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Assistant: Title: Of Gentle Things and Gentlemen
        Author: pussshhh pussshhh 
        Chapter: 10/38 
        Summary: Anthony Bridgerton was never supposed to confide in Penelope Featherington. But between the lines of their letters and the spaces between their meetings, something tender takes root.As seasons change and scandals rise, they remain each other’s quiet constant—until friendship begins to look an awful lot like love.---“You write like a man twice your age,” Penelope scrawled at the bottom of her reply.Anthony’s next letter arrived with only one line:“That’s rich coming from a woman who hides behind an alias to scold the entire ton.”
        Contents: Chapter 10: Letters Across the Off-Season
    

    

        
          
          
            Letters between our favorites :)
          
        

  

  
  
    
    
  From Anthony Bridgerton to Penelope Featherington

  
    Aubrey Hall, Kent
  

  Dearest Pen,

  I trust you will forgive the intrusion of this letter, though I suppose forgiveness has always been your most dangerous weapon—quiet, patient, and devastating. It has been some weeks since you departed London, and though I am assured by mother that Ireland is very green, very rainy, and very far, I find I am unable to sit idly by without knowing how you are truly faring.

  Word of your father’s passing reached us swiftly. Mother sends her deepest condolences, as do my siblings (even Eloise, though she claims sorrow interferes dreadfully with her latest philosophical treatise). I know you are no stranger to solitude, Pen, but grief is a cruel and particular kind of loneliness. It creeps in during the quiet hours when the world expects you to move on.

  You must know you are thought of here. Often. And not simply in the polite way people claim to remember their friends from afar. You are a shadow on every breakfast conversation, a missing laughter from the music room, a witty retort sorely lacking from every dull gathering.

  Benedict attempted to cheer matters by naming each of Mother’s prize cows after tragic literary figures last week. Suffice to say, "Othello the Ox" remains suspicious of everyone and "Lady Macbeth" attempted to gore poor Gregory when he stole a biscuit from the larder.

  I wonder, does your great-aunt also possess such agricultural eccentricities? If not, I might suggest Benedict on loan for the season. He would, I suspect, fit quite nicely in Ireland, if only for the improvement of your local cattle population.

  I remain, as always, faithfully your friend and ardent supporter (and unofficial duelist, should any further affronts to your dignity require addressing).

  Write soon, Pen.

  I find the off-season most dreadfully unamusing without your particular brand of chaos.

  Yours,
A.B
  From <PRESIDIO_ANONYMIZED_PERSON> to Anthony Bridgerton

  
    Featherington House, County Kildare, Ireland
  

  My dearest Viscount,

  You must know that it is terribly unfair to begin a letter with flattery and end it with promises of chaos. A woman can hardly maintain her dignity when ambushed on both fronts.

  Your letter was a balm, though I hardly deserve such kindness. I confess, I did not know what to expect of Ireland. I had imagined green fields and crumbling castles and perhaps the odd cow wandering through parlors. Instead, I find myself in a great-aunt’s drafty house, surrounded by doilies, and attending tea parties where the greatest excitement is arguing over whether lavender or rosehip makes a more invigorating infusion.

  Our great-aunt—Lady Mavis Featherington, to be precise—holds court over the household with the sharpness of a saber and the stubbornness of an old goat. She insists on Latin lessons before breakfast (yes, in Latin), detests anything resembling frivolity, and believes embroidery to be a form of moral education.

  My sisters are faring poorly. Prudence weeps daily for the lack of London b@lls, and Philipa has already attempted to elope with the footman once (he refused, citing a prior engagement to a local milkmaid).

  As for your suggestion of loaning Benedict for agricultural consultation, I would say send him immediately—but only if he comes armed with books on farming and the patience to endure discussions about butter churning at great length.

  I do hope you are keeping yourself from dueling geese in Kent.

  You remain, as ever, a light amidst an otherwise dreary exile.

  Yours (with slipper poised),

  P.F

  From Anthony Bridgerton to Penelope Featherington

  
    Aubrey Hall, Kent
  

  Dearest Pen,

  It is both delightful and alarming how thoroughly you have managed to paint a picture of Irish exile that sounds more like a battle campaign than a season of mourning. If your great-aunt’s house endures the onslaught of Featherington spirit without collapsing, I shall write her a letter of commendation myself.

  Mother is quite put out that you are not present to oversee the planting of her new rose gardens. She claims the gardeners have no sense of color balance, and she sorely misses your 'practical optimism.' Gregory suggested naming one of the new rose varieties after you. Benedict promptly suggested that it be a variety prone to mischief, capable of climbing over fences and scandalizing the neighbors. Mother was not amused.

