. “Like I said, I am awful at dancing. And conversation. How do I know who to pick? Mama expects me to pick a husband tonight. But how?”
“You will know in your heart,” Rae answered, pointing to her chest. “Just trust your heart, it will know when your true love arrives.”
Rae really had the best stories about love and connection, even though she was a few years younger than Penelope. Rae loved to read, but she also knew about servants falling in love and marrying. A whole world of love was to be found right under her nose, and Penelope never even knew of it. And how would she know who to pick in her heart, if she had been blind to love her whole life.
The quintet started playing, the chatter of ‘her’ guests drifted up the stairs into her room. It was time to brace herself and find herself a husband. Penelope shook her head, fearful at the task in hand. She had to trust herself and all would be well. But a bit of ratafia wouldn’t go amiss.
Penelope found one of the footmen at the bottom of the stairs with a tray of drinks, welcoming the guests. She took a glass, and after a first tentative sip, just downed the drink in one gulp. Thank god her mother was stingy, serving only small glasses. She wouldn’t even be surprised if the drinks were watered down. Thanking the footman, she returned the glass. A little Dutch courage might help her cross the threshold into the ballroom. But first she had to pass the hallway.
Grey haired men were smoking cigars in the hall, chatting and possibly taking bets who was going to be the lucky gent at midnight. They were more interested in their drinks and bets than in the prize catch of the evening. Penelope walked on, passing the table behind the older men, carrying an ostentatious bouquet of roses and other pink blooms, probably full of meaning for tonight’s farce. And Penelope couldn’t care less.
Her path was obstructed by a trio of chittering girls, who were comparing dance cards. Hoping to be equally lucky tonight. They had been invited to even the balance between the bachelors and the debutantes. But her mother was cunning, the other ladies might have the beauty, but not the fortune that came with Penelope tonight. Buxom redheads were never in fashion, unless they came with a hefty dowry.
As she wavered at the threshold of the ball room, her mother appeared at her side. “Ah. The Marquis of Ashdown. A little young, to be sure, but he has 10.000 a year,” Portia whispered into Penelope’s ear pointing towards a shy, slender man with red hair.
“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife,” Penelope quoted, but of course her mother did not recognise that famous line from Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, her favourite book.
“Ssst, keep your voice down,” her mother hissed, as her eyes perused the other bachelors on offer.
“Miss, I have arranged your dance card for you,” Rae cut in. Leave it to Rae to always come to Penelope’s rescue. She truly was a good friend.
“Thank you, Rae.” Penelope offered her hand for Rae to tie the little ribbon and dance card to her wrist.
“All spots have been taken miss.”
Penelope groaned. She took a deep breath, shook her head. “Okay, who is the first lucky one, Rae?”
“Miss, may I present Lord Barnell.” A stocky thirty-something man with fair hair stepped forward, offering his hand. This was only a small improvement from the red haired marquis.
“Lord Barnell, a pleasure.” Penelope made a curtsy.
“Oh, the pleasure is mine, Miss Penelope. Might I have the honour?” His outstretched hand was still waiting for hers.
Penelope placed her hand in his, turning to Rae, “You wish to be entertained.”
Lord Barnell guided her to the dance floor, placed his hand on her back and they were off.
“My lord —“
“Would you mind keeping quiet? I am counting my steps, so —“ he chuckled.
“What worries you, masters you,” Penelope replied. She did not only read stories of love, she was well read in other books as well, a stirring tale or a book of fact. And lately stories about the rights of women.
“You have read Locke?” Lord Barnell lost his count and stumbled over Penelope’s slipper. “Oh, sorry about that. Please forgive me.”
Penelope winced, grateful for the numbing effect of Ratafia on her tortured toes. “Yes, I have. Have you read it, my lord?”
“1,2,3 —“ muttered under his breath, “Yes. It is required of all men, surely. But I have never met a young lady who has read it. 1,2,3—“
They swirled around the dance floor, her mother whispering to her neighbour, probably already planning her wedding. She spotted Rae at the next whirl, pointing her fingers at her lips to smile. But Penelope did not feel like smiling. “Do you think our feeble minds might collapse if we put too many ideas in them? Do you think women should not be offered the same opportunities as men?” Tread carefully now young man or your toes might suffer the consequences, she thought.
Lord Barnell sighed, his chest expanding, like he knew his future might depend on his answer. “I have never met a lady that was so well read, 1,2,3-.“
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“Take it as you will,”
Penelope did not feel complimented at all. He did not want to answer her question about getting the same opportunities to women. If she were to wed this man, he would have her wed, bed and bred in no time, quashing her dreams of ever becoming a writer.
As they passed the open doors to the hallway, she noticed the young miss from the bookshop. In the same attire, her ankles visible for all to see. And she was waving that stupid pocket mirror around. The gall of that chit. Who did not change for a ball? Who had invited her? And most of all, who was she?
