Chapter Text
Her mother very rarely showed warmth with her daughters. She is a Featherington, after all. A name she has not earned outside the legalities of marriage, but a name she has nonetheless forged from the ashes of her husband’s hubris and selfishness.
All her life—all nineteen years of it—Penelope has never known Portia Featherington to be silent. She, like most ladies of the ton, is formidable. Portia claws her way out of hell like it’s the bi-weekly tea at the Cowpers’ drawing room (though, if you ask Penelope, there is truly no difference between the two). Portia cares about title. She cares about status; reputation. And why shouldn’t she? She is a Baroness without an heir; a Lady who had sired only fellow ladies.
Portia’s ideal life of sustainability had crumbled the second they formed in her womb.
Again and again and again, until suddenly they were raising three girls and arranging three dowries.
What a life, indeed, that Portia had been given.
Perhaps the unsavory treatment of the gods had numbed Portia into a sharp, unfeeling woman.
Perhaps the gods in question had been her husband’s cold eyes and colder vices.
Perhaps the gods in question had been the gambling hells and boxing rings and the brothel in which Archibald Featherington was found with a bullet in his skull.
Portia Featherington is a mother. A cut-throat one. One that aims to excel in society in the name of her daughters.
May God help her, for whatever else could you wish upon a wretched woman, if not an equally wretched daughter?
— 04 April 1813, Featherington House.
There are scarce moments in Penelope Featherington’s life wherein she finds herself in genuine worry over her mother’s disposition. Mama has made it clear in no uncertain terms that such grievances are not befit of a lady entering society, thus all presentation of such are forbidden unless it is a matter of life or death.
Even so, Penelope cannot keep up the pretenses of what is and is not proper for a lady of her standing when her mother is so… pale.
“Mama, are you feeling well?” Penelope braves the question first, knowing her sisters are too busy in between breaking their fast and gossiping over each other to notice.
Portia’s eyes gloss over briefly, as if t’was nothing but a blip on her radar, before they snap to her youngest daughter’s. “Oh? Yes, hmm.” She seems to mumble—strange, Portia Featherington never mumbles. “I am quite alright, Penny. Do not pay me any mind.”
That seems to make them all pause. Philippa is two bites invested in her brioche, while Prudence is similarly besotted with a plum cake. Upon registering their Mama’s words, it strikes them all at once how… out of sorts her statement is.
“Penny?” Philippa swallows her bread in one gulp. “You must be taking ill, Mama. I seem to recall you saying that Penny is hardly a name to call a lady.”
“As do I.” Prudence grumbles around her fork. “You quite nearly got into a miff with Penelope’s little Bridgerton friend for exclaiming as such over the square a fortnight ago.”
“Eloise, Prudence.” Penelope, despite the oddity of the morning, rolls her eyes. “You have known her since we were both in leading strings.”
“Have I?” Prudence’s snark comes back at the condescension that she detects from Penelope’s tone. “How queer. I must have forgotten. Then again, you can hardly blame me when neither of you are particularly remarkable.”
Philippa look in between them, a chalice bracketed by her lips as she decides on her own insult to add.
“Girls,” Portia interrupts before the discussion turned bloody. “Do not sour the morning with your pointless squabbles. We are to meet with the modiste in a few, yes, Varley?”
“Yes, Ma’am.” Mrs Varley chimes from her post behind Mama.
Clearing her throat, Penelope quietly interjects. “Mama, might I go to Bridgerton House for tea?”
“Oh, is it Sunday already?” She mutters underneath her breath, surprising Penelope. While it is hardly a secret where Penelope spends her Sunday mornings, she had thought it beneath her mother to remember such a schedule. “You may go. But I do expect a swift return before calling hours end. Your presentation gown is to arrive today.”
Another bout of silence envelops the room, none of them not quite knowing if her mother is in jest or not. After all, all of their presentation gowns had come the night before, already fitted and perfected, much to Penelope’s chagrin.
Before anyone could remark on it, however, the heavy steps of her father comes to show, late once again to break his fast.
Penelope quickly brushes her thumb across her lip, removing whichever stain it dons and from the corner of her eye, Philippa and Prudence do the same, both opting for a straighter posture than what their governess advised them.
Portia seems to find their change in demeanor odd, turning around to see the fuss that caught them acting within the lines of propriety.
Once Penelope is near certain that the eyes of her mother and father meet, things go awry.
In a swift instant, her Mama rises from her chair beside the head of the table and turns alabaster white—superceding even her favorite shade of rouge. Her hand is gripped along the fabric of their dining table, knuckles turning whiter than her already paling complexion. Prudence, Philippa, and Penelope are quick to rise on their feet, faces washed in absolute worry over their mother, when the woman in question loses her balance and falls to the floor.
“Mama!” All three girls scream in unison as Mrs Varley calls for a footman to hail the family physician.
