Chapter Text
The door rattled in its casing as he slammed it shut, skin still buzzing as he flopped onto the bed.
Colin stared at the cracks and bumps dotting the ceiling as shadows from the dying fire danced across. So often he’d found solace in these immovable imperfections—they never changed, always ready and waiting for his return.
Now, they only served to grate at him. Just as everything in his life had begun to.
Since setting foot back on English soil, it had been nothing but a string of trying days, culminating in the most awful, most unbearable of them all. For the first time, Colin found himself despising being home.
The sensation was unlike the restlessness he’d felt before—the boredom that plagued him before his first tour. Nor was it akin to the itch to run, to put as much distance between him and the memories and losses too painful to face in the day to day.
When his ship first docked at the beginning of the season, a renewed vigor had rippled through him, unlike anything he’d ever experienced. Stepping back into society, he stood a bit taller, his shoulders no longer burdened by such weight. He felt like the citizen of the world he set out to become, like he had grown into the man he’d always imagined himself to be. He felt like himself.
More than ever he could sense his true purpose within grasp, sitting just beyond the horizon, preparing for an imminent reveal.
A frustrated sigh crossed his lips as he scrubbed a hand over his face. Amazing how a few short weeks could unravel all that progress.
Day by day, the momentum from his tour waned and he could feel himself stalling. Every ball and garden party stole a bit of the identity he crafted for himself while he was away. Every day spent going through the motions that polite society demanded added more distance between who he’d been on the road and who he was in the present. Every comment and forced conversation about how well his siblings were doing for themselves served to remind him of just how little he had actually accomplished.
A trek through the Italian Dolomites had been exhilarating, but it wasn’t the same as attending a prestigious art academy. Sampling champagne from the source and taking in a fiery sunset with Spanish sand beneath his feet didn’t hold the same weight as marrying well or inheriting a title. All he had done was intangible and held little value where the ton was concerned.
Perhaps it was this envy for his siblings and their easily-recognizable successes that made each of them all the more annoying in recent days.
Gregory and Hyacinth had been particularly energized and somehow, against all odds, substantially louder than he remembered. Despite possessing a talent for painting, Benedict took to moping around the house and complaining about his art—as well as Anthony—to anyone who tragically found themselves alone in the same room as him. Eloise was no better, seemingly always there and ready to meet any passing remark with claws bared.
Anthony often teased Colin about his nomadic status, but now it seemed laced with an air of pity and exasperation. Daphne took a renewed interest in his love life, offering an insufferable amount of unsolicited advice on the true meaning of life: marriage and family. Both of them, it seemed, had forgotten that he was already in possession of a mother.
It was clear they viewed his pursuits as an act of immaturity, prolonging his youth until he grew up and fell in line with more traditional endeavors. He started to wonder if perhaps they were right.
The distinct pitter-patter of frantic footsteps slinked down the hall, like a wild beast circling its prey. Louder and louder they grew, until two pairs of feet darkened his doorstep.
“I got here first.”
“You did not!”
Colin rolled onto his stomach, burying his face in a pillow as he swallowed a curse. Was this day not over yet?
“Colin!” twin voices sounded.
With a groan he heaved himself off the bed, stomping his way over to the door and retching it open.
“What,” he said plainly as the expectant gazes of the youngest Bridgertons fell upon him.
“I have a question—”
“You promised me—”
“One at a time, I beg of you,” he implored, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Hyacinth jumped first. “Are you in a row with Penelope Featherington?”
Colin grit his teeth at the sound of her name. “What gave you that idea?”
His sister appeared much too delighted that he didn’t outright deny her inquiry. Damn it. “Well, I may have overheard Benedict recounting to Kate…”
“Hyacinth,” he warned. Was nothing sacred? Was his own home not meant to be a safe haven from the gossip that held this town in a chokehold?
“...how you’d been grumbling about Penelope since you returned from the market this afternoon. And then Francesca told me…”
Colin added Fran to the list of siblings he could no longer trust. The list was growing rather long.
