Chapter Text
Penelope’s POV
Aubrey Hall, Summer, Ten Years Later
There was no silence at a Bridgerton gathering.
There was food, and children, and far too many opinions about how the scones were baked.
Penelope sat beneath the wide oak on the edge of the garden terrace, a plate balanced on one knee and a wiggly toddler seated beside her, mashing a jam tart into both hands with ruthless determination. Across the lawn, the chaos of a full family reunion bloomed like wildflowers — too loud, too bright, too much — and yet, somehow, just right.
“Auggie, if you throw that again, I swear—” Daphne’s voice rang out, half stern, half resigned.
“Let him live a little,” Simon said mildly, sipping tea while ducking a flying biscuit.
“Not in his sister’s bonnet.”
Penelope smiled, turning slightly so her growing belly had more room beneath the lace overlay of her gown. She was six months along and felt every inch of it — ankles thick, back aching, baby kicking like she was trying to rehearse for the theatre — and still, somehow, she felt better here than she had in years.
“Leo, sweetheart,” she said gently to her son, “eat the tart, not your sleeve.”
Four year old Leo looked up with jam across his nose and shrugged. “The sleeve’s sweeter.”
“Because you wiped your hands on it.”
“Exactly.”
From the table nearby, Violet laughed. “He has Anthony’s logic, that one.”
“I can’t decide if that’s a blessing or a warning,” Penelope murmured, wiping Leo’s face with a linen napkin that barely survived the attempt.
She looked out at the gathering.
Gregory and Lucy sat near the shade, each holding a twin while trying to keep the pair from crawling into the lemonade bucket. Lucy, very visibly pregnant again, had a peacefulness to her — or perhaps it was resignation. Hard to tell with a Bridgerton woman.
Eloise had claimed the rocking bench near the rose trellis, one hand resting on her round belly as she argued fiercely with Francesca over which literary heroine was more deranged. Philip sat nearby, amused and clearly overruled.
Colin was attempting to assemble a toy boat with Thomas, who had no interest in building and every interest in launching it into the fountain. Serafina, stunning and unbothered as always, offered commentary in Italian that Penelope didn’t quite catch — but from the smirk on her lips, it wasn’t complimentary.
Ben was sketching. Always sketching. Charles was posing dramatically nearby with a stick like a sword, and Violet — the little one, not the matriarch — had managed to braid daisies into her father’s hair.
And then there was Hyacinth, recently and gloriously married, holding a glass of champagne in one hand and a pastry in the other, boldly proclaiming that she was not having children until she’d published at least two more scandalous travel memoirs.
“Good luck with that,” Anthony said from behind Penelope, dropping a kiss onto the top of her head. “She said the same thing about finishing her Egypt book. And then eloped to Scotland instead.”
“She says chaos is creative fuel.”
Anthony sat beside her, his knee knocking against hers. “You say that when you’re the chaos.”
The sun was warm on the back of her neck. The sounds of the children layered with laughter and cutlery and the occasional scream of “he started it!”
It was home.
It was family.
It was everything she never imagined she’d have — not like this. Not so full.
“Remind me,” Anthony said, tilting his head, “how many of them are ours again?”
“Four.”
“Feels like twelve.”
“One is on loan from my spine,” she muttered, rubbing her belly.
Anthony slid a hand across her back, slow and reassuring. “Not long now.”
Penelope leaned into his shoulder, letting her eyes drift shut just for a moment.
Then a voice rang out from the lawn — loud, delighted, and dangerous.
“IT’S TIME!”
Hyacinth, of course.
Mallets were being dragged out of the shed.
Spouses groaned. Siblings grinned.
Children squealed.
Penelope exhaled slowly, letting Anthony help her up as she said, “Heaven help us.”
Anthony grinned. “The Mallets have returned.”
General POV
The box was ceremonial now.
A velvet-lined trunk, reinforced after its lid was famously broken in 1817 when Colin and Gregory attempted to dive into it simultaneously. It sat at the top of the hill overlooking the lawn, flanked by a small chalkboard titled:
“PALL MALL — THE BLOODSPORT”
Players must be willing to lie, cheat, or cry.
