Chapter Text
1804
Colin Bridgerton was in trouble.
Again.
He sat alone in the classroom long after the other boys had been dismissed. Lately, it seemed Professor Albert Debling found a new reason every day to keep him behind.
Just the other day, Colin had mispronounced murus, accidentally saying mus—turning a simple translation into “Behind the mouse of the city, the enemies hide.” The class erupted in laughter, and Professor Debling’s disappointment was as sharp as his reprimand.
But today was different. There had been no outbursts, no mistakes, no missed recitations. Class had passed uneventfully.
Unless, of course, one counted the moment they began reading from Caesar’s Commentarii de Bello Gallico.
It had been just over a year since Edmund Bridgerton’s unexpected death, but Colin remembered it as if it were yesterday. The desperation in Anthony’s eyes as he clutched their lifeless father. The confusion on Benedict’s face. The way their mother screamed in agony, and how he and Daphne feared Violet might follow him into the afterlife—even if only to drag him back.
The tragedy had changed everything. His family would never be the same.
And neither would he.
At twelve years old, Colin hadn’t understood the full extent of what he’d lost. He’d grown up watching his father guide Anthony and Benedict, teaching them how to read ledgers, manage land, and speak with tenants. They were the heir and the spare, and Edmund took their education seriously. He coached them in fencing, offered advice on how to carry themselves, even how to speak to a lady with respect and confidence.
Colin might have inherited his charm naturally, but he never got his father’s guidance on how to wield it wisely.
Not that Edmund hadn’t been a good father to him, far from it. Despite having seven children at the time, and a house full of younger sisters constantly competing for his attention, Edmund had always made time for Colin. He was loving, present, and attentive. They shared a deep love of books, often reading side by side and discussing stories long after the others had gone to bed. They shared a love of food, too, and would sneak into the kitchen together to sample whatever new creation the cook was preparing.
But still, Colin had waited all his life for something more. He had imagined the day his father would guide him through the transition to manhood. Of traveling together to Eton. Of having the kind of serious, grown-up conversations Anthony and Benedict once had with him.
That day never came.
Edmund was gone too soon, before Colin had even begun to grow into a young man. Let alone become one.
So even though more than a year had passed, the wound still felt fresh. Grief came and went without warning—unpredictable, just like his father’s death.
That day, it crept up on him during Latin class. One of the passages they were reciting described Caesar’s unwavering composure, his command of men, his control under pressure, his calm, rational decisions. And suddenly, all Colin could think of was Edmund.
In a way his family felt like a small army. And his father had been like that too.
Professor Debling must have noticed the shift in his expression—or perhaps assumed Colin’s distraction was defiance—because now he was being punished. Fifty lines . The entire passage, copied out by hand.
Colin stared at the blank parchment on his desk, then out the window. He had until nightfall to finish.
He tried to gauge the time by the sun’s position, but the overcast sky outside gave no clear indication of the hour. With a sigh, he dipped his quill in ink and began to write, hoping for the best.
—
Colin rubbed his eyes, his fingers sore from writing and his back aching from sitting hunched over the desk for so long. He was already tall for his age, and the desks were clearly built for boys much smaller than him, making it impossible to sit comfortably.
He still couldn't quite see the sun, but the room was growing dimmer by the minute and he had a sinking feeling that nightfall was drawing near.
The door creaked open, and Colin jumped. He expected to see Professor Debling, ready to collect the lines and deliver another pointed remark about focus and diligence.
But it wasn’t the professor.
A boy stood in the doorway—red-haired, nearly as tall as Colin, with an unfamiliar face.
Before he could speak, the boy offered a polite apology.
“Excuse me—I didn’t realize anyone was still here.”
“It’s quite alright,” Colin replied, setting down his quill. “Are you new?”
“I’m only here today,” the boy said as he stepped further into the room. “My father’s a writer, a published one, and he’s here as a visiting lecturer. I’m Thomas.”
Colin nodded, intrigued. “I’m Colin. Good to meet you.”
“What are you working on?” Thomas asked, glancing at the parchment in front of him.
“Studying,” Colin replied quickly, not wanting to admit it was punishment work.
“Mind if I… study with you?”
Colin blinked, surprised by the question. He glanced out the window again, then looked back at Thomas. “I can’t really talk,” he said. “I need to finish this before it gets dark.”
“We don’t have to talk,” Thomas replied simply, already pulling out a case of supplies as he slid into the seat beside him.