She lost the young miss when Lord Barnell waltzed her around, but she stepped on his toes, time to stop this dance. He was not a suitable candidate.
“Excuse me, I shall quit the dance floor, now.” And she left him without giving him a second glance. As she turned towards the hallway, she saw the strange miss heading up the stairs. And Penelope followed.
The door to her room was open. The young miss leafing through her manuscript, waving her pocket mirror around. “Hmm, this is like Jane Austen, witty and clever.” The stranger turned the page.
Penelope watched from the doorway, conflicted. Curiosity got the better of her. “My dream—useless like the rest“.
The stranger shut the book, startled. She looked at Penelope, her grey eyes wide. “Forgive me. But— You should not say that. It’s like Jane Austen and Fanny Burney combined, only better.”
This was the first time someone else had read part of her manuscript. It was supposed to be her secret. For her to enjoy. Not to fall under the eyes of strangers. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
“I am just an admirer,” the stranger dipped her chin, her pocket mirror aimed at Penelope.
An admirer? An admirer of what? Penelope was confused. And this stranger did not answer her questions. What was it tonight with people not answering her questions? “I’ll ask once again, before I start screaming. Who are you?”
“Never mind who I am. But please, choose wisely tonight,” the stranger nodded, like she knew a secret Penelope was unaware of. She passed the desk with the manuscript and aimed for the door.
“Please, wait. What do you mean?”
The stranger was out the door, through the hallway and down the stairs.
Penelope following in her dance slippers, “Please, wait. I will not harm you. Stop. Please.”
The stranger shoved people aside on the staircase, eager to escape.
“Miss, wait!” Penelope hurried after her, apologising for the rudeness of her guest. “Pardon me, I am so sorry. Pardon me.”
Guests were still arriving at the Featherington estate. Penelope pushed through the crowd outside the house to see the stranger stepping into a carriage and heading off. Another carriage was waiting, “Follow that carriage,”
She pressed a guinea into the footman’s hand. “Please hurry.”
The footman nodded and off they went. Penelope put her head out the window, to let in the cool evening air. And to keep an eye on the carriage in front of her, to make sure the footman did not just abduct her to some strange part of town. They took a left and soon enough, they passed Berkeley Square. If Penelope had to guess, they were going to the bookshop where she had first laid eyes on the stranger. But the bookshop was closed. So why was the stranger going there?
She stopped the carriage close St. James’s Church on Piccadilly and alighted. Penelope waited with bated breath, wondering why the stranger would go to church at this ungodly hour. But the stranger ducked into the alley between the church and the bookstore. Penelope jumped from the carriage, her smalls legs eating up the pavement after her. The stranger disappeared into the bookstore. Penelope followed close behind, slowing only when she reached the back door of the store. She did not want to surprise the stranger too quickly. Not before she found out what exactly she was doing here. Penelope turned the doorknob and it opened. How strange.
The stranger hurried up the stairs. Her long legs taking two stairs at the time.
Penelope groaned. Why did the bad guys always go up? If the stranger was indeed a culprit. But a culprit of what exactly? Breaking into a bookshop? Where is the crime in that?
“Stop, miss, please,” Penelope called, her chest heaving with the effort to keep up with the gazelle.
“Oh my god, don’t follow me.” The stranger was on the top floor. A window stood open. It led to the roof. She stepped outside and on to the ledge.
Penelope took the ribbon of her dress, wrapped it around a beam next to the window and stepped out, grabbing the stranger by the hand, “Please come down. There is no need for this. Please.”
“No, you don’t understand. It’s okay, really. Just let go.”
“I can’t let you do that,” Penelope grunted. The miss was pulling hard for her freedom. A freedom to a fall. That could not happen.
Next door, the bell of St. James’s started tolling. It must be midnight.
“I don’t want to hurt you, but you leave me no choice,” the stranger muttered as she grabbed for her little pocket mirror.
A bright flash blinded Penelope for a second, just when her ribbon finally gave up on ever saving the two of them and she tumbled down with the stranger, head first to the pavement.
“Aaaaaaah!” A blood curdling double scream bounced off the building into the night.
“You look nervous,” Colin said to his audience, even George sat with his hands in the air, a teardrop forming on his cheek. They had both known George could understand them, even though he had not uttered a single word yet. Let me tell you a little secret so you can rest easily, Penelope and the stranger are perfectly alright,” Colin explained to his children.
“I was not nervous, papa. Well, maybe I was a little bit concerned —, “Thomas replied, “but that is not the same thing.”
“So, I don’t have to stop now, because I could, you know, if you want?” Colin held his finger between the pages, waiting for a response, while he knew what would happen. Once started, no one could stop reading this story.
“No, please read a little more. I want to know what happens,” Thomas said, Agatha and Jane nodded. And so Colin continued.