December 20th, 1814

A very light snow was falling outside the drawing room window. Penelope's eyes followed flake after flake hopefully, only to see them melting as soon as they reached the pavement, the bushes, or the fences. Pity, that. Perhaps it would lay better in the night and she might wake up to a snow-covered street in the morning. It wouldn't solve her problems, not even one, but it would be such a lovely sight.

"Why must you always sit there, Penelope?"

"Why not? I'm surely in no danger of getting freckles in winter."

"Still, there's no reason to make a spectacle of yourself in the window."

"I'm only trying to attract suitors, Mama," she droned. "My plan is that one will stride down the street, catch sight of me, and fall madly in love."

"I would be much happier to hear that if I thought it were true," Portia Featherington grunted, frowning at her embroidery square. "You've put no effort in at any of the parties, even as little as you attend."

"Perhaps I have and you've not been paying attention. You are ever with Prudence, not me. Besides, there have not been enough parties to censure me by." The winter season was never as well-attended as in the spring and summer. Lady Whistledown barely published once a week now, as there was so very little to say.

"That shall change soon enough with Parliament in session."

"They've been in session since November. I don't see things changing now." It's not as if she was allowed, as a woman, to even observe in the public galleries, so even that sort of gossip was closed to her.

"Of course they will. It's nearly Christmas. There are many eligible young men — and less young men that are still more than acceptable — staying in town and looking for frivolity."

"Mother, it's five days to Christmas. As we've attended hardly any parties—"

"You've attended hardly any parties," Prudence said, hovering by the fire and lifting her skirt quite high in the back. It's a wonder that her mother said nothing about that behavior while acting as if Penelope, sitting fully clothed by the window, was somehow the bigger spectacle. "How many times have you begged off now?"

"I was... unwell," Penelope finished, wondering if she should try to contrive a cough.

Her mother cut in before she could, sighing, "Yes, we've all heard of your maladies, your fits of fatigue, dizziness, headaches, colds, your courses — by some miracle — coming twice in a month. I'm certain you shall be taken down by smallpox soon enough."

Penelope now wondered if one could be plagued with a mild case of smallpox, perhaps for three days, nothing so alarming as to summon a doctor. Then again, didn't it involve blisters? Those would be very hard to manufacture. Perhaps typhoid? She had a new ink set and could very easily speckle herself with a purple rash. The fever might be trickier. Perhaps some hot water and a cloth...

"What are you staring at anyhow?" Her sister demanded, having abandoned her place by the fire to crowd Penelope on the window seat.

"If you must know, I'm looking at the snow and wishing it would stop melting. If it's going to be cold and miserable, can't it at least be pretty and covered in glittering white?" Penelope turned to her mother, inspired. "Mama, can we not go to Warwick Lodge for Christmas? There's sure to be some lovely snow there."

"Snow is wet and cold," Prudence said, losing interest and going back to the fire. "I so detest being soggy."

"It's out of the question anyhow," her mother supplied. "How could we staff or even heat that cavernous place, or repair the roof? So unless you wish to be huddled in one room with buckets collecting dripping water, perhaps while facing a horde of angry tenants, or with my mother in Cornwall dining on fish-head pie not even one mile from the docks, I think we are all better off here."

Penelope frowned, knowing full well that she could afford to repair the roof at Warwick Lodge with her earnings, perhaps even hire enough staff to get them through two winters in Warwickshire, and even a steward that would see to the tenants properly. Sometimes she imagined making up some distant relative with her solicitor, then having the family leave a little windfall so she could use her funds to aid her family without causing suspicion. But she knew very well how her mother would spend those funds.

Whatever money they'd had after Cousin Jack absconded to parts unknown, the expense of Mama's needlessly lavish ball had nearly depleted it once all the pipers were paid. Between fireworks, food, decorations, extra servants, including ones whose only purpose was to turn that ridiculous platform the musicians were perched on, there was little enough that they were down to one lady's maid, one cook, one housemaid and poor Varley.

But she wouldn't have learned her lesson, not Portia Featherington. If she came into money, it would not be spent on repairs, not on the estate nor the tenants' cottages. It would be yet more garish gowns and lavish parties. However large this windfall was, it would be blown away within a month.

