Work Text:
1812
“I would rather gouge my eyes out than watch this,” Eloise snickered from her seat on the sofa as her sister Daphne counted steps aloud in the middle of the drawing room.
Penelope giggled at her friend’s theatrics. She was seated beside Eloise, a box of chocolates between them.
“I think it looks quite lovely. I wish my Mama would let me sit and watch my sisters learn how to dance.”
“Oh, your sisters would be far more entertaining than General Daphne over there. She is so… serious. Look at that poor dance mistress’s face—she looks ready to jump off a bridge every time Daphne asks to start over after making a mistake.”
Penelope let out a louder laugh than she intended, and despite her best effort to cover her mouth, she was not quick enough. Daphne startled and missed her step again. She shot a sharp, enraged look their way, which Eloise and Penelope answered by promptly stuffing chocolates into their mouths. Penelope’s eyes were apologetic. Eloise’s eyes were defiant.
“Could we try one more time?” Daphne asked after a deep inhale, turning to the dance mistress.
“I believe we have had quite enough for today, Miss Bridgerton,” she replied with strained politeness.
Eloise had been dramatic, but she was not wrong. The poor woman looked at her limit.
“We shall resume tomorrow. I have another appointment to attend.” The lady gathered her belongings and departed at once.
Daphne remained standing in the same spot long after the dance mistress had gone, looking defeated and as though she did not know what to do next. Penelope had been frequenting Bridgerton House for several years now and she could easily recognize the tension in Daphne’s shoulders.
“You were very graceful, Daphne,” Penelope offered shyly, trying to provide some comfort.
She doubted her opinion carried much weight, but she felt compelled to offer it all the same, in the faint hope Daphne might listen.
“I do not understand why you are so nervous,” Eloise said, shrugging and popping another chocolate into her mouth, speaking around it. “You still have another year before your debut. That is more than enough time to learn to count to eight and repeat.”
Eloise laughed. Penelope did not know where to hide, and promptly wished the sofa would swallow her whole. The secondhand embarrassment was almost unbearable.
“ELOISE!” Daphne shrieked.
Both girls froze, wide-eyed and speechless.
Aspiring-princess Daphne never shouted nor lost her composure like that.
Moments later, Benedict burst through the doors, one hand on each handle. “Is anyone hurt?” he asked, slightly out of breath.
“Only Daphne’s ego,” Eloise muttered then hastily shielded herself with a decorative pillow as Daphne lunged furiously toward her.
“Hey, hey—do not pay her any mind,” Benedict said quickly, gently catching Daphne by the arms and turning her to face him. “Tell me what happened.”
“I understand why Mama wants Eloise to sit in on my lessons, but… I cannot do it anymore, Benedict. She—she distracts me. She mocks me,” Daphne whispered.
Penelope could not help but notice how attentively he listened to Daphne’s concerns. It was different from the other adults in the house.
Anthony was straightforward and did not walk around in circles, at least not when it came to the family. He was constantly concerned with ledgers, replenishing accounts, and following schedules, always checking items off a list. That man loved his lists.
Violet, on the other hand, was the polished face of the family in society. Her older sons seldom accompanied her to events, and as a widow, she often attended them with Lady Danbury. She was frequently the only Bridgerton representing the family since Anthony and Benedict cared little for mingling, and the other children were too young to participate.
To Penelope, Lady Bridgerton carried the legacy of the Bridgerton name impeccably. And often, for better or for worse, the woman she presented to society was the same one at home—pleasant, optimistic, conflict-averse, smiling through discomfort.
Watching Daphne open up to Benedict like this intrigued Penelope.
She had not yet fully formed an opinion about Benedict, but seeing him absorb the emotions of his siblings—asking questions instead of dismissing her, staying present instead of moving on—something began to take shape in her mind.
“I can see how that would be frustrating.” He inhaled, shooting Eloise a pointed look before turning to Daphne again. “What can I do to help you? Besides sending Eloise on a one-way carriage ride to Bath,” Benedict added with a smirk, clearly attempting to make Daphne smile.
