by Julia Quinn
“As always?”
He crawled back into bed beside her. She was remarkably adorable when she was being sarcastic. He couldn’t think of another soul who could carry that off. “As whenever it suits me,” he amended.
“Your mother, then,” Penelope said, plucking one of the letters off the sheet. She broke open the seal and carefully unfolded the paper.
Colin watched as she read. Her eyes widened, then her brows rose, then her lips pinched slightly at the corners, as if she were smiling despite herself. “What does she have to say?” he asked.
“She forgives us.”
“I don’t suppose it would make any sense for me to ask for what.”
Penelope gave him a stern look. “For leaving the wedding early.”
“You told me Eloise wouldn’t mind.”
“And I’m sure she did not. But this is your mother.”
“Write back and assure her that should she ever remarry, I will stay to the bitter end.”
“I will do no such thing,” Penelope replied, rolling her eyes. “I don’t think she expects a reply, in any case.”
“Really?” Now he was curious, because his mother always expected replies. “What did we do to earn her forgiveness, then?”
“Er, she mentioned something about the timely delivery of grandchildren.”
Colin grinned. “Are you blushing?”
“No.”
“You are.”
She elbowed him in the ribs. “I’m not. Here, read it yourself if you are so inclined. I shall read Hyacinth’s.”
“I don’t suppose she returned my ten pounds,” Colin grumbled.
Penelope unfolded the paper and shook it out. Nothing fluttered down.
“That minx is lucky she’s my sister,” he muttered.
“What a bad sport you are,” Penelope chided. “She bested you, and rather brilliantly, too.”
“Oh, please,” he scoffed. “I did not see you praising her cunning yesterday afternoon.”
She waved off his protests. “Yes, well, some things are more easily seen in hindsight.”
“What does she have to say?” Colin asked, leaning over her shoulder. Knowing Hyacinth, it was probably some scheme to extort more money from his pockets.
“It’s rather sweet, actually,” Penelope said. “Nothing nefarious at all.”
“Did you read both sides?” Colin asked dubiously.
“She only wrote on one side.”
“Uncharacteristically uneconomical of her,” he added, with suspicion.
“Oh, heavens, Colin, it is just an account of the wedding after we left. And I must say, she has a superior eye for humor and detail. She would have made a fine Whistledown.”
“God help us all.”
The last letter was from Eloise, and unlike the other two, it was addressed to Penelope alone. Colin was curious, of course—who wouldn’t be? But he moved away to allow Penelope her privacy. Her friendship with his sister was something he held in both awe and respect. He was close to his brothers—extremely so. But he had never seen a bond of friendship quite so deep as that between Penelope and Eloise.
“Oh!” Penelope let out, as she turned a page. Eloise’s missive was a good deal longer than the previous two, and she’d managed to fill two sheets, front and back. “That minx.”
“What did she do?” Colin asked.
“Oh, it was nothing,” Penelope replied, even though her expression was rather peeved. “You weren’t there, but the morning of the wedding she kept apologizing for keeping secrets, and it never even occurred to me that she was trying to get me to admit to keeping secrets of my own. Made me feel wretched, she did.”
Her voice trailed off as she read through another page. Colin leaned back against the fluffy pillows, his eyes resting on his wife’s face. He liked watching her eyes move from left to right, following the words. He liked watching her lips move as she smiled or frowned. It was rather amazing, actually, how contented he felt, simply watching his wife read.
Until she gasped, that was, and turned utterly white.
He shoved himself up on his elbows. “What is it?”
Penelope shook her head and groaned. “Oh, she is devious.”
Privacy be damned. He grabbed the letter. “What did she say?”
“Down there,” Penelope said, pointing miserably at the bottom. “At the end.”
Colin brushed her finger away and began to read. “Good Lord, she’s wordy,” he muttered. “I can’t make heads or tails of it.”
“Revenge,” Penelope said. “She says my secret was bigger than hers.”
“It was.”
