Chapter Text
Sometimes Pen—I feel like you’re the only person in the entire world who understands me. Who looks past the jokes and sees the truth underneath the exterior. Ah, ignore my rambling. I’m much too serious these days.
— An excerpt from Colin Bridgerton’s letters to Penelope Featherington, 1915
15 March, 1917
She had first caught on when the letters stopped arriving. Penelope was often busy enough as it was, trying to work day and night in the field hospital. They were stationed on the western side of No Man’s Land, so the hospital had an influx of dead or dying soldiers. Penelope hadn’t been naive when she had volunteered as a nurse, but the atrocities she had seen while doing her rounds could make even the most steadfast person fall on their knees and weep. The only knowledge that brought her comfort was that her precious Bridgertons were safe.
Penelope’s place in the nursing unit kept her safe from the front lines, and kept her in a place where letters came to and fro without much trouble. Eloise kept her updated on what was happening in London and told her often how much she missed her. Benedict—stationed in the Middle East—often had little drawings accompanying his letters. Anthony—who was a commander and not on the frontlines—often censored his letters, as if to give Penelope peace. She didn’t know how to tell him that her heart was in constant arrest since the day the war broke out and the Bridgerton brothers had shipped off to the continent.
Colin wrote to her most often. There was not a week that went by without his steady handwriting to comfort her. He was evocative and breathtakingly honest in his letters, and Penelope often felt like she was standing right next to him as he described the muddy trenches and the smell of gunpowder. He was always quick to assure her of his own well-being and ask after her in ways that nobody else did. She memorised his letters, holding them to her heart as she fell asleep each night. They were promises that Colin would come back to them, to her. For, even though she had never told him, he was her most precious person and the man that she imagined herself married to. A pipe dream, but a dream that kept her moving nonetheless. She’d wake up reaching out for him, remembering his laughter and the way his curls fell over his ears and graced his forehead. The startling blue of his dark eyes, the sound of his humming when the world was too quiet around them. It hurt her to remember that he would never look twice at her, that he did not dream of fat short girls that he knew as his sister’s friend first.
It didn’t matter that Colin did not love her the way that Penelope loved him. They were friends first, the closest of friends. Penelope sometimes thought that Colin was the only person that truly tried to understand her. Who did understand her.
When her pile of letters failed to grow and the comfort of Colin’s words became absent, Penelope began to worry. It showed through her work; bandages that were too tight, snapping at unruly patients despite their pain, and a lesser tolerance for her fellow nurses’ gossiping. Penelope loved gossip as much as any other woman, and pretending that things were normal was one of the only strategies that kept them all sane. She sat on her bed, counting the letters and taking in the spaces between dates. Her last received letter was three weeks ago, which was an anomaly. Penelope checked it twice, then thrice. The ink did not lie. A few tears came to her eyes, which she quickly wiped away. She put the letters back under her pillow, then pulled out paper and her favourite ink pen. She wrote to Benedict, then Anthony, and finally Eloise, asking if they had heard from Colin recently. She tried not to put her anxiety into the words, not wanting to worry Colin’s family. Penelope knew from his own words that she was the person that he wrote to the most. She could practically hear his exasperation as he rolled his eyes at his family’s impatience with his stories. But Penelope saw through his nonchalance and knew how hurt he was at the prospect.
Penelope tucked a curl of her bright red hair behind her ear, sealing the letters and writing the address of the sorting facility. She placed on her nurse’s cap, taking a deep breath to calm her heart, then stepped out of the makeshift barracks towards the post office.
“Penelope, you’ve got three letters,” the mailman said, handing them over with a smile. There was a running bet around the hospital on who was sending her so much mail. Her friend and fellow nurse Genevieve thought it was a suitor back home, another nurse, Rae, believed it to be family. Penelope always kept that shy smile, not wanting to tell Genevieve or Rae how right they both were. Besides, she had twenty pounds in the ring and she wasn’t willing to lose.
Penelope ran back to her room in the field hospital, lucky to have a break. She thumbed through the letters, a deep hole opening in her bleeding heart when she saw that none were from Colin. Holding back tears, she gulped as she opened the first letter from Eloise.
Dearest Pen,
I wish that Mum or Ant had allowed me to be a spy. Can you imagine; me, sneaking through enemy lines, fooling the Germans and gathering top secret information? It would do me good, I think. Much better than sitting on my arse back here in London and entertaining all of my nephews and nieces. I’ve far too many of them, I think. It’d be much better if women led the military, don’t you think? We’d have finished this war already and I wouldn’t be here playing patty cake and trying not to explode from too many fake tea parties.
Mum wants me to tell you that we’re all doing well over here. Her definition of well is quite different from mine. She’s had to stop Greg from running to the recruitment office again. I think half the offices in London know him by sight at this point. You’d think it’d be embarrassing to be pulled away by your ears, but he keeps doing it. That’s what he gets for being the baby boy. Franny’s doing her performances to help raise the troops’ spirits. At least they don’t heckle her. She’s far too sensitive for that. Although I’ve heard from Mum that soldiers keep trying to propose to her.
To answer your question, I haven’t heard from Colin in several months. He only ever writes to Mum to let her know he’s alright. It’s not that uncommon to not get letters from him. I’m glad he stopped sending those novels of letters. Way too much pondering on the feel of mud, don’t you think?
Please write back soon. I’m dying of boredom. If I have to dance at another charity gala, my feet will fall off. Us London Bridgeys say hello. Be well!
