Chapter Text
I carry your heart with me (I carry it in my heart)
I fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet)
I want no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
– E. E. Cummings
Of all the society balls Colin has attended, few have been laid out with quite so much splendour. Despite the dark sky, the towering violet grey clouds, he is surrounded by light. Pillars of fire line the open field. The raised dance floor is bracketed by lanterns, shining over the couples that spin across the stage.
It is elaborate, and it is effective. Still, when Colin catches a glimpse of fiery red hair in one corner of the party, he notices that Penelope Featherington provides the brightest of all sparkles across the Vauxhall grounds.
How appropriate, for a friend he equates to sunshine. Colin moves towards her at once, prepared to have his spirits lifted by whatever insight she has to offer. Of course, she may also be able to point him in Miss Thompson’s direction, given her relation to the charming debutante.
“Pen!” Colin calls.
“Oh, Colin!” Penelope says, hastily bowing, her gloved hand rushing to gather the hair that frames her face. Colin dips his head, remembers as he does so that there is a sense of novelty about this formality, for her. He cannot recall interacting with her at another society event.
“I did not know you would be here,” she stutters.
“Sorry to disappoint,” Colin quips.
He is grateful for the appearance of her sincere smile, gratified by her chuckle.
“Have you seen Miss Thompson?”
“She is ill,” Penelope says. “My mama had to stay home with her. Papa had to chaperone.”
Colin follows the line of her pointing hand to where Lord Featherington sips from his glass, looking utterly disengaged from the festivities.
“I am quite enjoying the fact that he is here. Mama would never allow me to wear a dress like this,” Penelope adds, gesturing to her gentle pink gown. It is a more refined ensemble than her usual garish looks, Colin realises. Though he rarely pays attention to what she wears, he can recognise that she looks particularly pretty tonight.
“Not yellow enough, I think,” she says, grinning, and Colin’s heart swells fondly. She is a very sweet girl, and he knows he is fortunate to call her his friend.
Before Colin can respond, a group of young ladies floats over, herded by Miss Cressida Cowper. The ease of her smile surprises him, considering the severity he can sense in her countenance.
“Mr Bridgerton,” Cressida greets. “I believe you owe me a dance this evening, and I have only one more space remaining on my card at present.”
Her hand flutters in the presentation of her dance card.
“How convenient,” Penelope says, quietly.
Colin watches, aghast, helpless, as Cressida’s poised hands contort to tip the contents of her lemonade glass over Penelope and the lovely dress she has just proclaimed to prefer over all her others. She gasps and twists away, her shoulders shuddering in her frantic efforts to collect herself. She appears to be frozen; unable to react, unable to escape. Colin’s heart lurches.
“Penelope, I did not see you there!” Cressida exclaims. It seems an insult to the intelligence of everybody present that she feigns politeness. Colin observes her sly satisfaction and feels a sense of deep dislike unfurling in his gut. He is not used to harbouring dark sentiments for acquaintances, particularly not ladies, but he knows that he will relish denying Cressida her wish.
“I’m afraid I cannot offer you that dance, Miss Cowper. I am to escort Miss Featherington to the floor.”
The surprise with which Penelope turns to him is devastating. Colin can see in her expression that she is flabbergasted by his response, and he tries not to agonise over why that might be.
Colin steps towards Penelope and takes her hand. Her fingers are impossibly small and dainty, even through the silk of her gloves. He is surprised to realise that he likes the way they feel, clasped between his gangling digits.
She gazes at him, disbelieving, as he leads her onto the dance floor. Colin handles her with care, holding both her hands and finding a place for them among the other dancers. Once settled in the fray, he twirls her to stand by his side and offers her a broad smile. She cannot quite muster one of her own, not until the orchestra starts and he begins the steps in time with the music, and pulls her along with him.
Soon, Penelope is beaming at him. She dances with flushed rosy joy, her hair flowing around her. He takes her in his arms, bringing her closer than she has been since they were children. They spin together, and Colin is stolen by a giddy, starry feeling. Her form is soft and lovely when she brushes against him.
Curious.
