Chapter Text
Archie Featherington’s ruin took place in stages.
First, after years and years of broken promises and lies, he ran out of friends and family willing to listen. No amount of begging could get his hands on another single pence.
The Featheringtons were no longer welcomed at social events and their names were spoken of in hushed scandalised whispers within their former circles: “Did you hear what Archie Featherington got himself into? I heard he went to see Quincy Cowper of all people, begging on his hands and knees for a loan.”
Second, when the money dried up and formal demands started appearing in their mail, he conveniently wasn’t home. Different process servers came knocking on their front door every second day while Portia retreated into her bedroom, pretending she didn’t hear them.
Third, when the knocking became hammering fists, Penelope and her sisters noticed men with tattooed necks and knuckles lingering on the street outside their home. They became aware of cold, dead shark eyes tracking their every movement, and that was perhaps when their father realised he was well and truly done.
He filed for bankruptcy and disappeared into mist the very next day.
One week after her father’s disappearance, Penelope sat in a windowless room with her mother, enduring the dubious comments from the detective on the other side of the table.
“Please, you must believe me. Archie would never just run away without telling me and the girls.” Penelope listened to her mother entreat the unsympathetic Detective Constable with a growing sense of surreal unreality.
“Perhaps he did,” DC Conway said, with a raised eyebrow. “The timing is awfully convenient, innit?”
“What do you mean? Convenient?”
“I mean convenient, ma’am. Especially considering he took out a hefty life insurance policy very recently. That cash would come in handy, wouldn’t it? For your family to start a cushy new life somewhere?”
Portia shook her head in distress and continued to plead, but it was clear her words were falling on deaf ears. Penelope and her mother were escorted to a small lounge equipped with a kitchenette to wait while DC Conway prepared some paperwork.
Penelope looked around the room, at the box of children’s toys and dog-eared picture books. Pamphlets lined the wall on topics ranging from domestic abuse to grief counselling.
She sat beside her mother, feeling helpless and numb, as Portia sobbed quietly into a tissue. Her mother’s grief was not something she was equipped to manage. Her mother had been an unbeatable force of nature, tenacious and uncowed by anything life threw at her. And life had not been kind to Portia Featherington. But Penelope had never witnessed Portia give into her fear before. So she sat quietly next to her mother as she fell apart, staring at nothing, waiting for the next blow to fall.
She thought about her sisters, back at home, packing up their belongings into boxes. Any furniture in the house that was worth anything would be left for the creditors to fight over. That house had belonged to the Featheringtons for hundreds of years. And now it would be sold off to a wealthy investment banker, perhaps, someone with funds who would fix the leaking roof and the crumbling kitchen wall that had been neglected for too long.
Penelope moved to the kitchenette, intending to make a cup of tea just to give herself something to do. But she ended up just staring blankly at the idyllic green countryside on the box of Yorkshire tea, wondering why life was just so fucking hard—
“Pen.”
She started and turned to the doorway of the lounge.
Colin Bridgerton stood there, looking handsome, concerned, and so out of place in the police station that she wondered if she was dreaming.
“Colin?”
In two steps he was in front of her, drawing her into his arms. Penelope buried her face against the soft wool of his dark navy peacoat, breathing in the crisp clean scent of him, not caring that her mother was in the room, a witness to this familiar embrace.
“What are you doing here?” She asked in confusion.
She had not seen Colin in the flesh for months. His restaurant was a demanding mistress and he was in the midst of opening a second one.
The last time she’d seen him was nearly a month ago at Eloise’s farewell party before she left for her master’s degree exchange program in the US. Penelope had drank too much and cried into his shoulder about losing her best friend. He had been sweet, looking after her and insisting on driving her home after the pub closed.
She wasn’t sure what he was doing here; it was a Friday evening, the busiest night at his restaurant.
“El called me,” he said by way of explanation when he drew back. His brow was furrowed, his eyes dark with worry. “How are you holding up?”
Penelope looked over at her mother, who was slumped in her seat. Her forehead rested on her hand, too wrapped up in her own distress to even register Colin’s presence. She looked back up at Colin.
“The police don’t believe us,” she said, her voice croaky and hoarse. “They think dad did a runner. Or that he’s faking his death so we can collect his insurance money.”
Colin’s expression of concern morphed to outrage. “They what?”
“They’re not even going to investigate—” her voice broke on the last word and Colin made a sound of sympathy and drew her back into his arms. She closed her eyes and let herself sink into the embrace, tears slipping silently down her cheeks. She was so tired, so beat down, and Colin’s frame felt strong and sturdy. She allowed herself to lean against him just for a few, aching seconds.
After a moment, he drew back, guiding her to a chair. “Wait here.” And then he was gone.
She wiped at her face, trying to regain composure. She should not have been surprised that Colin would drop everything to come to see if she was alright. That was just who he was—kind, caring, considerate. He was the reason why she found it hard to date any man for more than three months at a time. They simply could not compare.
Still, Penelope knew he would never view her as anything more than a friend. She had been resigned to that fact since they were teenagers. But she knew she had a special space in his heart: he never forgot her birthday—no matter where in the world he was, no matter how busy he was—and he never went more than three days without sending her a text message to check in, even if it was just a silly meme or a TikTok. So no, it was not astonishing that Colin had come to see her, but she was amazed all the same.