“...that she’d seen Penelope fleeing the Macclesfield ballroom, with you striding through the very same doors ‘with purpose’ only moments later.”
Contemplating just how he might explain to his mother that he’d be forced to commit sororicide, Colin realized that Hyacinth was still going on.
“...and then when you returned to the ballroom you were in a very grumpy mood indeed, which judging by your face I would have to concur…”
Colin blinked, then turned to Gregory. “What was your question?”
Gregory opened his mouth to speak, but Hyacinth cut in, sputtering, “But you haven’t answered mine yet!”
“Because my affairs are none of your business,” he snapped, adding, “And it would do all of us well to rid ourselves of this addiction to petty gossip as the highest form of entertainment.”
With a roll of her eyes Hyacinth stomped back down the hall in a huff. Colin closed his eyes for a moment as the events of the evening finally caught up with him.
Gregory didn’t seem to notice or care. “Can we practice boxing now?”
Colin sighed. “It is late.”
“It’s not that late.”
“I’m tired.”
Gregory paused for a moment, his lips twitching slightly at the corners. Even he was not immune to the pull of a good story and a ripe opportunity for ribbing. “Because of your row with Penelope Featherington?”
Colin was in no mood to entertain him. “Goodnight, Gregory.” he said firmly, beginning to pull the door closed.
Gregory jutted his hand out, halting his progress. “But you promised!”
Colin carefully plucked his brother’s hand from the door. “And I promise that I will be a much better sparring partner when I am well rested. Tomorrow.”
Dejected but unwilling to stand his ground, Gregory grumbled a “Fine,” and turned back down the hall.
Alone again, Colin leaned his back against the door as it clicked shut.
Penelope.
The most recent source of his ire. The person responsible for taking this night from bad to worse.
Skin beginning to heat again, he tore off his jacket and tossed it onto the floor. His cravat and waistcoat joined it as he began to pace about the room.
She’d been avoiding him for weeks. It could have been excused as mere coincidence, the first time she disappeared the instant he spotted her across the dance floor. Or bad luck perhaps, the many times he attended events expecting to see her, only to be disappointed by her absence. Surely he had been mistaken when he saw her hiding from him at the market earlier that day. He had to be wrong in this assumption, for he couldn’t understand it otherwise.
Only now did he know the truth.
Shirt adding to the pile accumulating on the floor, Colin sat on the edge of the bed. The night only existed in fragments, the full picture not yet fully planted in his mind. Or perhaps the truth of it was too much to bear, his brain refusing to catalog it in an effort to make it all disappear.
The chill that overtook as he stepped into the gardens
The rustle of heavy skirts
The turn of a corner, a warm body crashing into his
He pulled forcefully at his boot, tossing it aside as his hands began to tremble.
Parchment dropping to the grass
Her short arms pleading for it, his own holding it just out of reach
‘Dearest gentle reader’ in a familiar scrawl
Tugging mercilessly at the other boot, his nails bit into the leather.
The sharp drop in his chest as he demanded an explanation
The steely edge in her voice that offered none
The troublesome footwear finally loosening, he threw it across the room with a growl.
‘This is where you disappear to? Sneaking off to publish this drivel—’
A cruel bark of laughter
‘Drivel that you and everyone else will happily pay five pennies for, how dare you—’
He fell back on the bed, examining his hands for the stains her draft had left behind.
‘I do not even know who you are anymore’
A flash of pain in her eyes that must have mirrored his own
The set of her jaw and roll of her shoulders
‘I could say much the same’
Penelope, Lady Whistledown—the two one in the same. The clip at which the revelation came about was enough to make him dizzy, but it was the rapid escalation of their verbal sparring that left him sick to his stomach.
He trusted her, possibly more than anyone else when he truly considered it, and she kept secrets from him—bigger and more damning than any he could have imagined. He’d thought her understanding, seeing great things in him that he had been too blind or ignorant to see himself. He thought he understood her just the same.