It worked.
“What do you know about the quadrille?” Daphne asked, her expression turning hopeful.
“The quadrille?” Benedict scoffed, mockingly. “I invented it. More or less.”
Daphne laughed again, and Penelope took silent note of the exchange. If there was one way she would use to describe Benedict from now on was that he was always trying to make his siblings smile. Not one and done, but continually.
“I’m serious! If I miss those steps again tomorrow, Miss Cora will be disappointed and tell every household in Mayfair that I am a disaster. I shall be placed on a ‘Do Not Approach for Dancing’ list before I even debut!”
“Is there truly such a list?” Eloise perked up. “In that case, I shall make certain to fumble every lesson when my time comes.”
Benedict turned sharply toward the sofa, hands settling on his hips.
This time, Penelope was the one who pressed the decorative pillow against Eloise’s face in playful warning. When she glanced up, Benedict was smiling at her in quiet approval.
He had a very nice smile, Penelope thought innocently, beginning to understand why he was the comforting sibling—and carefully cataloging these small moments in her mind.
He turned back to Daphne. “You will be the most eligible young lady when you debut. You are a Bridgerton, sister. And I will be there every step of the way.”
It was said simply, without flourish.
Penelope believed it immediately, and she hoped Daphne did too.
1813
Penelope arrived at Bridgerton House that afternoon and was escorted toward the drawing room. From the hallway, she could already hear the pianoforte drifting through the house.
It was far too polished to be Daphne—bless her soul—so it had to be Francesca.
Penelope had always been impressed by how naturally Francesca played, especially at such a young age. Simply hearing her fingers glide across the keys made Penelope want to sway, to let her feet follow the melody.
Lately, Penelope had been trying to make peace with the fact that her Mama had decided she would debut the following year alongside her sisters. Dreaming of dancing across dazzling ballrooms was one of the few thoughts that kept her from dismissing the idea entirely.
She was ten and seven, which was not unusually young but it felt early all the same.
Part of her wished she could wait another year and debut with Eloise. But another, quieter part wondered whether without Eloise at her side, she might have the chance to stand on her own.
When Penelope entered the drawing room, Eloise was curled up with a book, Francesca was indeed seated at the pianoforte, and Benedict had a sketchbook balanced on his lap.
If Penelope had to guess, Daphne was at the modiste with Violet, Anthony was in his study, and Colin, Hyacinth, and Gregory were likely engaged in some overly competitive card game outside.
Everyone in the house was in their element.
“Pen!” Eloise shouted, startling both Francesca and Benedict. The pianoforte let out a discordant sound in response, and Benedict sighed as he crumpled his paper and tossed it aside.
“You arrived just in time,” Eloise said, looping her arm through Penelope’s and lowering her voice. “Shall we go to the market?”
“The market?” Penelope repeated, a touch too loudly for Eloise’s liking.
“You may go to the market later, Eloise. It is time to practice your dancing,” Benedict said with a deeply satisfying smirk that earned him a dramatic eye roll and huff in response.
“I thought you said your dance mistress had quit?” Penelope asked, turning to her friend.
“She did,” Benedict answered before Eloise could. “Or rather, they did. Miss Katherine was the third this month to depart. So in addition to dance instruction, our dear Eloise has also been assigned further study in manners. If you are quite finished with that book, Miss Bridgerton, your lesson shall begin.”
Penelope blinked in confusion at first, and then realization dawned.
Benedict had not been idly sketching at all.
He had been chaperoning Eloise, ensuring she studied, and waiting patiently to practice the steps with her himself.
“Benedict, brother…”
“I attempted to buy you as much time as I could,” he replied. “Mother will not be merciful if you cannot manage a country dance by Lady Danbury’s soirée.”
Penelope muffled a laugh at her friend’s misery and settled onto the sofa to watch Eloise endure her supposed torture.
“Francesca, would you play The Duke of Gloucester’s March, if you please?” Benedict asked.
