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Penelope stood in front of the classroom, shifting on her feet as she tried to calm her nerves.
As much as she was glad and thankful that she was immediately hired to teach two weeks after her return to London, she couldn’t help but feel anxious. It had been ten years since she last taught kids; ten years since she left London and sequestered herself in her mother’s hometown in Ireland.
“Good morning, class!” Penelope greeted her students, smiling from ear to ear. She felt like a student herself—excited, nervous—hoping they would find her cool. “I’m Miss Penelope Anne Featherington. You can call me Miss Pen. I will be your English teacher until Miss Thompson is back from her leave.”
“Good morning, Miss Pen!” her students greeted back in unison.
“Since it’s my first time meeting you, I want to put a face to the names on this list.” She held up the class list in her hand and waved it lightly. “When I call your surname, please stand up and introduce yourself. You may add a fun fact about yourself—favorite movie, favorite book, anything.”
She called her students one by one; some were more enthusiastic than others. One of her more enthusiastic students was a brunette girl with beautiful, deep blue eyes. She kept parroting her classmates’ fun facts, throwing in some teasing words from time to time. At one point, she let out a boisterous laugh—one that sounded just like what used to be a constant in Penelope’s childhood. A sound she achingly missed.
She looked at her class sheet, determined to know the name of the girl who reminded her of her childhood best friend.
“Bridgerton,” she read silently. “Bridgerton, Penelope Jane.”
Her heart sank. A sudden, tingling chill spread from her fingertips to her spine, down to the edges of her feet, rendering her immobile—frozen in place.
With shaky hands, she brought up the class list to look at the girl’s name again. Maybe her mind was playing tricks on her, making her see words that weren’t really there. Maybe her mind had conjured the name because the girl reminded her of her childhood friend, Eloise Bridgerton.
She read the words again, slower this time.
Bridgerton, Penelope Jane
Bridgerton
Penelope
Jane
Her knees buckled, and she clutched the table in front of her to stay upright.
Questions flooded her mind, one after another.
Is she the daughter of one of the Bridgerton siblings? The siblings she had grown up with? The family who had considered her one of their own? The same Bridgertons she had avoided for the last ten years?
Is she Eloise’s daughter? Had her friend (were they still friends?) kept her promise to name her firstborn daughter after Penelope? But if she is Eloise’s daughter, wouldn’t she have a different surname?
If she isn’t Eloise’s, then…
No.
No, she can’t be.
Jane (she was hesitant to call her Penelope) was at least ten years old. She couldn’t possibly be Colin’s, because that would mean he had gotten someone pregnant while they were together, and that would mean she was the same age as her…
What if she is her—no, their…
No. That’s impossible.
No one knew. Not Eloise, not Colin. Not even her dearest sister and only confidante, Felicity, knew.
The room started spinning, as if the earth had tipped off its axis. Her head felt light, if it weren’t attached to her neck, it would have already floated away. She was sure she was about to faint, but then a tiny voice called her name.
“Miss Pen, are you alright?” She nodded without lifting her head.
“I am okay. I’m…” She cleared her throat and finally glanced at her students. Worry was painted on their faces. “I’m sorry, I… something’s caught in my throat. I’ll fetch some water and will be right back.”
She fished her water bottle from her bag and got out of the classroom. Once she was sure she was out of her students’ sight, she hurriedly texted her sister, Felicity.
Penelope to Felicity
Penelope: Do you know if Eloise has a daughter?
Penelope: I have a student named Penelope Jane Bridgerton
Penelope: She must be Eloise’s, right?
•
Penelope’s bottle was full, but she still wandered around the school’s halls, looking for a water fountain. She needed to breathe. She needed to think. She needed to calm the fuck down.
It was inevitable that she would run into the people she had actively avoided. She knew that. She was ready for that to happen, but Penelope hadn’t expected it to happen so soon—not when she was just starting to adjust to living in London again, trying to find her footing.
She used to be in the same circle and share the same set of friends with the Bridgerton siblings. But that circle had become nonexistent. There was no circle, not even an arc or a segment. Because to have a segment, you would need two points, A and B, and Penelope had none of that. All that was left was a singular point.
Penelope. Alone.
Penelope shouldn’t be surprised. She had spent the last ten years running away, burning bridges, avoiding her loved ones, leaving her beloved one. And she had no regrets; she had left of her own volition, after all.
Okay, she had regrets. Of course, she had. She had spent half of those ten years convincing herself that running away had been the best choice for her, for them. Then she had spent the other half thinking about what could have been, hating twenty-two-year-old Penelope for being rash, stubborn, cowardly, and weak.
Penelope shook her head. “No,” she muttered to herself. “You were not weak. Afraid? Yes. Selfish? A little. But you were never weak.”
A buzz from her phone brought her out of her reverie. It was her sister Felicity, replying to her earlier message.
