Chapter Text
What constitutes forgiveness?
Is it the absolution of all fault, or rather a redemption of one’s jagged edges?
Is it the retracing of a vase’s cracks with liquid gold, or the melting of broken glass to mould and reshape?
Is it wise to chase such an enigma, at the cost of our scarce worldly time?
What binds together is just as easy to break. A shattered vase shall never look the same.
Forgiveness, it seems, is humanity’s greatest burden. For one can douse the vase in a pool of gold, and still not rid it of its cutting cracks.
✼ •• ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ •• ✼
Perhaps, one of the most surprising twists of the season is the presence of Lady Danbury.
There is no better word for it than presence.
At every ball, their eyes had met. At every public event, a nod had been exchanged.
Well before this season, Lady Danbury had occasionally spared Penelope Featherington a glance, even when scarcely anyone else ever did. She did not understand why, for she has always believed that girl to have her own way of capturing the attention of those willing to look further than the gaggle of falsely demure debutantes.
That may sound surprising to most who know Miss Featherington, as their eyes are used to gliding right over her without ever lingering.
Lady Danbury, however, whose sole purpose of attending social events is to meddle and observe, had noticed Penelope Featherington in her very first season.
After all, if there is one thing that attracts someone who observes, it is another observer.
A wallflower, she had been, indeed. But by no means an insipid one.
From then on, naturally, Lady Danbury had always been aware of Penelope Featherington, in one way or another. How could she not, when most of the ton bored her to tears, and the girl possessed quite the wit and sharp tongue whenever she dared to actually speak.
But that was then. Now, Lady Danbury has been present – sharing a short word with the red-headed girl at every ball, or talking about her with the Queen of England. Seeking her out more often, now that she was no longer glued to that blasted wall – my, what a curious turn of events, indeed.
Penelope Featherington is interesting. And there is nothing more Lady Danbury loves than a riddle.
It had been delightful, to watch her step out of the shadows. So many things had changed from one season to another. No longer did Miss Featherington cling to the arm of Miss Bridgerton, instead seeking the presence of another Bridgerton entirely. One who seems to have his eyes glued to her, always.
Gone were the unflattering yellow dresses and outlandish hairstyles. Gone was the silence and the games of hide-and-seek.
A daring young woman, Lady Danbury had titled her. To take her fate into her own hands, even with everything that stands against her – Lady Danbury, of all people, can see the valour for what it is.
So, it truly is not a leap to declare that she has developed a bit of a soft spot for the young lady. The favour of Lady Danbury is not easily earned, yet Penelope Featherington has silently secured it with the occasional clever remark and assessing gaze as easily as no one before her has ever quite managed.
How blind the gentlemen of the ton are, to not see the most intelligent woman of them all. How blind her Mister Bridgerton had been for so long, until he had finally managed to wake up from his reckless slumber.
It had been satisfying, to watch it all unfold – even with the scandal of Mister Bridgerton’s involvement with Miss Featherington’s marriage prospects, and the rather abrupt end of her courtship with Lord Debling.
And in the end, it had been most satisfying, to watch the enamoured eyes of Mister Bridgerton locked with the equally loving gaze of Miss Featherington. A love-match, as good as they come. Lady Danbury had seen this before, many years past – in another young Bridgerton, eyes only ever on his bright-eyed ladyfriend.
So, it had come as a rather grand shock when she read Whistledown. Brows furrowed as she sipped her morning tea, trying to make sense of just what in the world had happened.
Love between the two young people is undeniable. Anybody with functioning eyes can see that. So much so that even the Queen herself had remarked upon it with a hint of surprise not a few days past.
And now, it all seems for naught.
Lady Danbury takes another sip of her tea. Ponders.
Perhaps, when the afternoon sun settles, she shall invite Miss Featherington for a refreshing promenade in the park.
It is high time she makes her presence known, loud and clear.
✼ •• ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ •• ✼
It is fitting, of course, that Miss Featherington throws a wedge into her plans. The young lady is anything but predictable – it’s what makes her so intriguing to observe.