Benedict’s contribution.
The family gathered around like it was the drawing of lots for battle. Children sat cross-legged in the grass, eyes wide, whispering predictions. Lady Danbury had taken up her usual post with Violet under a parasol near the sidelines, tea in hand and judgment in her eyes.
“Well then,” said Hyacinth, dramatically unfastening the latch. “Shall we see who lives and who dies?”
“We’re not dying,” muttered Francesca, clearly regretting her presence already.
“Speak for yourself,” Eloise replied. “I nearly died the year Colin pushed me into the azaleas.”
“That was strategy,” Colin said brightly. “I needed to clear the path.”
“You nearly cleared my teeth.”
The box opened.
Inside, lined up like jeweled weapons: the new mallets.
Over the years, the Bridgerton Pall Mall set had evolved from a humble collection of battered mallets into something grander — a tradition.
Every family member, upon marrying in or coming of age, had been required to contribute a mallet to the collection. The rules were unspoken but ironclad: it had to reflect your style, your sense of humor, or your threat level. It had to be playable, durable, and, ideally, divisive. No names were etched. No mallet belonged to anyone forever.
Each year, the set was shuffled and redrawn — luck of the draw, fate of the swing.
The current collection included:
A royal navy mallet with gold filigree and a tiny lion near the handle — regal, proud, and heavy enough to make a statement.
A light lilac mallet with a pearl-white swirl and delicate scalloped carvings — deceptively elegant, deceptively ruthless.
A stormy blend of gray and blue, with the faint image of a paintbrush burned into the base — chaotic and creative.
A green, absurdly shiny mallet that looked like a vegetable dipped in varnish.
A forest-dark mallet with silver thorns snaking up the shaft — bold and slightly intimidating.
A sleek black-and-purple mallet, minimalist but deadly in the right hands.
A blood red mallet with glitter, because someone wanted to blind their enemies with fashion.
A sky blue mallet, carved with a lightning bolt and strangely aerodynamic.
A dusky lavender mallet with pale gold edges and the faintest impression of a crown — subtle but commanding.
An obsidian black mallet wrapped in crimson leather, far more intimidating than necessary.
A forest green mallet with a smooth silver band — balanced, solid, quietly dangerous.
A soft blue mallet with tiny painted stars — charming, unassuming, and somehow always ended up hitting the hardest.
An Italian racing red mallet with a fleur-de-lis, polished to a mirror shine.
A gold and floral mallet, delicate-looking and unfairly powerful.
A plain, practical mallet that somehow struck fear into even the boldest players.
A rich mahogany mallet with a perfectly smug shape — no other word for it.
And then, of course…
The Black Mallet.
Its origin was debated. Its design was simple. Its chaos was legendary.
The crowd went silent.
It had become a thing. A superstition. A prophecy. Whoever pulled the black mallet was destined for chaos, drama, and usually, a suspicious stain on their boots.
“It is not cursed,” said Anthony, though no one had accused it of being cursed yet.
“It’s absolutely cursed,” said Colin.
“I think it likes me,” Hyacinth murmured. “It whispers to me.”
“Perhaps that’s indigestion,” said Gregory.
The drawing began.
Children held their breath as adults reached in, one by one, dramatically pretending not to peek.
“Royal navy,” Anthony declared.
“No one is surprised,” Penelope murmured, drawing her soft rose-pink one and immediately holding it like a queen’s scepter.
“Mine has glitter,” Hyacinth announced. “Fear me.”
Gregory kissed his mallet. “I’ve missed you, my fast blue beauty.”
Eloise pulled hers with a sniff. “Still pointy. Good.”
One by one, the mallets dwindled.
Until only two were left.
Lucy hesitated. “Surely not again…”
Serafina smirked. “Fate, darling.”
With exaggerated drama, Lucy plunged her hand in — and withdrew the floral gold.
Serafina beamed and plucked hers. “Victory-colored.”
All eyes turned to the box.
Still nestled inside…
One black mallet.
Violet looked to Lady Danbury. “Do you think it chooses people?”
