Chapter Text
Penelope has not slept.
She hasn’t slept in weeks, really. Not well, anyway. Perhaps it is months. Perhaps years. But nothing compares to this. God, nothing compares to this.
When she was a child her father took her to a circus. Her mother was furious, but she remembers the awe of watching someone walk along a tightrope, teetering over a ruinous drop, euphoric applause amongst the crowd when he reached safety.
That is how this feels, she imagines. Improbable happiness waiting at a platform, if she can only keep her balance, avoid the fall.
Yesterday she married the love of her life. Tentative hope for his forgiveness bloomed in her heart as they exchanged their vows, when the world faded to the narrow point of each other’s eyes as they spun around at their wedding breakfast.
That dance should have been the most scandalous thing to happen but she had been careless, and the Queen..
Panic has her gasping for air.
She cannot explain even to herself why she answered Colin’s fearful response to the very real threat with a refusal.
A few weeks ago she had been prepared to give up her writing identity, to subsume her own dreams in order to be his wife, but suddenly she could not bear to stand in front of the imperfect man she adored and be told she must relinquish the one thing that she had made for herself.
If there had been more time she could have given him context, made him understand that she didn’t want to bring harm to his family, of course, but that writing matters to her like it matters to him. She is afraid that what came out of her mouth seemed more like an impulsive refusal of his authority, that there is an impassable gulf of understanding between them. Their insecurities feeding the fall.
Day is well established by the time she forces herself to open the bedroom door. She can see the tension in the back of his head on the sofa he insisted on sleeping on last night. A gloomy sentry. He is so, so angry with her. And so sad.
She has done this. She has wounded him. She is every bad thing she has ever heard or thought about herself.
He is desperate to get away from her.
She wants to ask him to stay, to fight for them, but she does not feel like she has the right. She phrases it meekly.
“You do not have to leave” stay, please stay.
“I wish to.”
He is not a cruel man. Looking at her seems to cause him pain. The only kindness she can offer that he will accept is to let him go.
A blink and he has swept out of the house.
Mere moments later Rae knocks to tell her she has a visitor. Her mother. There must be a god, for she is being punished.
She tells Rae she needs to get ready, but then she cannot bring herself to get properly dressed, she simply splashes some water on her face. A mechanical ablution.
When she enters the room she is prepared to dispassionately endure her mother’s scrutiny. She does not notice that the shape in front of her is too tall and angular and sharp to be Portia until Cressida speaks.
“Good morning, I trust you had a happy wedding night”
What fresh hell is this?
“What are you doing here?”
Cressida seems smug. Dangerous.
“I am simply paying a visit to the esteemed Lady Whistledown - I know your secret.”
Ah.
Two instincts war in Penelope. To bluster, lie, use her clever words to try to convince Cressida she is mistaken. Or to simply admit defeat, throw herself off the tightrope. She had felt pity for Cressida, playing charades at the engagement party, unable to keep up with Eloise. Her secret is truly out, if even she has worked it out.
But no, this is Cressida, thief of joy, thief of her work. She is too arrogant for Penelope to cede. She opens her mouth to fight, but she has stayed in her thoughts too long, and -
“You know, thinking back on everything it makes perfect sense, no one would ever suspect you, as you are so very forgettable.”
- the moment has passed.
Penelope vaguely hears Cressida inform her she is going to the countryside, something about an aunt. For a moment she just stares up at this woman who has for some reason always disliked her, not at all sure why she thinks she would care about any of this. It seems like she should be relieved to escape her miserable home.
Penelope is so very tired. She has married the man she had loved for what may as well be her whole life, and he hates her. Everything is crumbling. And Cressida is still talking.
“Why do you hate me so much?”
Cressida blinks at the interruption.
“I.. what?”
“You always hated me. I was never any competition to you, I was already at the bottom of the heap, but you always singled me out, tried to push me lower. I just wondered what it was you saw that made you feel like I deserved it?”
She looks at Cressida, sure that desperation for some insight into what is so wrong with her must be written all over her face. It is pointless. The woman is gaping at her like a fish.
“Nevermind. You were saying.”
She waves an arm at her guest, who after faltering a moment does continue.
“I said, you will pay me £10000 for my silence. Or I will reveal your true identity.”
Dear god, this is laughable.
“Oh. Is that all?”
It is laughable. Why isn’t she laughing?
“Who would believe you?”
At that moment her mother marches into the room, with a sense of dramatic timing that would raise an audience to their feet.
Cressida seems relieved to have another person to talk to. Penelope can understand that, she wouldn’t want to talk to her either. She doesn’t seem able to be present. The words aren’t registering, that’s the problem. Perhaps they have switched to an unfamiliar language. Or perhaps they simply need to shout louder over the raging torrent of a river that is filling her ears with noise.
She sees comprehension dawn on her mother, watches her draw back like she has been slapped. Thats another one in on the world’s worst-kept secret.
Cressida has regained the composure she had lost dealing with Penelope, a predatory grin on her face as she feasts on their blood.
“You will pay me my sum, or I will reveal the truth to the entire Ton.”
What curiously human words to come from a jackal’s mouth.
Cressida sweeps out.
Penelope’s mother follows her as she makes her way back to the bedchamber, another indignity - going through all that dressed in her night clothes.