Penelope Featherington stands in the middle of Lady Danbury’ drawing room for the very first time. She looks remarkably collected for someone with such burdened eyes.
She raises an eyebrow at the young lady. It is unheard of, for her to be visited as such – nobody just pays Lady Danbury a visit, not without a nefarious reason.
She is indeed correct, when without wasting a moment, Miss Featherington declares, “I require an audience with the Queen.”
Lady Danbury regards her curiously. “Is that all?”
The young lady swallows, then stands taller, her chin raised high. “I have information her Majesty has been seeking,” she pauses, then adds, “Please.”
My, Lady Danbury thought it rather unlikely for Miss Featherington to surprise her more than she already has. Naturally, she is mistaken. It makes her smile amusedly.
“And, pray tell, what information do you possess?” She inquires, tilting her head and whacking her cane on the ground twice for emphasis. “Surely, it cannot be important enough for a royal ear?”
Miss Featherington sighs and clutches her purse tightly. Briefly, she averts her eyes, and Lady Danbury continues to study her.
Her hair is beautifully composed, as always. A rather intricate style for an ordinary day.
And her dress – it is a quite distinct shade of blue. Bridgerton blue.
Miss Featherington looks at her again and Lady Danbury thinks that not even the most spotless outer appearance can hide the truth of one’s eyes.
“I know who Lady Whistledown is.”
Silence.
Lady Danbury regards her. “Is that so?”
The young lady nods. She does not reveal any more.
There are many thoughts churning within Lady Danbury’s mind. Thoughts she has acquired through observation, has kept in contemplation for quite a while now.
It is fascinating, how something so intriguing can weigh so uncomfortably on her heart.
Dear child, why do you forsake yourself?
✼ •• ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ •• ✼
An audience with the Queen is easily arranged. Lady Danbury does not even have to state a reason – the audacity alone, for someone to so brazenly require a word with her Majesty. It is enough for Queen Charlotte’s intrigue to spike.
Unheard of, truly. The Queen is not easily reachable and she is certainly not casually available. But Lady Danbury presents Miss Featherington to the monarch before the last whisps of daylight’s warmth begin to slip away.
It helps, of course, that the Queen has been eyeing the youngest Featherington all season long.
“Miss Featherington.”
Lady Danbury stands off to the side, watching the lady in question as her Queen addresses her head-on.
“Your Majesty.”
The Queen smiles. The leaves of the bay wreath intricately woven into her wig move with her silent chuckles.
“What is it that you seek, Miss Featherington?” The Queen asks, her eyes curious and sharp. “I am quite surprised to see you at all, after what Whistledown has written about you.”
Miss Featherington gulps. Lady Danbury’s gaze bores into the side of her head.
“Whistledown is precisely why I am here, your Majesty,” she declares softly, eyes unrelenting as she looks directly at the Queen.
Lady Danbury continues to observe her silently, her fingers stretching around her cane. She wonders, not for the first time, how someone so quiet can be so loud.
The Queen’s eyes widen. She leans forward eagerly, the dog in her lap yelping and jumping off. Her Majesty’s eyes sparkle. “My, what a curious turn of events! What is this information, then?”
“I know of her identity,” Miss Featherington confesses easily.
A tense moment passes. Everybody seems to hold their breath.
Then, the Queen titters. “Huh. Curious indeed. Is this retribution, then?”
Lady Danbury grips her cane with a firmer hold. It is formidable, how calm the girl appears. How anyone underestimates her, eludes her entirely.
“I suppose so, yes, your Majesty,” Miss Featherington agrees, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.
The blue of her dress compliments the castle’s walls remarkably well. She almost seems as though she fits within them – with her confident poise, with her assured eyes.
Lady Danbury observes.
“Vengefulness is unbecoming of young lady, don’t you think?”
The Queen’s tone is light, it is indulgent – Lady Danbury has known her long enough to arrive at the conclusion that Queen Charlotte does not believe a word Miss Featherington is saying. She cannot help but understand, for the timing leads one to their own assumptions.