Francesca smiled and shuffled through her music before placing her fingers upon the keys.
“First, it is all about posture,” Benedict began with effortless authority. “When you stand straight and look into your partner’s eyes, it matters far less whether you know every step. Country dances are forgiving—as long as you keep moving and appear confident while doing so.”
As the melody began, Benedict bowed. Eloise responded with a deliberately exaggerated curtsy.
“We begin with small steps in place—also known as setting,” he instructed, demonstrating as Eloise followed with visible reluctance. “Now turn. And… cast off.”
Penelope could not take her eyes off him. Or off them, clearly.
Within seconds, Eloise’s expression shifted from disgust to outright horror. She froze when Benedict released her hand.
“If you forget the progression, simply follow me. Do not look at your feet,” he reassured gently. “And remember to smile.”
Eloise attempted something that resembled one, though she bared so many teeth her lips vanished entirely. Benedict narrowed his eyes.
“I shall be adding instruction in facial expressions to your lesson plan,” he teased.
That, at last, made her relax.
Penelope was suddenly carried back to her first vivid memory of Benedict teaching Daphne to dance—how easily he had calmed her nerves. What struck Penelope most was that he always managed it through something simple. A well-placed joke, a steady look.
She watched them glide across the room, Eloise’s genuine smile returning as Benedict led her into a swift, exaggerated turn.
Without thinking, Penelope began clapping softly along to Francesca’s rhythm.
Benedict glanced at her and extended his hand inviting her to join them.
Penelope took it.
He pulled her to her feet, and without releasing her fingers, spun her just as swiftly. She laughed bright and breathless, allowing herself to be swept into the moment.
For once, Penelope was grateful that country dances were repetitive. They could continue for as long as they pleased.
And she wished to remain in that moment just a little longer.
It would, perhaps, be the closest she would ever come to dancing with Benedict Bridgerton.
1814
Penelope had been looking forward to spending time with Francesca, who had just returned from Bath for Anthony’s wedding. At times, Penelope found herself quietly envious of her. Francesca had been given the unique opportunity to truly master her craft, receiving specialized instruction in the pianoforte while away.
In the Featherington household, Prudence and Phillipa’s studies were prioritized, as they required more guidance. Because many skills came easily to Penelope, little effort had been invested in refining them beyond the basics. As a result, she often secretly relied upon the Bridgertons and their generous access to tutors, books, and music to build upon her foundation.
With Francesca, she delighted in learning the new pieces she brought home. Penelope enjoyed playing, and though she would never be celebrated for exceptional talent, she still longed to improve.
Now she and Francesca sat side by side at the pianoforte, playing a duet, while Hyacinth and Benedict formed their modest audience, happily occupied with macarons. Francesca did not particularly enjoy performing before a crowd, but Hyacinth was an enthusiastic spectator.
And Benedict…
Benedict seemed to be everywhere Penelope was these days, ever since Eloise’s debut.
She attempted to dismiss the thought, telling herself he merely wished to keep a close watch over his rebellious sister. Yet more often than not, she would catch his eyes on her, too.
As she moved her fingers across the keys, she could feel his gaze more intentionally, the awareness sent a subtle shiver down her spine.
They ended the piece with a flourish and were rewarded with warm applause from their captive audience.
“That was extraordinary. I want to learn,” Hyacinth declared at once.
“I will be delighted to show you, sister,” Francesca replied with a gentle smile. “I am to remain a few days longer before returning to Bath.”
“I did not realize you were going back.” Hyacinth said. With your debut so near, I assumed Mother would want to keep you in town.”
“I do have other tutors besides music,” Francesca said, in mild defense. “It is not as though I have neglected my preparations. In fact, I have been told I am quite proficient at the Scotch Reel.”
“Is that so?” Benedict asked, intrigued. “I seldom recall ever seeing you dance.”
“I quite enjoy it, if I am honest,” Francesca admitted. “It is easy for me to follow the music. Although I suppose once one becomes accustomed to the piano bench, it is hard to come off.”
