RUST - Chapter 9 - A Polin Fic
Chapter 9 – Piercing the Armour
Penelope awoke to the unmistakable sensation of someone launching themselves directly onto her stomach.
“Auntie Penelope!” Belinda’s voice was bright enough to rival the thrum of noise already echoing through the house, and the small weight of her was immediately followed by a pair of eager hands gently patting Penelope’s cheek with determined enthusiasm. “Auntie Penelope, wake up! Father Christmas came!”
The redhead let out a muffled sound of protest into her pillow and attempted to turn her head away, but Belinda only shifted with her, relentless in her determination.
“He came, and there are presents, and Augie says we can’t go downstairs again until all the grown-ups are up, but we already opened our stockings and now we have to wait and it’s taking ages,” Belinda announced in one breath. “Mummy told me to come and wake you or we won’t be opening anything until after dinner.”
Penelope prised one eye open. Belinda’s cheeks were flushed with excitement, and she was sporting a huge grin as she practically bounced on the bed.
Beyond the tall windows the world was still dark, the early winter morning barely beginning to stir, but Aubrey Hall was already very much awake.
“Okay, give me a couple of minutes and I’ll get up,” she told the little girl, tiredly.
Belinda’s smile widened even more, if that was possible, and she jumped off the bed and ran to the door.
“She’s coming,” she yelled as she left the room.
Penelope winced at the volume and let out a little groan as she pressed her face back into the pillow.
“That doesn’t look like getting up to me.”
At the sound of Colin’s voice, her head jerked up again. Blinking rapidly, she tried to clear her blurry vision and saw him standing there holding Augie’s hand.
Daphne had clearly deployed her children this morning. She wouldn’t be surprised to see Eloise walking past with Caroline any moment now. In fact, she’d rather like that. She could do with the distraction so that she’d be able to tear her eyes away from the man smiling at her from across the room.
How did he look so good at whatever the ungodly hour was now?
He was rumpled in a warm, homely, yet annoyingly sexy kind of way with his blue tartan pyjama bottoms, pristine white t-shirt, hair slightly messy and feet bare.
Abruptly aware that she was staring, Penelope looked away then slowly sat up and tugged the duvet a little higher in a vague attempt at modesty.
“What time is it?” she asked curiously, her voice still thick with sleep.
“You don’t want to know,” he replied in a faintly amused tone, stepping further into the room.
He was probably right, she mused, running a hand through her messy curls and wincing slightly as her fingers snagged on a knot. With a sigh, she pushed the duvet aside and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. The floorboards were cold beneath her feet and she drew in a sharp breath as she stood.
“Okay, I’m up,” she said, glancing over at him with a tired smile.
Colin wasn’t looking at her face though. His eyes were trailing down her body then came to a halt on her stomach. She glanced down and belatedly realised what she was wearing. Her grey nightshirt was nothing special, apart from the rather large, printed words, ‘Kiss Me Under The Mistletoe’ that sat low on the front with a colourful picture of said Christmas foliage above it.
Her eyes snapped back to his and this time he met her gaze head on, a knowing grin on his face.
She quickly reached for her pale pink dressing gown that was draped over the back of the nearby chair, warmth flooding her cheeks. Slipping the garment on, she tied it around her waist then attempted to smooth her hair again.
The effort was largely useless as her curls had already decided what sort of morning they intended to have, but it afforded her a moment to try and get her embarrassment under some control.
Although, when she turned back toward them both, she saw that Colin was still watching her with a little smirk on his lips that did absolutely nothing to make her feel less self-conscious.
“You go ahead, I just need a moment,” she told them, gesturing towards the small ensuite, “and then I’ll be down.”
His gaze flicked towards the bathroom then he looked back at her and nodded just as Augie started impatiently tugging on his hand, drawing his attention.
“Come on, Uncle Colin, let’s go,” he urged, clearly delighted with being able to leave.
Colin allowed himself to be pulled back toward the corridor, though he paused briefly at the doorway to turn and warn lightly, “Don’t be too long or I’ll send all the kids back to get you.”
“I won’t,” she promised, letting out a little huff of laughter.
Augie gave Colin’s arm another determined tug and began dragging him down the hallway before he could say anything more, the sound of their footsteps quickly fading.
Penelope stood where she was for a moment after they disappeared, then let out a slow breath and headed into the bathroom.
Seeing him unexpectedly like that had her thoughts drifting briefly to the previous afternoon. The near-kiss running through her mind again. The way his hand had settled against her cheek, the look in his eyes when he had leaned toward her…
“Oh, stop it,” she tutted in annoyance to herself.
She’d already spent most of last night trying, and failing, to not examine that moment too closely. Partly because she still wasn’t entirely certain what it had meant, but mostly because she’d had a startling little epiphany about herself at around 2 o’clock in the morning.
It was the sudden realisation that she had more in common with Colin than she’d thought, because, she too, had been guarding her heart all along.
Not against love, like Colin did.
No, she’d been guarding hers against hope.
For years now she had stoically managed her expectations where Colin was concerned. Loving him had never been the difficult part; she had been doing that for so long that it had become as natural to her as breathing.
What had required rather more careful handling was the question of possibility.
That, she’d discovered long ago, could be far more dangerous than disappointment.
So, she’d learned to minimise it.
Over time, it had become so ingrained in her that she scarcely questioned it anymore; the instinct to dismiss anything that might suggest otherwise had taken hold before she’d even realised it.
His smiles, the occasional warmth, the little gestures; she had long since taught herself to immediately quash any fledgling feeling rather than risk letting herself believe they might mean something more.
And apparently, she’d become rather good at that. Almost as good as Colin resolutely guarded his own emotions.