  As for the geese, I regret to inform you that war has been declared. Hyacinth, acting as general, led an ill-advised campaign across the orchard armed with sticks and bonnets. The geese won. Hyacinth remains undeterred.

  I find myself hoping your embroidery lessons are not dulling your sharper edges. A dull Penelope would be the greatest tragedy of all.

  Awaiting word from the battlefield,

  Yours,

  A.B

  From Penelope Featherington to Anthony Bridgerton

  
    Featherington House, County Kildare, Ireland
  

  Dearest Anthony,

  Your updates on the Kentish front continue to provide the only real amusement I have these days. I must say, the imagery of Hyacinth, armed with sticks and bonnets, leading an assault against a battalion of geese, nearly made me choke on my tea. I daresay, if she were born a century earlier, she might have conquered half of Europe.

  As for your fears, I assure you my sharper edges remain intact, despite my great-aunt’s best efforts to embroider them into submission. I must confess, however, that I am now the reluctant owner of three handkerchiefs bearing the most appalling daisies one can imagine. Lady Mavis has declared them "charmingly rustic." I have declared them "weapons against good taste." We remain at an impasse.

  Your mention of naming a rose after me both flatters and alarms. If it is to be a climbing variety, scandalizing fences and terrorizing the gardeners, I approve wholeheartedly. Should it bear thorns enough to draw blood from the unwary, consider it a tribute to my enduring affection.

  Tell Gregory he is to be commended for his sense of romance, and tell Benedict he ought to be careful with his jests lest he find himself the subject of a scathing Whistledown review regarding his botanical sensibilities.

  (Do assure him it would be done with affection. Mostly.)

  Ireland remains as wet and as green as promised, though I must say the sheep here seem to possess an unsettling amount of judgment. I passed one yesterday who appeared to be silently critiquing my choice of bonnet.

  I await your next dispatch eagerly—and expect full reports on any further military maneuvers, whether involving geese, gardeners, or rebellious siblings.

  Yours (armed and perilously witty),

  P.F

  From Anthony Bridgerton to Penelope Featherington

  
    Aubrey Hall, Kent
  

  Lady Witty and Terrifying,

  Your report on the Irish sheep and weaponized embroidery has caused no fewer than three members of this household to worry aloud about your mental state. I told them not to be alarmed—you've always wielded sarcasm like a saber and wit like a whispering spell. They’re simply not accustomed to witnessing such finesse from a distance.

  (You will be pleased to know I offered no further details. Your reputation remains delightfully untouched, at least in this house.)

  The matter of your bonnet has taken a turn for the absurd. My mother, ever enthusiastic, has assembled a "care package" which I fear may cause international scandal if it ever crosses the Channel. I have thus far intercepted it and hidden it beneath the third stair in the west wing. Should I fail to contain her next assault, you may need to seek refuge among your judgmental sheep.

  Hyacinth, unfazed by her prior defeat, has proposed a "second summit" with the geese, this time offering bribery in the form of apple tarts. I am not optimistic about the outcome. Gregory, meanwhile, is contemplating writing a dramatic opera based on the conflict. He insists there must be a tragic goose hero who dies valiantly defending his right to the orchard.

  It has not escaped my notice, Pen, how deeply I miss hearing your voice in these rooms—not the spoken word alone, but the very sense of presence that you carry with you, impossible to replace.

  I hope Ireland treats you kindly, or at the very least, provides sufficient absurdity to fuel your next letter.

  Yours (in quiet conspiracy),

  A.B

  From Penelope Featherington to Anthony Bridgerton

  
    Featherington House, County Kildare, Ireland
  

  Lord Commander of the Goose Rebellion,

  Your continued updates on the Kentish Theatre of War (now featuring apple tarts and potential operatic adaptations) have been the saving grace of many a dreary Irish afternoon.

  Lady Mavis remains convinced that I am "unwell" due to my frequent laughter when your letters arrive. I fear she suspects hysterics born of suppressed emotions, not realizing that your accounts of tragic goose heroes and intercepted bonnets are the true culprits.

  You are to be commended for your bravery in intercepting your mother’s care package. If ever you are in need of reinforcements, I am certain several of the sheep here could be persuaded to form a militia. They have already displayed an alarming tactical awareness during lawn grazing.

  As for me, I remain embroidering daisies under duress, attending insipid teas, and mentally composing my memoirs: "Surviving Great-Aunts and Other Perils of Rural Exile."

  Anthony, I cannot tell you how much your letters mean. To know there is someone who thinks of me beyond these damp hills and endless sermons—someone who misses my presence without requiring my perfection—is a gift rarer than any gem.