“She says she’s owed a boon.”
Colin pondered that. “She probably is.”
“To even the score.”
He patted her hand. “I’m afraid that’s how we Bridgertons think. You’ve never played a sporting game with us, have you?”
Penelope moaned. “She said she is going to consult Hyacinth.”
Colin felt the blood leave his face.
“I know,” Penelope said, shaking her head. “We’ll never be safe again.”
Colin slid his arm around her and pulled her close. “Didn’t we say we wanted to visit Italy?”
“Or India.”
He smiled and kissed her on the nose. “Or we could just stay here.”
“At the Rose and Bramble?”
“We’re supposed to depart tomorrow morning. It’s the last place Hyacinth would look.”
Penelope glanced up at him, her eyes growing warm and perhaps just a little bit mischievous. “I have no pressing engagements in London for at least a fortnight.”
He rolled atop her, tugging her down until she was flat on her back. “My mother did say she would not forgive us unless we produced a grandchild.”
“She did not put it in quite so uncompromising terms.”
He kissed her, right on the sensitive spot behind her earlobe that always made her squirm. “Pretend she did.”
“Well, in that case—oh!”
His lips slid down her belly. “Oh?” he murmured.
“We had best get to—oh!”
He looked up. “You were saying?”
“To work,” she just barely managed to get out.
He smiled against her skin. “Your servant, Mrs. Bridgerton. Always.”
To Sir Phillip, With Love
Rarely have I written such meddlesome children as Amanda and Oliver Crane, the lonely twin children of Sir Phillip Crane. It seemed impossible they could grow into well-adjusted, reasonable adults, but I figured if anyone could whip them into shape, it would be their new stepmother, Eloise (née Bridgerton) Crane. I had long wanted to try my hand at writing in the first person, so I decided to see the world through the eyes of a grown-up Amanda. She was going to fall in love, and Phillip and Eloise were going to have to watch it happen.
To Sir Phillip, With Love:
The 2nd Epilogue
I am not the most patient of individuals. And I have almost no tolerance for stupidity. Which was why I was proud of myself for holding my tongue this afternoon, while having tea with the Brougham family.
The Broughams are our neighbors, and have been for the past six years, since Mr. Brougham inherited the property from his uncle, also named Mr. Brougham. They have four daughters and one extremely spoiled son. Luckily for me the son is five years younger than I am, which means I shall not have to entertain notions of marrying him. (Although my sisters Penelope and Georgiana, nine and ten years my junior, will not be so lucky.) The Brougham daughters are all one year apart, beginning two years ahead of me and ending two behind. They are perfectly pleasant, if perhaps a touch too sweet and gentle for my taste. But lately they have been too much to bear.
This is because I, too, have a brother, and he is not five years younger than they are. In fact, he is my twin, which makes him a matrimonial possibility for any of them.
Unsurprisingly, Oliver did not elect to accompany my mother, Penelope, and me t
o tea.
But here is what happened, and here is why I am pleased with myself for not saying what I wished to say, which was: Surely you must be an idiot.
I was sipping my tea, trying to keep the cup at my lips for as long as possible so as to avoid questions about Oliver, when Mrs. Brougham said, “It must be so very intriguing to be a twin. Tell me, dear Amanda, how is it different than not being one?”
I should hope that I do not have to explain why this question was so asinine. I could hardly tell her what the difference was, as I have spent approximately one hundred percent of my life as a twin and thus have precisely zero experience at not being one.
I must have worn my disdain on my face because my mother shot me one of her legendary warning looks the moment my lips parted to reply. Because I did not wish to embarrass my mother (and not because I felt any need to make Mrs. Brougham feel cleverer than she actually was), I said, “I suppose one always has a companion.”
“But your brother is not here now,” one of the Brougham girls said.
“My father is not always with my mother, and I would imagine that she considers him to be her companion,” I replied.
“A brother is hardly the same as a husband,” Mrs. Brougham trilled.