Until he’d stopped…and that’s what had panicked her the day before.
Of course, it hadn’t helped that Eloise had, unfortunately, witnessed enough of their encounter to understand exactly what had nearly happened. It’d led to a brief, slightly heated, conversation about whether Penelope intended to spend the rest of her life never telling the man she was in love with how she truly felt.
In hindsight, asking Eloise to make sure she wasn’t left alone with him for the rest of the afternoon had probably been a little overkill. Reluctant though her friend had been, she had eventually agreed and then gone about it with far more enthusiasm than Penelope had expected.
There had been a couple of times when Colin had tried to speak to her and, although she had felt guilty each time Eloise intervened, she had thought it necessary then.
This morning, she was no longer so sure.
In truth, she was no longer sure of much at all. Something about Colin had shifted over the last couple of days, and she would be a fool to pretend their night together had not played some part in that.
Despite herself, she kept returning to Eloise’s insistence that there was more on his side. Even Violet had alluded to it. Had she been so determined to protect herself, so certain he could never feel anything for her, that she had missed what others seemed to see so clearly?
The thought left a growing ache of regret in its wake.
What if she had done things differently? She had cut him off so completely the morning after and never given him the chance to say whatever it was he had wanted to say.
Perhaps that had been a mistake.
She gazed at herself in the bathroom mirror for a few moments as it circled stubbornly in her mind, then frowned. Everyone was waiting; she didn’t have time for this now, however much she might want to.
Squaring her shoulders, she tightened the belt of her dressing gown and headed out to join the family.
Making her way hurriedly downstairs, she could already hear the excited voices of the children, and one or two of the adults as well. When she reached the bottom of the staircase, Eloise appeared carrying two mugs of tea in her hands.
“Good timing,” she said, holding one out. “This is for you. Colin was going to bring it up, but I intercepted him.”
Penelope blinked at the drink for a moment before accepting it.
“You stopped him?”
“Well of course I stopped him,” Eloise replied with a puzzled look. “You asked me to.”
Penelope felt her stomach drop. Of course El would continue to look out for her.
“Yeah, well…about that,” she began quietly, “Thank you for yesterday, but I’ve been thinking about things and you don’t have to do that anymore.”
Eloise stared at her.
“Truly?” Penelope gave a small nod, and she puffed out a breath of pure relief. “Thank God. Do you know how hard it was trying to stop Colin from speaking to you without making it obvious?”
Penelope gave her a sheepish smile.
“Sorry.”
The brunette waved her apology away and glanced around before leaning in and asking, “So does that mean you’re finally going to speak to him?”
Penelope hesitated, then shook her head slightly. She hadn’t a clue what she was going to do yet. She was still trying to make sense of it all without letting herself hope too much.
“Yes? No? I don’t know. Let me just get through today first and then I’ll see.”
Eloise studied her for a moment, clearly dissatisfied with her answer but then she shook her head and linked arms with her, gently steering her toward the drawing room.
“Come on, let’s go and see if Father Christmas got us anything,” she muttered with a wry smile.
Together they stepped into the drawing room where the rest of the family had already gathered.
It was abuzz with laughter and chatter. Edmund, Augie and Belinda were seated cross-legged on the rug, arguing over who would hand out the first present. Miles hovered nearby looking between them and Caroline who was toddling over to the pile of brightly coloured gifts sitting under the twinkling lights of the tree. Before she could reach them, he took hold of her hand and led her carefully over to the rest of the children then sat down.
Penelope spotted Colin almost immediately.
He was standing near the fireplace with Anthony, mid-conversation, mug of tea in one hand and a custard cream in the other. She couldn’t help but smile. That man’s capacity for eating, no matter what time of day or night, needed to be studied.
He raised the biscuit to his mouth then paused and, as though sensing her presence, he glanced toward the door. Their eyes met and his lips curved up into a small smile in return, biscuit momentarily forgotten. Anthony turned his head to see what had caught his brother’s attention, but didn’t seem at all surprised to find her standing there. He looked back at Colin then leaned forward to say something to him before making his way over to his sit down next to his wife, sporting a wry grin.
“Now that everyone is here, shall we all sit down so we can start?” Violet suggested suddenly. “I think the children have been patient quite long enough.”
Penelope saw a slightly exasperated expression cross Colin’s face as he glanced at his mother then back to her, but then the moment was gone as everyone moved to find somewhere to sit. Eloise dropped onto a couch beside Benedict and Sophie, then patted the space beside her for Penelope.
Colin took an armchair across from them, next to Fran, and dunked his biscuit in his tea before popping the whole thing in his mouth.
“Right,” Violet continued as she sat down herself, “Children, if you’d like to start?”
They needed no further encouragement. Within seconds, they were scrambling forward, grabbing parcels at random and attempting to distribute them with great enthusiasm and very little regard for accuracy.
“That one’s mine!” Miles protested, reaching across Edmund to claim a package he was holding.
“It is not,” Edmund argued back, clutching it to his chest. “It has my name on it.”
“That says Auntie Eloise,” Augie informed him helpfully.
Edmund paused, squinted at the label, then went to hand it over to the brunette with a heavy sigh.
“Here you are,” he told his aunt almost begrudgingly.
Penelope let out a small laugh despite herself then took a quick sip of her tea to cover it.
“Thank you, Eddie,” Eloise replied, holding back her own chuckle.
The rest of morning continued in a similar sort of organised chaos after that, filled with laughter and a steadily growing pile of torn wrapping paper that Anthony gamely tried to keep tidying up into a number of large black bin bags.