Colin struggled to find the moment where it all went wrong; when her opinion of him had fallen so dramatically, when she stopped seeing him. At some point his importance in her life had toppled, replaced with cutting digs and a bag of coin. The one person he believed would never forsake him had chosen a gossip rag over his friendship.
He blinked hard, sensing his emotions about to spill over. The universe served him blow after blow and he took them all to the gut, knocking him back again and again. It never seemed to end, and Colin had grown tired of fighting.
How he longed for the ability to freeze time, just for a moment. So he could catch his breath. So he could cease being a Bridgerton for a short while. So he could relax into his own skin and find his place in this world. So he could spend one day free of the trappings of high society and its obsession with status and scandal that turned even the sweetest of people sour.
He was ready to sleep for a thousand years.
With bleary eyes he looked back at the cracks in his ceiling. They never changed, but sometimes, on nights like these, he wished they would.
___
As the morning sun drifted in, Colin awoke to something he was unaccustomed to: complete and utter silence.
Thank God. Perhaps he would be able to start his day in peace for once.
He rang for his valet and drifted over toward the window, pulling the curtains back. It was still early yet, the square not yet teeming with life. Briefly, he flicked his gaze across to Featherington House.
I do not owe you an explanation
I will not apologize for what I have built
Her words continued to echo in his mind, making his blood boil. Letting the drapery fall back into place as he turned away, Colin opted to focus on the more pressing matters at hand. Like breaking his fast.
Growing impatient waiting for his valet, he filled the wash basin himself and quickly cleaned up, throwing on a fresh shirt and breeches. His mother would just have to deal with his disheveled state of dress for the time being.
Colin frowned upon entering the dining room, finding it absent in all manners. The sideboard remained barren, no overflowing trays of scones and cakes, nor pots of tea or hot chocolate lining the surface. Cushy chairs sat empty around the long mahogany table, his family nowhere to be found. Had he truly risen that early? Surely he couldn’t be the only one awake at this hour?
Sometimes he’d find Anthony slumped over his desk, pouring over their accounts in the early hours before anyone could disturb him. This morning, however, when he poked his head into the study, both the desk and tufted chair behind were vacant.
He wandered up to the drawing room, wondering if perhaps his mother had taken her early morning tea there instead. Despite his efforts to remain light footed as not to disturb those still sleeping, each step sounded unusually loud in his ears, creaking floorboards cutting through the morning quiet.
No luck there either. Colin could not recall the last time he was the first to wake. It was peculiar to say the least.
Stranger still, he hadn't encountered any staff thus far on his search. Maybe extra hands were required in the kitchens this morning? Or was there some event he was forgetting that occupied them more than usual today?
Colin stopped in front of his sisters’ doors. He weighed the options in his mind. Francesca was likely to be more gracious in accepting his rousing, but also preferred to spend mornings on her own. He couldn’t fault her for that. Eloise, on the other hand, would rip his head off for daring to even knock on her door at such an ungodly hour, but she would also find something else to be up in arms about within a matter of hours, so it was really a draw.
He stepped to the left, knocking softly and putting his ear to the door to listen for a response.
“El?” he called, knocking again, more forceful this time. Nothing from the other side. When he opened the door, he found her bed perfectly made, a mess of books and papers lining her desk. Everything as it should be, yet no Eloise. Odd that she would be up at all, but even more strange that they hadn’t managed to cross paths yet this morning.
He tried next door, waltzing in when Francesca also offered no response to his queries. Like deja vu, the room was perfectly put together with all the familiar markings of his sister present. But she was missing.
Stepping back into the hall, Colin was at a loss. Was there some outing planned for today that he hadn't been informed of? Had they forgotten about him already, placing him back on his tour despite returning weeks ago?
Returning downstairs, he couldn’t shake the eerie feeling of emptiness that surrounded him.
Starting at the bottom, he went through every room, searching for someone or something that could tell him just what the hell was going on. Anticipation sparked as he rounded corners and twisted doorknobs, only to find himself more disappointed with every vacant room he found. Outside proved to be no different, the gardens as empty as the house.