  I hope Aubrey Hall continues to provide ample absurdities, for both our sakes.

  Yours (armed with sarcasm and sheep alike),

  P.F

  From Anthony Bridgerton to Penelope Featherington

  
    Aubrey Hall, Kent
  

  General Featherington of the Emerald Isles,

  I regret to inform you that the negotiations with the geese have failed spectacularly. Hyacinth’s offer of apple tarts was rejected with disdain—and one particularly bold gander saw fit to chase Gregory halfway across the orchard. It is the stuff of legend, and I am assured that Hyacinth’s forthcoming ballad, "The Fall of Gregory," will soon be performed for family and, much to my horror, any unfortunate visiting dignitaries.

  Your accounts of life under Lady Mavis's reign of embroidery have given me a newfound appreciation for the chaos of Kent. I fear I would not survive a single morning of enforced Latin nor endure even one critique of my posture at breakfast. You are braver than any soldier.

  I have found myself wandering the halls here with an absurd thought: that perhaps you have stitched yourself into the very fabric of this house. I find echoes of you in the library when I catch sight of a particular novel left askew, in the orangery when I see a bloom far too stubborn to be properly pruned.

  You have an unfortunate way of making your absence felt, Penelope Featherington.

  And yet I would not trade the ache for anything less. Your letters are a lifeline, more vital than you likely realize.

  Stay strong, General. Rally your sheep. Defend your bonnets. And do, if you can, save a dance with me for the next time the world is less absurd.

  Yours (ever plotting your rescue),

  A.B

  From Penelope Featherington to Anthony Bridgerton

  
    Featherington House, County Kildare, Ireland
  

  Commander of Lost Battles and Even More Lost Dignity,

  Your latest report has left me in stitches—figuratively this time, not merely by the force of embroidery needles. Poor Gregory. I can only hope he recovers from the indignity of being bested by poultry before the season begins anew.

  I have had few letters from London of late, save for Eloise, who seems determined to ensure my brain does not atrophy entirely from the dullness of Irish country life. She sends missives bursting with indignation over her mother's matchmaking schemes, the injustice of feminine expectations, and—rather intriguingly—a small note about 
  
    you
  
  .

  According to Eloise (who is hardly the most reliable of informants, but nonetheless enthusiastic), you have apparently made some grave and serious decision to seek a wife in the coming season. She reports it with no small amount of horror, and suggests you have conscripted poor Benedict into your cause as an unwilling accomplice.

  I must say, Anthony, this was news most unexpected.

  I cannot help but wonder what sort of lady would dare weather the force of a Bridgerton so stubborn. She will need to be either a saint or a sorceress—or perhaps a well-armed general herself.

  Should I begin offering prayers on her behalf now?

  As for me, I have taken to wandering the fields when no one is looking, composing increasingly terrible verses about the judgmental sheep. I may soon have enough material to publish an entire collection: 
  
    "Odes to Ewes and Other Sorrows."
  

  The days grow longer, but still I find myself counting them. Not with dread anymore, but with a restless sort of hope.

  Write soon. I am most curious to hear what sort of campaign you plan to wage in this so-called pursuit of matrimony.

  Yours (armed with quills and caution),

  P.F

  From Anthony Bridgerton to Penelope Featherington

  
    Aubrey Hall, Kent
  

  Dearest General of the Poetic Sheep,

  You wound me, Penelope. Truly. To think that my quest for a suitable wife has already become the source of rural mockery and whispered prayers for the survival of the poor, unwitting lady in question. I should have known that word would travel faster through Eloise’s pen than through any formal announcement.

  (For the record, I have not "conscripted" Benedict. He has volunteered his assistance most unwillingly, which I believe counts for something.)

  You will be reassured to hear that I have not yet drawn up battle plans, nor have I commissioned a flag to march under during the next season. Though I must admit, the thought of Lady Cowper swooning at the sight of a Bridgerton battle standard does hold some grim amusement.

  I can already hear your laughter at the image.

  In truth, Pen, it is less a grand campaign than a reluctant surrender. One cannot very well continue to rule over a household bursting with eligible siblings without setting some sort of example. That, and Mother has hinted—very subtly, with all the grace of a battering ram—that it is time.

  (And no, before you ask, I am not bringing the geese into the selection process.)

  Your field wanderings sound infinitely more peaceful than my current circumstances. Here, every quiet moment is interrupted by Mother's latest plans for spring refurbishment or Gregory’s rehearsal of "The Ballad of the Fallen Goose," which has reached a distressing third act.

  Write soon, Pen. Your verses, terrible though you claim them to be, have already proven more delightful than any poetry Kent has to offer.