Even their father, as bottle-weary his head may be, registers the gravity of the situation and looks properly troubled. He seems ill-at-ease on what to do when one’s wife is unblinking on the ground, but Penelope could hardly fault him when she is quite the same.
Eventually, Archibald Featherington demands his valet to carry his wife onto a settee, so that she may rest there instead of cold hardwood. Mr Langdon is quick to oblige, swift to serve his purpose.
When the doctor strides in, admittedly looking more exhausted than inquisitive as doctors often ought to be, Penelope loses her confidence that this might go smoothly.
It is ever so rare that Portia allows herself to be aided and cared for by other people. Penelope has tried poking that bear and it has only thus far scarred her. She is of no interest to bring forth a reprise of that.
The physician does not particularly ease Penelope’s nerves, but he does assure them that her mother is under no critical position. Certainly far before she is to meet her Maker. A simple dizzy spell, he says. Common for most Mamas upon the eve of their daughters’ presentation.
He advises them to let her sleep in her bedchambers, and should her condition worsen as time goes on, they ought to let her seek refuge in laudanum for the time being.
Feeling the unrest of the day weigh on her, Penelope ponders on whether or not she should continue her routine with the Bridgertons. She loves them dearly (more so than her own family sometimes, she thinks shamefully), but what breed of daughter shall she be if Penelope left her ailing mother alone? Prudence and Philippa are certainly still heading towards the modiste, only this time with their lady maids. She quite envies them, for only the mere fact that they’d be given freedom in their dress for once. It is only a shame that they share their mother’s penchant for extravagance. Had it been Penelope who was given that privilege for the day, she would have—
Perhaps something like what they are wearing in Paris?
The thought, intrusive and incredibly confusing as it stood, made Penelope sit up straight.
Penelope looks around her, finding nothing but the fine oak of her room and Josie, her abigail. Josie looks at her from the looking glass, hand tangled in trying to tame her coiffure. Penelope has known Josie for a long time, and Josie knows when her young lady has a question.
“Is the style not to your liking, Miss?” Josie detangles her fingers for the briefest second, but Penelope is already shaking her head.
“Ah, it is nothing of the sort, Josie.” Penelope bites down her lip and flicks through the pamphlet of manners in which Josie can do her hair.
She stops on a certain page—one with gentle waves and boasts of subtle cascades—and her breath is caught.
It is… her hair. That being said—it is what she wants her hair to be. Goodness, her mind is all sorts of mess today.
“Josie?” She tries to project her voice, feeling timid and shy all of a sudden. Her lady maid halts in her actions and raises an eyebrow in question. “Might I suggest a different style today?”
Penelope brandishes the coiffure she’s found wedged between the pages and Josie smiles prettily. Fondness laces her tone as she proclaims her agreeance.
There is something… queer in the air today. A shift, perhaps, in the grand scheme of the world Penelope is yet to be privy to.
Josie helps Penelope in her day dress—another ghastly thing in the shade of the sun above, and she feels something amiss.
There is something missing.
Her dress is the same type of awful it always is. She has not gained a new freckle since her latest escapade by the window. She hardly thinks she’s grown another inch since she last measured.
Her hair is different.
Somehow, that is the root of all.
“Shall we, Miss Penelope?” Josie stands in front of the Featherington carriage, a footman at the ready to hold her steady when she boards.
“May we…” She looks around idly at the square, noticing the small amount of people who are already bustling about Grosvenor Square. “May we take the short walk there instead? It’s quite a lovely day.”
Josie and their footman—whose name horrifically escapes her at this moment—exchange a glance, but acquiesce to her request.
Every step in the Bridgertons’ direction weighs like a stone in her shoe. The sun is still gentle on her skin; the morning dew still lingering in the air, and yet Penelope seems to sweat with every taken breath.
What was going on?
The walk between Featherington House and Bridgerton House was naught but a simple stride. It was hardly anything physically taxing. In fact, Penelope often wonders herself why she bothers with a carriage when the days where she travels there are nearly always pleasurable to the touch.
Penelope feels… overcome. Her heart is slow in between her bones. Her every muscle movement is like a stride underwater. The way her lungs dispel air makes it almost like drowning, as well.
“Miss, shall we return to Featherington House?” Josie gently talks her out of her reverie. “Pardon my verbiage, Miss, but you look quite ill.”
“I assure you I am fine, Ra—Josie.” A slip of the tongue most uncanny to her breaks from Penelope’s mouth. “Josie.” She repeats in an infant’s attempt to console herself.
Josie regards her oddly, but opts to say none of what plagues her mind.
“Miss Featherington! How wonderful it is to see you,” The second son of the Bridgerton name, Benedict, takes his steps toward his home, his body clad in riding gear. “I assume you are here for my mother and sisters for tea?”
“Quite right.” Penelope grits out, feeling a swoop in her stomach at the sight of the man.
It’s a feeling not dissimilar to her courses, but the strangest thing about it is that Penelope knows for a fact that she is far from it. Having just finished two days ago, in truth.
