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Chapter Text

(April 1815)

There was no such thing as a quiet Bridgerton homecoming.

Colin had not been back a day before the house was in uproar. Eloise accused him of treachery, Violet dabbed at imaginary tears, and Hyacinth announced that she was already drafting the first of her reports. Francesca only raised a brow and said very little — which was always more damning than words.

Hyacinth barricaded herself at the writing desk, quill scratching with glee.

Dearest Brother,
You missed the most absurd spectacle of the Season: Colin’s triumphant return from abroad. He stormed into the drawing room as though he’d fought three highwaymen and a thunderstorm on his way from Dover. Without so much as a greeting, he demanded to know where Penelope was.

When he found her in the library, he began raving about moustaches, sideburns, necklines, and “suitors in earnest.” He looked half-deranged — which only worsened when he suddenly grew solemn and declared that the thought of her with anyone else was unbearable.

I nearly fainted from laughter. Mother was delighted, Eloise called it divine intervention, and I immediately began drafting The Birdgerton Gazette: Special Love Confession Edition.

He has since informed us all that he intends to court her in earnest. I am sharpening my pen in anticipation of the disasters to come.

Your devoted (and favorite) sister,
Hyacinth

At breakfast the following morning, Francesca caught Hyacinth waving the letter triumphantly before it could vanish into the postbag. “You’ll have Benedict believing Colin charged in on horseback with pistols drawn if you’re not careful.”

Hyacinth smirked. “If it keeps him entertained in the country, what harm?”

Francesca sighed and sat down at her own desk.

Ben,
As ever, Hyacinth’s account is full of dramatics. Colin did return in an unusually agitated state, and he did make a passionate speech in the library — but there were no highwaymen, no fainting spells, and certainly no swooning.

Still, I admit it was remarkable to see him so direct. Penelope was startled, yes, but she did not send him away. That speaks volumes.

For all his dramatics, there was a steadiness in him I hadn’t expected. Something quieter beneath it, as if he finally understood what he wanted.

Hyacinth is correct in one regard: Colin has declared he will court her in earnest. If his first day back is any indication, I expect both comedy and calamity.

Yours,
Francesca

Benedict read both letters side by side, shaking his head until Sophie asked what could possibly be so funny. “Only that my brother seems intent on turning his courtship into a theatre production,” he told her, reaching for his quill.

Dearest Brother,
Hyacinth claims you fought pirates and declared love amidst thunder and moustaches. Francesca insists this is only partly true. In either case, I am both astonished and delighted.

I hear you are now courting Penelope in earnest. Try not to faint in public. Do keep me informed; life in the country is dreadfully dull, and your disasters are infinitely more entertaining than my hedges.

Affectionately,
Benedict

When Colin opened Benedict’s reply, he let out a groan loud enough for Eloise to hear through the study door. “What now?” she called, her voice gleeful. “More tales of your heroic return?”

“Hyacinth,” Colin muttered darkly, and stalked to his desk to set the record straight.

Ben,
I did not fight pirates. I did not faint. And Hyacinth must be stopped.

Yes, I am courting Penelope. Properly. Respectfully. Earnestly. (Do not laugh.) She deserves nothing less than the best. I will prove myself a suitor worthy of her regard.

You’ll see — everyone will see.

Colin

He set his pen down, chest tight with restless energy. Courting in earnest — yes, that was the phrase. He would show Penelope, and everyone else, just how serious he could be. Grand enough to make it unmistakable.

Chapter Text

Act 2: The Lace Gloves Fiasco

Colin had decided that earnestness must be displayed through gifts — tangible tokens of admiration. Hyacinth, naturally, noticed first, and before Penelope had even returned home with her parcel, she was already scribbling.

Dearest Brother,
The courtship has begun — and it is already a catastrophe. Colin delivered a gift to Penelope yesterday, with all the solemnity of a man signing a peace treaty. You may think it was flowers (a safe choice) or perhaps a book (which she would actually like). No. He presented her with lace gloves. White. With embroidery. Penelope accepted them politely, but her smile looked strained, as though she were trying very hard to be gracious.

Afterwards, he tried to take her for a promenade. He tripped over a paving stone and nearly landed in the gutter. Penelope caught his arm to steady him, which I am sure he will interpret as proof of undying devotion.

Truly, Benedict, this is better than theatre.

Your devoted sister,
Hyacinth

Francesca found Hyacinth smuggling the letter under her shawl on the way to the postbag and, with a weary look, wrote her own account.

