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Violet’s backyard was bathed in warm sunlight, dappled through the canopy of tall trees that framed the garden. White linen-draped tables held platters of scones, tiny sandwiches, and fruit, while a lazy breeze rustled the flowers planted along the hedges. It was one of those rare perfect Sundays: everyone was home.
Penelope stood near the refreshments table, chatting with Eloise, Sophie, and Kate while sipping her drink. Her laughter rang lightly as Kate recounted something Anthony had grumbled about earlier. Somewhere nearby, Hyacinth shrieked as Gregory tried to balance a grape on her head, and the other kids were laughing at them.
Meanwhile, Colin sat comfortably on the cushioned bench beneath the pergola with Benedict and Michaela, deep in a heated discussion. “They asked me if I’d ever considered writing a memoir,” Colin was saying, voice theatrical. “A memoir , Ben! Can you imagine?”
Michaela sipped her tea. “Sometimes you do talk like you’re the main character in a Victorian novel.”
“And walk like one,” Benedict added. “Flapping coat, tousled hair, and that bewildered expression you wear whenever someone hands you a receipt.”
Colin laughed, bumping shoulders with his brother, while two-and-a-half-year-old Agatha Bridgerton, who had started off sitting beside her father, had steadily been losing patience. She tugged at the hem of Colin’s shirt once. Twice.
Agatha tugged at his sleeve again.
“Daddy,” she said. No response. Benedict was laughing too loudly at something Michaela had added.
Colin waved his hand vaguely, nodding, still chuckling.
“Daddy,” she tried again, louder.
And Penelope had just begun a sentence across the table. “So I told the bookseller, if you’re going to charge me that much for a reprint, at least spell my name right —”
“Daddy!”
Still no response.
Benedict was now halfway through a ridiculous story about a painter who had once stormed out of his studio in tears over an argument about oil pastels.
“Daddyy!!” Agatha tried again, scooting closer, her little legs dangling off the edge of the bench.
The adults kept talking. Laughter roared around her.
Agatha blinked at him. Then her tiny brows furrowed. Her curls bounced slightly as she squared her little shoulders. Her voice rose to a shrill, decisive pitch as she planted her feet on the grass and shouted with all the fury a toddler could muster:
“ COWIN BWIDGETON!!! ”
The entire backyard froze.
A grape rolled off Hyacinth’s plate. Francesca turned mid-sentence. Penelope choked on her mimosa, eyes wide as everyone turned toward the source of the tiny outburst. Violet dropped her fork. Anthony blinked.
Colin whipped his head so fast toward his daughter that he nearly knocked Benedict’s tea over. “What—did you just—?”
Agatha scowled, still standing, arms crossed, and her curls bouncing with righteous indignation. “You not listening!” she announced to the entire room, now pointing an accusatory finger at him. “I say daddy a lots of times! You keep talking about wandom boring stuff!”
A stunned beat of silence passed.
Then Benedict exploded with laughter. He doubled over, practically wheezing.
“Oh my God,” Michaela managed. “She full-named him. She sounds like Penelope when she’s angry at him.” She was wheezing. “I—she’s got your voice, Penelope. And your fury.”
Penelope finally found her voice and covered her mouth, shoulders shaking as she laughed. “Agatha Featherington Bridgerton, what has gotten into you?”
Agatha crossed her arms and pouted, cheeks puffed in indignation. “Daddy’s talking too much! He not listening to me!”
“Oh no,” Eloise said with a delighted grin. “We’ve got a dramatic one. Can’t imagine where she got that from.”
Colin, still stunned, blinked up at his daughter and managed, “I—I’m sorry, sweetheart. What did you want to say?”
Agatha crossed her arms. “I finish my toast. I want ‘nother one. Wif jam. No cwusts. ”
Violet listened to what the toddler wanted. “There’s more bread inside, Colin.”
“Yes, of course, angel. No crusts,” Colin nodded earnestly, his eyes wide like he’d just been told off by a tiny queen.
“And no talking wike that again,” Agatha added seriously. “It’s annoying. ”
Colin turned to Michaela and Benedict. “I’ve just been scolded by a toddler using my full name. I feel like I should sit in a corner and reflect.”
“You should,” Penelope chimed in, finally composing herself. “You know when she gets ignored for three minutes and it turns into a full courtroom drama.”
“She really is your daughter,” Francesca said, chuckling from her seat. “Poor man never stood a chance.”
Colin scooped Agatha into his arms. “I’m sorry, my darling. Will you forgive me if I make you toast right now?”
Agatha gave a regal nod. “Yes. But you say sowwy. Properly.”
He placed his hand on his chest. “Agatha Eloise Featherington-Bridgerton, I am very, very sorry I ignored you while talking about irrelevant adult nonsense.”
Agatha grinned, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Okay. I still wuv you.”