Benedict, an artistic soul who seeks to make tapestries of every human condition, furrows his brow in askance. “Are you well, Miss Featherington? Shall I call for Eloise, or better yet, my mother?”
“I am fine, Mr Bridgerton. Perhaps I am simply unsettled from today’s events.” Penelope tries to dissuade him from this stream of thinking. “My mother herself was quite weary. With a fortune such as mine, I could have caught the same bug.”
Without another word, Penelope takes steps up the Bridgerton House and makes it to the drawing room in no small amount of effort.
“Penelope! Finally, you are here!” Eloise sees her first and catches her by the arm. “My brothers have sorely overestimated their welcome in the drawing room, and I am hoping our complete attendance would deter them all from further interruption.” She halts in her step once she’s taken in all of Penelope’s appearance. “Your hair is different.”
She can feel the eyes of many a Bridgerton on her, and she flushes shyly. “I thought it was apt. I am to debut tomorrow, after all.” She sneakily connects the conversation with the day Eloise dreads most, smirking inwardly when her dear friend bites the bait.
“Ugh. Please cease from reminding me.” Eloise guides her to the nearest settee, both of them sitting in tandem as Eloise prattles on about her plights regarding Penelope’s debut. “It’s horrible enough that Mama has taken to tutoring me alongside Daphne, and now I must hear it from you as well? Ridiculous.”
“Come now, Eloise, debuting is hardly the end of the world.” Daphne chimes from her place on the pianoforte.
“To you, perhaps, whom cares not of the state of women after that awful shackling, but for myself and Penelope? Impossibly revolting.” Eloise shudders, leaning against Penelope for support before snapping her head towards her. “Your mother does not intend for you to take a husband this year, does she? It will be quite a wrench in our plans for spinsterhood should she interfere.”
“No, I do not believe she does—” Penelope’s breath is caught in her throat once more as she officially sweeps her gaze over the Bridgerton family drawing room.
Little Hyacinth stands near the pianoforte, making up dances to confuse her brother, Gregory, with. It changes with every note Daphne plays, which amuses Benedict to no end from where he stands by the door. Anthony, as usual, is perched on his study desk with a collection of papers. A smaller sum than what Penelope expects, but a welcoming amount nonetheless. Off to the side by the refreshments sits the Lady of the House, Violet Bridgerton, stitching graceful embroideries along a fabric she’ll surely welcome Francesca, whom she remembers will come home near the night for her eldest sister’s debut, with. On the other side of the refreshments table, however, is—
Colin lifts his eyes to hers, a smile fighting for appearance across his lips as he shovels another eclair into them.
—make me say it out loud, I miss you—
—… but you would never court me, is that—
—Are we not friends?—
—We cannot continue our lessons…—
—Do you mind if I interrupt—
—He rejected me because of you—
—An idea so preposterous…—
—What if I did have feelings for…—
—For God’s sake, Penelope Featherington, are you going to marry me or not?
Penelope’s hands grip Eloise’s.
“Pen?”
Sounds of worry etch themselves over her skin, but they are naught but a muffle in her ears. She keeps looking forward. Her upper lip feels a drip with a substance she is unfamiliar with. One look down suggests it to be blood. Shrieks of panic fill the room.
—She is upset, understandably—
—All will be well. I am sure of it—
—using Lord knows what wiles to entrap him—
—I am still speaking!—
—No one has ever stood up for me like—
—I know something is bothering you—
—Colin, I need to tell you something—
Ladies do not have dreams. They have husbands.
Memories come flooding back as Penelope doubles over across her stomach, an intense cramping pushing bile to her throat.
When she coughs, blood pours out, and she cannot stop it.
“El—Eloise…” She tries to reach for the first hand she sees, and immediately, her friend is by her side, mumbling incoherencies as though she herself is in a trance. “El, it hurts.”
“Oh, Pen.” Eloise shivers through her name, trembling in her hold. Distantly, she can tell by the stiffness in her arms that Eloise is deeply unsettled by the events, but she cannot focus on it nearly as much as she focuses on the red she keeps retching. “Mama! She needs help!” She cries over her shoulder.
“Anthony! Call the doctor!”
“Mama, what is happening?”
“Benedict, get the children away from here, please, I beg!”
“But, Mama—”
“Cease your arguments, please, Hyacinth, and come with me. You as well, Gregory.”
Penelope chokes on a sob—one of which she hadn’t noticed building. She clings to Eloise with all that she has, because now, she knows.
This is a dream. Yet, it is not. Dreams do not bear cruelties as harsh as the one she’s heaving out. Dreams are never physically painful.
Penelope looks up, and sees the remarkable blue of Colin’s eyes, blasted wide with fear.
One more memory flutters in her head before she loses herself.
—I will never forgive you.
“Does your husband know?”
A mother, and a daughter. Victims of life and of circumstance and of each other.
A perfect mirror image of all they have hated within themselves.