This is his dear friend, a person he has known forever, and she holds more radiant beauty in her smile than he has seen in the sum of any other girl.
The dance concludes, but Colin does not release Penelope’s hand. He lingers with her on the floor, his thumb running over her knuckles. He returns her bashful smile when she peeks at him through her eyelashes.
“Here,” Colin says, taking her to a corner of the dancefloor, away from the bustle.
“Thank you for the dance,” Penelope says, rather demurely. Colin hopes it is not embarrassment he perceives in her; surely, there could be no need for that between old friends.
“The pleasure was all mine,” he assures her. “You are a lovely dancer.”
Penelope laughs. “As are you. As fine a dancer as I remember.”
Memory rushes back to him – Penelope as a little girl, even littler than she is now, rehearsing the waltz with him to prepare him for his debut. Colin recalls spinning her through sunbeams in the Bridgerton drawing room and smiles.
“Ah, that is right. You helped me to practise before I entered society. I suppose I have you to thank for any success I have found on the dance floor.”
“I doubt that,” Penelope says. “You never so much as grazed my foot.”
Colin beholds her earnest affection and twists his hands, not sure what to do with them.
“Might I have your dance card, Pen?” Colin asks. “I would like to share another dance with you, later in the evening, if that would please you.”
There is tension in the silence that follows. Colin is disappointed to realise that she understands the implications of sharing a second dance. He hopes it will not deter her. An implication is not the same thing as a commitment, after all, and he does not believe that the stiff rules of society have served either of them well.
He wants to dance with his friend again. So he will.
Forgoing her doubt, Penelope fumbles for the card that hangs off her wrist and holds it out to him. Colin smiles his thanks, tries not to consider the disparity between the two dance cards that have been presented to him tonight. Signatures had filled all but one of the rows on Cressida’s card. Penelope’s is entirely blank.
He signs for the jig they have just danced, and hesitates less than a moment before putting his name down for a waltz. As an homage to their childhood lessons, he tells himself. If Penelope is surprised, she does not say. She stares at the card, not at him, her face pinched with an emotion he cannot name.
Excitement in the crowd draws Colin’s attention to a man standing by the stage, toting a large torch. He vaguely recalls promises of a grandiose display at tonight’s ball, and wonders if the time has arrived. The announcer speaks with indicative fanfare.
“It is with great privilege that I present Vauxhall’s newest spectacle of illumination,” the booming voice calls. The man with the torch transfers the blaze he carries to a wire, which erupts in sparkles. The bulbs that dangle over the heads of the partygoers begin to glow with golden light.
“Feast your eyes above and allow all that is radiant to overwhelm you!”
Penelope tips her face skyward. The warm colours from the lights sway over her clear, smooth cheeks. Her eyes are wide and filled with wonder. Her smile is radiant.
“Wonderful light!” their host shouts.
There is a pressure in his chest that feels as vibrant and as rare as the yellow that shrouds the ball. Colin feels shaky and nervous, warm and heavy. He reaches for Penelope’s hand again, wanting some support. She meets his gaze and her happiness somehow grows.
“Isn’t it so beautiful?” she exclaims.
“Very,” Colin agrees, softly.
“It is as though the stars have been dragged down to the earth.”
He squeezes her fingers. A quiet creature within him, something long-slumbering, slow-rising, demands that he never lets her go.
His mother is disappointed to learn that he has been calling upon Miss Thompson at Featherington House with only one bouquet of flowers at a time.
“It is more polite to offer flowers to every woman present in the house,” Violet chides, fingering the assortment of pansies he has chosen for Marina. “Particularly when a girl as dear as Penelope is among them.”
A great surge of regret fills Colin. He hangs his head. “I am ashamed I have neglected her until now. Do you think I should buy her more flowers?”
Violet smiles at him, a glimmer in her eyes. “No, dear. I believe this shall suffice.”
The bouquet he has picked for Penelope is enormous, overflowing with lilies, lilacs and violets. The stems are bound by a ribbon as purple as the heavens under which he danced with his dear friend, the previous evening.
“However, I must insist that you return to the florist and choose bouquets for Penelope’s mother and sisters, as well.”
