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Thuds, squeaks, and a crash pull Penelope from the pleasant haze of her nap. She blinks against the light slanting through the windows, her head still heavy with sleep, and slowly rises. The soft rustle of her gown brushes against the bed as she stretches, one hand instinctively resting over her very pregnant belly.
From somewhere below the stairs comes a triumphant shout, then another thud and another squeal. Gathering her skirts, she starts down the staircase with small, cautious steps. The banisters are draped with evergreen garlands, dotted with crimson ribbons and sprigs of holly, reminding her that Christmas is near.
A second later, another loud thump reminds her that chaos reigns in her house. A soft crash follows, then a chorus of laughter—unmistakably Colin’s—louder than usual, mingling with the gleeful shouts of their children.
Penelope reaches the bottom of the stairs and peers into the drawing room. It smells faintly of cinnamon and biscuits, and glows with decorations. Garlands frame the mantel and in the corner stands a Christmas tree: tall, proudly decorated, and clearly in danger.
She lingers at the threshold, one hand resting on the generous curve of her belly, the other clutching the doorframe as she takes in the scene before her. Her eyebrows lift slowly.
Chairs have been turned into stepping stones. Cushions from the sofa lie scattered across the floor like islands in a tumultuous sea. A small chaise lounge has been dragged perilously close to the Christmas tree, whose lower branches tremble each time someone lands nearby.
“Mama!” Elliot cheers. “The floor is lava!”
“Indeed!” Colin agrees, his voice echoing far too loudly for a man of thirty and the head of a noble household.
Penelope’s lips twitch. Her husband, the respectable Mr. Bridgerton, father of three (soon four), author, and present head of Featherington House, balances on an armchair—shoes, cravat, waistcoat, and tailcoat discarded—the sleeves of his white linen shirt rolled to the elbows. His dark hair is untidy as he points dramatically at the floor below, as though it is certain death itself. He jumps for the next chair, wobbles precariously, then catches himself just in time.
Seven-year-old Elliot whoops as he leaps from cushion to cushion. “Papa, you are going to fall!”
“I shall not,” Colin replies. “I am a seasoned explorer. I once crossed the Great Lava Ocean!”
“You did not,” five-year-old Agatha says firmly from atop a small table. “Besides, you skipped the footstool. That is cheating.”
Colin places a hand to his chest. “Aggie, I would never cheat!”
Little Jane, perched on another sofa in her pale blue dress, bounces eagerly. “Up, Papa! Up!”
At two, she understands only two rules: the floor is lava, and lava is supposed to be dangerous.
Colin crouches carefully, lifting Jane without letting so much as one of her tiny toes brush the carpet. “A daring Christmas rescue,” he announces solemnly, kissing her temple and settling her beside Elliot.
Penelope watches, half-amused and half-horrified, just as Elliot launches himself toward the chaise lounge. His foot clips the edge. There is a soft crash, followed by the unmistakable tinkle of glass.
Everyone freezes.
A small ornament, one of the painted glass baubles Colin brought from a trip to Kent a few weeks ago, rolls to a stop near the hearth.
Elliot’s eyes go wide. “I did not mean—”
Colin instantly leaps into action, dropping to one knee beside the fallen ornament. “Fear not! No casualties.” He examines the bauble then holds it up. “Still intact. A Christmas miracle.”
Penelope sighs. “Elliot,” she says gently, “perhaps a little less enthusiasm near the tree.”
“Yes, Mama,” he answers, chastened for all of three seconds before grinning and jumping again.
“The lava is spreading!” Agatha cries dramatically, jumping from the small table onto a chair.
“Indeed it is,” Colin agrees. “Quickly, everyone to safety!”
Jane squeals as he sweeps her up once more, Elliot laughing as he scrambles back onto the cushions. The tree trembles again as Agatha lands on the chaise lounge, but remains standing, proud and patient in the face of Bridgerton chaos.