Perhaps if she and Prudence were married off, her mother might have less need of such fripperies. But when would that happen?

"And, really, Penelope! If you would but put forth a little effort, you would be having a grand time and dancing at least half the night away. You won't meet eligible gentlemen by skulking along the wall," her mother chided, "no matter how brightly colored your gowns."

"Tis a kindness." She turned to her mother. "I must keep to the shadows to avoid blinding them with my brightly colored gowns."

"Make fun all you like, but I never see you conversing, at least with anyone not named Bridgerton. If not for my daring sense of fashion, you'd receive no attention at all."

She tensed at the word Bridgerton. She'd so studiously avoided thinking of that word or anyone associated with it. One would never forgive her and the other had broke her heart for the last time. It was enough that she'd be happy to avoid all things Bridgerton. She'd rather talk about anything else, even fruitless arguments over her gowns.

Penelope had tried to tell Mama, time and again, that her dresses attracted the wrong kind of attention. But any mention of Cressida's ridicule had been dismissed. "She's not one to say a word, what with her ridiculously over-embellished hairstyles," her mother had said once as she secured a fifth bow in Penelope's confusing mass of curls, the irony completely lost on her.

And even though Lady Whistledown had thus far compared Penelope to a particularly sour lemon, an overripe citrus fruit, and a confection made of mustard, among other unappetizing things, her mother never took it seriously.

"What does that old harridan know about fashion?" Portia had sniffed. "No one has seen her, and perhaps she hides away because of her horrific taste in clothing."

Penelope thought that may as well be true, except that calling her clothing horrific was really too kind. Really, there was no convincing her mother to dress her any differently, not even showing her the fashion pages. as Portia Featherington apparently knew better.

With that in mind, Penelope did purchase one thing with her profits, perhaps more frivolous than her never-ending supply of ink and quills and hackneys. But she'd fallen in love with that soft, luminous bolt of forest green velvet at her last visit to Madame Delacroix. She'd started to ask her mother to consider it when Genevieve shushed her, whispering, "Later."

And she was right. Asking her mother would only have her forbidding the "melancholy" fabric, but presenting it to her as a fait accompli, perhaps also presented as "free of charge," would make it much more tempting.

"Are you sure this will work?" Penelope asked, having come for a fitting a few days hence of her first sight of the fabric. She loved it even more against her skin, so surely she would be deprived of it. She never got anything she loved.

"'Course it will. Your mother likes nothin' more than a bargain." They'd been alone in the store and Genevieve had long since disposed of her French accent. "I shall tell her that my seamstresses cocked it up and somehow made this set with your measurements rather than Miss Tottenham's. Couldn't bear for it to go to waste and all that."

"Who is Miss Tottenham?"

"How should I know? I only just made her up."

They'd both laughed at that for a moment before Penelope sobered, perhaps too much, enough that she felt like crying. The last time she'd genuinely laughed with another girl, that girl had been Eloise. It wasn't that she didn't like having a grown woman as a friend and confidante. But wouldn't it be nice to have Eloise there as well, laughing along? What if she'd told her? They could all be conspiring together. She'd bet El would like Genevieve once she truly knew her. She was savvy and sly and had no patience for fools.

But she reminded herself that she wasn't thinking about El. She'd cried enough, she'd written letter after letter with no reply. She should know, by now, that there was no chance of reconciliation. She'd best accept it and perhaps treasure what she had now. Though she only had Genevieve's company in this shop or, rarely, in her quarters behind it, it was nice to have someone to talk to honestly.

But did you talk honestly to anyone else? Did you even try? Why couldn't you have confided in her, at least? A voice demanded, a voice that sounded an awful lot like Eloise. 

But every time she'd imagined doing so, she feared her reaction, imagined a cold look in her eyes. And her fears proved to be valid. Maybe this friendship was always due to fail. Whistledown or not. How long could anyone put up with an "insipid wallflower" like her?