Where was Humboldt? Mrs. Wilson? Generally the staff blended in, appearing only when summoned, but their current absence was palpable. Even if his family had left him here to fend for himself, at least some of the staff would have remained.
Tentatively, he made his way down to their quarters. It had been some time since he’d visited, having been banished altogether as a child when his thievery from the kitchens had been discovered. He was told explicitly not to disrupt their work and to wait like a normal person for biscuits to be delivered instead of hoarding them for himself straight from the source. Surely his mother would understand that these were extenuating circumstances.
But it was all for naught, because they were just as empty as all the other rooms. Each corner of the house had been left untouched, everything in its rightful place.
Everything except the inhabitants.
Colin sagged against the kitchen table. Ignoring the gnawing tension growing between his shoulder blades in favor of his grumbling stomach, he tore the end off a stray loaf of bread beside him, popping bits into his mouth as he thought.
There had to be an explanation for such an unusual occurrence. There had to be something he was missing—some occasion or holiday or festivity. There had to be a perfectly reasonable rationale as to why he found his entire family gone and house deserted.
Tearing off another hunk of bread, he set off for his bedchamber. Climbing the stairs, the chime of the hall clock sounded, the volume starling him and stopping him in his tracks. His foot hovered over the next step as the clock echoed with a second chime. Three, four. Colin remained still as he counted each methodic tone until the house was plunged back into silence.
Eleven. It was nearly midday.
Abandoning the bread on the stairs, he took them two at a time in search of the nearest window. He peered out again into the square. By this hour there should have been scores of people about—ladies strolling through the center gardens with their parasols high against the mid-morning sun, gentlemen on their way to take their parliamentary seats, young boys delivering newspapers. Instead, the square was deserted, just as it had been when he first woke.
His stomach churned. Colin leaned his forehead against the glass and closed his eyes, willing the bile and hastily chewed bread back down his throat.
It didn’t make any sense. Even if he could explain away the absence of his family and servants, there was no reason the square shouldn’t be bustling with people and carriages at this time of day.
He took a deep breath, rationalizing that there had to be a reason. All of it had to be connected in some way, a way that could be explained with facts and logical thinking. He just needed to find the answers.
Grabbing his jacket, he set about his search.
Surely his family would be about town somewhere. Surely, in the meantime, he would run into someone who could possibly shed light on the situation.
Colin worked his way through Mayfair, seeking out his usual haunts. Every street and alleyway he ambled down proved more desolate than the last.
It imparted a similar sensation one might have in a dream. The streets were as familiar to him as the back of his hand, but they held an unnatural quality he couldn’t quite name or pin down. He’d stumbled back from White’s on many a night when the streets were all but empty, and still never felt quite so alone as he did walking through them now.
And then there was the quiet.
There were birdsongs and gusts of wind whistling through trees, leaves rustling on the ground. But there was no chatter, no rattle of carriage wheels over cobblestone. There were no sounds of work or play or human life in any form.
His unease grew in the quiet. So accustomed to the boisterous clamor of his family and the constant commotion of London, the unbreakable silence sent a chill deep into his bones.
Colin picked up his pace as he rounded the south corner of Berkley Square. The thunder of his heart flooded his ears as every shop door was found locked, the insides dark and abandoned. How was this possible?
The air grew thicker around every vacant corner. The clomp of his boots on stone cracked through the unending nothingness, and with each step it became harder to breathe. When he reached the park and took in the barren landscape, his confidence in finding anyone, let alone his family, began to slip.
What would he do if he couldn’t find them? That horrific thought didn’t have the chance to work its way through his constricting heart, for in the distance through the line of trees, he saw movement.
Jogging over, he called out to them, a surge of hope coursing through his veins. He knew it had to be a mistake, a misunderstanding a—
A dark stallion stepped onto the path before him—saddled, but with no rider to speak of. One solitary soul drifted toward the other. Round, brown eyes met his own, and Colin reached his hand out the pet down the horse’s inky muzzle. The animal took to his touch readily and without reservation, striking Colin with such a profound sense of sadness he thought he might weep.