Penelope eases herself onto a bigger sofa, smoothing her gown and resting a hand over her belly as the baby shifts, already accustomed to noise and laughter. She watches her husband, her beloved but sometimes ridiculous husband, crawl and hop across furniture, pretend to lose his balance, and allow himself to be saved by his children.
She raises an eyebrow at him when he catches her gaze. He only grins and winks. Penelope smiles, warmth blooming in her chest. Advent, she thinks, has never looked quite like this, but she cannot imagine a happier way to wait for Christmas.
“Ah,” Colin says suddenly. “The Lady has chosen an island of exceptional safety.”
She looks up. “Colin.”
“Yes, my love?”
“Do not even consider—”
Too late.
“The lava advances!” he cries, hopping dramatically from chair to footstool, ignoring Agatha’s indignant, “Papa, that is not the correct order!”
Jane claps, chanting, “Papa jump! Papa jump!”
Colin makes one final, exaggerated leap and lands beside Penelope on the sofa with a triumphant grin, dropping to his knees.
“There,” he says, breathless. “Made it.”
Penelope shakes her head, utterly helpless against her smile. “You are impossible.”
“You love me,” he replies softly, leaning in to kiss her.
“Is that so?” she teases.
“Yes,” he answers and presses another gentle kiss to her lips, then immediately bends lower to kiss the curve of her belly through her gown.
“Hello there,” he murmurs to the baby. “Your siblings are determined to destroy the house before you are born.”
“Your papa as well,” Penelope laughs, one hand threading through his hair. “Colin, you do realise you are encouraging them.”
“I encourage joy,” he says, straightening and placing a careful hand over her feet. “Which is why” —he lifts her feet gently onto the sofa— “you are to keep these safely elevated.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Is that a medical opinion?”
“It is a lava-related safety regulation,” he declares solemnly. “Far too dangerous for a very expectant lady to be walking about.”
Elliot points accusingly. “Mama does not have to play! Because of the baby!”
“Exactly,” Colin says cheerfully. “She is the Queen of Lava Island.”
Jane toddles closer, ignoring that the floor is lava, patting Penelope’s skirt. “Mama safe.”
Penelope’s heart warms as though it were mulled wine when Colin squeezes her hand and kisses her knuckles, the glow of candlelight and Christmas ornaments reflecting in his eyes.
A moment later, Elliot calls out that the lava is drowning the cushions, and Colin must rescue himself at once. He hops away, landing safely on a chair.
Jane, emboldened by her siblings’ cheers, attempts a jump of her own, from a sofa cushion to a footstool. But she does not quite make it.
There is a soft thump, followed by a heartbeat of silence. Then Jane’s face crumples. The cry that follows is piercing. It is the unmistakable wail of a hurt, startled toddler.
“Jane!” Colin is off the chair and on the floor in an instant, lava forgotten entirely. He scoops her up, quickly checks her over, murmuring urgently as she sobs into his shoulder. “Oh, sweetheart. Everything is well.”
Penelope pushes herself upright on the sofa and Colin carries the little girl over at once.
“Janie bumped,” she sobs.
“I know,” Colin says softly, rubbing her back. “I know, darling. You are safe now.”
Elliot and Agatha have both turned still as Penelope reaches out, cradling Jane gently, kissing her curls.
“Mama is here,” she whispers. “It is all right. You are very brave.”
Jane’s cries slowly soften, turning into hiccupping sniffles as she presses her face against Penelope’s gown, seeking comfort. Colin presses a kiss to the top of her head.
“Well,” he says quietly after a moment, turning to his older children, “I believe the lava has been defeated for today.”
“No, Papa!” Agatha cries.
“Papa,” Elliot pleads. “Just one more round, please!”
Agatha nods. “A very short one.”
“Please!” they chorus. Two pairs of bright blue eyes stare up at him imploringly.
Colin hesitates, glancing at Penelope. She gives him a look, arches a brow, almost warning. He sighs, then smiles anyway.
“One last round,” he agrees. “A careful round…And no jumping near the tree.”
