Chapter Text
Benedict Bridgerton never claimed to be an expert on matters of love and the human condition. He did know, what his brother had done to Miss Penelope Featherington was one of the worst things one friend could do to another. Even if Colin had not intended for Penelope to hear his words that night at her mama’s ball, she did. He may not have intended for more than the handful of eligible men of the Ton he was speaking with to hear him, but they did.
Colin had pondered why Penelope had not responded to his letters over the summer, but it was not Benedict’s place to inform him of the intense misstep he had taken. If Miss Feathering had intended to make his brother suffer, then he would suffer. Colin would be lucky if she ever forgave him for what he had done to her reputation.
He was not in Mondrich’s this offseason to hear of the laughter in regards to Miss Featherington, for something other than her attire. Instead, it was he who had to listen. It was he who rushed to her defense after hearing Lord Fife recount the story once again as he had done the past two weeks.
“Would you believe a child who knows little else other than hasty, terrible decisions, then by all means gentlemen. Believe the child who cannot face Miss Featherington or the rest of his immediate family.” Benedict slammed his glass down on the tabletop. “If any one were to look past the ghastly dresses her mother demands she and her sisters wear and the mistakes made by the men of her family, then perhaps someone would see the woman she has grown into. A woman any of you nitwits would be lucky to call wife.”
Mondrich stood blinking at Benedict. “Are you well, Mr. Bridgerton?”
“Quite.” Benedict dropped payment on the bar-top. “I apologize for any disturbance I have caused this night. I will take my leave.”
“I have witnessed no disturbance.” Mondrich nodded at Benedict with a slight upwards curl to his lips. It may not have been his place to chastise the men who frequented his gentlemen’s club, but for Benedict to be the one to do it, well it made the evening much more interesting.
Benedict walked home, ignoring the curious looks he received from Humbolt. He was not as in his cups as he may have thought he was. He disappeared into the library and settled behind the desk. He felt the need to be the man his brother had elected not to be. He grabbed a quill and sheet of paper.
Miss Featherington,
I know I am not the Bridgerton you ever expected to receive correspondence from. Wholly unexpected. But that is me, is it not? Benedict Bridgerton, the man who no one has bothered to get to know outside of my art and name. Very much like you I expect. Not many have attempted to get to know you outside of the fetters your mother has placed on you. I think we could become dear friends, if you would be amenable to it?
I do need to tell you, I heard what my brother said that night at your mother’s ball. I need you to know, I do not see you that way. Saying more would be a risk your reputation and thought. But you, Miss Featherington, are worth far more than my brother will ever see.
You are an avid reader, are you not? Please, tell me what you find yourself currently reading. I may not be as quick of a reader as you are, but I would enjoy a conversation about something other than the Bridgerton family, my lack of painting, or even who I may be seeking to marry the upcoming season.
Awaiting your response,
Benedict Bridgerton (Spare, Artist, and hopefully friend to Miss Penelope Featherington)
Benedict did not hesitate. The decision had been made. He stepped out of the library and looked for Humbolt. The butler had been standing as if he had been waiting for him to emerge from the library.
“Humbolt?”
“You had that look, Mr. Bridgerton. The one you do when you either had correspondence needing to go out in the morning, or when you are deep in your art. If you had not emerged after a few minutes, I would have gone to bed.”
“Oh,” Benedict smiled. He passed a sealed letter to the Butler. “I do have a letter.”
“To Miss Featherington?” Humbolt tilted his head in askance.
“Yes,” Benedict nodded and turned away. He started for the stars but stopped at the base of them. “Please let me know if she choses to write back.”
“Of course, Mr. Bridgerton. Please get some rest.”
Benedict grasped the handrail and pulled himself up the stairs and to his room. He tugged off his shoes, peeled out of his clothes and dropped into his bed. He did not bother with night clothes. He would only sweat through them. He rolled on to his back and stared up at the canopy of the bed. He wondered if Penelope would choose to write him back. He wasn’t sure if he would if he had been in her shoes. He hoped she did. There had always been something just underneath the surface of Penelope Featherington that called to him. He could never put a finger to it though.