She is not shocked when her mother tells her she should lie to Colin about the blackmail. She cannot lie to him anymore, even if the price is an annulment. She would cut out her own heart to grant him whatever he would want.
It strikes Penelope that she imagined Portia Featherington would rage at her if she ever discovered her writing, so she expected the anger, disappointment, disgust. She did not expect.. fear?
“We shall not survive this, Penelope. Your deception, the blackmail, that damned solicitor sniffing around..”
Focus, Penelope.
“What solicitor, mama?”
There is a moment’s hesitation before Portia unburdens herself. The false inheritance to disguise the funds stolen from through the ruby scheme. Suspicions over the veracity of the document that transfers the barony to the first born grandson.
Penelope does not need to ask about the veracity. She asks anyway.
“Do not take that tone with me, Penelope. You have no right, with all you have done. We are the same you and I. At least I was trying to protect you all. What excuse do you have?”
There is some comfort in being able to fight with her mother like this, it is easier than the impasse with Colin. There is less risk in recriminations. Their armours are stronger than his, have been tested more.
Penelope understands now that they are more alike than either of them would likely care to admit, and they are both trapped in webs of their own making. They’ve both trapped each other, too. There is no value to solving one issue without the other.
An idea sparks in that clever little mind of hers. She understands too, now, why they used to wield her cleverness against her as an insult. What was it all for? This.
“Mama, will you allow me to think on this, for a while? A little peace to consider the least ruinous path for us all? Perhaps discuss this with Colin?”
Portia unexpectedly cedes.
“You will do what you will regardless of my feelings on the matter, I am sure.”
She grasps a hand to her abdomen, a mannerism Penelope recognises in herself. They are so similar. All these years, how did she not see? Portia walks over, reaches her hand out to grasp at her daughter, stopping just short.
“Perhaps time to think on this separately would be useful.”
She turns away, looking back over her shoulder as she reaches the door.
“If we survive this round, Penelope, we must do better.”
If. The rope vibrating beneath her feet, the crowd anticipating the tumble.
Alone again, Penelope goes to her writing desk.
First, she writes a note to be sent to Bridgerton House.
Colin, husband.
Please come home, we must speak.
Yours,
Penelope.
She calls for Rae, asks for the note to be sent immediately. Her idea is forming but she truly does not want to proceed with anything without discussing it with Colin.
She is not a patient woman, however, so she starts to write. Words fizzing from her brain through her fingers.
She is still writing when Rae enters with a note that has arrived in her husband’s stead. It is really the briefest of responses, but perhaps it is answer enough. He is not coming.
She accepts an offer of tea, and picks up her quill again. Feet edging along the trembling rope.
Four hours later, hand cramped, shoulders sore, she has in front of her two Whistledown drafts and letters addressed to Colin, Eloise, her mother and Lady Violet.
It is a gamble, this plan of hers. She hates to gamble. But a line has to be drawn, and she is drawing it. It truly seems like the best bad decision open to her. She is the problem, it seems fitting she should also be the solution.
She calls Rae, lets her know that she will be going out but to ensure a meal is prepared for Mr Bridgerton on his return that evening.
She dithers a little over the papers in front of her, but then gathers them all and holds them against her chest.
She has to fight the urge to embrace Rae when she asks her if all is well.
“Thank you, Rae. Truly.”
Rae is insistent that she take Colin’s carriage, if she must go out. It is only her insistence that Mr Bridgerton would be cross with them if they let her take a hired hack that makes her acquiesce. She does not want any blame to fall on the staff. Besides, Colin has already been every where she intends to go.
She carries only a cloak and the papers.
The first stop on their journey is the only one with any urgency to it, and it takes them to her print shop. She requests that the men both stay with the carriage but one of them insists on accompanying her and waits outside to ensure her safety. She leaves the printer one draft lighter, and she thanks the coachman for his kindness.
When they return to the carriage she directs them to take her to the palace.
On arrival, she informs them she has an appointment, and asks them to wait. The timing of everything is important, but she cannot be as precise as she wishes to without being glaringly obvious. She instructs them that is she does not return within an hour then they should head back to Bloomsbury via Mayfair, delivering the four letters she passes to them to inform her family she will be late.
The men are sceptical, she knows, so she gives them a comfortable amount of coin and her sweetest smile as she settles the hood of her cloak over her hair.
Inside the palace she speaks to a guard and is sent to join the line of people who are waiting to provide the Queen with their Whistledown theories. The line moves in fits and starts, murmurs rumbling that Queen Charlotte seems less engaged, more contemplative than she has been on previous days. Certainly since she dismissed everyone yesterday.
Penelope’s ears are attuned to the whispers as she edges forward, staying wrapped in the anonymity of her cloaks as long as she is able.
When she reaches the front of the queue, she simply holds out the remaining draft of the column she had written out earlier.
The Queen is slumped as much as she can be in her rigid dress, but when the papers are handed to her by the footman, she starts to read, and her posture shifts. It is not long before she is on her feet, dismissing those still standing behind Penelope, subjects and staff alike.
A private audience.
She looks so alive, Penelope thinks. Giddy with discovery as the room clears.
“Well then, girl. Unveil yourself.”
Penelope closes her eyes, tries to contain the tremor as she brushes the hood of her cloak to move it away from her face.
The fall was inevitable.
She releases a long-held breath and steps off the rope.