Penelope had just thanked Daphne and Simon for her present, a voucher for a spa day at the same place that they’d got one for Eloise, when Belinda’s voice cut across the room as she thrust a present in Colin’s direction with a bright grin.
“This one is from Auntie Penelope.”
Colin accepted it with a smile and looked over at her as his niece went off back to the tree.
“Thanks,” he said after giving the tag a cursory glance just to check. Penelope nodded back and watched him flip over the rectangle shaped parcel and give it a light squeeze. “Is it a football?” he quipped before running a finger under the tape.
She gave a quick smile, then sobered and bit down a little anxiously on her bottom lip as the wrapping fell apart to reveal her gift.
A book.
Once she’d made the decision to hand in her notice, she’d known that she wanted to return it to him. She’d held onto it for the last few years, never quite finding the right time, and even now she felt a flicker of doubt pass through her as she waited for his reaction.
She could only hope that, as he’d seemed more open these past few days, he might not mind it now. That he might even be glad to have it back.
Or at the very least, that it would be taken for what it was and nothing more.
Across the room, Colin stared at Penelope’s gift in surprise.
It was one of his old journals.
He’d recognised it instantly. The dark brown leather cover was worn faintly at the corners, the spine creased. He hadn’t seen it in years. Not since he’d stopped travelling and his vlog had become something he told people he used to do.
He looked up and saw Penelope watching him. The uncertainty on her face was unmistakable and more than anything, he wanted to assure her it was fine. He smiled and nodded, then mouthed another ‘thank you.’
Some of the tension left her shoulders immediately, relief flickering across her face before she ducked her head slightly and became very interested in the present Eloise had just been given.
Colin’s gaze dropped back to the journal in his hands.
He remembered, suddenly, how she came to have it in the first place.
It had been shortly before everything with Marina had unravelled, at a time when things had really begun to feel off, though he’d not yet known why. He’d found himself keeping to London more than usual, telling himself it was by choice, that it might be better to stay put for a while rather than disappear off again as he so often had.
He and Penelope had been talking one afternoon, nothing particularly serious, just passing the time as they often did, when she’d mentioned a piece she was working on for one of her university assignments. She’d been struggling with it, she’d said, unable to quite decide on the right way to approach it.
Colin had then admitted, a little awkwardly, that he kept journals and used to write everything down first. Not for the vlog, not really - just for himself. Notes, thoughts, observations. Things that never made it onto the account.
She had been immediately interested in that.
Asked, quite plainly, if she might read one.
He’d been surprised. It wasn’t anything he’d ever considered sharing with anyone else. He’d agreed of course, because it was Pen, though not without warning her that it was little more than rambling and not particularly good.
He opened the book in his hand and flipped through a couple of pages skimming over long paragraphs written in train stations and cafés. There were descriptions of places that had felt so vivid to him at the time that he’d been convinced the camera could never quite capture them.
And then…he paused.
There, stuck on various parts of the pages were tiny, brightly coloured notes, each one marked with Penelope’s neat, familiar handwriting.
A light frown creased his brow and he flicked through a few more entries, each one the same.
Carefully placed observations, brief comments, the occasional question, all written in that same unmistakable hand.
A rush of affection hit him, his heart stuttering at the realisation that she had taken the time to do this. Out of nowhere, he felt the urge to go somewhere quiet and read them properly—to take his time, to see what she had said, what she had noticed, what she had thought of the things he had once written with such enthusiasm. Because he knew that if he started now, he wouldn’t be able to stop.
Colin shut the book with a snap, then let out a slow breath and leaned back in his seat. He rested the journal on his knee; his hand still loosely curved around it not quite ready to let it go again, when his attention was caught by Edmund pulling a rather large present into the centre of the room.
“Look!” the young boy’s voice rang out with triumphant delight as he tore the paper away. “Dad, it’s drum kit! Uncle Colin got me a drum kit!”
The declaration was met with immediate delight from the other children, who surged forward to inspect it, while Anthony, seated nearby, went very still.
Slowly, he turned his head.
“Colin.”
He met his brother’s gaze unflinchingly, the corner of his mouth lifting in spite of himself.
“Yes?”
Anthony gestured toward where his son was tugging on the sealed box flaps trying to open them up.
“You cannot be serious.”
Beside him, Kate wasn’t even bothering to try and hold back her amusement.
“What?” Colin asked in mock innocence, “Learning an instrument will be good for him.” Then he paused and tilted his head to the side consideringly before adding wryly, “Not sure it’ll be good for you, I’ll give you that.”
Anthony closed his eyes briefly.
“I will never forgive you for this.”
Colin laughed and couldn’t help but glance over at Penelope. She had her mug of tea up to her face, but he saw the smile she was trying to hide behind it and he felt another surge of warmth flood his system. He looked down at his journal once more, his fingers pressing on the cover as he fought the desire to flip it open again and devour everything she’d written.
To stop himself, he placed the book on the low coffee table in front of him with the rest of his gifts and concentrated on watching Anthony trying to stop Edmund from pulling all the kit out of the box and setting it up there and then. He was happy that the boy liked it as much as he’d hoped he would – and that it annoyed Anthony in equal measure.
Once assured that he could put it up later, Edmund went back to helping hand out the rest of the presents. Soon he was standing in front of Penelope placing a gift in her hand, that Colin knew from the paper was from him.
She looked momentarily surprised, glancing up as though to confirm it was indeed meant for her before carefully unwrapping it. The paper gave way easily, revealing the soft green silky looking scarf that caught the light as it slipped through her fingers.
Her expression shifted almost immediately.
“Oh, Colin, it’s beautiful,” she said, her voice warm with delight as she lifted and turned it slightly to admire the colour. “Thank you.”