Penelope looked at her and understood at once what she meant.
For Francesca, it was the piano bench. For Penelope, it had always been the wall.
She felt the urge to help Francesca in the way no one had helped her in preparation for her first season. And from what Penelope had observed over the years, Benedict was the perfect accomplice.
“Mister Bridgerton,” Penelope began, aiming for confidence though her voice wavered slightly, “I believe Miss Francesca could benefit from practicing stepping away from the bench.”
Benedict smiled fondly at her, and it was slightly different this time. It was not a smile of mere politeness, nor one meant to coax a smile from her. It was one of appreciation and agreement.
“Miss Penelope is most correct, sister,” he said, walking over to the piano and extending a hand to Francesca. “You will have to convince me you truly know the Scotch Reel.”
As Francesca rose and took his hand, Benedict casted Penelope a subtle wink.
Warmth rushed instantly to her cheeks—then lower, to her neck and chest. She wondered, quite mortified, whether he had noticed as his gaze lingered a fraction too long before shifting away.
Penelope took a deep breath and began playing the melody tentatively as Benedict and Francesca started their steps. Hyacinth took a seat beside her at the piano, her eyes darting between the dancers and the keys as though she could not decide whether she wished to learn the notes or the steps first.
And every once in a while, Benedict’s gaze fell on Penelope again.
—
Penelope stayed behind in the drawing room long after the Bridgertons had gone to Anthony’s engagement dinner at the Sheffields. It was certainly not common to remain there without a member of the family present, but Penelope had kindly asked Lady Bridgerton if she might stay longer to practice the pianoforte.
Prudence always complained about Penelope practicing at home, especially when she was learning a new piece and working through the inevitable trial, error, and repetition that came with it. Violet had agreed, since Hyacinth and Gregory would still be in the house.
The sun was slowly setting, soft light still illuminating the room as her fingers finally began to glide along the keys with minimal effort. Her posture was no longer stiff, and a smile spread across her face when she realized she had mastered the passage.
When she looked up from the piano, she was not expecting to find Benedict leaning against the doorframe. His arms were folded loosely, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows, his cravat nowhere to be seen. His expression was light and serene—so much so that Penelope wondered, for a fleeting second, whether he had been sampling Colin’s tea again.
“Mister Bridgerton,” she whispered.
“It’s Benedict.” He clicked his tongue softly, unfolding his arms and slipping his hands into his pockets, placing one foot before the other as he strolled toward her. “You learned that piece today?”
“Y-yes. I… enjoyed it so much I could not stop practicing until it sounded right,” Penelope replied. “I thought you were at the Sheffields. I apologize if—”
He nodded once with a small smile curving his lips, and placed one hand atop the piano as he leaned slightly toward her.
“Please, do not apologize. I was hoping I would find you here.”
His voice was warm, sweet even, like a comforting cup of her favorite tea. His eyes were nearly as bright as hers, though his were blue as the sky and hers the color of the sea.
“You were looking for me?”
“It seems it is all I can do of late,” he murmured, before clearing his throat. “I am grateful for what you did for Francesca today. Thank you.”
Penelope felt almost embarrassed by how deeply his words affected her. They were simple, yet they carried more weight because they came from him.
He had noticed. He had seen her.
“It was not much, truly. I merely nudged her from the bench—you were the one there to catch her. I only wished her to know I am here, should she ever need me.”
“And by doing so,” he said, crossing one foot over the other as he continued to lean against the piano, “you made me realize something.”
“What is that?”
“You have been by everyone’s side all along.”
“I am here rather often, am I not?” she teased, though her tone soon turned shy. “I have watched you all these years—I mean, I have seen how you care for each of them. It is remarkable.”
“I am not sure remarkable is the appropriate word,” he said with a dry chuckle. “It is simply my brotherly duty.”
Penelope was intrigued and surprised by his response. Surely someone before her had recognized that who he was and what he did for his family was special. Yet the more she studied his expression, the less certain she became of that assumption.