She dried up, hoping Genevieve would think she was swiping her eyes only due to laughter. "I don't see why Miss Tottenham deserves to wear such finery. She could at least make the effort of existing. I suppose there's no choice but for you to give it to me, lest it go to waste." She'd already tried on the matching hooded cape with the white fur trim, which required no pinning and prodding, and now Penelope smoothed her hands down the front of the dress. Both were the loveliest things she'd ever touched.

"I've never thought I could look so... womanly," Penelope had marveled, staring at herself in the long mirror. "Perhaps the color feels more... grown up somehow."

"Aye, the color suits you well. But what a difference a proper cut and drape makes, eh?" Genevieve had said as she tucked and pinned. "Sometimes I think that mother of yours wants to keep you a child forever. Else why would she let your sisters' dresses be more naturally fitted to them while hiding your light under a bushel?"

"What light do I have?" Penelope snorted. "I suppose the yellow dresses and the red hair can be seen as a sort of beacon, but—"

"Not that. Though I will say your hair is quite pretty, apart from when that mother of yours gets hold of it, but I was talking of something else." Genevieve gestured to her new decolletage with a wink.

Penelope had blushed, but she did agree that, freed from the stays her mother insisted upon flattening her with, and without the high necklines cutting through the middle of her chest, she looked more like a woman and less like a girl. Her figure was was hugged more naturally and... Well, her waist might still be a bit bigger than her sisters' and her arms were not so slender, but that also meant other parts of her were a bit more impressive. She remembered the pains her mother took to enhance Pru's bosom, lowering the necklines a full inch and stuffing cotton inside. Penelope certainly didn't require such assistance!

Unfortunately, even with Genevieve offering the gown and cloak free of charge, her mother had still not allowed her to wear it, at least not properly. "Such a depressing shade. But it's warm, so I suppose it is not completely useless. You can wear it about the house."

But even that had been rejected when her mother looked at her properly. "That decolletage is unseemly! Why, look at the way it cuts under instead of delicately across your bosom like your other gowns, keeping things much more decent and—"

"And uncomfortable," Penelope supplied. "Honestly, Mother! Do you allow Prudence's gowns to strangle her bosom? Her necklines last season were much lower than this."

"Prudence doesn't have your specific... charms, Dear." She took her by the chin. "Some men will be attracted to such allurements, but not in the right ways. You must be wary. Do you understand?"

Penelope didn't imagine a man would be attracted to her allurements in any way, right or wrong, but she abandoned the dress because, once again, there was no use in arguing with Portia Featherington.

Even now, after her mother's last barb, she could think of nothing to answer with, thinking it wouldn't help to tell her that she had been making an effort, but the results were so discouraging that she doubted even her lovely new dress would help.

She'd tried to join into conversations, to stand near eligible men and declare how she loved the waltz, the quadrille, the Scotch reel, or any number of dances that she'd learned but never displayed. She was not a bad dancer. One might even call her quite good. But no one seemed to want to take her to the floor. It was no mystery why.

One month earlier, she'd been at one of the first balls of the winter session and, doing her many rounds, searching for gossip and finding only the kind she did not wish to hear.

"Why not dance with Miss Featherington?" Mrs. Walters had asked her son.

Penelope had quickly glanced at the chandelier as if fascinated by it.

"There aren't very many young ladies about yet. She's intelligent and rather nice-looking, despite the way her awful mother dresses her. And I've seen the girl dance. She's graceful enough."

Penelope hid her smile. How nice to hear. Mr. Walters was a bit older than she might have liked, her being eighteen and him thirty-six, and already balding. But he had a kind face and would possibly treat her well. Her mother might have some objections as he was only a solicitor and owned no more than a townhouse, but she could insist. Solicitors were quite busy, weren't they? He'd be working an awful lot and turning a blind eye to all sorts of things. And considering the nobility wouldn't touch her, perhaps...

"Not her, Mother. Do you not wonder why no one dances with her? Whistledown said—"

"That horrid woman," Mrs. Walters cut in. "I've never heard her say anything nice about that family."

"Neither has anyone else. I do pity the girl, but dancing with her would only expose me to ridicule."

