Chapter Text
Penelope Featherington had never required an invitation to Bridgerton House. She had crossed its threshold so often over the years that the servants no longer paused to announce her.
At eight years old, she had been ushered in with scraped knees and flushed cheeks, clutching Eloise’s hand as though she feared the house itself might swallow her whole.
At eighteen, she had arrived stiff-backed and hopeful, her debut gown too bright and her expectations carefully tempered.
At twenty-eight, she came quietly, her steps measured, her presence as natural as the furniture.
The Bridgertons had always made room for her.
On this particular winter afternoon, she stood near the tall windows of the drawing room, watching the frost creep along the glass. The house hummed with subdued energy, Christmas was approaching, and with it came a particular sort of anticipation that Penelope had long ago learned to hold carefully. Joy had a way of slipping through her fingers when she gripped it too tightly.
“Penelope,” Colin’s voice came easily, warmly, behind her. “I should have known I’d find you here.”
She turned, smiling before she could stop herself.
Colin Bridgerton filled the doorway as though it had been built with him in mind, broad-shouldered, relaxed, his expression open in the way that had undone her since girlhood. At three-and-thirty, he had settled into himself at last, though he would have denied it if asked. There was a steadiness to him now, a quiet confidence that had grown from years of movement and return.
He crossed the room and stood beside her, close enough that his arm brushed hers. Neither remarked upon it. They never did.
“You look cold,” he said, glancing toward the window. “I’ll have the fire stoked.”
“I am perfectly warm,” Penelope replied, though she did not move away when he reached past her to pull the curtain slightly closed. “You need not always see to my comfort.”
Colin smiled faintly. “I rather think I always shall.”
She laughed, because it was easier than wondering what such words might mean if spoken by any other man.
They stood together in companionable silence, the kind that only came of long familiarity. It was the silence of shared history, of a thousand conversations folded into one another so neatly that no explanation was required.
Penelope did not notice Violet Bridgerton watching them from the doorway. Nor did Colin. Violet, however, had noticed them for years.
Twenty Years Earlier
The bonnet was yellow. That was the detail Penelope would remember most clearly for the rest of her life, not the horse, not the startled shout, not even the painful certainty that she had made a dreadful first impression upon a Bridgerton. It was the bonnet. Too bright, too large, perched precariously upon her small head as she ran across the grass at Hyde Park, entirely unaware of the danger she was about to create.
Colin Bridgerton had been three and ten years old and feeling very proud of himself. He sat atop a small but spirited horse, his posture straight, his expression focused in the way of boys who desperately wished to be taken seriously. He was racing with his elder brothers, and he intended to show them he could keep up with them. He did not see the bonnet until it collided with him.
The impact was not severe, but it was unexpected. The horse startled. Colin lost his balance. A moment later, he found himself sprawled unceremoniously in the mud, staring up at the sky. There was a horrified gasp.
“Oh, oh no, I am so terribly sorry!” a small voice cried, trembling with panic.
Colin blinked. A girl stood over him, her curls escaping wildly from beneath the offending bonnet, her cheeks flushed crimson. She looked as though she might cry at any moment, or faint, or perhaps do both at once.
He stared at her for a long moment. Then he laughed. It surprised them both.
Penelope froze, her hands twisting in the fabric of her gown. “You are… not injured?”
“No,” Colin said, grinning as he sat up. “But I think you may have saved me from an afternoon of boredom.”
She blinked at him, uncertain.
“I am Colin,” he added, scrambling to his feet. “And you have excellent aim.”
She smiled then, tentatively at first, then fully, brilliantly, and something settled quietly into place.
Violet Bridgerton, watching from under the Bridgerton family tent, felt a peculiar certainty take root in her chest.
Penelope (Ages 8–10)
Becoming Eloise Bridgerton’s best friend was less a choice than an inevitability.
Eloise collected people with the same fervor she applied to ideas, and once she had decided that Penelope Featherington belonged to her, the matter was settled. Penelope was ushered into the Bridgerton household with an enthusiasm that brooked no refusal.
At first, Penelope felt like an interloper, too quiet, too round, too fond of listening rather than speaking. But the Bridgertons were a loud, affectionate sort, and they overwhelmed her reservations through sheer persistence.
And Colin, he had a way of noticing her without making her feel noticed.
He saved her a seat beside him at the table without comment. He offered her the first slice of cake. He listened when she spoke, even when others did not. When Eloise dragged her into debates she was ill-prepared for, Colin would meet her eyes and smile, as though sharing a secret joke.
Penelope told herself it was gratitude she felt. She did not yet know the difference.
Colin (Age 13)
His father smelled of leather and winter air. Edmund Bridgerton’s voice was steady, his presence reassuring, and when he addressed Penelope Featherington, he did so with the same warmth he extended to his own children. Colin noticed it because Penelope noticed it, her shoulders straightening, her smile brightening in a way that told him it mattered.
“She’s a clever girl,” Edmund had said once, as Penelope and Eloise raced ahead of them down the path. “You are fortunate to have such a friend.”
Colin had nodded solemnly, as though this were a truth he had always known.