Danbury sipped her tea. “No. But I believe it remembers.”
Simon stepped forward, paused, and said, “We’re missing someone.”
“Where’s Benedict?” asked Daphne.
“Right here!” Benedict called, jogging over with a slice of cake still in hand. “Did I miss—”
Everyone pointed at the box.
He looked in.
Blink.
“…Oh hell.”
He reached in. Pulled it out.
The black mallet gleamed like a threat.
“Oh hell,” he said again, holding it up like a curse he could not undo.
The children cheered.
Hyacinth laughed until she hiccupped.
Anthony clapped him on the shoulder. “To the field, brave brother. May the gods smile upon you.”
“They’re already laughing,” Benedict muttered.
Penelope’s POV
Aubrey Hall, Pall Mall Field
There was something spiritual about the first swing.
Not holy, of course — no one in the Bridgerton family would claim their lawn sport was sanctioned by heaven. But there was a ritual to it. A reverence. The sound of the mallet cracking against wood. The whiz of the ball sailing into enemy territory. The gasp from the crowd. The immediate, gleeful accusations of sabotage.
It was glorious.
Penelope adjusted the brim of her hat as Gregory let out a whoop and darted across the lawn.
“I was aiming for the post!” he shouted as Francesca stared down at her ball, now resting squarely inside a flowerbed.
“You were aiming for my ankles!”
“You’re not the post?”
“Gregory!”
“Love you, Fran!”
Penelope grinned.
The sun was high and golden. The field was already a patchwork of stomped grass, crooked wickets, and abandoned lemonade cups. Children lined the sidelines, alternating between cheering and booing as their favorites passed. Violet was seated like royalty beneath a wide parasol, flanked by Lady Danbury, who had brought binoculars and was gleefully marking “suspicious behavior” in a leather-bound notebook.
And Penelope — six months pregnant, dressed in pale green with a slice of lemon tart waiting for her under the shade — had just sent Colin’s ball into the shrubbery with a particularly satisfying thwack.
“You know,” Colin called out, emerging from the bush, “you used to be gentle.”
“I used to be underestimated.”
Anthony, not far off, smirked. “That’s why I married her.”
Penelope turned her head, eyes gleaming. “You mean so you could lose in style?”
“Exactly,” he said, without shame.
Penelope walked the field with practiced calm, hand resting on her belly, mallet held like a queen’s scepter. She was many things now — a mother, a wife, a writer again when time allowed — but when Pall Mall came around?
She was a competitor.
And she was winning.
Or at least, she was… until Eloise made a suspiciously well-timed turn that redirected Pen’s ball so violently it spun in a circle before rolling into a shallow dip of mud.
“Oops,” Eloise said, not even pretending to look apologetic.
“Oh, we’re oopsing now?”
“I’m pregnant and in an empire waist,” Eloise said, twirling her mallet. “You think I won’t take you down?”
Anthony howled with laughter. “There she is.”
Around them, the game roared on:
Simon and Benedict were locked in some absurd gentleman’s standoff that involved comparing swing techniques and quoting Latin.
Hyacinth had tricked Gareth into “accidentally” knocking her ball closer to the post and was now cackling like a madwoman.
Daphne’s mallet had broken in half after a particularly vicious swing — the ball had been heading toward Simon — and she was now demanding a replacement with royal authority.
Penelope paused to watch her children for a moment. The triplets were lined up in chairs, Eliza solemnly taking notes on everyone’s strategy, Archer offering a running commentary, and Edmund betting buttons with Charles and Auggie. Little Leo was curled up next to Violet, watching with wide eyes and offering unsolicited coaching advice to anyone within earshot.
“Mama!” he yelled as she approached. “Don’t trust Aunt Eloise!”
“Too late,” she called back. “I already regret it!”
Anthony sidled up to her, casually brushing his shoulder against hers. “You’re magnificent.”
“I’m muddy,” she said, brushing off her skirts.
“You’re still magnificent.”
Penelope turned to him, brow raised. “Are you softening me for the win?”
“I would never.”
“You would absolutely.”
They stared each other down.