She beamed at him and he inclined his head in response, though his chest tightened unexpectedly. She genuinely liked it, he could tell, but rather than feeling pleased with himself, there was an unwelcome undercurrent of guilt that bubbled up instead.
Four years she had worked with him, and not only had he deprived her of Christmas during that time due to his own personal demons, but he’d also somehow convinced himself that things like a bloody desk calendar had been an entirely acceptable gift.
He winced inwardly.
She deserved so much better than that.
His mind unhelpfully reminded him of the bangle that sat upstairs nestled in his drawer and he felt his guilt deepen.
“Here, this one’s yours.”
A present was thrust into his hands with very little ceremony, the abruptness of it enough to pull him from his thoughts as he looked up to find Miles standing expectantly in front of him.
Colin blinked once, then forced a tight smile as he accepted it.
“Thank you,” he said, glancing briefly at the tag and noting it was from his mother, before beginning to unwrap it. The paper came away to reveal a thick Aran jumper. “Thanks mum, just what I needed,” he told her sincerely as he folded it up and added it to his modest stack of presents.
Settling back, he spent the remainder of the time it took for the pile of gifts beneath the tree to dwindle to nothing in a state of restless preoccupation. His attention shifted between the presents, Penelope, and the journal, never quite staying on any one of them for long.
Once the last of the wrapping paper had been gathered up, people started to head upstairs to get washed and dressed. Colin gathered his presents and took them to his room but left his journal on the table. He knew he didn’t have enough time to read it and didn’t want it tempting him while he got ready. After a quick shower, he donned black jeans and his new jumper then headed back to join the family. Dinner was nearly ready and he busied himself helping out in the kitchen.
“I’m tempted to take back your trust fund,” Anthony groused to him at one point as the sound of erratic drumming reached them from the depths of the house.
“I wouldn’t have bought them if there had been a chance of that,” Colin retorted with a laugh. “He sounds like he’s having fun though, so I’m glad he likes them.”
Anthony’s stern expression softened into a smile.
“And I’m glad that you decided to get something that wasn’t on a list for a change this year, even if my poor ears don’t thank you for it.”
Colin felt a quiet sense of satisfaction come over him at the comment. He gave a small, almost nonchalant shrug, as though it were nothing of any real consequence, even though it really was.
“You’re welcome,” he commented wryly as he continued setting out the dinner plates.
Anthony let out a snort of amusement but said nothing more, and for a moment the only sound between them was the clink of china and cutlery as the men finished laying the table.
“Anthony, would you be a dear and let everyone know that dinner is ready?” Violet called from the other end of the kitchen, not looking up from where she was straining some peas.
He straightened immediately.
“Of course, Mother,” he replied, already turning toward the door.
She then moved to the oven and, after a quick glance at the clock, asked Colin to take the turkey out and transfer it to the large serving plate. He did so carefully, the heat rising around him as he lifted it free, before carrying it through to the dining table just as the rest of the family began to enter.
Violet followed with a joint of beef that had been left to rest, while Gregory and Hyacinth appeared behind her, each bearing bowls of vegetables which they placed down before going to get more.
Colin took his seat opposite Penelope, and they shared a small smile as everyone else sat down and dishes began to make their way around the table.
Anthony was in charge of the carving, while crackers were pulled, paper hats were donned, and the accompanying jokes read aloud to a chorus of groans and laughter in equal measure.
Penelope caught his eye more than once when they grinned at each other at some particularly dreadful pun or terrible party favour, and each time it produced the same warm affection in his chest.
And yet, beneath it, there was a quiet, persistent pull at the edge of his thoughts.
The journal.
By the time dinner was over, everyone had had more than enough to eat and drink. The table was cleared and the room began to break apart into smaller groups. Some remained where they were just chatting, while others went through to the adjoining rooms, drawn by games, new toys, or to watch the obligatory James Bond film that was always on at Christmas.
Colin helped with the clean-up and dried his hands absently, only half listening as Gregory said something to him in passing, his mind already fixed on what he really wanted to do.
When he returned to the drawing room, the furniture had been shifted slightly and a new board game already underway on the floor. Eloise sat cross-legged with Belinda and Miles, patiently talking them through the rules even though they’d likely need reminding as the game went on.
Penelope was nearby, seated with Caroline, playing with her new dolls. Her quiet laughter following the child’s enthusiastic, if somewhat incoherent, narration of whatever story she’d made up.
Eloise glanced up as he stood in the doorway.
“Colin, you can join us if you like,” she offered, smiling as she gestured toward a space beside her. “Though we may be inventing half the rules.”
He stepped into the room, his gaze flicking briefly to Miles before returning to Eloise.
“Seems to run in the family,” he said dryly.
Miles grinned instantly, and Colin gave him a quick wink as he passed.
Eloise frowned after him.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing at all,” he replied lightly as he walked over to the table to retrieve his journal.
Eloise muttered something under her breath that earned a small, scandalised gasp from Belinda followed by a giggle.
“Auntie Eloise!”
Eloise blinked at her.
“You weren’t supposed to hear that.”
Colin laughed to himself as he picked up the book then straightened up. Feeling Penelope’s eyes on him, he turned to look at her. She glanced at the book and then at his face, her expression faintly questioning.
He tipped the journal toward her in quiet acknowledgement, a soft, reassuring smile touching his lips before he turned and headed back out of the room.
Destination in mind, he walked through the house, the distant sound of drumming echoing along the hallway, until he finally reached the library. He was pleased to see it was empty and even more pleased that once he shut the door behind him, he could no longer hear the concerted efforts of Edmund. That pleasure really should be for his brothers’ ears only.
