Chapter Text
The race day is filled with excitement, the eager anticipation of the upcoming races. She does her best to influence Mama and Varley away from any yellow dresses entirely, but only manages to convince them to dress her in a yellow dress with splashes of pink.
After the strain of sitting through the calling hour having to listen to Mama and Varley talk of Cousin Jack’s guns and hunting trophies which he has strewn around the house, the walk over to Bridgerton House is a refreshing balm.
Benedict is curled up in a chair opposite Violet - who has a tea cup on the table beside her, while Gregory and Hyacinth are laying sprawled out over the parallel settees. Eloise is slouched in a chair beside the door to the parlour looking over a copy of Whistledown from a few weeks ago.
They do not look up when she enters, save for Violet. She enters further into the room as she questions Eloise, then Violet chimes in about Eloise’s search for a husband. She moves to be seated across from Eloise, waving to Gregory and returning Hyacinth’s whispered, near silent greeting.
She is answering Violet’s question, hoping to distract her friend from her inquisition into Whistledown. When Anthony strides briskly into the room, cutting her off.
She sees Violet set her embroidery down to stare at her eldest son.
“You are back rather early from calling on the younger Miss Sharma at Lady Danbury’s, Anthony. I hope all is well?”
She watches him glance around and peer over her head at Gregory and Hyacinth softly.
“Hmm. Yes mother, the younger Miss Sharma had several callers this morning. Her elder sister managed the line of callers rather thoroughly. ” he says through gritted teeth.
She watches his eyes flick over her and he strides forward to yank the old edition of Whistledown from Eloise’s hands, nearly causing her to spill her cup of tea.
“Family,” he says with a grin, clapping his hands together, “Get dressed! We are going to the races, united as one!”
Gregory and Hyacinth groan from their places on the settees, with the youngest Bridgerton throwing a well aimed decorative throw pillow at her eldest brother. Anthony steps out of the way just in the nick of time, right as Colin walks through the double doors with a smile on his face.
Violet’s sharp “Hyacinth Bridgerton!” is drowned out over Colin’s yelp of pain as the wayward pale blue cushion hits him right in the face.
“Why, I certainly did not expect this level of drama upon my arrival home. Have I missed some grave slight that has caused us to fall into vicious war?” jokes Colin.
Benedict stands from his place slouched across the chair. She is delighted to note that his body language is angled in such a way that he keeps Gregory and Hyacinth both in his eyeline in case they decide to begin an all out war against the three oldest Bridgertons.
She watches his lips pull up into that familiar feline grin, before his remark on Colin’s beard.
They all disperse after that, Penelope walking across the square to find her mother and Mrs. Varley staring in frozen horror at Cousin Jack’s rack of guns. He’s still in the process of having the servants arrange the strange hunting decor about the home; each new addition making her mother more and more frantic.
She gently prompts them into going to the tracks - despite her mother’s mixed feelings on the matter. The weather is rather warm for early spring, the sun shining down from a partly cloudy sky. Truly a splendid day to spend amongst the Ton.
Her mother, sisters, and Mr. Finch have already seated themselves in the stands, nearly on level with the Bridgerton brood - minus Anthony, Colin and Eloise. The crowd is thicker the closer she gets towards the stand, gently fluttering the yellow fan in her hand. The scent of the horses is pleasant, a wafting breeze carries the sweet malty nostalgic scent of beer. It drags up memories of attending the tracks as a family, Penelope perched on her father’s strong shoulders as she gripped his thinning hair like he was a horse.
She is dragged out of reminiscing by spotting Colin’s China Blue overcoat and Arctic Blue silk cravat. He excuses himself from the conversation to attend to her over by the rails where she watches the jockeys in their silks ready the Thoroughbreds. She feels her face flush and her voice come out more high pitched than she usually attempts to make it.
She converses with Colin about his travels, viciously tamping down upon the sting of hurt that flares when he mentions having not been lonely during his travels across the continent. She feels the nervous irritation that flutters in her throat, causing her to stumble over her words. She only manages a few more moments to converse with him before Eloise is upon them, hand on her arm and a paper in her other hand. She swallows down the vicious, uncourteous urge to tell Eloise to leave them alone, her tone just shy of cutting sarcasm though neither Bridgerton seems to notice.
Eloise is then dragging her away towards the informative pamphlets being sold beside the refreshment stand before she can even blurt out a farewell to Colin.
The betting books are on the other side of the track, away from the view of the stands. She briefly gives thought to placing a bet before the reality of just how closely Eloise is paying attention to her. She watches as Eloise compares the paper stock to those of Mr. Harris’s, her examination of the details of the pamphlet hitting far too close to the truth. She gives Eloise a wry look and subtly discourages her away from the topic. She sees her mother wave her over from their position in the stands and blissfully makes her way away from Eloise.