Without urgency, Colin set himself in the general direction of his home, no longer bothering to stop and check in windows along the way. He adjusted his grip on the reins of his companion as he led them both down the sullen streets of Mayfair, their footsteps the only sound to be heard. A numbness overtook his being, his only focus on getting back to a place he once felt safe and finding a spot for his new friend.
Once the animal was secured in the mews, Colin walked back around to the front of Bridgerton House. He looked out across the square once more, taking in the void that had opened up there.
Warily, his gaze flicked up to Featherington House. Using the last dregs of his fleeting energy, Colin made his way over. Maybe it was hope. Or perhaps a sick part of him just needed the confirmation that everyone he’d ever cared about had in fact been taken from him.
Pressing his face up to the window, he peered inside, finding just what he suspected. Nothing but derelict furniture cast in long shadows. Colin hung his head, unsure of what he was supposed to do with this information now that all was made clear. He pushed it down on top of everything else, and carried the weight back to Bridgerton House.
Inside, Colin wandered through the cavernous halls like a ghost. He watched as if floating above as his body piled wood into fireplaces and raided the larder for the makings of what resembled a meal. Numbly, he filled his mouth with flavorless nuts and cheeses, not at all confident in his ability to keep any of it down.
In the stillness, a fanciful thought crept in through the fog. He could write to Daphne, perhaps she might…
Colin sighed, reality closing in all around him.
What would be the point? She wasn't there. No one was. It was just him. Utterly and completely alone.
With a shaky breath, he put his head in his hands as he leaned on the worktop. Every inch of his skin prickled and stung as though being stabbed with a thousand tiny knives. Trembling hands flew to his jacket, the thick fabric holding him an unyielding grip, cutting off his air supply. Shedding it wasn’t enough, and his vision went dark as the rest of his body began to shut down. He slid to the floor, his legs giving up just as he was.
Colin sat motionless on the cool stone tiles, for how long he couldn’t be sure, feeling nothing and everything all once.
Eventually, when his breath evened and muscles settled, the cogs in his mind began to turn. There were a few options, he decided. The first—and most likely—being that somewhere along his travels he had contracted a horrible malady that had slowly but surely broken his brain beyond repair. Colin took some comfort in that scenario. A madman had no need for concern about the world around him and how it had all gone belly up.
Plus, it was easier to explain than the second, which was that in the span of a single evening the entirety of this small subset of London had simply up and moved on, leaving behind homes and businesses like relics of a past life. But that option begged too many follow up questions, so he set it aside.
Then there was the third option, which frankly was a bit idealistic for his current tastes. It seemed all too simple that this was merely a dream he would wake from, that everything would return when the sun rose again and this day would become a distant memory.
But dreams never felt like this. Dreams never stole the air from his lungs or knocked him down at the knees. Dreams never sent an ache like this tunneling into his bones. Dreams never stood on his chest and laughed as his heart struggled to continue beating.
Exhausted, Colin peeled himself off the floor. He was certain if he closed his eyes right now to test the viability of that third option, sleep would never find him. In search of an assist, he wandered back up to the main floor, rummaging through the drawers of Anthony’s desk.
Would it still be considered his brother’s—this desk, the brandy inside, the wood and stone that made up this study, this house? With him gone, was Colin now the viscount? Did that title hold any meaning in this world?
The first burn down his throat pushed those questions aside. The second loosened the tension that had built up in each of his joints and muscles. The third time he filled his glass, a small kind of hope began to fill him again—the hope of a peaceful, dreamless sleep that could so often be found at the bottom of a bottle. And maybe, just maybe, he’d wake from that sleep and find himself somewhere else.
Sloshing amber liquid beyond the rim, he strode through the foyer with his head down, the pain presented in each unfilled corner of the house too much to bear. He threw open the front door and stumbled down the steps, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath at the bottom. The cool night air filled his lungs for the first time, but when he opened his eyes he spotted something that caught his breath and held it.
Footsteps. Movement across the square. A flash of red.
Penelope?