The things she heard from others made Mr. Walters' words seem like kindness itself. If she couldn't catch the eye of the middle class, she had no chance with the nobility. There was little wonder that she was reluctant to attend parties after that.

It was really her own fault. After that disastrous night where she lost both of the people dearest to her, she'd printed what Colin had said, only without using his name. She didn't want to think about Colin anymore and she didn't want to write a negative word about anyone named Bridgerton ever again. Not that she ever did before. The only bad thing she'd written was about Eloise and, necessary as she felt it to be, she went over and over it, wondering if there was some nicer way she might have said it while still throwing the Queen off the trail. Obviously now, she'd say as little as possible about them, lest it fire Eloise's anger even more.

So she'd printed his words declaring that Penelope Featherington was unworthy of courting, unable to avoid it with how quickly it got to every ear at the party and, soon after, all of London. Cressida had been delighted!

Her mother had not been particularly upset about it, though she'd feared the worst, only declaring as if not surprised at all, "You see? This is what happens when a girl does not put forth her best. Perhaps this will teach you stop hugging the walls."

Even though she had not said which man declared it, laughing all the way, she later thought it would have been better if she had assigned it to one man. Perhaps pretend people thought it was Fife or one of his cronies. She was sure they'd all said some variation of it at some point. Now, without a name, it seemed some widely held opinion, shared by every gentleman ever and possibly their dogs.

She thought it might die down by the winter and that maybe she might find a very kind but absent sort of husband, but that was obviously not the case.

She sighed and continued her vigil with the falling snow. It was still melting. Perhaps she didn't deserve to see anything pretty. Perhaps she deserved her treatment at the hands of The Ton. If they ever knew who she was, they would treat her even worse. If her dearest friend reacted so badly, she could only imagine that those that never cared for her would likely pillory her in the square.

"Ah! It seems you shall see your precious snow, after all."

Penelope glanced at her mother, who was skimming a letter as Mrs. Varley left the room. She hadn't even heard her come in, so lost in her misery. "How so?"

Her mother held up a finger as she continued reading, humming to herself here and there.

It was several agonizing minutes before she glanced up, folding it. "While I will say it is nice to finally receive a letter from the new Lady Bridgerton, I should think she would invite your sister and I as well. It was my ball, after all, which set off her engagement, I'd bet my life on it."

Penelope shook her head. "What are you talking of?"

"Your invitation, course." Mama sighed. "Still, I'd rather not be in the country. It's always colder there and I cannot abide being cold."

"My invitation to... what?" she asked, feeling apprehensive now.

"Christmas at Aubrey Hall. Did I not say?"

"You didn't, but I shouldn't accept, I think," Penelope said quickly.

At the same time, Prudence protested, "Why should I not be invited?"

Mother shrugged. "It's just as well. What is there for you at at Aubrey Hall?" She gestured at Prudence. "If any of those Bridgerton boys were considering you, one of them would have shown it by now. No. You'd do best to stay here in London now that the holiday parties are coming apace. There will be many more eligible gentlemen. Better to have your choice of hundreds of gentleman than only two."

Prudence looked confused. "Aren't there four Bridgerton gentlemen?"

"Only if one counts the married one and the little one."

"They do have names, Mama," Penelope said with a withering glance.

"I'm sure they do. But as they are unavailable for marriage, they are of little use to me."

"Or me. I would much rather choose from hundreds of gentlemen. Imagine them all vying for me," Prudence said with relish, dropping herself on the sofa.

"That's not what I—" Portia rolled her eyes, then, sighing, "Yes, Dear," before turning to Penelope. "As for you, you'd better see to your trunk. The carriage will—"

"Perhaps I should stay, too," Penelope suggested hopefully. "After all, there's no gentlemen at Aubrey Hall for me, either." Especially not the one she dared not think of. She really had been doing so well at putting him out of her mind. How she'd wished he would stop sending letters and interrupting all her hard work. Even without reading them, they forced him into her thoughts. He'd stopped sending them in the last few weeks, which she told herself she should be happy about.

"Oh? And will you show an interest?" Her mother tilted her head. "Or will you continue to beg off from half the parties and stand frowning in a corner when you do attend?"