“It is so much more than that,” Penelope said with quiet conviction. “And I should know, since… I have been observing for quite some time.” She swallowed. “As I have previously mentioned.”
“You have previously mentioned that, yes,” he replied, stumbling slightly before recovering with a smile.
Penelope shifted in her seat, uncertain what to say next. All she knew in that moment was that she wished he could see himself as she saw him. Nothing less.
“And because I have noticed how much you do, part of me wished to help you as well,” she finally said. “I wanted Francesca to know I am here for her… and perhaps you would know I am here for you too.”
Benedict reached for the hand resting in her lap. He leaned closer, nearly brushing his nose against hers, and lifted her hand to press a kiss to it.
“I was hoping you would say that.”
“Why?” She asked softly.
“Because it means our feelings are mutual.”
1817
Penelope found herself yet again in the Bridgerton drawing room. It had been three years since the night she and Benedict had confessed their feelings. A few weeks later at her family’s ball, Benedict filled out every space in her dance card with his name and that same night they announced their engagement.
Though they had not lived in Grosvenor Square since their wedding, they visited their families often—especially after the twins were born.
“Vincent is getting heavier by the day,” Penelope exhaled as she lifted the nine-month-old boy from her lap and helped him sit on the floor beside Benedict and their daughter, Scarlett.
“As he is meant to, my dear wife,” Benedict replied proudly. “He shall be tall and strong like his father.”
Penelope could not help but snicker. When Benedict raised his brows in mock offense, she added smoothly, “I apologize. It simply sounds preposterous coming from the man who has ripped his breeches more than once while employing said… strength.”
“And he would tell you the issue was breeches that were too tight in the first place.”
“The breeches were perfectly fine until you strained yourself,” she countered.
“It is because anything looks good on me.” He winked playfully.
They dissolved into easy laughter, as they often did when pretending to argue. The two babies soon joined them with delighted giggles and squeals.
The lightness in the room was abruptly disturbed when the doors opened briskly.
Hyacinth marched in, barely acknowledging the little family gathered on the carpet. Penelope and Benedict exchanged a knowing glance, both taken aback by her demeanor. Hyacinth was usually a ray of sunshine and rarely upset.
“Sister? Is something troubling you?”
Hyacinth closed her eyes and inhaled before replying. “I apologize for keeping you waiting.”
“It is no harm, Hyacinth. We have nowhere to be but here today,” Penelope said with a comforting smile.
Hyacinth let out a small chuckle, though there was no humor in it. “It is quite refreshing how, even after you married and had children, you still make time.”
Benedict and Penelope exchanged another look. With a slight tilt of her head, Penelope silently urged him to stand and go to her. She had to stifle a laugh as she watched him struggle to rise from the floor, one hand pressing to his back.
“One of the many advantages of being the second son, I suppose,” he said, a faint strain in his voice as he crossed the room. “What has our intrepid Viscount done now?”
Benedict placed both hands on Hyacinth’s shoulders, rubbing gently along her upper arms. Penelope’s eyes softened when she realized she was no longer the only observer. The twins were watching their papa as well, and she silently wished they would always look up to his kindness.
“Mama told me I could not attend her masquerade ball,” Hyacinth began with a huff. “So Anthony said we could have a ball just for the family, and he would practice the cotillion with me.”
She stopped and looked down at her feet, as though what came next hurt too much to say aloud. It never ceased to impress Penelope how much Benedict could hear in his siblings’ silence.
“Then he proceeded to lock himself in his study for three days,” Benedict added with a sigh.
Hyacinth turned to him at once. “More like two days now. How did you know?”
Benedict grinned, though it was small. Penelope knew her husband disliked being right about unfortunate things.
“I have known him longer than any of you lot,” he said. “He tends to do that when he feels overwhelmed.”
Hyacinth scoffed again. “I do not understand what could be so vexing about dancing with me now. Anthony taught me the steps when I was little and has danced with me all my life.”
Penelope’s heart ached at Hyacinth’s words—and ached more still at the look in Benedict’s eyes as he tried to comfort his sister.