The room was warm with a fire crackling merrily in the grate. Winter light filtered weakly through the large windows, pale and grey against the snow that still covered the grounds outside.
Colin crossed to one of the high-backed leather armchairs near the hearth and sank down onto the comfortable seat. He placed the journal on his lap and stared at it for a moment. It was a piece of his past he hadn’t thought about in a long while.
He opened the cover and a small piece of paper fell out. He’d missed it earlier. Frowning slightly, he picked it up, his thumb brushing over the edge before he unfolded it.
Colin,
It felt like the right time to return this to you.
I hope you don’t mind that I kept it for so long, but I always hoped you might find your way back to it.
Perhaps now you can.
Yours,
Penelope
His breath caught at her words as his heart gave an unexpected little jolt. After a moment, he exhaled slowly and folded the note carefully back up before setting it aside.
Then he turned the page and began to read.
Barcelona — first evening.
The air smells like oranges and sea salt. I’m sitting in a square that looks as though it hasn’t changed in two hundred years, and there’s a man playing guitar badly, but enthusiastically, while three old women argue over something that might be football or politics. I can’t tell yet. Perhaps it’s both.
Colin laughed quietly under his breath.
He remembered that night perfectly.
The uneven cobbles beneath his shoes, the warmth of the evening air, the feeling that the world had suddenly become enormous and welcoming all at once.
His gaze shifted.
There, written on a lilac-coloured sticky note, beside the paragraph, was Penelope’s handwriting.
I love this opening. It immediately places the reader there with you.
He smiled. It felt good that she liked his writing. He continued on, reading his entries and checking her notes.
Florence.
The thing no one tells you about Florence is how loud it is. The guidebooks all talk about the art and the architecture, but they never mention the sound of the place. Scooters weaving through narrow streets, church bells ringing every hour, waiters calling to each other across crowded squares.
A green note for that one.
You’re very good at noticing details people usually miss.
Another page.
Naples.
I have eaten the best pizza of my life today. I don’t know how I’m supposed to return to London and pretend the version we have there is acceptable.
Yellow this time, with a comment that made him grin because nothing pleased him more than making Penelope happy.
This paragraph made me laugh out loud.
Another page, another note. Blue.
The way you describe the light here is beautiful.
And another. Bright pink. Like she wanted him to notice.
You should never stop writing.
Colin leaned back slightly in the chair, the journal resting open on his lap as his gaze moved slowly over the pages.
He hadn’t expected any of this.
Not the time she had so clearly spent on it, nor the care in each comment, thoughtful and precise in a way that made it impossible to dismiss as anything casual.
He flipped over another page and halfway down the entry he paused.
Lisbon.
There’s a little restaurant near the harbour where the owner insisted I try something he described as “life changing.” I’m fairly certain it was simply grilled sardines, but the way he spoke about them made the entire experience feel almost spiritual.
In the margin beside it was a note written slightly darker than the others, as though she had pressed harder on the pen.
You’re very good at making ordinary moments feel extraordinary.
Colin stilled, his gaze fixed on the words in mild surprise.
That was exactly what he had been trying to do back then. Not simply record where he had been, but how it had felt. To catch something of the moment before it slipped away.
And she had understood that.
Seen it in his writing.
Seen him.
Towards the end of the journal, there were a few more notes, but he found himself lingering on one comment a little longer than all the others to that point.
Have you ever considered turning these into a book?
Colin let out a slow breath, a faint, unexpected weight settling in his gut at her suggestion. It wasn’t something that had ever remotely entered his mind. Not even back then.
Did she really feel his thoughts were good enough? That he was good enough?
He turned the final page and at the bottom, beneath his last entry, she had written one concluding note.
Yellow again.
Her colour.
I could read this again and again and still find something new to love in it. It feels like you, Colin, honest and thoughtful and absolutely brilliant. Please don’t ever stop.
His throat tightened, the reaction catching him slightly off guard as he read it again, slower this time.
Because she had written that years ago.
Long before she had come to work for him.
Long before the careful distance he had put between himself and everyone else had fixed into something that felt almost…normal.
He had given her something that mattered. Writing that had never been intended for anyone else. He had placed it in her hands without hesitation, without second-guessing, without the protection he had since convinced himself was necessary.
Even Marina had never seen these pages.
But Penelope had.
Because he trusted her completely. He always had.
Colin closed the journal slowly, his fingers resting on the cover. For a long moment or two he simply sat there, his gaze fixed blankly on the fire, the quiet crackle of it filling the silence.
Then he let out a breath and laughed at his own blind stupidity.
“Bloody hell.”
He scrubbed a hand across his face, another faint, disbelieving laugh leaving his lips.
He loved her.
Was in love with her, of course he was.
How had he not seen it?
Some part of him had already known, hadn’t he? Deep, deep down.
Or at least suspected enough that it should not have taken this long for him to acknowledge his feelings. This thing had been happening between him and Penelope had not sprung up overnight for heaven’s sake. It had roots that he’d not been willing to examine too closely for a long, long time.
Instead, he’d simply let them sit there, half-formed and conveniently undefined, because it had been easier that way. Easier to navigate his life without risking anything of himself. And, more recently, easier to dismiss it as circumstance, as proximity, as the aftermath of a night that he…that neither of them had quite known what to do with, rather than consider what it might actually mean.
Because now he knew for certain that what his heart had been trying to tell him over the past few days had not begun in the cottage, nor in the snow, nor even in that first kiss - it had been there before all of that.
Way before.
And maybe, just maybe, it had for Penelope as well - because he could see it all now, in blinding clarity.