“One would hope,” I retorted. Truly, this was one of the more ridiculous conversations in which I had taken part. And Penelope looked as if she would have questions when we returned home.
My mother gave me another look, one that said she knew exactly what sort of questions Penelope would have, and she did not wish to answer them. But as my mother had always said she valued curiosity in females . . .
Well, she’d be hoisted by her own petard.
I should mention that, petard hoistings aside, I am convinced that I have the finest mother in England. And unlike being a non-twin, about which I have no knowledge, I do know what it’s like to have a different mother, so I am fully qualified, in my opinion, to make the judgment.
My mother, Eloise Crane, is actually my stepmother, although I only refer to her as such when required to for purposes of clarification. She married my father when Oliver and I were eight years old, and I am quite certain she saved us all. It is difficult to explain what our lives were like before she entered them. I could certainly describe events, but the tone of it all, the feeling in our house . . .
I don’t really know how to convey it.
My mother—my original mother—killed herself. For most of my life I did not know this. I thought she died of a fever, which I suppose is true. What no one told me was that the fever was brought on because she tried to drown herself in a lake in the dead of winter.
I have no intention of taking my own life, but I must say, this would not be my chosen method.
I know I should feel compassion and sympathy for her. My current mother was a distant cousin of hers and tells me that she was sad her entire life. She tells me that some people are like that, just as others are unnaturally cheerful all the time. But I can’t help but think that if she was going to kill herself, she might as well have done it earlier. Perhaps when I was a toddler. Or better yet, an infant. It certainly would have made my life easier.
I asked my uncle Hugh (who is not really my uncle, but he is married to the stepsister of my current mother’s brother’s wife and he lives quite close and he’s a vicar) if I would be going to hell for such a thought. He said no, that frankly, it made a lot of sense to him.
I do think I prefer his parish to my own.
But the thing is, now I have memories of her. Marina, my first mother. I don’t want memories of her. The ones I have are hazy and muddled. I can’t recall the sound of her voice. Oliver says that might be because she hardly spoke. I can’t remember whether she spoke or not. I can’t remember the exact shape of her face, and I can’t remember her smell.
Instead I remember standing outside her door, feeling very small and frightened. And I remember tiptoeing a great deal, because we knew we mustn’t make noise. I remember always feeling rather nervous, as if I knew something bad were about to happen.
And indeed it did.
Shouldn’t a memory be specific? I would not mind a memory of a moment, or of a face, or a sound. Instead I have vague feelings, and not even happy ones at that.
I once asked Oliver if he had the same memories, and he just shrugged and said he didn’t really think about her. I am not sure if I believe him. I suppose I probably do; he does not often think deeply about such things. Or perhaps more accurately, he does not think deeply about anything. One can only hope that when he marries (which surely will not come soon enough for the sisters Brougham) that he will choose a bride with a similar lack of thoughtfulness and sensibility. Otherwise, she shall be miserable. He won’t be, of course; he wouldn’t even notice her misery.
Men are like that, I’m told.
My father, for example, is remarkably unobservant. Unless, of course, you happen to be a plant, and then he notices everything. He is a botanist and could happily toddle about in his greenhouse all day. He seems to me a most unlikely match for my mother, who is vivacious and outgoing and never at a loss for words, but when they are together it is obvious that they love each other very much. Last week I caught them kissing in the garden. I was aghast. Mother is nearly forty, and Father older than that.
But I have digressed. I was speaking of the Brougham family, more specifically of Mrs. Brougham’s foolish query about not being a twin. I was, as previously mentioned, feeling rather pleased with myself for not having been rude, when Mrs. Brougham said something that was of interest.
“My nephew comes to visit this afternoon.”
Every one of the Brougham girls popped straighter in her seat. I swear, it was like some children’s game with snaps. Bing bing bing bing . . . Up they went, from perfect posture to preternaturally erect.
From this I immediately deduced that Mrs. Brougham’s nephew must be of marriageable age, probably of good fortune, and perhaps of pleasing features.