“He will be dismayed to see me returned,” Colin says, laughing. “I wasted a good twenty minutes of his morning, considering the flowers he had on offer.”
Funny, when he never concerned himself with the concept of perfection for flowers he brought to Marina. He accepted the florist’s recommendation without comment. But picking flowers for Penelope, with the memory of the shape of her hand indented into his skin, proved to be a far more thought-provoking task.
“You need not linger for your second visit, as you only need simple selections for the rest of the family. I must say, you have chosen exceptionally well for the bouquet that counts.”
He wonders if she is referring to the pansies or the lilies and thinks he knows.
“Perhaps I should get more pansies for Penelope’s family,” he says, quietly.
“What a splendid idea.”
Colin stands on the front step of Featherington House with his arms full of flowers. He feels foolish, attempting to balance five bouquets and maintain his composure.
Lady Featherington receives him in the drawing room with displeasure.
“Mr Bridgerton,” she greets, her smile tight. “I am afraid Miss Thompson is still ill. But I am sure your flowers will brighten her bedside.”
He is hardly listening, waving at Penelope where she sits on the settee by the window. She is back in yellow and sad for it, judging by her wistful smile.
“I am sorry to hear that Miss Thompson remains unwell, and I hope these flowers shall provide her with some comfort during her recovery,” Colin says, placing the red pansies on the nearest table. “However, I hoped to call upon Miss Penelope this morning.”
Lady Featherington fixes him with a dubious look. Colin forces himself to look her in the eye and appear undaunted.
“Very well,” Lady Featherington says, after a long pause. “You may like to greet Prudence and Phillippa, while you are here.”
“Certainly,” Colin says. “But first, these are for you, Lady Featherington.”
He hands her the orange pansies, and does not wait for her response before he approaches Penelope’s sisters, giving them each a set of yellow pansies. He registers but does not react to their broad smiles.
It is a relief to be free of the extraneous flowers. Colin holds the purple blossoms he chose with such care and beams at the girl whose beauty they could never match. He has been waiting for this moment since he woke at dawn from vague, stirring dreams.
“For you, Pen,” Colin murmurs, offering her the large bundle.
Penelope stares at him, astounded. She accepts the flowers with tentative hands, holds them with enough care to suggest they are made of water, liable to collapse at the slightest touch. When they remain intact, she strokes the petals gently. She lifts the violets to her face, inhaling their fragrance. Colin watches her eyelashes downturn and fan over her cheeks with fascination.
“Thank you, Colin,” she says, softly. “They are beautiful.”
“I am glad you think so. I was inspired by last night’s sky.”
“That is very thoughtful,” Penelope says. There is a sense of understanding in her gaze, now. Something has occurred to her and steadied her. “You have been very thoughtful.”
Beckoned by her smile, Colin joins her on the settee.
“Thank you for taking care of me last night,” she whispers, as though she is telling him a grave secret. “If I am being honest, I have been terrified to make my debut. I dearly wish my mother had allowed me to delay for a year, as your mother allowed Eloise. But I had a truly wonderful time with you.”
Colin smiles tenderly. Her bravery seems pronounced in her frank discussion of her fear. He is grateful to have helped her.
“I had a wonderful time with you, as well. In fact, I have never enjoyed a social event so thoroughly. It may be selfish to admit it, but I am rather pleased that you have debuted early.”
The smile that Penelope gives him is so beautiful that his heart begins to race.
“I suppose it is worth it, then,” she says.
“And you call me a good friend,” Colin chuckles.
Penelope shakes her head, looks shyly down at her flowers.
“I hope Marina will recover soon. She is not much improved, Mama says, so I am uncertain how long you will have to wait to see her again. Would you like me to pass along a message?”
Colin cannot suppress a wry chuckle. It would be inconsiderate indeed to send the message he has for Marina through another person – let alone Penelope.
“I must apologise to her,” Colin says. “It would only be right to address her myself.”