"Mama's right," Prudence put in. "You have been unbearably dull since the summer, even more than usual. Perhaps a week with your radical little friend will cheer you up."

Penelope sat up straighter. "Did Eloise ask for me?"

"These girls today. I don't know why they must make such noise about the lot of women. Most reasonable women have no desire to discuss politics or attend university or," here Mama shuddered, "work. Let the men contend with that tedious stuff. Politics. Really! Her declarations against marriage are more concerning to me." She frowned. "You must take care not to let her influence you in that that sort of radicalism while you two have your little whispering sessions."

"I doubt I will take El's influence on that matter." She was certain she would fall into spinsterhood quite easily all on her own. She hesitated before asking again, "Mama, did she ask for me?"

Portia finally looked her way, then picked up the letter again. "According to Lady Bridgerton, she is 'quite desolate without her dearest friend.'"

Penelope stood and took the letter, skimming for the quote and wondering what it meant. Is she saying Eloise is desolate over their estrangement and, if so, why hasn't El answered one of her letters? Or was the new Lady Bridgerton blind to their fight, exaggerating playfully, and simply assuming that Eloise is missing her friend over the holidays, with no one to tell her better?

Or might Eloise have said it, suggested it? Perhaps the spirit of Christmas had softened her anger. Even better, as she read on, the viscountess mentioned that Colin was still abroad in sunnier parts, expressing amused envy. If Colin wasn't to be there...

"What are you sitting there for? You must pack. They are sending one of the carriages from Bridgerton House quite early — if you don't send your regrets tonight, that is." Portia chuckled. "As if that was possible. I'd wager you'd live with them if I allowed it. Varley!"

Mrs. Varley appeared in the doorway so fast, Penelope was certain she'd been standing just out of the frame. "Yes, Ma'am?"

"Hop over to Bridgerton House and tell them Penelope accepts."

She hadn't, in fact, told her mother that she accepted, but she wouldn't gainsay her either.

"Oh?" Mrs. Varley widened her eyes. "Accepts what?"

"Their invitation," Portia said impatiently, "as if you weren't eavesdropping."

Mrs. Varley scoffed loudly. "I was simply checking that lazy maid had dusted the hall. Hard to get good help without proper wages, and very little respect, if you ask..." Varley kept grumbling on her way out.

Portia was, of course, unaffected. "And help Penelope with her trunk when you're finished," she yelled after her before turning to Penelope. "Forgive me if I don't see you off, Darling, but I shall be unequal to it, since they are collecting you at the ungodly hour of seven. I don't know how you shall bear it."

Penelope was certain she would be awake early enough. In fact, she was quite sure she'd not sleep at all!

As she packed, with Varley's grumbling help, she was torn between joy and dread. Twelve days at Aubrey Hall. Twelve days of snow. Twelve days of Eloise. The first two were pleasant to consider, but the third made her stomach clench. Would she be waiting and ready to reconcile? Or would she be even colder than before?

"You'll turn those stockings into knots if you don't stop twistin' em." Mrs. Varley held her hand out. "Give 'em here."

"I'm sorry. I'm just rather nervous... about traveling," she added quickly.

"Aye, if you say so."

"It's only that we've not been outside London for months, nor rode for longer than a few miles."

"And here I thought you might be nervous because of them letters," Varley said slyly, "the ones you keep insisting I bring to you before your mother sees 'em."

Penelope paled. "Those are only—"

"Now, now. It ain't no crime to have a sweetheart. And I suspect your mother would do more harm than help, knowin' her ways. But I hope you aren't lettin' that Bridgerton boy take liberties. Your mother thinks he's awfully careless with you already."

"Colin? Of course not. Mother must be imagining things. He would never—"

"Then let's say no more on it. As long as he's bein' respectful. Your mother doesn't think he means anything by it. She's grateful for him thinkin' of the family, with that whole mess with Lord Featherington," she finished on a mumble, glancing away. "But she certainly thinks he's wastin' your time. But you and I know different, don't we?" Varley finally looked at her again — and winked.

"Really, there's nothing happening between myself and Co... Mr. Bridgerton," she corrected hurriedly. "I haven't answered his letters. I haven't even opened them. I swear!"