Over the years, many have claimed to know Whistledown. Most often, after their own appearance in the column – driven mad with desires of vengeance for those they deem guilty, willing to incriminate themselves for a chance of misplaced retribution.
A small smirk plays at Queen Charlotte’s lips. Lady Danbury sees it clear as day. Someone like Penelope Featherington is the last person the Queen would expect to pull off such a farce, make such inconsequential noise. Her Majesty seems to be most delighted at this turn of events.
Said Miss Featherington nods absentmindedly. Then, she proceeds, “Yes, your Majesty. It appears as though I do not possess the required qualities to be regarded as a proper lady of the ton.”
The Queen raises an eyebrow. “Whistledown has said as much, has she not?”
“She has,” Miss Featherington nods. “She speaks of my faults quite often. When it is not my plainness, it is the desperation and recklessness I carry within me.”
The Queen is silent, simply watching. Then, she hums and gestures for Brimsley. The Queen’s man comes forward and hands her a sheet of paper – Whistledown, the latest edition. Lady Danbury looks on.
“A splendid gown and reckless heart a wife not make. It seems as though the insipid wallflower has wilted at long last,” the Queen reads, voice amused. “Quite cheeky.”
Lady Danbury observes as Miss Featherington gulps, blinking rapidly a few times before collecting herself. When she speaks, it’s with her nose high in the air. “Indeed.”
“And?” The Queen prompts.
Miss Featherington continues to stand tall. “And what, your Majesty?”
The Queen grins conspiratorially, leaning forward. “Is she right?”
Miss Featherington closes her eyes. When she speaks, she does not open them. “She is. My marriage prospects are in ruins. She has not said anything that isn’t true, despite the harsh phrasing. Whistledown is not known for lying.”
That seems to catch the Queen’s attention. “I suppose not. Say,” she hands the column back to Brimsley, who retreats to his previous position. “How long have you known of her identity?”
“Always, your Majesty.”
A pause. A stand-still. A deviation from the script – not even the densest halfwits had dared to insinuate such damning long-term knowledge. Always I caught her red-handed! I discovered her dastardly writings not a few hours past! I have heard rumours; I believe to have confirmed them alas!
Never an actual admission of treason.
And despite her previously held opinions of the young girl, Lady Danbury is surprised at how easily that response falls from her lips.
Beguiling, she is. Lady Danbury digs her cane into the ground.
Whatever comes next, she simply observes.
For the first time, indignation colours the Queen’s features. Her previous lackadaisical approach seems to fizzle into seriousness at last. She stands as everyone around her moves closer, eyes wide. With a booming voice, she demands, “Explain yourself, child.”
Miss Featherington is intelligent. Miss Featherington is not a fool. She is aware of the weight of her words, and now, so is the Queen.
Despite the subtle traces of fear, the young lady does not waver even once. “I have known of her identity since her very first publication, your Majesty.”
By now, the Queen’s face is thunderous. “And you kept silent?” Her lips thin. “You are aware that is treason?”
Voice quivering only minutely, Miss Featherington declares, “I am.”
The Queen stares at her. Then, abruptly, she walks off of the dais and toward her. She comes to a stop only a few breaths away from the young lady, looming over her.
The seriousness of the accusation has finally been realised by everybody in the room. It seems to cause the air to turn thick, suffocating, charged.
“You better pray that you have a convincing reasoning, Miss Featherington,” she urges warningly. “I am your Queen; you do not dare to play with me. Speak, or else I shall make sure you regret your silence.”
A moment of bated breath across the entire court passes.
Then, Miss Featherington speaks at last.
“I have brought with me a sheet of paper,” she says assuredly, and Lady Danbury straightens subconsciously. “You may watch me write, request whatever you wish for it to say,” after a small pause, the young lady continues. “For tomorrow, it shall be printed in Whistledown’s final column, and you shall have the confirmation of her identity at last.”
The Queen’s calculating eyes bore into her. Miss Featherington meets the stare unflinchingly.
A lifetime seems to pass between each one of their breaths, and then.
Then.
“You shall know of it come morning,” Miss Featherington says fervently, loudly. “For I am Lady Whistledown.”