Elliot and Agatha beam.
“You are hopeless,” Penelope chuckles and watches as Colin resets the course, moving a wooden chair a little farther from the others, nudging a small side table into what he clearly believes is a safer position. Jane stays tucked against her mother, still sniffling.
“The floor is lava,” Colin announces again, more subdued this time. “Proceed with caution.”
Elliot climbs onto a wooden chair, determination set firmly across his face as he eyes a small side table ahead. “I can make it. The lava shall not drown me!”
“Slowly,” Colin warns. “Carefully!”
Elliot jumps. His foot catches the edge of the table. It is lighter than he expects. It shifts, and so does his balance, and at that exact moment, the drawing room door opens.
A maid steps inside, a tray of lemonade in her hands, the pale yellow liquid glowing warmly in the light. “I beg your pardon, madam—”
The collision is unavoidable.
Elliot tumbles forward just as the table tips sideways. The maid cries out, startled but managing to catch herself against the doorframe as the tray falls. There is a sharp, overwhelming crash, glass shattering, lemonade splashing, wood clattering against the floor. The sound echoes through the room.
“ELLIOT!” Colin shouts, already moving.
Lemonade has spilled everywhere, soaking the rug, the floor, the maid’s apron, as well as Elliot’s hair and sleeves. Shards of glass scatter across the floor, glittering dangerously.
Colin reaches his son in two strides, lifting him upright at once, hands planted on his shoulders. “Are you hurt?”
Elliot is wide-eyed, breathing fast, but unharmed. “I…I slipped.”
“I saw,” Colin answers, voice low and controlled now. “Are you well?”
“Yes,” Elliot replies, swallowing. “I am sorry. I did not mean to make a mess.”
“It is all right,” Colin says, already turning to the maid. “Are you hurt?”
The maid exhales, shaken but composed again. “No, sir. I apologise. I should have knocked.”
“No harm done,” Penelope says at once, her voice steady despite her racing heart.
As the maid begins carefully gathering the shards, Agatha remains frozen atop her chair, hands clasped to her chest, eyes wide. Colin draws Elliot close, pressing his forehead briefly to his son’s lemonade-damp hair in quiet relief.
“That,” he says gently but firmly, “is the end of lava.”
Elliot nods, guilt settling over his features as he looks at the mess. “I really did not mean to.”
“I know,” Colin says softly, meeting his eyes. “But accidents are why we stop.”
He lifts Elliot onto a chair well away from the spill and kneels to help the maid tidy the glass.
Jane clings to Penelope, soothed by her mama’s presence. The Christmas tree stands untouched in the corner, lights twinkling serenely over the mess.
Gradually, the room quiets. Broken glass is swept away. Lemonade is mopped up. Cushions are gathered, and chairs and tables set to rights. The children drift closer together, the earlier excitement softened into calm.
When everything is cleaned and sorted, Colin settles onto the sofa beside Penelope, one arm wrapping around her shoulders, the other drawing Elliot close. Agatha climbs onto his lap while Jane remains curled against her mother’s side, eyelids heavy and fingers clutching the folds of Penelope’s gown.
“Well,” Colin says warmly, brushing a stray curl from Elliot’s damp forehead, “the lava has cooled.”
Elliot looks up, a tentative smile tugging at his lips. “Maybe…tomorrow?”
“Perhaps,” Colin replies, his eyes twinkling. “But without quite so much chaos.”
Penelope rests her head against his shoulder, one hand over her belly as the baby stirs gently, already part of the moment. She surveys her family, rumpled, safe, gathered close beneath flickering candlelight.
Chaos, she thinks, is inevitable when you are a Bridgerton. But so is love.
The Christmas tree glows softly in the corner, ornaments sparkling like captured stars. Her children snuggle close, Jane’s head resting against Penelope’s arm, Agatha’s small weight on Colin’s lap, Elliot safe against his side. A quiet contentment fills the room. Penelope smiles, her heart full, and decides there is no better way to welcome Christmas.