  Yours (hoping to remain undefeated by matrimony or livestock),

  A.Bridgerton

  From Penelope Featherington to Anthony Bridgerton

  
    Featherington House, County Kildare, Ireland
  

  Dearest Commander of Matrimonial Maneuvers,

  The thought of Lady Cowper fainting at the sight of a Bridgerton battle standard has brought more joy to my heart than a dozen country dances. I shall treasure the image.

  You must know, however, that I am in no way reassured by your protestations of a "reluctant surrender." I fear that once you descend upon the marriage mart with the full force of Bridgerton determination, it shall be less surrender and more wholesale conquest.

  (Should you require assistance in drafting terms of engagement, I am very good with formal declarations. I have already drawn up several for the sheep.)

  It warms me to know that life at Aubrey Hall is as gloriously absurd as ever. Here, the days stretch long and lazy, punctuated by squabbles over knitting circles and which tea is most beneficial for the complexion. I remain undefeated thus far, though I have made the grave error of suggesting that not all ailments can be cured with a compress soaked in chamomile.

  Anthony, your letters have become the brightest parts of these long, damp days. I sometimes imagine you pacing some grand hall, pen in hand, frowning terribly over the exact turn of phrase to make me laugh.

  (You succeed more often than you know.)

  I look forward to the day when I may see for myself whether you have indeed survived Gregory’s opera or if the geese have seized Aubrey Hall entirely.

  Until then, remain steadfast, remain absurd, and write soon.

  Yours (already drafting an anthem for your inevitable triumph),

  P.Featherington

  From Anthony Bridgerton to Penelope Featherington

  
    Aubrey Hall, Kent
  

  Dearest Composer of Country Ballads and Subtle Warfare,

  You overestimate both my poise and my battle readiness. Since your last letter, I have attended two planning meetings for spring renovations, one failed goose negotiation (this time involving a feather quill, a tart, and a regrettable incident involving Hyacinth's bonnet), and—most harrowingly—Mother has begun assembling portraits of eligible young ladies with the solemnity of a general choosing soldiers for the front lines.

  It would almost be amusing, if it did not weigh so heavily.

  Penelope, you asked—whether outright or between your beautifully crafted lines—why I have made this decision now. Why I am so determined to find a wife this coming season.

  It is not love I seek.

  Love, I have decided, is for men who can afford the luxury of it. Men whose lives stretch far ahead, wide and endless. My father loved fiercely, and it hollowed my mother when he was gone. I remember her weeping behind closed doors, pretending to be strong for us, carrying the ruin of his absence every single day.

  I cannot—
  
    will not
  
  —do that to another soul.

  I seek a Viscountess who can manage Aubrey Hall, who can raise the next generation of Bridgertons with strength and steadiness. A partner, not a heart laid bare.

  If that sounds cold, Pen, know it is born from a place of fear. I do not fear duty. I fear being loved too deeply—and then leaving that love to rot into grief.

  It is a strange thing, to admit aloud (or rather, in ink). Stranger still to admit it to you, when you seem to read the things I leave unsaid better than I ever could.

  You are missed here, more than I can say. Your absence is a thread pulled loose in the fabric of this house, and no matter how tightly we weave around it, the gap remains.

  Write soon.

  Yours (ever a coward when it matters most),

  Anthony

  From Penelope Featherington to Anthony Bridgerton

  
    Featherington House, County Kildare, Ireland
  

  Dearest Stubborn and Illogical Viscount,

  You should know that your letter was read and reread, and very nearly crumpled by hands trembling with a fury I rarely allow myself.

  You are a fool, Anthony Bridgerton.

  A kind, noble, maddening fool.

  If you believe, even for one moment, that your loss would be easily borne, that anyone who has known you—truly known you—would shrug and simply "manage," then you have not been paying nearly enough attention to the hearts around you.

  I would not survive it unscathed. I would not be whole again. Your absence would leave a silence no clever remark or gentle duty could ever fill.

  You speak of love as if it were a dagger poised above your head, when it is the only armor worth wearing in this world.

  You deserve to be loved, Anthony. Deeply, foolishly, gloriously loved. And to love in return without the fear of shadows creeping in to steal your joy.

  We are none of us promised forever. But the worth of life is measured not in its length, but in how brightly it burns while we have it.

  I am to return to London within a fortnight. My great-aunt has decided she can no longer endure my "modern sensibilities," and I suspect the sheep have grown tired of being the subjects of my poetry.

  When I arrive, I imagine you shall be much preoccupied with your campaign for matrimony.

  But I hope, selfishly, that you will find a moment for me.

  Because I will be there. Standing, unafraid, even when you cannot be.

  Yours (steadfast and stubborn as you),

  Pen'
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