Resigned as he is to this impending conversation, he can acknowledge his dread for it. He enjoyed calling upon Marina and presenting her with flowers and engaging her in cheerful conversation. It followed his ideological understanding of attraction and courtship well. Now, it seems very shallow.
He knows that his change in regard will seem abrupt, and he hates to know that he may cause her pain.
“That is honourable of you.”
“I try to be, where I can,” he says, tracing a speckled lily petal.
Perhaps Penelope senses his worry, because she says, “I have often thought that earnest effort counts for most of what it means to be an honourable person. Would you not agree?”
Her eyes are very blue in the sunlight, similar in hue to the flowers between them, and brimming with admiration. Colin wonders if her high opinion of him would diminish, if she knew what he was starting to think about her.
He is playing with fire, and he has more at stake than burnt fingers.
“That is very wise, Penelope,” Colin says. “But then again, you always have been.”
“Do not tell my mama, but I believe it is because I enjoy reading so much,” Penelope replies, her smile full of mischief.
Colin’s certainty grows more every moment.
He laughs with her. “I am sure it has greatly benefited your natural insight. Tell me, what have you been reading lately?”
When Colin leaves Featherington House, he has a borrowed book under his arm and a smile on his face. For once, he feels as perfectly happy as he looks; it is not for show, not for another’s benefit. It is entirely his own. It is a precarious, secretive happiness, but it is happiness nonetheless, the sincerest form of it that he has ever felt.
He has had his thousandth splendid conversation with Penelope, and he has acquired her favourite book. It was his idea to borrow it; he had asked for it, rather impertinently, desperate as he is to know more about her. She was self-conscious about giving him a romance novel, but he assured her that he had faith in her taste.
In fact, he is thrilled to know she enjoys romance, that she is familiar with it, despite her youth and innocence. Perhaps the romantic lead of her favourite book can guide him in the deepening of their friendship.
If that is what is meant to be.
Upon his return home, Colin struggles to focus on the book. He finds himself lost in the thought that her hand has touched every page he turns, that her mind has absorbed every word he reads. The story crafted by these sentences matters to her.
This is something that matters to her, and she has given it to him freely.
He puts down the book and leans back in his chair, overwhelmed.
The tension that has recently permeated his household seems to have reached a breaking point. Colin approaches the drawing room in hopes of a cup of tea and finds the door closed. He raises his eyebrows when he hears angry voices.
“Daphne has charmed a duke, Anthony!” his mother exclaims, as sternly as he has ever heard her speaking. “You must know that changes everything.”
“Oh, please do not tell me this rebellion is to do with Hastings!”
“They are courting.”
“They’ve danced a couple of times at a ball!” Anthony shouts. “Colin has done the same with Penelope Featherington. It does not signify – ”
The door swings open under Colin’s palm. He does not plan before he pushes it, does not think before he opens his mouth and begins reprimanding his brother – a person he prefers not to bother, even in amiable moods.
“Excuse me,” Colin says, glaring at Anthony. “But what exactly is your meaning?”
Anthony makes a loud noise of exasperation and pinches his nose. Daphne looks at Colin with hopeful eyes, wordlessly begging for an ally. His mother seems to forget about her frustration with Anthony, as intrigue unfolds over her face.
“Please, leave us, Colin,” Anthony says. “This conversation does not concern you.”
“It would seem it does, given you have raised my name during it, as well as the name of my dear friend. I hope that you are not disrespecting Penelope.”
Another impatient sound escapes Anthony. “What would give you such an impression? I merely stated that you are not courting her.”
“You inferred that my courtship of her was impossible!” Colin snaps. “As though she is not a perfectly eligible young lady. I would be very fortunate indeed to court Penelope.”
A hefty silence follows. Anthony gapes at him, clearly unsure how to reply. His mother and sister exchange furtive, conspiratorial looks, the beginnings of identical smiles stirring on their faces.
It could not be more obvious that they are in support of Colin’s budding feelings. Still, Colin cannot appreciate their knowing looks, nor the likelihood that they understand what is happening to him better than he does himself.
He clears his throat. “In future, I insist that you speak of Penelope with the care and respect that she is owed.”