Dear Ben,
Hyacinth’s account is, as usual, a distortion. Colin did present Penelope with lace gloves — and yes, they were entirely the wrong choice. Only days before he had accompanied her and Eloise to the library, quizzing her about which novels she had and which she had not. She quite reasonably expected a book. Instead, he handed her gloves fit for a debutante with no personality— lovely, delicate things, but far too impersonal for someone whose tastes he should already understand so well.

She thanked him, of course, but I suspect she was disappointed. He should know better.

As for the promenade — he did stumble, but only slightly. Still, Hyacinth is not wrong that Penelope steadied him, and his expression afterwards was… intense.

In short: he is trying far too hard, and it shows.

Yours,
Francesca

Benedict read both letters with an incredulous grin and wasted no time replying.

Colin,
Lace gloves? Really? You ask the lady about her books and then present her with gloves? I cannot decide whether to laugh or weep.

A word of advice: if you mean to court her, do it as the man who has known her for half his life — not as a suitor meeting her for the first time. Penelope is not just another young lady of the ton; she is your Pen — the same woman who’s known you since childhood. Try remembering that when you choose your next gift.

Also, Francesca informs me you stumbled on the promenade. I shall assume you were undone by your own guilty conscience over the gloves.

Benedict

Colin read the letter three times before throwing it down. “Undone by guilt? Lace gloves are a respectable gift! Any woman would appreciate them!” he muttered, pacing the study. Still, his mind tugged back to the memory of her polite smile, the way her fingers lingered on the paper wrapping as though waiting for something else.

No — he would not be outdone by a mistake. Next time, he would be grand enough, impressive enough, that no one — not Penelope, not Hyacinth, not Benedict — could question his earnest devotion.

Chapter Text

Act 3: The Rival Suitor

It did not take long for the household to notice a new visitor at the Featheringtons’. Hyacinth nearly danced with delight at the opportunity.

Dearest Brother,
A rival has appeared! A lord Debling (tall, neat sideburns, boring as porridge) has been seen calling. Penelope was at tea with Eloise this week and spoke of receiving a book, smiling the entire time. Colin happened to overhear, and you should have seen his face. He looked as if he had swallowed a lemon whole.

Not to be outdone, Colin arrived the very next morning with a bouquet the size of a carriage wheel. He carried it into the Featherington drawing room himself, scattering petals in his wake. Penelope nearly disappeared behind the blooms. I thought she might suffocate.

Afterwards he insisted on escorting her on a walk. I am certain he spoke to her of agriculture — yes, crops and fields and all manner of dull things. Her expression said as much. She looked ready to yawn at any moment. Debling strolled past and bowed, and Penelope laughed at something he said. Laughed, Benedict! Colin looked as though he might duel him on the spot.

I declare this is the finest entertainment of the Season.

Your devoted sister,
Hyacinth

Francesca rolled her eyes as Hyacinth gleefully sealed her account, then took up her own pen.

Dear Ben,
Hyacinth is being outrageous again, but there is truth beneath it. Lord Debling is indeed paying Penelope attention. He is polite, respectable, and yes, he brought her a book — the very one Colin had asked about in the library. Penelope was clearly pleased.

Colin’s reaction was… excessive. The bouquet was far too large and ill-suited to her taste. She accepted it graciously, of course, but there was a flicker in her expression that suggested she was not impressed.

As for their walk, I cannot confirm what they discussed — though I doubt it was agriculture, despite Hyacinth’s insistence. Still, Penelope did indeed look weary, perhaps even a little bored. When Debling passed by and exchanged a word with her, she laughed in a way that was natural and unforced. Colin’s jaw tightened so sharply I feared for his teeth.

In short: he is competing when he ought simply to be himself.

Yours,
Francesca

Benedict nearly snorted tea across his desk when he read the paired reports. His reply was merciless.

Colin,
A book, my dear brother. He brought her a book. Which you knew she wanted. Which you, in fact, asked her about. And yet you chose gloves.

Then, in an effort to outdo him, you produced a bouquet of monstrous size. Did you mean to court her or to furnish a new garden?

And agriculture? Truly? She laughed at Debling's remark because he was speaking to her interests. If you wish to win Penelope, stop trying to best another man and remember who she is.

Or perhaps you are determined to be outdone by a set of sideburns.

Benedict

Colin crumpled the letter in his fist and stalked across the room. “Agriculture? What in the devil is Benedict talking about? Why would I discuss crops with Penelope? Unless… would she want me to? Would she expect me to know how to tend an estate?”

The idea rooted itself in his mind at once. Perhaps Debling had an advantage after all — the dull sort of advantage that came with knowing wheat from barley. Colin scowled. It was not enough to be earnest. He had to be more earnest, grander, louder, cleverer — whatever it took to show her he was the only choice.