Varley looked surprised at that. "Ah, so it's a spat. I hope he makes amends, then. It ain't right to be quarrelin' over Christmas."

Penelope lifted her chin. "There's no quarrel. I simply have no wish to speak to, hear from, or think of him ever again. I'd much rather turn my thoughts to men who might think courting me is not some unimaginable fantasy."

Varley's eyes widened. "So it was him!"

She'd said too much. Penelope feigned confusion. "What was him?"

"That nonsense about not courting you. It was him who said it. Lady Whistledown never did say who."

"Well, others did," Penelope said, dropping her pretense. Even if she hadn't heard it herself, she would have known. "Cressida Cowper made certain I knew precisely who'd said it." She would have loved to have continued feigning ignorance, but Cressida wouldn't allow that.

It was the last garden party of the season. The Bridgertons had quit town early, perhaps for a country wedding away from the scornful eyes of The Ton. There weren't many people left in town by then and, unfortunately, Cressida was one of them. "I simply couldn't live with myself if you continued to imagine Colin Bridgerton dances with you out of anything other than pity," she'd said, her expression gleeful, her friends giggling behind her. "A dance out of pity is still better than nothing, I suppose, but I thought you should know." She looked quite ready to go on.

But Penelope decided to brazen it out, drumming up a bit of the Lady Whistledown inside her. "Honestly, Miss Cowper! Do you think I thought he might court me even before that? The Bridgertons are like family to me, as I am to them. They have always been friends of mine," she'd said, deciding to leave out the part where that was no longer true. "And friendship, you see, is something people can have when they actually like each other for more than what they can gain. I know the concept is hard to comprehend for someone so grasping. I hope you all learn about it someday," she'd finished, staring at her and her little cronies as she walked away.

She did pay for it later, as Cressida and her friends seemed to accidentally drop their food and drinks upon her skirts, shoes, and even down her bodice with a frequency every time they saw her after. She was grateful when they all departed for the country at summer's end, and that they hadn't come for the winter season yet.

"That beastly girl," Varley said now, shaking her head. "Well, I'd say the same about that young man. I never thought Colin Bridgerton could be so cruel."

"Perhaps he didn't intend to be cruel," Penelope said. She'd considered the words in every possible way until she finally told herself to stop. "Whatever his intention had been, he'd never had intentions toward me. He couldn't even consider such a thing without laughing. I was foolish to think he might, if even for a moment." To be fair, her blissful imaginings had only lasted the five minutes between their dance and her entire world crumbling. Really, even before he said the words, Eloise had made it clear there was no friendship for her among the Bridgertons. But now... There was some hope. "Luckily, he will not be at Aubrey Hall." She likely wouldn't see him until the spring. Surely, by then, she'd have decided how to act around him.

"That might be for the best," Varley sighed, pulling a very yellow dress from the closet.

Penelope stopped her. "You know, I think it might be best to leave my mother's favorites in London. Surely they will be wasted in Hertfordshire," she laughed, pretending she hardly cared one way or another. But she did care how she looked and how she felt. She would like to come into this visit feeling secure in the task ahead of her. And she certainly could not do that while wearing dresses that made her wish to sink beneath the floor.

Varley nodded, chuckling, putting the yellow dress back in the closet. "I see how it is." She pulled out the green velvet, saying slyly, "Shall we only pack your mother's least favorites then?"

Penelope smiled. "What an excellent suggestion."

Her other winter dresses weren't anything near as lovely as the green velvet. Even most of them were still in subdued versions of the "family colors" — trading bright pastels for shades of burnt orange and mustard. But she did have a few that pleased her. They were still covered in lace and bows and girlish in design, but at least they would not blind anyone against the snow in cream, sage green, dusty rose, brown, and black. Those last had been worn mostly after Father's passing, and her mother might balk at her wearing mourning clothes when not necessary, but her mother would not be there.

"I'm sure you have so many other things to do," Penelope suggested. "Why not let me finish? I've learned how to pack on my own by now."

"Well, I won't say no to that. But should I send Jenny to set your hair for the journey?"