With that, he turns on his heel and leaves them to their argument. He does not make it all the way through the door before Anthony is calling his name.
He turns back reluctantly. He is not very appeased by the sheepish look Anthony wears, though any sign of regret from him is a miracle. “I apologise, brother. I did not realise you were considering courting Miss Featherington.”
It is a simple assessment of Colin’s recent confusion. One he cannot deny.
“Thank you for apologising,” Colin manages, before disappearing down the hallway.
Later that evening, his mother knocks on his bedroom door with a plate of shortbread biscuits in her hands. She has not done anything of the sort since Colin was a boy. Given his return to foolish, emotional behaviour, he understands her motivation.
Colin thanks her and accepts the plate with a self-deprecating smile.
“I apologise for interrupting your conversation with Anthony and Daphne.”
“There is no need to apologise,” Violet assures him. “It was not a conversation worth continuing. Certainly not after your brother spoke so brazenly about Penelope. You were right to defend her.”
He nods, swallows. “Mother… I confess I feel very wretched.”
“Would you like to tell me why?”
Perhaps he should not. He knows his older brothers have limited patience for their coddling mother and prefer to be stoic with their worries. But Colin is precarious and uncertain and eager for advice.
“Penelope has been my friend for years,” he says, quietly. “I have only ever seen her as my friend. But now… after dancing with her, holding her, seeing her shine beneath those lights… I cannot look at her the same way.”
It is not the dazzling thunderbolt he expected and sought out. It is more like a sunbeam, casting nourishment and warmth over his soul.
“She is only seventeen,” Colin continues. “She told me herself that she wished she could have delayed her debut. I do not believe she is interested in courtship, which I do not begrudge. Certainly, I had no interest in courtship at her age.”
Unmistakable surprise rises in Violet’s gaze. It strikes him as a strange reaction – he hopes it does not indicate that she was not expecting him to consider Penelope’s perspective – but it disappears in a fleeting moment.
“I can assure you that she is very much interested in courtship.”
There is a solemn confidence in her tone that Colin cannot question.
“Right. Well,” he says, slowly. “Be that as it may, she is likely not interested in a courtship with me. She sees me as her friend.”
Violet smiles as though he has told a joke that is not particularly funny. Again, Colin does not know how to interpret her.
“There is one way you can be certain. You need only gather the courage to ask,” his mother says. “I trust that Penelope will handle your confession with grace. She would never forsake you. Whatever outcome awaits you, your friendship is strong enough to survive this development.”
“How can you be sure?” Colin asks, desperate for it to be true.
“Because my friendship with your father lasted for as long as we were married.”
His breathing falters. This is as sure a sign as any that he must take a chance on the change in his heart – his mother, comparing her relationship with the love of her life, to his relationship with his best friend.
“Oh, Mother,” Colin says, groaning, laughing at himself. “What am I to do? I have made such a mess of things, misleading a girl to believe I had a true interest in her – Penelope’s cousin, no less. I feel very foolish, very young. I realise now that I do not know the first thing about romance. How am I to make myself worthy of Penelope?”
A reminiscing fondness shines in Violet’s smile. She shakes her head at him and grasps both his hands.
“It is alright, dearest,” she says, her smile warm. “These things take time. There is no need to wake up as the perfect suitor, no need to declare yourself in love tomorrow. The best course of action is to distance yourself from Miss Thompson – respectfully, of course, as I am sure you can manage – and to spend as much time as you possibly can with Penelope. You will gather more insight into both of your feelings by doing so.”
There is such soundness in these solutions, such relief in her enduring faith in him. Colin nods as she talks, soaking in her sensibility, willing it to resonate.
“You are right,” Colin says. “Thank you. I – I will call on her again, tomorrow morning.”
The promise thrills and scares him in equal measure. His intentions will be more obvious, after he calls on Featherington House without having received news of Marina’s recovery and requests, for the second time, to speak to Penelope. By that point, there will be nothing else for it. He will have to confess his affection to Penelope, and, should she accept him, ask her father for permission to court her.
Colin takes a deep breath. He can be brave, he tells himself.
For Penelope, he will gather the courage.