Two veterans. Married. In love. On opposite sides of the lawn war.
“You’re going to try to win,” she said flatly.
“I’m going to succeed.”
She took a step closer, eyes narrowed. “You know what happened the last time you underestimated me.”
Anthony leaned in, lips ghosting just near her ear. “We had triplets.”
Penelope choked on a laugh. “That’s not how triplets work.”
“Felt like it.”
The game raged on — whacks and shouts, cheers and groans, every sibling circling the field like sharks with floral print and parasols. But for Penelope, the noise dimmed.
Because he was looking at her like she still stunned him. Like no matter how many children they had, how many years passed, how many cheeky shots she aimed at his shins — she would always be his favorite thing on any lawn.
She kissed him — quick, sly, and smug — then knocked his ball a good twenty feet off course.
Anthony blinked. “That was unnecessary.”
“Felt like it.”
She winked, turned, and strutted back toward the wickets.
Behind her, Anthony let out a long, theatrical sigh.
And smiled.
Anthony’s POV
Twilight at Aubrey Hall
The lawn was finally quiet.
For now.
Stray mallets leaned against trees like sleeping soldiers. A half-bitten tart sat abandoned on the grass. The sun had dipped low enough to bathe the garden in gold, turning the trampled grass and torn wickets into something almost beautiful.
The game was over. No one was sure who had won. Possibly Eloise, though she had declared herself victorious by conviction, not score.
The children had drifted off to the nursery or into laps, growing limp with long-day exhaustion. The youngest of them clung like warm laundry to their parents. The eldest, nearly preteens now, were plotting something that probably involved frogs.
The siblings sat scattered in clusters — lounging on blankets, nursing bruises and lemonade, laughing over the most dramatic swings. The kind of easy laughter that only came when everything had already been forgiven.
And in the middle of it all was her.
Penelope.
She was perched on a blanket near the base of the willow tree, a cup of raspberry cordial in hand, her legs curled beneath her. Leo was asleep with his head in her lap, his face sticky with cake. Her other hand rubbed gentle circles over her belly, where their fifth child turned quietly beneath her skin.
The light loved her.
It always had.
Anthony watched from the edge of the lawn, arms folded, chest full. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He simply stood still and let the moment pour over him like warmth.
This was his life.
This was his family.
He had once believed he would die young. That he would never dare to love too deeply, never risk what his father had left behind — a family broken by grief, too large and too fragile for one man to carry.
But here he stood, years later, with laughter ringing through the windows of his childhood home, children running wild and adored, and a wife who still looked at him like he’d hung the stars — even when he missed the wicket entirely.
He had not just carried his family.
He had grown it.
He had lived.
Penelope looked up suddenly, catching his gaze across the lawn. And even ten years later, with four children, another on the way, and an entire life stitched between them, she still made his heart leap like a green boy in love.
She raised her cup slightly.
He walked to her slowly, taking his time, and sank down beside her on the blanket.
“Tired?” she murmured, leaning her head on his shoulder.
“Not yet. You?”
“Never.”
They sat there for a while in silence, listening to the rustle of wind through the trees, the murmur of voices around them, the gentle snore from their son.
“You know,” he said finally, turning his head to kiss her temple, “I thought I knew what legacy meant.”
Penelope glanced up. “And now?”
He looked around — at the worn grass, the shrieking children, the stained table linens, the flowers flattened under footfalls.
At their home.
At her.
“Now I know it’s this,” he said. “It’s laughter, and noise, and love that doesn’t care how loud or messy it gets.”
Penelope smiled, slow and soft.
“I used to think I’d leave behind a name,” he added. “But I think… I think I’ve left behind something better.”
She pressed her hand over his heart. “We built something better.”
He turned to kiss her fully then, no urgency, no heat — just the soft, endless promise of always. Her lips tasted like raspberries and summer and something sweeter still: home.
And when they broke apart, she whispered, “Let’s never stop.”
“Stop what?”
“This. Loving. Building. Living.”
Anthony looked at her — radiant and real and his — and said the only thing that had ever truly mattered.
“Never.”
The End!