When his father died a few months later, the world fractured. Grief was a strange, disorienting thing, and Colin found himself unable to speak around it. His brothers retreated into duty and anger; his mother into a sorrow that felt endless.
Penelope did not retreat. She sat beside him in silence, her presence steady and unassuming. She did not ask him how he felt. She did not tell him everything would be all right. She simply stayed.
Colin did not know then that this was love. He only knew that when she was near, the ache dulled.
Letters at Eton
Colin wrote to Penelope first.
It was not a decision so much as an instinct. Eton was loud and overwhelming, filled with expectations he did not yet understand. Penelope’s replies were thoughtful, warm, and unfailingly kind. She told him of Eloise’s latest schemes, of her mother’s endless concerns, of books she had read and thoughts she had not shared with anyone else.
He kept her letters carefully folded, rereading them late at night.
She wrote as though she knew him, not the version he presented to his family, nor the one he showed his peers, but the quieter, more uncertain self he did not yet have language for.
Penelope, for her part, poured herself into each letter, choosing her words with care. Loving Colin from afar was both a comfort and a quiet torment. She never allowed herself to hope for more. She had learned early that constancy did not always earn reciprocation.
Penelope’s Debut (Age 17)
The feather was too big for her little body. She knew it the moment she saw herself reflected in the looking glass. But it was what her mother had chosen, and Penelope had long since learned that resistance was futile.
Colin asked her to dance. He did so with easy charm, unaware of the significance of the gesture. Penelope accepted with hands that trembled only slightly.
They moved together with surprising grace. All the years of dance practices at Bridgerton House were paying off brilliantly. Colin smiled down at her, speaking softly, making her laugh. For a moment, just one, Penelope allowed herself to imagine what it might feel like to be seen.
When the dance ended, he thanked her warmly and went to greet someone else. Penelope stood alone, her heart full and aching all at once.
Marina
Jealousy was not an emotion Penelope enjoyed, but it arrived unbidden all the same.
Watching Colin court Marina was a particular kind of agony. One she bore quietly, supporting him with the same loyalty she always had. She listened as he spoke of hope and expectation, offering encouragement she did not feel. Colin never noticed the cost.
When it ended, he turned to Penelope instinctively, seeking comfort. She gave it freely, though it left her hollow. Love, she learned, did not always protect the lover.
Colin (Years of Return)
Balls blurred together over the years, but Penelope remained constant. Their banter sharpened, affectionate and familiar. They danced often, though neither remarked upon the frequency. Others noticed, whispers followed them through ballrooms, but Colin dismissed them easily. Penelope was simply...Penelope. His Pen.
When her father died, Colin went to her without hesitation. He stood beside her family, offered what support he could, and stayed longer than was strictly necessary. It felt right.
Helping her uncover Cousin Jack’s schemes felt equally inevitable. He did not do it for praise or gratitude; he did it because the idea of Penelope suffering injustice was intolerable.
When he spoke carelessly once, laughing as he declared he would never court her, he did not see the way her face fell. He did not hear the silence that followed. Penelope did.
This caused a brief riff in their friendship. One that weighed heavy on Colin's heart. After many apologies, their friendship got back on track.
Letters Abroad
His travels took him far from London, but never far from her.
He wrote honestly, confiding fears and dreams he shared with no one else. Penelope responded with the same thoughtful care she always had, loving him in words she would never speak aloud.
By the time he returned for Christmas that year, older and steadier, Colin knew only one thing with certainty: That, without Penelope Featherington, the world felt unmoored.
Present Day
Back in the present, as Colin spoke beside her at the window, Penelope smiled and listened, her heart doing what it had always done, loving him quietly, faithfully, without expectation.
And Violet Bridgerton had reached the point in motherhood where patience became a deliberate act rather than an instinct. Watching the two of them together, she finally decided she had waited long enough. Christmas was coming. And so, at last, was the truth.
Violet had birthed eight children, raised them through infancy, illness, heartbreak, and triumph, and seen most of her adult children settled into marriages that, if not perfect, were at least deeply affectionate. She prided herself on restraint, on allowing her children the space to make their own mistakes and discover their own happiness.
But there were limits. And Colin Bridgerton, at three-and-thirty, wandering through life with a smile, a satchel, and an astonishing blindness to the most obvious truth she had ever witnessed, had reached them.
Violet went to her personal study and wrote a personal invitation for Lady Portia Featherington to join her for Tea this afternoon. She asked Mrs. Wilson, the housekeeper, to send it discreetly to Featherington house across the street.
Later that afternoon, Violet stood at the drawing room window, teacup untouched in her hand, watching the familiar figure of her third son cross the lawn. He walked with Penelope Featherington beside him, his head inclined toward hers in that way he reserved for conversations he found genuinely engaging. They laughed at something, Penelope’s smile soft and unguarded, Colin’s answering grin immediate and instinctive.
They did not touch. They never did. Violet closed her eyes briefly. “Enough,” she murmured. If Colin and Penelope would not see sense on their own, then it was time for intervention.
Behind her, the door opened.
“Lady Featherington has arrived, my lady.” Humboldt, the butler announced.