“You did not mention that Ian was coming to visit,” one of the daughters said.
“He’s not,” replied Mrs. Brougham. “He is still at Oxford, as you well know. Charles is coming.”
Poof. The daughters Brougham deflated, all at once.
“Oh,” said one of them. “Charlie.”
“Today, you say,” said another, with a remarkable lack of enthusiasm.
And then the third said, “I shall have to hide my dolls.”
The fourth said nothing. She just resumed drinking her tea, looking rather bored by the whole thing.
“Why do you have to hide your dolls?” Penelope asked. In all truth, I was wondering the same thing, but it seemed too childish a question for a lady of nineteen years.
“That was twelve years ago, Dulcie,” Mrs. Brougham said. “Good heavens, you’ve a memory of an elephant.”
“One does not forget what he did to my dolls,” Dulcie said darkly.
“What did he do?” Penelope asked.
Dulcie made a slashing motion across her throat. Penelope gasped, and I must confess, there was something rather gruesome in Dulcie’s expression.
“He is a beast,” said one of Dulcie’s sisters.
“He is not a beast,” Mrs. Brougham insisted.
The Brougham girls all looked at us, shaking their heads in silent agreement, as if to say, Do not listen to her.
“How old is your nephew now?” my mother asked.
“Two and twenty,” Mrs. Brougham replied, looking rather grateful for the question. “He was graduated from Oxford last month.”
“He is a year older than Ian,” explained one of the girls.
I nodded, even though I could hardly use Ian—whom I had never met—as a reference point.
“He’s not as handsome.”
“Or as nice.”
I looked at the last Brougham daughter, awaiting her contribution. But all she did was yawn.
“How long will he be staying?” my mother asked politely.
/> “Two weeks,” Mrs. Brougham answered, but she really only got out “Two wee” before one of her daughters howled with dismay.
“Two weeks! An entire fortnight!”
“I was hoping he could accompany us to the local assembly,” Mrs. Brougham said.
This was met by more groans. I must say, I was beginning to grow curious about this Charles fellow. Anyone who could inspire such dread among the Brougham daughters must have something to recommend him.
Not, I hasten to add, that I dislike the Brougham daughters. Unlike their brother, none of them was granted every wish and whim, and thus they are not at all unbearable. But they are—how shall I say it—placid and biddable, and therefore not a natural sort of companion for me (about whom such adjectives have never been applied). Truthfully, I don’t think I had ever known any of them to express a strong opinion about anything. If all four of them detested someone that much—well, if nothing else, he would be interesting.
“Does your nephew like to ride?” my mother asked.
Mrs. Brougham got a crafty look in her eye. “I believe so.”
“Perhaps Amanda would consent to showing him the area.” With that, my mother smiled a most uncharacteristically innocent and sweet smile.
Perhaps I should add that one of the reasons I am convinced that mine is the finest mother in England is that she is rarely innocent and sweet. Oh, do not misunderstand—she has a heart of gold and would do anything for her family. But she grew up the fifth in a family of eight, and she can be marvelously devious and underhanded.
Also, she cannot be bested in conversation. Trust me, I have tried.
So when she offered me up as a guide, I could do nothing but say yes, even as three out of four Brougham sisters began to snicker. (The fourth still looked bored. I was beginning to wonder if there might be something wrong with her.)
“Tomorrow,” Mrs. Brougham said delightedly. She clapped her hands together and beamed. “I shall send him over tomorrow afternoon. Will that do?”
Again, I could say nothing but yes, and so I did, wondering what exactly I had just consented to.
The following afternoon I was dressed in my best riding habit and was lolling about the drawing room, wondering if the mysterious Charles Brougham would actually make an appearance. If he didn’t, I thought, he’d be entirely within his rights. It would be rude, of course, as he was breaking a commitment made on his behalf by his aunt, but all the same, it wasn’t as if he’d asked to be saddled with the local gentry.