The little things that had become so familiar he had stopped truly noticing them. The way she seemed to know when he was tired before he said a word. The way a drink would appear beside him at work without him asking. The way she listened, really listened, even when he was distracted or abrupt or offering her very little in return.
It was not something new, he realised. It was the same care. The same quiet attentiveness. The same constancy, over and over, for years.
But with that recognition came the sudden, unwelcome memory of the morning they had left the cottage. He swallowed hard, his fingers tightening on the edge of the journal as he relived the hurt he’d felt at the certainty in her voice when she had insisted that their night together had meant nothing.
At the way she had rushed to say it before he could speak.
The way she had refused to quite look at him.
Because it had not sat right with him then, and it did not sit right with him now.
A frown creased his brow as his mind sifted back over the way she’d acted the past couple of days. The distance she had begun to keep between them. The way she had reminded him, more than once, that she was leaving, as though it needed to be said aloud, fixed firmly in place before either of them could forget it.
Or, perhaps, it was before she could forget it.
And, perhaps, he had not been wrong to question it.
Perhaps he was right and she had not been nearly as untouched by that night as she’d wanted him to believe.
Perhaps all that certainty had not been certainty at all, but something else entirely. A kind of self-protection he knew rather more about than he cared to admit.
The idea took hold before he could temper it and with it came something far more dangerous than confusion.
Hope.
It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make him realise that he’d taken her at her word and not pushed back then, simply because that was what he did now.
His jaw tightened slightly.
Because he had been wrong before, hadn’t he?
Spectacularly so.
He knew better than most how easy it was to mistake meaning where there was none. To read something into a look or a moment and build it into something far larger than it had ever been, and the memory of it sat uncomfortably close still, a quiet warning he couldn’t ignore.
But that had been Marina.
And this was Penelope.
Pen.
It wasn’t the same and he knew it. Nowhere near.
This was more.
So much more.
Unexpectedly, his stomach churned as a sliver of dread unfurled down his spine, because that meant there was far more to lose now too.
The door creaked softly behind him and he glanced up as Francesca stepped into the room. She stopped upon seeing him and took a pace back.
“Sorry, I didn’t realise anyone was in here.”
“No, it’s alright,” he replied at once, straightening a little in his chair, welcoming the distraction. He would think more on it later. “Come join me.”
She hesitated only briefly before doing as he bade and closing the door quietly behind her. He gestured toward the chair next to his and she sat down with a soft sigh.
Colin watched her silently, taking in the calmness she wore so well…and the sadness that sat just beneath it.
“How are you?” he asked after a moment.
She looked at him and shrugged a little wearily.
“I’m alright,” she said, after a pause. “Or as much as I can be, I suppose.” Colin nodded, not pressing. “It’s just…odd,” she continued softly, turning to gaze into the fire. “The first of everything without him.”
Wordlessly, he reached over and took her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze, offering comfort the only way he knew how. He couldn’t imagine the pain she must be feeling.
“I keep thinking,” she went on, “about all the years we’ve lost. All the things I assumed we’d have more time for. Conversations we should’ve had. Things we should’ve done together.” She gave a sad, almost rueful smile. “It never feels urgent, does it? Not in the moment. You always think you have plenty of time. That they’ll always be there. And then one day, they’re just…not. No warning. No time to prepare. Just gone.”
Colin’s grip tightened at hearing the grief behind her quietly spoken confession.
“Fran,” he began, then stopped, not quite sure what to say. There were no magic words to make everything right again. “I’m so sorry,” he finally settled on, inadequate though they felt. “John was a good man.”
She smiled properly at that and nodded.
“He was,” she agreed. “He was very good and I was lucky to have him in my life, if only for a little while.” Colin gave her a quick smile in response as she sniffed and dashed away a stray tear. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound morbid,” she added, after a moment visibly trying to pull herself together.
“You don’t,” he assured her emphatically. “You sound like you loved him and that doesn’t just stop because he’s not here anymore.”
It was her turn to give his hand a squeeze and offer a grateful smile. Then she let go and took in a deep steadying breath before pointing at the journal that still lay on his lap.
“Tell me, what are you reading?”
His eyebrows rose at the sudden change in subject, but he went with it and picked up the book.
“A blast from the past,” he muttered wryly, turning it over in his hands. “It’s an old travel journal of mine.”
“I didn’t know you kept a journal,” she said in surprise. “What made you get that out again?”
“Penelope.”
Francesca looked puzzled.
“Penelope?”
He gave a rueful smile and placed the book down on his lap again.
“I gave it to her a long time ago and she returned it for Christmas.”
He could feel his sister’s eyes on him as she considered what he’d said and then she uttered a very quiet, “Oh.”
He turned to look at her, questioningly.
“Oh?”
Fran nodded.
“Oh,” she repeated, then added by way of explanation, “Because she’s leaving.”
Colin didn’t like the way that sounded.
“You say that like it’s a parting gift or something,” he grumbled unhappily.
“More like I think she’s going to be very busy,” his sister countered gently. “When we spoke, she seemed to have a lot of plans for the future.”
Colin let out a slow breath, his gaze dropping briefly to the journal again.
“I know,” he admitted softly. “She’s told me about wanting to finally write her book. She should. She’s an amazing writer.”
“She is,” Fran agreed warmly. “I’m sure we’ll see her on the bestseller list in no time.”
Colin smiled at that. He had no doubt she would too.
Francesca watched him for a moment before speaking again, her tone thoughtful rather than probing.
“It’ll be strange for you, won’t it?”
He gave her a puzzled look, not sure what she meant.
“Strange?”
“Not seeing her every day,” she clarified. “You’ve been working together for years.”