She looked over at her mother’s tear-grimed face. The expression on it was familiar—Portia was done crying. She was hardening herself now, in the way Penelope had never really been able to do, turning herself into steel in order to survive.
Portia didn’t acknowledge Colin’s arrival or his departure.
Instead, she started making plans. Prudence would move in with her fiance and Portia would go to Ireland to live with her cousin. Moreover, she expected Penelope to leave with her.
A sick, sinking sort of feeling took over Penelope’s stomach, much worse than the numb dread that had accompanied her throughout the entirety of this terrible afternoon.
“We’ll leave tonight,” Portia said, wiping her face.
“Mum…” she began, already worn down before even beginning her argument. Portia was in a state, her red-rimmed eyes bleak and hard, and the relentless outpouring of semi-panicked planning told her that it wouldn’t be easy.
“You’ll pack as soon as we get home,” Portia ordered, not listening at all. “Your sisters are probably finished.”
“Mum, I’m not going to Ireland. I can’t. My job is here—”
The mention of Penelope’s job triggered the usual reaction in her mother’s face. A sneer and utter dismissal. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not. I’m staying in London. I can’t just leave.”
“You’ll be homeless,” her mother said sharply.
Bone deep exhaustion settled inside her. “I’ll stay with a friend until I find my own place.”
She half-expected Portia to scoff and say, what friend? But her mother narrowed her eyes and said, “Have you any idea how expensive London is? You’ll never be able to afford even the worst kind of dump. It’s wasteful to even think of it!”
Portia’s eyes bore into Penelope like daggers and she braced herself for the usual cuts. Her job was worthless. She was an underachiever, a failure, and Portia was doing her a favour by taking her to Ireland. “You need to stop being so naive, Penelope. I’m in no state of mind to deal with your fanciful ideas. What I need from you right now is for you to grow up.”
Grow up. Get thinner. Give up. Quit school and find a real job, or marry some rich bloke who would put ten carats on her finger so Portia could brag about it at brunch with her snooty, back-stabbing friends.
She opened her mouth to say something in her own defence like she had done a million times before but, like always, nothing came out. What would be the point? Portia’s mind was made up.
“I’m not going to Ireland,” she repeated instead.
Watching her mother’s nostrils flare in preparation for a cutting remark triggered a flight response inside her, but Penelope squashed it down. She wasn’t going anywhere. DC Conway wasn’t back yet, and she suspected he was not in a hurry to speak to them again. Colin had disappeared, after coming all this way, and she wouldn’t just run away without looking for him first.
“You—”
Colin’s voice said from behind her, “She can stay with me.”
She turned as he came through the door. His gaze slid past her towards Portia letting her know that the hard note in his tone wasn’t directed towards her. “I’ve got plenty of room.”
Portia’s eyes darted between him and Penelope. She seemed agitated by the very idea. “That’s very kind of you, Colin, but I’ve already made arrangements for myself and Penelope. There’s no need.”
“If you’re worried about safety, I can promise you I’ll take care of her. I’ve already spoken to the DC’s superior, DI Hardy. He’ll be taking over your husband’s case. Penelope won’t be in any danger staying in London. My building has 24 hour security and concierge service, and it’s not far from her work.”
Colin turned and faced Penelope, cupping her elbow with a reassuring hand. His touch grounded her and settled down that disquieting desire to flee. “I’m gone all day, so you’ll have the run of the place. No disturbances, just peace and quiet. If you want.”
Penelope darted a look at Portia’s face. She knew her mother hated the idea of accepting charity from the Bridgertons. It had always been a spot of contention for Penelope growing up. Each time Penelope came home after spending the summer at Aubrey Hall or her winter break skiing in Chamonix-Mont-Blanc, staying at the Bridgertons’ charming Italian chalet, she would be received with cold and resentful silence from her mother and sisters.
She took his hand and pulled him into the hallway so they could speak in private. “Colin, this is kind of you, but—”
“Pen,” Colin gripped her upper arms and stared down at her, his expression solemn and determined. “Please don’t say you don’t want to be a burden to me. Where else are you going to stay?”
“I—my friend, Emma, could let me stay with her.”
“Does Emma have an extra room for you or were you planning on ruining your back sleeping on her couch?”
“I—” she stared up at him and said in a small voice, “it’s too much to ask of you.”
“It’s not,” Colin said firmly. “You’re family. It’s the least I can do for you. Pen.” He wrapped his hands closed around her fingers, and she realised how cold and clammy her skin had become now that it was enveloped in the warmth of his hands.
“Don’t overthink it,” Colin urged her, his gaze intense and insistent. “Just let someone take care of you for once.”
Ten minutes ago, she had no home and no chance that she would ever know where her dad was. Colin had just walked into the room and taken control of everything within a matter of minutes, like her own personal white knight.
Penelope stared up at him, too worn out to resist. After all, wasn’t it the perfect solution? She could stay in London and she could keep her job.
In a lightheaded kind of daze, Penelope nodded.