They pushed the desks together so the open Latin text rested between them. Colin still found it odd that the boy would willingly spend extra time studying, especially if he wasn’t a student there. But strangely, having someone next to him eased the pressure in his chest.
He glanced at Thomas’s parchment. The boy’s handwriting was neat, clean, and very similar to his.
“So why are you here?” Thomas asked, eyes still on his parchment as his hand moved steadily across the page.
“I told you,” Colin replied, a little too defensively.
“There are more comfortable places to study,” Thomas said mildly.
“What would you know about it? You're not a student here.”
The words slipped out before Colin could stop them, and he instantly regretted the edge in his voice.
“I’m sorry,” he added quickly. “I’m just…”
“Sad?” Thomas offered, glancing at him now. “You look sad.”
Colin shook his head. “More like… mad. This punishment is unfair.”
“Ah, I knew it,” Thomas said, a little too triumphantly before dialing back his tone. “So I take it you’ve never been punished as a child.”
That caught Colin off guard. He paused, the quill hovering above his parchment.
He hadn’t, not properly at least. Mischief, yes. Pranks, of course. But between his charm and his birth order, he usually escaped serious consequences. At home, there was always someone louder, bossier, or more reckless that stood out.
But Eton was different. And Professor Debling wasn’t swayed by clever smiles.
“Have you?” Colin asked, genuinely curious.
Thomas grinned. “No. But I know my parents well enough to push the limits without crossing the line.”
Colin chuckled for the first time that day. It was quiet, but real.
But the moment passed too quickly. Thomas had both of his parents. As soon as the smile faded from his face, the weight of memory settled back over him. A shadow he couldn’t shake.
Thomas noticed the shift.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked gently.
Colin rolled his eyes, not at Thomas, but at himself. He hated how painfully clear his emotions were. How easy it was for someone his own age, someone he’d just met, to see right through him. It was the same raw emotion that had distracted him in class, the same crack in his composure that earned him this punishment in the first place.
“My father passed away last year,” Colin said finally. “Sometimes… when I think about him, I still get sad.”
He stared at the ink stains on his fingers, surprised by his own words. He’d never really said that out loud before, not to anyone outside his family. Maybe Penelope Featherington, once. But otherwise, it had stayed hidden behind polite nods and unspoken assumptions. Everyone at school knew the rumors—how his brother was now the Viscount Bridgerton—but no one had ever asked him about it.
It felt strangely good to say it.
“I’m sorry,” Thomas said quietly. “My father lost his father when he was about our age too. He said his first year here was awful.”
Colin looked up. “Really?”
Thomas nodded. “He said what helped most was writing a journal. He wrote down everything he didn’t want to say out loud, but still needed to get out of his head.”
Colin mulled that over. It didn’t sound too silly, especially coming from someone who hadn’t made him feel foolish for being upset. He looked down at his aching hand and the half-finished lines in front of him.
“Maybe not tonight,” he said. “My hand might fall off.”
“That’s more realistic.”
The boys bent over their desks again, quills scratching across parchment as they traded lines on their favorite scones and how much they liked the color yellow. Thomas paused, looking up with a thoughtful smile. “I walked past the daffodil garden outside the south wing,” he said. “They tell us boys shouldn’t admire flowers, but I think they’re lovely. My father says they remind him of my mother.”
Colin smiled at the gentle honesty. Even though Edmund was gone, Colin realized he still had much to learn from his father—from those who remembered his father and from those small examples he’d observed growing up.
Thomas glanced at the door. “I’d best be off, my father will be looking for me.”
Colin set down his quill. “I finished it. I can’t believe it.”
“You’re welcome,” Thomas teased.
Colin grinned. “Fine, you were somewhat helpful. See you… around, I suppose.”
“Try to stay out of trouble, will you?”
“I’ll try.”
Thomas hesitated by the doorway. “And if you ever struggle… reach out to your friends.”
Colin’s shoulders slumped. “But I don’t have any friends.”
“Consider anyone who laughs at your jokes a friend,” Thomas said with a wink. “They’re not all that funny.”
Colin frowned, trying to recall a single joke he’d made.
Thomas caught the confusion in his eyes and hurried on, “Oh! And Professor Debling, he’s fond of birdwatching. Mention that, and you’ll be in his good graces. Goodbye now!”
With that, Thomas slipped out into the corridor. Colin watched the door close behind him, feeling an unexpected lift in his spirits.
He leaned back, pondering Thomas’s words, and the first thing that came to mind was Penelope Featherington’s laughter at his jokes.
He smiled.
As the Eton bell tolled, the world suddenly seemed a little less daunting.