The Bridgerton girl is her very best friend, but sometimes she is far too exuberant. She smiles, thinking about how Anthony’s wife will handle Hyacinth’s debut if she continues to wage war against her elder brothers.
She settles down with her sisters, beside Albion and Phillipa, to watch the start of the race - and more importantly, the Viscount and the Sharma sisters three rows below them. She can barely overhear all that is happening for Prudence’s excited yelling as High Flyer’s stride over takes the chestnut horse.
She watches as the Bridgertons traipse down the stands to where Anthony stands with Miss Edwina; admiring the graceful product of Edmund Bridgerton’s investment in Nectar’s mare - Ambrosia, a dark bay Thoroughbred who had been bred to one of the Prince Regent’s very own studs.
She is soon swept away back to Featherington house, the mood of Cousin Jack and her sisters giddy. Apparently Prudence had convinced Cousin Jack to make a bet on High Flyer rather than Nectar, so they had won at least something. She did not want to make any inquiries into the finances - so long as Phillipa’s dowry to the Finches was paid, she could always use her Whistledown funds to keep them afloat if she needed to. She just could not bear to experience her mother’s scalding desperation again - or the sharp pain of realizing that Varley had been doing the job of four people, in addition to her own because they simply did not have enough money to keep staff.
So she has been simply focusing on collecting the gossip surrounding Anthony and the younger Miss Sharma although there did seem to be some attraction between the Viscount and the elder sister at the races today. Not enough to put in an issue yet, but enough to become one if they were not exceedingly careful.
There is also something to be said about Jack Featherington’s pursuit of Cressida Cowper. Unlike her mama fears, she hardly thinks that Jack is marrying Cressida due to her great beauty. Cressida has been out as long as she had, though she is closer in age to Daphne than to herself. What is interesting is that Cressida comes with a rather sizable dowry in tow.
She sighs as she continues trudging up the stairs to her room. She still needs to write this week's issue and present the final copy to the printer’s before the end of the week; preferably before the Bridgertons leave for Aubrey with the Sharmas and Lady Danbury. She has no time to spend worrying after the finances of the household.
She makes certain to lock her door this time so none of her family barges in. She spends close to an hour making final edits on tomorrow's edit of her column before she pens out the first draft of next week’s early edition. The unusually warm heat of April has left her skin feeling uncomfortable, warm and pink.
By the time she is done, the skin of her fingers is splattered in black smudges of dried ink. She walks towards the washbasin next to her bed, which Varley had filled with cold water and a cloth on the side. She scrubs her hands until they feel raw, but all of the ink has removed itself from the eddies of her skin.
The next day is mostly quiet, save for the Danbury footman delivering their invitations after the afternoon tea service. After that, she is pulled into a flurry of activity. She bathes, allowing her hair to be twisted into place so it will dry into tightly twisted curls. There is no use fighting with her mother about the color of her dress tonight when she knows that the elder Miss Sharma will likely not extend an invitation to Anthony. Her necklace is garishly glittering orange and red gems at her throat - contrasting with the effusive yellow fabric that makes up her dress. She honestly would have preferred a lace monstrosity over this.
‘Honestly-’ she thinks, ‘My earrings do not even match the rest of my outfit.’
They all crowd around Lady Danbury’s settee in front of the fireplace, the warmth welcome now that the usual spring chill of London is back in the air. The other eligible ladies of the ton do not pay attention t0 her, even here in this enclosed space - too fixated upon their mamas and the bachelors to pay any mind to her in her spot near the lamp.
She stands in the back, observing as there are several rounds of Riddles and Charades, with poetry interspersed in-between by those hoping to catch the attention of the younger Miss Sharma while avoiding the ire of her older sister.
Lady Danbury sits next to Kathani with the Dowager Viscountess to her left. Eloise stands next to her mother with a mulish look upon her face, with Violet’s hand clasped around her wrist. She is pressed close to the back of the settee - nearly being squished by the other women around her as if they simply have not noticed her.
Graciously, Lady Danbury soon calls for a break after the fifth gentleman finishes his recitation of poetry. She carefully hides her grimace in a gentle smile and slips away with Eloise to the corner of the crowded room to see who converses with who. Wordsworth and Coleridge’s Lyrical Ballads is tucked beneath one arm, just in case she decides to step forward to read a poem.
