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Now he knows I'm not some innocent lamb
He sees me for what I am
Which is a horrible, stupid, dumb and ugly
Fat and stupid, simple self-hating
Bitch!
–
“Rae, please take my luggage down to the front hall, we must work quickly. If Dunwoody asks anything, tell him I’m off to Finch House to visit Phillipa.”
She had been throwing dresses around in a frenetic haze, some feeble attempt to pack away her life as she knew it before taking off in the cover night. It was old hat for her now, no sense in trying to be anything she was not. A vile caper who haunted the halls of the Ton, stealing their secrets and their coin.
Rae, her housekeeper, hesitated at the door. “But, Ma’am, I do not mean to be impertinent. However -”
She huffed and looked up from her pile of garish yellow garments. “Then do not. I know I have asked much of you over the past few years. Please do this last favor.”
Rae had been dismissed. The brunette nodded sharply and left the room.
She continued stuffing her ill-fitting clothes in the last of her bags. A final form of self-flagellation. The lovely sage greens and sky blues were for Mrs. Bridgerton. The bright yellows were for Miss Featherington.
She would not be leaving as Mrs. Bridgerton. She did not deserve to be Mrs. Bridgerton .
He had seen all of her now, every sharp edge that protruded from her soft body poked and pricked him. Left him bleeding out and her fleeing the scene of the crime.
Some planned entrapment. Perhaps that was true. She wanted to be Mrs. Bridgerton, someone light, beautiful, worthy - worthy of a Bridgerton. Worthy of a Mr. Bridgerton.
But oh no, he saw her. She stepped into the light and he saw the ugly, jagged pieces left at her feet after the glass shattered. Mrs. Bridgerton was never real and she could not put the pieces together again. Did she want to put them back?
Maybe she was the evil temptress Eloise believed her to be, she presented an illusion and had the nerve to be angry when he smashed through the smoke and mirrors, looking for some proof of the goodness she claimed to have in spades.
A card trick, really. She was no better than a stage magician, an illusionist.
And it was time to take her final bow.
A clean break, no encore, no time to wait for the applause.
He deserved that. She brought nothing but mess into his life. He was a tidy man who kept his relationships compartmentalized. His family, brothers, sisters, mother. His friendships, Will, John, her .
She was nothing, she would become a ghost story whispered about in the halls she once haunted. Remember that wretched little Featherington who trapped that kind and handsome third Bridgerton? He is so much happier now with his Mrs. Bridgerton and their twelve children. Look how he twirls her around the ballroom - a love match for the ages!
Mrs. Bridgerton was lithe and willowy like the tree they once stood under together. Mrs. Bridgerton had lots of friends and was the life of the party. Mrs. Bridgerton was not a conniving little bitch who caught the ire of the Queen.
It was simple. She was not Mrs. Bridgerton. She was not the innocent little lamb he once saw.
She was Miss Featherington. And Featheringtons do not get happy endings.
She held up the last gown to stow away - stuffed in the dusty corner of her wardrobe. The gown from her first ball in her first season. It was another lemon-yellow number emblazoned with a butterfly across the chest. A butterfly . Appropriate.
Tears clouded her vision. The dress grew fuzzy in her hands as she choked back another wave of sobs. She did not deserve to mourn her life for she had built her own cage. But she cried anyway .
Mrs. Bridgerton would not cry. Miss Featherington soaked the butterfly bodice with her heaving weeps.
She forced herself to take deep, slow breaths. She was not allowed to mourn yet. She could mourn in Paris. Everyone mourned in Paris .
She gingerly folded the wet gown into her last bag and closed the luggage. Her yellow and pink day gown swished around her and her hair was piled back up on her head in tight curls. Her pink maid’s hood enveloped her like a familiar poison, the pain a comfort now.
A return to form, a return to who she really was - a lying, frumpy, selfish, little bitch.
She gripped the frayed and soft leather handles and rolled her shoulders back. Miss Featherington would flee England to save Mr. Bridgerton. It was the ending they both deserved.
Until the door blew open.
“What the bloody hell is this!” His face was nearly purple with rage. His arms flailed about as he gripped the note she left.
Rae stood behind him, her head down in shame. She mouthed, “I’m sorry, Ma’am.”
She attempted to sidestep the towering beast before her, “Excuse me.”
His mouth was agape as he met her step for step, blocking every attempt to move past him. “Have you lost your mind, truly? Have you gone mad?”
She sighed but refused to look him in the eye. “Sir, please. Let me pass.” She extended her arm full of luggage to Rae and the housekeeper tried to reach around the raving man.