“Do you know what is the hardest thing about being a parent?” he finally said, his tone gentle. “The duality of it. Some days you pray for time to pass quickly; other days you wish it would slow down. I look at Scarlett and Vincent and cannot wait to show them how to run, fly a kite or climb a tree, and at the same time it saddens me to think that soon they will take their first steps and no longer wish to stay nestled in my arms as they do now. Just as it was when you first started walking. Goodness, it was impossible to pick you up. You were even more determined than Eloise to escape.”
Hyacinth finally smiled, shaking her head.
“It makes little sense to want both at once,” he continued, “but it happens all the same. I am certain Anthony wishes to dance with you and see you blossom just as strongly as he cannot bear the thought that you will soon debut and be the Incomparable of the season.”
“If he ever allows me out in society, I suppose.”
“He will get there,” Benedict assured her. “Though you shall always be Princess Hyacinth to us.”
Her smile turned into a chuckle, then into a full laugh.
“Mm. Princess Hyacinth does have a rather lovely ring to it.”
“Would Your Highness do me the honor of a dance?” Benedict asked with an exaggerated bow, rolling one arm in the air as he bent down.
“Really?” She beamed, then straightened. “The honor would be mine, kind sir.”
Benedict laughed at her theatrics, and it made Penelope’s heart flutter to see the children echo his laughter with their own. As he guided Hyacinth through the cotillion, Penelope held Scarlett close and whispered in her ear that one day it would be her turn.
1828 – Epilogue
Penelope strolled through the gardens of My Cottage. She cherished her morning walks before the heat grew too heavy, and it offered a welcome respite from how lively it could get inside the house. She had always dreamed of days like these—peaceful, yet brimming with wonder.
Scarlett and Vincent had just turned twelve, and the youngest, Victor, was just shy of nine. They were old enough not to require constant supervision, yet energetic enough to ensure the house was rarely quiet. Thus far, none of them had developed an inclination toward gentler pursuits such as painting or writing like their parents.
Still, little by little, Penelope and Benedict introduced them to activities that required patience and focus. Which was why the scene unfolding in the gazebo should not have surprised her entirely, and yet it did.
Benedict stood at the center. The boys sat cross-legged upon a rug, decorative pillows gathered in their laps, while Scarlett faced her father. She had surpassed Penelope’s height by a few inches already and seemed destined to grow taller still.
Penelope chose to observe from a distance before joining them, not wanting to disrupt their attention.
“Before any dancing begins,” Benedict said warmly, “you must first master good posture. Imagine a thread drawing you upward from the crown of your head.”
Scarlett straightened at once, and Benedict gently adjusted what needed correcting. “Shoulders down. Good. Now—the curtsy.”
“But I already know how to curtsy,” Scarlett muttered. “Could we not skip ahead?”
“We are not skipping any steps, young lady,” Benedict replied with playful indignation. Then, lowering his voice, he added, “Give me your very best curtsy, and I shall consider it.”
She chuckled and obliged, offering a small, controlled bend with her eyes briefly lowered. But as she rose, she wobbled and nearly lost her balance.
Penelope sensed the boys were about to seize the opportunity to tease their sister, but Benedict was quicker.
“I surely hope I do not need to remind you that the two of you are respectable gentlemen carrying the Bridgerton name,” he warned warmly. “And respect begins at home—with your sister. Did I ever tell you the story about how I married the most beautiful and perfect woman in the world because I was kind to my sisters?”
“About fifty times, give or take,” Victor replied, looking as though he was actually calculating it in his mind. “Though I am the youngest, so they must have heard it even more than I have.”
Vincent shrugged. “I am not entirely convinced that is how it truly happened. I believe you invented it so we would be nice to Scarlett.”
“Do not call Papa a liar,” Scarlett said at once, leaping to Benedict’s defense.
From her place in the garden, Penelope watched the exchange with amusement. A moment later the argument faded, the laughter returned, and Benedict resumed guiding their daughter through the simple steps of a country dance.