"I'm sure she has more important things to do. My hair shall be covered for the journey. Surely there's no need for curls. A braid will do nicely." And speaking of that... "But could you tell Jenny to loan me her sewing box?"

Varley looked slightly askance, but nodded.

Once Penelope had the shears and button-hole scissors, insisting to Jenny that she did not need help apart from her assistance in the morning, she set to work, giving each dress a wee adjustment before carefully folding and packing it. She decided to also "forget" her curling tongs and papers. She would not spend her first Christmas apart from her family looking like a primped up poodle. If she wanted to be taken seriously, she would look the part.

After she closed her trunk, she felt almost hopeful. El might be able to ignore her letters, but she could certainly not ignore her at every meal, party, or outing over the holidays. And, on that thought, she remembered the letters she'd been ignoring.

She folded the carpet over and pried up her floorboard, finding only one object waiting there. Prudence may not be as clever as Eloise, but she did have a tendency to snoop when bored. Or perhaps her mother would have her carpets beaten. She'd long since, with the help of a discreet solicitor, decided a bank was much safer than having all that money anywhere in her house. She'd not chance them happening upon her letters either.

She eyed the bundle wrapped in a blue ribbon. The ones along the bottom had been opened, but those on top remained sealed. If she was ever going to forget him, she must be rid of them. But she was not so cold as to burn them. She would simply return them. She could place them in his room when she arrived and then think of him no more.

She knew she'd have to see him again at some party or other or at Bridgerton House if — God willing — she and Eloise were friends again in the spring. But with him out of her mind for so long, she'd be able to look at him with fresh eyes and feel for him nothing but... but... God, she had no idea what she would feel, nor how she would act, nor what she would say. But she had time to decide all that.

She placed the letters on top of her clothes before closing the trunk, then took herself to bed, feeling nervous, but in a good way. She had a feeling that, by the year's end, she would have her friend back and the thought made her sleep... at least a little.

It felt as if no time had passed at all between her closing her eyes and opening them again to Jenny, shaking her shoulder gently at six. After helping with all the layers meant to keep her warm, Jenny seemed grateful not to have to fuss much with her hair, putting it in a simple braid and pinning it atop her head.

Standing in the front hall, Penelope frowned at herself in the mirror and at the trim on her dress, which was, unfortunately, bright pink. Not that she hated pink, as she certainly preferred it to yellow. But she'd like her fawn-colored carriage dress ever so much more if it were, like the dresses she'd be bringing, not covered in jarring layers of lace and bows. But there was a chance her mother might change her mind and see her off. So she hurriedly helped herself into the matching cape and hood, lest she'd see that Penelope had left off the fussy chemisette that made "more modest," according to her mother. Who would even see her without it?

Happily, the only people to see her off, apart from Mrs. Varley, were the Bridgerton footmen, who were too busy to pay her much notice, carrying her trunk down the stairs and out. She followed them, staring down at her pink lace gloves as she pulled them on. Why did her mother never order something more substantial? Every pair of gloves she owned, even in winter, were either lace, a fine netting, or a thin satin. What she wouldn't give for a pair of woolen mittens!

She didn't notice that, despite the lack of snow, the pavements were coated in a nearly invisible sheet of ice. She found herself slipping before a hand caught her arm, keeping her upright.

"Careful there, Pen!"

She started to turn to thank the footman when she realized... Footmen didn't call her Pen. Only two people in the world did that. One was Eloise and the other...

She lifted her eyes slowly, praying she'd somehow misheard. But she hadn't.

Had she been hopeful before? That certainly wasn't the case anymore.

"Colin," she sighed in defeat.

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Yes, another Bridgerton fanfiction. Another Polin plot bunny! It's very hard, with my impatience during this agonizing wait for Penelope and Colin's season, to restrain my imagination. 

I promise I am still working on The Lady in Disguise, but it's just not flowing as easy as fanfic right now and I thought it best to follow inspiration when it strikes. I'd always rather be writing than not. 

If any of you aren't Bridgerton fans... What are you doing reading this? Go watch it! Then, you know, be tortured with all the waiting just like me.