El
Penelope giggled at Eloise’s antics. Eloise was never able to sit still, always having to do something or she’d be “wasting her time.” She’d be a good commander, if they let women be commanders. That tinge of worry built up inside her at Eloise’s dismissal of Colin. Several months was quite a long time to go without letters. Penelope placed El’s letter aside, then opened Anthony’s.
My little sister,
I’m glad to hear that you’re doing well in France. Please be careful. I know that the Germans have retreated for now, but that doesn’t mean you can stop being cautious. I’ve been seeing a lot of men injured.
Father says hello, by the way. He’d march down there himself if he could. Make sure to take plenty of rest and don’t overexert yourself. Mother would be beside herself if you were hurt.
No, I haven’t heard from Colin since the end of January. But you know him, he’s scrappy in a fight. I swear, the way he dodges trouble, you’d think he’d been blessed by a leprechaun. But I’ll put some feelers out if it’ll make you feel better. You probably have more contact with him than I do.
Take care of yourself, sister.
Major-General Anthony Bridgerton, 8th Division
As always, Anthony’s letters were filled with pleads to keep herself safe and nothing else. If anything, Penelope was glad to hear that Edmund was doing well. He was the father that Penelope had never really had, just like Violet was mother-like to her. Penelope opened the final letter from Benedict.
Our little Penelope,
It’s very cold in the desert in the winter, did you know that? I thought deserts were supposed to be hot. But at least I’m not sweating through my uniform like I was in August. I swear, once this whole thing is done and over with, I’m taking a holiday to a nice oasis with girls fanning me and grapes, or something like it.
Enclosed are my most recent sketches. I know you were worried about Officer Horse, and I’m pleased to tell you that he and I made it through our most recent battle unscathed. Wily old thing he is. If he didn’t hate me half as much, we’d be the stars of the whole company. But he likes to fight my every command, unless he hears gunshots. He’s a lot like Eloise, I think.
I also did a quick sketch from memory of Colin for you. I know photographs are better, but I haven’t had the chance to get one of him for some time. He hasn’t sent me a letter since he wished me Happy Christmas in December. Although it does take a bit for letters from France to reach me all the way over here. I don’t think I’ve received Mum’s Christmas care package. Or I smoked all of the cigars she sent me. Woe is me.
Don’t forget to take care of yourself. Don’t be like Ant and run yourself ragged. Though God knows that was funny when he fainted like a maiden receiving a flower. Kate was so damn mad, do you remember that? Thought she was going to knock him upside the head. It’s probably colder over there, so knit yourself an extra scarf or whatever it is you ladies do to keep yourselves warm. I’d swear it was magic.
Your favourite pseudo-brother,
Lieutenant Benedict Bridgerton
A small folded piece of paper fell out of the letter. Penelope picked it up to see Benedict’s promised sketch of Colin. He had gotten Colin’s smile right, as well as his mess of curls and the slight slant of his eyes. Penelope felt herself tearing up as she stared at the charcoal sketch. A few more sketches fell onto her bed; a drawing of Benedict’s horse—who’d bitterly been named Officer Horse—snacking on the grass, another of a few men huddled around while eating, and the Palestinian landscape captured beautifully on paper. Penelope tucked them away with the rest of his sketches, keeping only the Colin sketch in an inside pocket of her uniform.
12 April, 1917
“One, two, three—Lift!” Penelope groaned as she moved the heavy limp body onto the bed, her arms and back protesting. They’d just gotten a shipment of injured from Arras, all crying and screaming for their mother, if they weren’t staring emptily into space. Penelope had been rushed throughout the day, running from one man to the next, barely able to catch her breath before she was stuffing more wounds and trying to calm dying men. While also trying to keep her own sanity in the process.
Another nurse applied sodium hypochlorite to the wound in the man’s thigh. The man grunted, squeezing his eyes closed as he gripped at the sheets beneath him. Penelope grabbed the iodine, letting a few drops drip onto the wound. A few bits of shrapnel poked out of the flesh, oozing blood as it slid down his skin.
“We’re going to need a surgeon over here,” Penelope said to another nearby nurse. She nodded, running off to fetch a doctor, as Penelope continued to apply medicine. The man opened his eyes, locking onto Penelope’s bright red hair. The fact that he was conscious was good—the pain wasn’t too great.
“Thank you,” he grunted out. Penelope smiled, trying to give this man peace, as she wrapped the wounds as best as she could. The surgeon was surely busy with many serious wounds, and this man could wait since none of the shrapnel was in the artery. The nurses nearby rushed to another patient, but Penelope hesitated. She leaned in, making sure she was heard over the loud cacophony of noises in the field hospital.
“Have you heard of a man named Bridgerton? Colin Bridgerton? He’s in E Company, last stationed near Verdun?” Penelope asked. The man shook his head, brows furrowing.
“If he was at Verdun, he’s probably dead.”
“But, we got a Christmas letter from him,” Penelope replied, unable to believe it. Colin was not dead. He was too scrappy and lucky. Violet used to joke that Colin had been blessed by God since infant-hood.
“Verdun was hell itself, Miss. If you haven’t heard from him since then, he’s dead. I’m sorry.” At least the man had the decency to sound apologetic.
Penelope refused to take him at his word. She asked each patient who was well enough to speak to her. But nobody had heard of Lieutenant Colin Bridgerton from E Company. And they all agreed that Verdun was the reason. Penelope began to lose hope.