It had been several days since Benedict had sent a letter to Penelope Featherington, he had decided that she would not be writing back to him. When a polite cough at the doorway of the breakfast room had gotten Benedict’s attention.
“What is it Humbolt?” Anthony asked sitting up taller in his seat.
“There is a letter, for Mr. Benedict.”
“Benedict?” Eloise’s eyes widened.
Benedict stood from his seat. He raised a brow at the flowery script. He loosened the wax seal and caught sight of the signature. Humbolt smiled at him knowingly before quietly excusing himself.
“Well, who is it from?”
“I shall take my leave and read this in the library.” Benedict ignored Eloise’s question and the curious look his mother sent his way. His pace quickened and he shut the door to the library firmly behind him.
She had written back.
Mr. Benedict Bridgerton,
To say your letter was unexpected, is putting it kindly. I have heard by now, most men of the Ton are aware of your brother’s comments. I have also heard of your defense of me one night while you were at Mondrich’s. I do thank you for your compassion, but it was unnecessary. It will no doubt cause you issues once you decide to court an available lady.
As for what I am reading? Moll Flanders I have taken to hiding it within a book of poetry. If my mama knew what I was reading, surely, she would send me to a convent or to the country to rethink my choices in literature. I suspect you may enjoy it. A woman who does not subscribe entirely to the rules of society and instead sets out to make her way through life however possible. I find I relate to her in some respects. As would you.
If you are not painting, or drawing, what are you spending your free time doing? Surely, you are not spending every evening at Mondrich’s? I am sure if you were too idle, Lady Bridgerton, would have some words to say about it. Or perhaps Lord Bridgerton.
I shall await your answers,
Miss P. Featherington (Daughter, reader, and friendship is still pending)
Benedict’s mouth dropped open in disbelief. Penelope Featherington was not what he expected. She was far too … sweet for the tone he picked up through nearly every line of her letter. He shook his head.
“So,” Anthony leaned against the doorway of the library. “Who have your received a letter from?”
Benedict looked at the door he swore he closed. “How did you …?”
“Open the door?” Anthony grinned. “I opened it just prior to when that look of shock graced your features.”
“It is of no concern of yours to who I am writing to.” Benedict tucked the letter into his jacket pocket.
Anthony pressed his lips together and smirked. “You are writing a woman.”
“Ah, I am writing a friend.” Benedict dropped into the chair behind the desk.
“Well, mother will be on your case if you take your letters and disappear like you did this morning. Perhaps, withhold reading them until you can make a less apparent exit?” Anthony advised.
“Quite right. Now if you’ll excuse me dear brother.”
“Need to write that friend of yours back?” Anthony laughed over his shoulder as he shut the library door behind him.
“Need to write that friend of yours back?” Benedict mocked. He grabbed a quill and sheet of paper. “Yes, I do.”
Miss Featherington,
Friendship still pending? I am wounded. Mortally so. I do not know how I should draw my next breath.
I tend to spend my time with my mother and younger siblings. They do tend to run off their governess at the earliest moments in the day. I have taken part of their art education. My mother is charmed off her feet by it. Then there is the duties Lord Bridgerton has given me. Being a spare is not all it is made up to be. Apparently, I do have responsibilities. Perhaps I can hand them over to Gregory. A great teaching moment.
I wonder what other works you have hidden behind books of poetry so you could read scandalous tales right under your mother’s hawkish nose. And Moll Flanders? My word. I cannot for the life of me determine how you would relate to her. Myself, yes. I caught just what you were hinting at. I do love the taste of scandal.
In all honesty, I have lost my spark for creation. I sit out in the gardens during the day and cannot pull charcoal across paper or drag a brush across the canvas. I sit there wondering what could possibly be interesting, if only to me, to capture it. Any advice for a struggling artist?
Benedict Bridgerton (Hopeful artist, and reading Moll Flanders once again)
Benedict sealed the letter and gave it to Humbolt to take care of. He tucked Moll Flanders under his arm to begin reading again later this evening. He shuffled along to the study. There were figures Anthony needed him to finish working on. If he couldn’t spend his afternoons engulfed in his art, then he may as well be productive in this manner.