He turned back to his housekeeper and sharply pointed for her to leave. Rae was dismissed once more, without the luggage.
He slammed the door to their - his bedchambers and whirled around to face her. She held onto the luggage and fussed with her disguise. No, not a costume. Who she really was.
“Why are you doing this?” His voice cracked with tears and she finally looked up at him. Hair askew, eyes swollen, cheeks red. She did this to him . “Why are you leaving me?”
She looked back down at the floor and whispered, “I thought the letter was explanatory. I am granting you the freedom you deserve. An annulment.” She made to move around him once more and he stepped again. “Please, please do not make me say it again. I have a hack waiting for me.”
“Oh, well if the hired hack is out front I must oblige!” He dramatically placed his hands on his hips and gestured toward the door. “Be my guest, Mrs. Bridgeton!”
She started toward the door. “Miss Feathington.”
He stepped in front of her yet again. “Pardon?”
“Miss Featherington, if you will.”
“I will not Mrs. Bridgerton.”
Her eyes filled with tears again as her hands began to tremble. The luggage shook under her tremors but she was resolved to leave and took one step toward the door that ever eluded her. “Please,” she begged in a watery tone. “I cannot keep you trapped in this marriage any longer. I refuse to cage you.”
She dropped the bag and covered her face as sobs racked her body. Damnnit! She did not wish for him to see her like this and save her like the white knight he was in her story.
She was not the damsel in the tower who needed saving. She was the witch who lured him in.
As she cried into her gloved hands, arms encircled her and heat emanated from his solid form. The pair were silent, save for her violent sobs and his dignified sniffles. The luggage sat between their feet, pointed toward the door.
After a moment he whispered into her ear. “I know you think this is a punishment for yourself. That you must be the judge, jury, and executioner of your sentence. But,” he paused, unable to speak for the threat of tears, “you are punishing me too.”
She looked at him, hair still askew and cheeks still reddened. But fresh tear tracks painted his face, traced his high cheekbones, and trailed his strong jaw. How she loved his jaw. She placed a shaky hand on his face and followed a tear with her finger, feeling the cool water against his hot skin.
He brought a hand to cover hers, to still her trembling digits, to still her crumbling heart. “Please, Mrs. Bridgerton. I beseech you to stay by my side. To fix this marriage with me. I am not so much a fool to believe it will be easy, but it is the purpose - the joy - of my life to know you fully and love you every day. Please do not send my purpose into exile,” a few more tears fell from his eyes as he beheld her. “I will be forced to appeal to every court and higher power I know in order to overturn it.”
She still could not believe it. He was too good and she was too awful .
Deceitful.
Wretched.
Miss Featherington.
She shook her head. “But - you know who I am and I cannot ask you to forgive me. I have behaved with reckless disregard, with malice. I may have had my reasons, but you were hurt regardless. You deserve only the best of wives, of women.” She bit her lip to push down her sobs before continuing, “I know who I am. I know what I deserve and it is none so good as you. You deserve someone you can be proud of.”
He brought both of his hands to cup her face as he laid a chaste kiss to her forehead. “My sweet, self-sacrificing wife. What can I say to convince you of my love? That the idea of - I cannot even utter that blasted word - that I could live without you? My maddening Mrs. Bridgerton.”
She swallowed and corrected him. “Mrs. Bridgerton does not make you mad.”
He cocked his head. “Erm, pardon?”
She scrunched her face. “Mrs. Bridgerton is a good wife, full of soft curves, kind and encouraging words. One who does not drive you to madness and who you can be proud of.”
He closed his eyes and took a breath. “And are you implying that you possess none of those characteristics? That you could not be this ‘Mrs. Bridgerton?’”
She only nodded as her cheeks flamed in shame.
“Hm, well. I take issue with this characterization because I happen to know Mrs. Bridgerton intimately and she is the best of wives, always ready with a kind word,” his hand left her face and began skimming towards her breasts and waist. “Always tempting me with her soft, voluptuous curves, which absolutely drive me to madness, and one I am immensely, unconditionally proud of.”
“But I have been deceitful, hurtful, said damaging words. How can you still want this marriage?”
His hand rested on her waist and pulled her toward him, kicking the luggage out from between them. As he pulled her towards his chest, he whispered, “I see you fully and I still want you.”
She looked up at him and asked him the same question she had so many weeks ago. “Are you sure?”
He nodded. “I love you, unconditionally, Mrs. Penelope Bridgerton.”
-
x.