Felicity to Penelope
Felicity: I don't know, Pen
Felicity: I haven't had any contact with them since you left
Penelope: Oh. I didn't know that
Felicity: Well...we never really talk about them, do we?
Felicity: So? Do you think she's Eloise's?
Penelope: Maybe?
Penelope: Do you know any Bridgertons in London besides them?
Penelope: And who would name their daughter Penelope if not El, right?
Felicity: Right..
Penelope: Got to go, Fliss! See you later at dinner
Felicity: See yah!
Felicity to Eloise
Felicity: Pen has met Janey
Eloise: So she knows?
Felicity: No. Not yet.
Felicity: She asked me if Janey was yours
Eloise: And? What did you say?
Felicity: That I haven't had any contact with you, so I wouldn't know
Eloise: Did she buy it?
Felicity: Dunno. I'm still waiting for her reply
Felicity: Oh god, Eloise
Felicity: I'm shit scared
Eloise: I am too
Eloise: But it has been ten years, Fliss
Eloise: I miss her
Eloise: We miss her so much
Felicity: She misses you too
Felicity: I'm sure she does
Eloise: I hope you're right
Eloise: Thanks for the update, Fliss
Eloise: I'll share it with mum
Eloise to Violet and Agatha D.
Eloise: Pen met Janey but she doesn’t know who she is yet. She asked Fliss if Janey is mine.
Agatha: Well, it seems our plan is working.
Eloise: I don’t feel good about this. What if Penelope runs off again?
Violet: Relax, dear. She wouldn’t. Not without her daughter.
Eloise: And what about Colin? Mum, Colin will be mad. He will cut us off.
Violet: He will understand, Eloise. Eventually.
•
When Penelope returned to the classroom, it was eerily quiet—unusual for a bunch of fourth graders.
“The boys were being naughty, so I shushed them quiet,” Jane announced proudly. Despite her confidence, the space between her brows was scrunched up, her eyes shining with concern. If not for those deep blue eyes, Penelope would have been certain that Jane was Eloise’s daughter. They had the same energy—always on edge, ready to fight.
“I’m okay, love. Thank you for asking,” Penelope replied. They exchanged a smile, and for a moment, Jane looked like Colin. Colin with his charming grin, cheeks puffed.
“I believe it’s your turn to introduce yourself?”
“Yes, miss.” Jane stood up confidently. “Hi! My name is Penelope Jane Bridgerton. My family calls me Janey, but I hate it. So, please, miss, call me Jane instead.” The girl flashed a wide, cheeky grin and put her hands together in front of her in a gesture of supplication. Only after Penelope nodded did Jane continue her introduction.
“A fun but also not fun at times fact about me is that I have three aunts and four uncles.”
Penelope faked a surprised gasp. She is Eloise’s daughter.
“That’s not all, miss. I have fifteen cousins! Fifteen! And out of all of them, Agatha is my most favorite.” Jane twisted her head and gestured to the person behind her. “Stand up, Aggie.”
A girl hesitantly emerged from behind Jane, offering a small, demure smile. Her cheeks were round and flushed, most likely from her cousin’s eagerness. She had long, wavy red hair like Penelope’s. Very much like Penelope’s.
Penelope looked at Agatha, then shifted her gaze to Jane. They looked familiar, like Penelope and Eloise years ago.
No.
There was no way.
Is Agatha…
Her memories hit her like crashing waves—strong, unrelenting, stormy waves.
Penelope at the hospital, alone. No one to hold her hand as she cried in labor pain.
Penelope trembling with fear as she held her wailing daughter against her chest, praying the babe would finally latch onto her breast.
Penelope pacing around her small flat, lulling and bouncing her baby back to sleep while she herself hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours.
Penelope with Anne (she thought it was apt to name her child after her), sleeping peacefully in her arms while she planned Anne’s adoption with a social worker.
Penelope with bloodshot eyes and tear-stained cheeks, leaving trails of kisses on Anne’s tiny, angelic face as she whispered her promises. I am sorry, angel. Mummy can’t be your mummy. She has to sort herself out first. I love you so, so much, Anne. You will grow up to be brave and smart. I know it. I will miss you, my love. Mummy will see you again someday. I promise you that.
“Miss?” Jane’s voice brought her back to the present.
“You two are cousins?” Penelope asked, her voice cracking, each word laced with nervous anticipation.
“Yes!” Jane answered. “Aggie and I are cousins. She’s my uncle Colin’s daughter.”
A tight, painful, stinging sensation spread through Penelope’s throat, choking her. She was drowning. It felt like she was drowning. Her chest tightened. Her stomach churned, bitter bile lingering on her tongue.
She blinked rapidly in an attempt to subtly suppress her tears and took a deep breath to dissipate the sob she was holding in.
“Hi, Ms. Pen!” Agatha said softly. “My name is Agatha Anne Bridgerton. My family calls me Aggie. Uhm… except for my dad, who insists on calling me Anne.”
Anne
Her Anne
Their Anne