“Thank God,” Colin whispered. “I don’t think I’d survive being cancelled by my own daughter.”
As he carried her toward the house, Penelope smiled softly, eyes full of affection. Eloise nudged her. “She’s a mini you with Colin’s appetite!”
Penelope was amused, grinning at her best friend. “She is the best of both of us. But yes, a mini me.”
Halfway inside, they could still hear Agatha’s voice loud and clear: “Don’t forget the jam! And no cwusts , Cowin!”
“I can’t believe Daphne and Simon missed this,” Gregory commented.
Later that evening, the golden light had long faded into a soft twilight, and the house was quiet. The laughter and chatter from brunch had given way to the comforting hush of bedtime rituals in their home.
Colin sat on the small bed, watching his daughter hold court over her plush toys with the same flair as her mother presenting a book pitch.
He reached out, brushing a stray curl from her cheek, his fingers gentle. “All warm and tucked in?”
Agatha nodded with a tiny yawn, then reached for his hand and placed it on top of hers.
There was a moment of quiet, the room filled with nothing but the creak of the old floorboards and the distant sound of Penelope humming downstairs.
Colin cleared his throat softly. “So…” he began, his tone playful but cautious. “Have I… earned back the right to be called Daddy again? Or are we still in ‘ Cowin Bwidgeton ’ territory?”
“I only say ‘Cowin Bwidgeton’…” she began slowly, voice hushed and matter-of-fact, “like Mummy does… when you bein’ naughty.”
Colin let out a soft, startled laugh, pressing a hand over his heart like she’d delivered a fatal blow. “I knew it,” he whispered dramatically. “I’ve been Penelope’d. Doubled.”
Agatha giggled sleepily.
Agatha turned to him suddenly, narrowing her eyes like she remembered something very important. “You didn’t say ‘scuse me eithuh.”
He blinked. “Me?”
She nodded gravely. “When you talked and talked and talked and talked with Auntie Michaela and Uncle Benny, and I was saying your name and you didn’t hear me four times .”
“Ah,” Colin sighed, scooting closer to the bed. “Yes. That was very wrong of me.”
Agatha crossed her arms and pouted. “So I yelled.”
“Oh, you definitely yelled,” Colin said, nodding solemnly. “You said my full name like you were Mummy in a tiny, angry form.”
Agatha’s expression brightened slightly, as if proud of that fact.
“Was it scary?” she asked.
“A little,” he admitted, and leaned forward to whisper, “Mostly because you looked just like your mum when she’s about to lecture me.”
Agatha giggled, a hand clapping over her mouth.
Colin placed his hand gently over her blanket-covered feet. “Hey… you forgive me?”
Agatha tilted her head, considering, then reached out and tugged at his sleeve.
“I fink… I’ll call you Daddy again,” she whispered, “but only if you say sorry to Mr Beaw, too.”
Colin gave a dramatic gasp. “Mr Bear! My sincerest apologies!”
He bowed deeply to the stuffed rabbit, earning a delighted squeal from his daughter.
“Okay,” Agatha said, snuggling under the covers at last, “you can be Daddy again. But no more yappin’ when I’m talkin’.”
Colin kissed her forehead. “Deal. No more yappin’. You’re the boss, little love.”
As he stood and dimmed the bedside lamp, her sleepy voice called out again.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah, sweetheart?”
“I like when you laugh. But I like it more when you hear me.”
Colin’s throat tightened. He walked back and pressed one more kiss to her curls.
“I’ll always hear you,” he whispered. “Even if you have to call me Cowin Bwidgeton .”
Colin had just returned from Agatha’s room, walking in softly and shutting the door behind him with care. Penelope was already in bed, curled up under the duvet with a book propped on her knees, her hair down and skin still warm from her evening bath.
“She’s out cold,” he said, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck as he crossed to his side of the bed.
“Bunny in one hand?” Penelope asked without looking up.
“Ah no, it's Mr Bear tonight and one sock halfway off,” Colin replied, grinning. “Truly your child. She refuses to sleep like a regular person.”
“She gets it from you,” Penelope muttered, turning a page.
Colin chuckled as he slid into bed beside her, lifting the covers and settling in with a contented sigh.
“Emotional damage?” she teased, putting the book away.
“Destroyed,” Colin said, brushing past her. “Your daughter is brutal.”
“Our daughter,” Penelope corrected, eyes glinting with warmth. “But a mini me. Your words, not mine.”
Colin groaned dramatically and wrapped his arms around her waist.
“I’m not surviving a second child.”
Penelope laughed into his shoulder. “Oh, you are. You just won’t win any arguments.”
“Never have,” he said fondly. “But it’s worth it.”
And in the soft quiet of their bedroom, wrapped in blankets and sleepy affection, they drifted closer; two tired parents, one tiny girl boss asleep down the hall, and a house filled with the kind of joy only a toddler could bring.