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The hospital room was quiet, bathed in the golden hush of early morning. Outside the window, the city stirred gently awake, but inside, time seemed to have paused. The only sounds were the soft, steady beep of the monitor, the tiny squeaks of a brand-new life, and the even breaths of Penelope Bridgerton as she held her newborn daughter close to her chest.
Jane Bridgerton.
Her fourth child. Her last baby.
Penelope was still floating on that post-birth haze tired beyond reason, her limbs aching, but her heart fuller than ever. Wrapped tightly in a pink blanket, Jane nestled against her, impossibly small, impossibly perfect.
“She’s here,” she whispered, as if speaking it aloud made it real.
Colin was beside her, sitting on the edge of the bed, completely captivated by the little face peeking up at them. He had cried when she came into the world, just like he had with the others. And now his eyes were still glassy, his hand cradling Jane’s impossibly tiny foot with a tenderness that nearly broke her.
“Hi, little one,” he said softly, brushing his knuckle along her cheek. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
Jane let out a squeaky sigh, and both parents smiled.
“She has George’s nose,” Penelope murmured.
“And Agatha’s chin,” Colin added. “And I think Thomas’s suspicious eyebrows.”
Penelope laughed, leaning against his shoulder. “Well, that’s the full Bridgerton collection.”
There was a knock at the door, and a nurse peeked in with a smile. “We’ve got some very excited siblings waiting in the hallway. Should we let them in?”
Penelope beamed. “Yes. Send them in, please.”
Moments later, a thunder of little feet echoed in the hallway before three excited children burst into the room or rather, cautiously tiptoed in after being sternly reminded not to run in a hospital.
Agatha, nearly ten now, held a bouquet of flowers far too big for her arms. Her face lit up the moment she saw Penelope and the bundle in her arms. Behind her was Thomas, eight, clutching a stuffed rabbit meant for the new baby. And bringing up the rear was George, five years old and blinking sleepily, his hair sticking up in every direction from the car seat nap.
“Is that her?” Agatha whispered, approaching the bed slowly.
Penelope nodded. “Come meet your sister.”
Colin helped the kids gather around the bed. Thomas stood on tiptoe to peek at the bundle, while George padded over to his mum and leaned his head against her arm, still waking up.
“She’s so small,” Thomas said in awe.
“She looks like a loaf of bread,” Agatha whispered reverently.
George pointed. “She’s pink.”
“She’s perfect,” Colin added, his voice thick with love as he placed a kiss on the top of Agatha’s head, then Thomas’s, then George’s. “Her name is Jane.”
“Jane,” Agatha repeated, testing it out. “I like it.”
“Hi, Jane,” Thomas said shyly, placing the rabbit beside her. “I brought you this. His name is Waffles.”
“I’m your big brother,” George announced, puffing out his chest. “I can teach you how to use Legos.”
“She’ll eat them if you leave them near her,” Penelope warned gently.
“We’ll keep them very high up,” Colin added with a chuckle.
The room filled with laughter, soft giggles, and the kind of warm chaos that only a growing family could create. Agatha carefully climbed onto the bed and curled next to her mother, eyes never leaving Jane. George was now petting her tiny hand like she was a kitten, while Thomas stood close to Colin, watching over his sisters with protective seriousness.
Penelope closed her eyes for a moment, breathing it in.
Four children.
Four hearts she loved so fiercely it sometimes hurt to hold it all.
“You okay?” Colin asked quietly, leaning toward her.
She looked at him, her smile soft and content. “More than okay.”
He took her hand in his, threading their fingers together. “She completes us.”
Penelope looked down at Jane her soft cheeks, her dark tuft of hair, her barely-there lashes fluttering in sleep and then around at the three other pieces of her heart gathered close.
“Yes,” she whispered. “She really does.”