She notices Miss Edwina Sharma slink away from the boisterous conversation where her elder sister is glaring at Lord Cho rather heatedly. Another glance reveals that Cressida is nowhere to be seen, so she feels slightly less nervous about approaching the Queen’s chosen Diamond. The glasses of lemonade do look rather refreshing as well.
The other girl is kind, if a bit soft spoken. Penelope gently excuses herself to Edwina to go greet Colin by the entry to the parlour. She bites softly at her lip, gloved fingers carefully smoothing back the curl by her ear as Colin bows towards her.
Her voice lowers in its pitch as she observes Edwina, before turning in shock at Colin’s comment near her ear - close enough that her heart flutters in her chest and her breath hitches in shock.
She fights to keep down the flush of irritation at her thoughtless inquiry, averting her eyes to avoid the heated look he gives her. Her embarrassment dims at the sight of another man genuinely hoop rolling at one of Lady Danbury’s soiree’s.
Her attention swivels back to Colin apprehensively as he declares that she is right. Hope swells in her breast as she leans forward slightly to hear his next words, only to swallow bitter disappointment when he says that he had found himself on his travels.
She measures her breaths, holding back the burning sting of tears that threaten to overwhelm her, staring at him in shocked fury.
“You are Pen. You do not count. You are my friend.”
She manages some perfunctory response and steps backwards as she watches him walk away. She heaves in a breath, and then another. She feels the sting in her chest painfully, holding back a wave of tears with a sniffle.
She blinks when she sees a familiar handkerchief in front of her face - blue silk with crooked lilac flowers and edged with white lace. She gives a small laugh and takes the proffered cloth to wipe at her damp eyes. Anthony Bridgerton stands in front of her - his tall form blocking the ton’s view of her but still far enough away to be proper.
She is lanced through with the sudden longing to do nothing more than hold his hand. The sick twisting in her belly opens more and she gives a shaky sniffle, reaching up again to swipe gently at her eyes.
His eyebrows are furrowed in a familiar expression of concern - though his eyes hold a fierce shimmer that she has never seen before. She sees a muscle in his jaw flicker and his hands twitch at his sides.
There is a rectangular outline of a book in his tailcoat. She raises her eyebrows in surprise, and when she speaks her voice is lower in its cadence.
“Are you intending to read poetry tonight, Viscount Bridgerton?”
He gives her a gentle smile in exchange and pulls out a well worn poetry book from the pocket of his prussian blue coat.
“Yes. I had originally intended to read from this book, but Benedict wrote something original for me to recite.”
She is mortified to find the Viscount holding Lord Byron’s Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage . She holds her hand out gently, slowly so as to not attract movement from the ton. He tilts his head to watch her with his dark brown eyes, gently handing her the book of poetry.
“Best to go with what your brother has composed, my Lord. I also have a copy of Wordsworth and Coleridge’s work if you would like to read from it instead.”
She gently tucks the offending book under her arm before handing Anthony back his handkerchief along with her copy of the book. A yellow ribbon is sticking out from the page where she had stopped reading earlier.
“Coleridge's The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere is a delightful poem, most excellent storytelling though perhaps a bit long for a soiree.”
Anthony smiles at her again and she smiles gently back. Her spirits lifted.
“You should recite it for us during tea one afternoon. Francesca will be going to Bath to stay with our Aunt to receive further instruction on the pianoforte soon, and we will all be dreadfully beside ourselves without her this season.”
She huffs a small laugh, quiet enough that the rest of the room will not hear.
“Yes. Hyacinth would enjoy it, I believe. A tale of grand adventure and dangerous peril.”
“It sounds refreshing. I would be delighted if you would expand upon the virtues of reading to Hyacinth. And out of curiosity, why would you rather I read from this book rather than the one I brought?”
She gives a smile that turns into more of a grimace.
“Because the gossip about this author,” she taps the book under her arm with a gloved hand, “would put what Lady Whistledown has revealed about the esteemed members of the ton to shame. It is said that his rather libertine reputation he developed at both Trinity and Cambridge has developed into rather intimate relations with his half sister, despite his pursuit of Miss Millbanke. I have heard other rumors that the honorable Lady Leigh’s third daughter bears a striking resemblance to her grandfather.”
He stares at her in dismay before slipping away through the crowd to find a place beside the fire once Lady Danbury calls for the presentations to resume. Hopefully there are not more eccentric talents presented tonight. They all barely managed to politely clap for - whatever that last act was before the break, and the man with the hoop rolling talent hadn’t even gone up yet.
Truly, the poetry that Benedict wrote is captivating and passionate though Anthony’s delivery is slightly shaky. The other women of the ton are captivated by the words and the striking beauty of the eldest Bridgerton son, leading to frenzied applause.