He frowned at the unwelcome reminder. No, not strange, something far worse than that.
“Yes, I suppose it will be,” he replied as evenly as he could manage.
“And if she’s busy with her writing, and you’re travelling again or back at the office…” she continued, her gaze lingering on him just a little longer now, “you might not see her very much at all.”
He looked down again, his thumb pressing absently along the worn edge of the cover as though he needed something solid to anchor himself to.
He had known this, of course, in the same distant, practical way someone knows a thing without dwelling on it too much.
And he didn’t want to start now.
He couldn’t.
“No,” he finally muttered after a long moment, “Probably not.”
Francesca didn’t respond straight away and when he looked over at her, he saw why. She was staring at him with the kind of sympathetic understanding that told him she knew exactly what he’d been trying to hide.
He held her gaze for a moment, then blinked first.
He wasn’t ready for that.
Not ready to have something so newly formed reflected back at him before he’d had the chance to work it out himself.
He turned away, fixing his gaze on the flickering flames in front of him while his fingers shifted restlessly on the cover of his journal, lightly tapping out an absent rhythm that betrayed more than he would have liked.
He could still feel his sister’s eyes on him and had a moment’s dread that she might actually try and talk to him about it. Instead, he felt her hand come to rest lightly on his arm.
The gesture calmed him, surprisingly, easing the compulsive fidgeting as his fingers stilled.
“What I said earlier,” she began after a moment, her voice soft, almost contemplative, “about thinking you have more time…”
He looked at her then, drawn back despite himself.
“It doesn’t only apply to…losing someone,” she continued, choosing her words carefully. “Sometimes it’s just…life moving on.”
She rubbed his arm in a small, comforting gesture before pulling away.
Colin nodded, offering a brief smile in return, though he didn’t trust himself to say anything more.
Mercifully, Fran steered their conversation back onto safer ground after that. Home. Family. Colin found himself recounting anecdotes of the past year and more than once, without really thinking about it, Penelope found her way into those stories.
Francesca, for her part, spoke more of her memories of John. Not the loss, but the life they had built together, the habits and quiet routines. She also talked about his cousin Michaela who, after a rocky start, was turning out to be a good friend.
He was glad that she had found comfort there.
Time passed, the fire burned lower and the light beyond the windows shifted almost imperceptibly as the afternoon gave way to evening. It was only when Colin’s stomach gave a low, unmistakable growl that the spell broke.
Francesca blinked at him, startled for a fraction of a second before a laugh escaped her.
“You can’t be hungry,” she declared, her brows lifting in disbelief. “After all that dinner?”
Colin gave a faint laugh of his own, pushing himself up from the chair.
“It’s a gift,” he replied dryly.
Together, they made their way out of the library and back to the drawing room, Colin’s mind still dwelling on the conversation with his sister.
Thankfully, supper had already been laid out on the long sideboard and he relaxed a little at the welcome diversion of food. The remains of dinner had been brought out again; cold meats, slices of turkey and beef, bowls of salad, bread, cheeses.
Unfortunately for him, the distraction didn’t last for long because almost immediately he saw her. Penelope was there, plate in hand, speaking with Eloise, her head tipped slightly as she listened, that soft, attentive expression he knew so well, on her face.
His heart missed at the sight of it and he let out a resigned sigh. He no longer wondered how he’d not realised his feelings sooner; he decided that he must have been wilfully ignoring them all this time. There couldn’t be any other explanation.
Not one that didn’t make him a complete idiot anyway.
Unable to resist even if he’d wanted to, he walked over and stopped by Penelope’s side. He reached for a plate almost as an afterthought.
She turned at once, her expression brightening.
“I thought you’d be back once the food was out,” she teased with a smile.
“You know me so well,” he replied, with a faint touch of irony.
“Well, that’s my cue to grab what I can before you get started,” Eloise uttered brightly before moving off to fill her plate, leaving them alone.
There was a brief pause.
It wasn’t uncomfortable exactly, but it wasn’t quite as easy as it had been before, not for Colin anyway. Nothing had changed, not really, and yet he found himself suddenly unsure of how to stand beside her without giving his feelings away.
“Would you like some turkey?” Penelope asked after a moment, glancing toward the platter.
“I’ll get it,” he offered, reaching over to pick up a fork.
She moved at the same time and their hands brushed. It was barely anything and yet that familiar awareness ran through him all the same, sharp and immediate.
They both drew back at once.
“Sorry,” she said, a small, nervous laugh escaping her.
“No, no…it’s fine,” he assured her quickly.
He gave her a brief smile that he hoped didn’t look as forced as it felt, then reached forward again and grabbed a fork. He picked a large slice of meat and put it onto her plate before adding one equally big to his own.
“Thank you,” she replied, her attention fixed rather intently on her plate for a second longer than necessary. “For the turkey.”
“You’re welcome.”
“And for the scarf,” she added, looking up at him. “I do love it.”
The bubble of guilt resurfaced as he stared down at her, making him frown a little. It might not have been his first choice, but it also hadn’t been something he’d picked up without thinking, and he found himself wanting, quite irrationally, to make that clear.
“I’m glad,” he said quietly. “The moment I saw it, I thought of you.”
But maybe not quite so obviously as that…
Penelope’s eyes widened, just slightly, and her cheeks took on a rosy hue that he very much suspected matched his own by the heat he could feel rushing to his face.
Sodding hell.
All of a sudden, he felt a tiny slice of panic.
“I mean, you know,” he began, the words tripping over each other as he tried to pull it back, “it’s just…well, it suits you. The colour, that is. It goes with your hair…”
Oh, for Christ’s sake.