Violet turned, her resolve already firm. “Excellent. Please show her to my private study.”
Portia Featherington entered Bridgerton House as though she were stepping onto a battlefield, chin lifted, expression carefully arranged, her gown impeccable and faintly impractical for a simple afternoon call.
Violet greeted her warmly.
“Lady Featherington,” she said, taking Portia’s gloved hands in her own. “I am so glad you could come.”
Portia smiled, polite and practiced. “Of course, Lady Bridgerton. Your invitation was most intriguing. Tea at such an hour, one assumes there is more to it.”
“There is,” Violet replied frankly. “And I hope you will forgive me for my directness.”
Portia arched an eyebrow. “I should be offended if you were not.”
They were seated, tea poured, servants discreetly dismissed before Violet spoke again.
“I shall not pretend this is a purely social call,” Violet said, folding her hands in her lap. “I asked you here because we share a concern.”
Portia’s lips pressed together curiously. “And what concern would that be?”
“Colin,” Violet continued, “is three-and-thirty years old.”
“And still a very much sought after bachelor,” Portia replied briskly, then sighed. “Forgive me. You were saying.”
Violet smiled faintly. “Penelope is eight-and-twenty.”
Portia nodded. “Painfully so, a spinster, by the Ton’s estimation.”
There was a moment of silence, heavy but not hostile. Then Violet leaned forward.
“They have been circling each other for two decades.”
Portia let out a short, incredulous laugh. “You noticed as well?”
“As well?” Violet echoed.
“My dear Lady Bridgerton,” Portia said, setting down her teacup, “I have been noticing since my daughter knocked your son off his horse with her bright yellow bonnet when they were children.”
Violet laughed outright, delighted. “I knew it!”
“Oh, I assure you, I knew then that Penelope’s heart was lost,” Portia continued, her voice softening unexpectedly. “Children do not look at one another that way without consequence.”
Violet studied her more closely. Portia Featherington was often dismissed as ambitious, sharp-edged, and overly concerned with appearances, but there was something earnest beneath her words now.
“You saw it,” Violet said quietly.
“I have always seen it,” Portia replied. “Penelope has never been subtle with her affection. She only learned to hide it when it became clear it was not…” She hesitated. “...not returned.”
Violet frowned. “But it has been returned, in their own way.”
Portia smiled sadly. “Not in any way that matters.”
They sat with that truth between them.
“I confess,” Portia said after a moment, “there have been times I allowed propriety to waver. More than once.” Violet’s brows lifted.
“I permitted Penelope far more freedom at your house than was strictly proper,” Portia admitted. “Unchaperoned conversations. Lingering visits. Letters I pretended not to notice. Because I hoped…” She swallowed. “...because I hoped your son would one day wake up and see her.”
Violet felt a swell of unexpected tenderness. “You trusted us,” she said.
“I trusted you,” Portia corrected. “And I trusted Colin. He has never once been careless with Penelope’s heart. Oblivious, yes. Thoughtless, occasionally. But never cruel. Not intentionally.”
Violet exhaled. “I fear his obliviousness may yet ruin us all.”
Portia huffed. “On that, we are in agreement.”
They shared a look, one mother to another, and something unspoken settled between them.
“Tell me,” Violet said gently. “Has Penelope ever spoken of her feelings?”
Portia shook her head. “Never. She is not foolish. She learned long ago not to hope for what was not offered.”
Violet’s jaw tightened. “Then we must see that it is offered.”
Portia’s eyes sharpened. “You have a plan.”
“I do,” Violet said. “Christmas at Aubrey Hall.”
Portia blinked. “Christmas?”
“The entire family will be there,” Violet continued. “Extended stay. Snowbound, if fortune favors us. Colin will have no opportunity to flee, and Penelope…” She smiled. “...will be impossible for him to overlook.”
Portia leaned back in her chair, considering. “You are bold, Lady Bridgerton.”
“I am tired of seeing my wayward son galavanting through life without seeing what is right in front of him,” Violet replied serenely. “And I have waited long enough.”
Portia laughed softly. “Very well. If my daughter’s happiness may finally be secured, I am more than willing to conspire.”
They clinked teacups in quiet agreement.
Outside, entirely unaware that his fate had just been sealed, Colin Bridgerton laughed as Penelope recounted Eloise’s latest argument about marriage and husbands.
“She sent him a list,” Penelope said, eyes bright. “An actual list of reasons he was incorrect.”
Colin chuckled. “I should like to read it.”
“I suspect she burned it after he attempted to frame it.”
They laughed together, easy and unguarded.
Colin glanced at her, struck, as he often was, by the comfort of her presence. Penelope had always felt like home to him, though he had never examined the thought too closely. It simply was.
“You will be at Aubrey Hall for Christmas, will you not?” he asked.
Penelope hesitated. “If your mother wishes it.”
“I wish it,” Colin said immediately.
She smiled, warmth blooming in her chest, and told herself, once again, that this was all it would ever be.
Friendship.
Inside Bridgerton House, Violet watched them through the window and allowed herself a satisfied smile. Christmas, she thought, would be most interesting indeed.