He clamped his mouth shut so that nothing worse slipped out.
Penelope blinked, a small, uncertain laugh escaping her as her gaze dropped briefly to her plate.
“Thank you,” she said again, though there was something a little more guarded in her tone now.
She looked away and began helping herself to some salad while he continued to stare at her, a faint sense of regret settling in as he realised he’d just made things awkward again.
“Uncle Colin?”
He looked down and felt a wave of relief roll through him.
Miles stood there, holding a rather large plastic dinosaur on one hand and its tail dangling from his other.
“It’s broken,” the boy said, his lower lip wobbling slightly. “Can you fix it?”
“Of course,” he said at once, already setting his plate down and taking the toy from him, absurdly grateful for something else to focus on.
“The tail won’t stay on.”
“So I see,” Colin replied, inspecting it briefly. It looked an easy enough fix. He glanced back at Penelope. “I’d better go and…” he trailed off and held up the dinosaur.
She smiled and nodded her understanding before turning back to the table.
He bit back a sigh, then followed Miles out without another word, his attention turning quickly on the small, practical problem in his hands.
Anything, he thought faintly, was preferable to staying there and making an even greater arse of himself.
Luckily, the evening passed more quickly after that. He ensured that any further interaction he had with Penelope included at least two other people in the group.
Shortly after supper, the children went to bed, though not without some complaint, but before anyone could enjoy the quiet it brought, Benedict suggested a game of charades.
Colin found himself on the opposing team to Penelope, which suited him well enough, as it gave him the opportunity to watch her unguarded.
The game was competitive, as was usual for the family, but he might as well have been in another country for all the help he gave his team, to Anthony’s great annoyance. His attention drifted often enough to leave him a step behind more than once, drawing either a sharp admonishment or at one point, a rather hard dig to his ribs.
But he couldn’t help it. His mind was on Penelope and the tangle of feelings she’d stirred within him that had grown far too complicated to ignore and far too close to something that would require more of him than he knew how to give.
He tried, at times, to focus, to follow what was being acted out in front of him, but his thoughts circled back far too easily, caught somewhere between the certainty of what he now knew and the far less certain question of what he intended to do about it.
It left him unsettled, and more than a little antsy.
So, he felt nothing but relief when the game finally ended. The other team won of course, not that he cared, which was a red flag in itself. There was a restless energy that had taken hold of him, making even the simple act of sitting still feel increasingly impossible.
One by one, people began to drift away, heading for bed. Daphne, Sophie and Benedict, his mother.
Then Penelope stood, along with Eloise and offered a general goodnight to the room, her tone light, though when her gaze found Colin there was the briefest pause, her expression softening just slightly.
It was nothing and everything and had him down the last of his beer in one go.
He made himself stay where he was for a little while longer, his thoughts cycling back over everything he had not said, over Fran’s words, over those little insightful notes in his journal…over the fact that he still had no real idea what the hell to do about it all.
Eventually, he rose and offered some vague excuse that no one left really paid much attention to, then made his way upstairs.
He went straight to his room and shut the door behind him, falling back against it with a heavy sigh. He closed his eyes, as though that might quiet the relentless clamour in his thoughts, telling him over and over that there was too much at risk. That what the sensible, safe thing to do was simply accept what she had said and let her go, allow her to live her life as she intended.
But his heart protested.
It ached at the thought of her leaving. So much so that he had to draw in a slow, unsteady breath, his hand lifting instinctively to press against his chest, as though he might ease the feeling.
He didn’t know how long he stood there, head warring with heart. Underneath it all, the simple fact was that he knew what she deserved.
Someone sure. Someone who didn’t hesitate. Someone who could offer himself fully and without reservation, without that constant instinct to pull back if there was even an ounce of doubt.
And, the truth was, as much as he loved her, he wasn’t entirely sure he could be that man.
Not anymore.
The thought persisted, unwelcome and stubborn, threading its way through everything else, telling him that going to her now, when he could not even be certain of himself, might not be the best thing to do.
His hand pressed a little more firmly against his chest before he let it fall, his brow tightening slightly as he pushed himself away from the door.
But letting her walk away would be worse…
Francesca’s words came back to him then, quiet at first, but impossible to ignore.
You always think you have plenty of time.
He exhaled slowly, his gaze dropping to the floor, as though it might hold all the answers.
You always think you have plenty of time.
The words kept repeating themselves with an insistence that refused to be quelled.
Because he had thought that before, hadn’t he?
More than once now in fact and used it as an excuse to hide behind and do nothing at all, always taking the easy way out.
His gaze lifted then, almost instinctively, drawn to the dresser.
His jaw tightened as he stared at it a moment then he crossed the room and pulled the drawer open, his gaze falling straight to the jewellery box.
He reached out, then hesitated and slammed it shut again instead.
Taking a step back, he dragged a hand through his hair, his heart starting to thump at the thought of giving it to her. Of letting her see him again, as she’d seen him all those years ago.
He could leave it.
Should he leave it?
“Oh, for God’s sake!”
Without giving himself another chance to reconsider, he yanked the drawer open and took the box. Turning away, he shoved it into his pocket and headed out of the room.
Closing the door firmly behind him, he set off down the corridor with quick, purposeful strides, his footsteps falling in time with the rapid beat of his pulse.
By the time he reached her door, his heart was racing and there was a faint clamminess to his hands that he wiped absently down his jeans before they curled into fists at his sides.
There was no light beneath the door tonight. The narrow strip that had been there the night before was gone.
He hesitated only a fraction then drew in a steadying breath. He would not be deterred this time.
Giving himself a small, encouraging nod, he raised a hand and knocked.
Chapter 10
