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Manchester, 1829

Thea Dorset knew that the man she called her father was not, in truth, her father. Yet he was the only one she had ever known.

When her mother married him, she had been but three years old, and was then permitted to take his surname. It had seemed the natural course. She was, in a way, his daughter from the day he had been summoned to assist her mother in bringing her into the world.

Moreover, she shared his name with her younger siblings, and questions of inheritance had never been of consequence for their family. Her father held no titles nor lands; he was a simple doctor, a man who had built a network of influential friends but, beyond the dowry he was carefully saving for his daughters and the funds to send his sons to Eton, possessed little else. 

One day, Thea would marry and take her husband’s name, like her sisters. Her brothers would have had their own professions. 

Such was simply the order of things.

Thea loved to read and, being her mother’s daughter through and through, she was a true romantic. She dreamed of meeting someone who would carry her away from Manchester, far from the endless rain and the sooty streets, into a life that seemed to exist only within the pages of her novels.

Each time her mother did not dissuade her, but looked at her with a melancholic look and told her that happiness can be found in the most unexpected places, maybe in Manchester.

Thea never understood it, not really, but then, on a spring afternoon in 1830, everything changed.

She had gone up to the attic in search of old ribbons for a sewing project when, inside a dusty trunk, she found something far more intriguing, a bundle of leather-bound journals, tied together with a faded ribbon. She hesitated before opening the first one, only to gasp as she recognized the elegant handwriting inside.

The diaries of Penelope Featherington.

Thea knew, of course, that her mother had borne another surname before marrying her father; that Bates , the name recorded on Dorothea’s birth papers, was no more her mother’s own than Dorset was. Yet she had never inquired into her mother’s life before her marriage. In their household it was an unspoken rule: her mother’s past was never to be mentioned.

And although Dorothea had on occasion met her grandmother, her aunts, uncles, and cousins, surnames were scarcely ever used. Grandmother Portia would say it was a relief to be far removed from the stifling rules of society. And though Dorothea never fully understood what she meant, she had always been certain that it was better not to ask questions, for on the few occasions she had tried, everyone seemed to grow, in some way, sad. Only Uncle Bert reacted with anger, yet even he had never been willing to answer, telling her she was too young, and that there was no sense in disturbing the skeletons of the past before their time.

But as she read those pages, Thea finally understood why.

Her mother’s past was far more complicated than she had ever imagined.

Over the years, Dorothea had sensed that something was amiss. Living in Manchester and being the daughter of a doctor had taught her, from a young age, that there were many women abandoned by men — women who bore children to absent husbands, or even without ever having been married. 

She did not know how such things came about, yet she knew they did. 

And though she had never truly wished to dwell upon it, she had supposed that perhaps this was her mother’s story.

But the truth about her mother was something she could never have imagined.

Penelope Featherington had once been Lady Whistledown, the sharpest, most notorious gossip writer of the Ton. 

This had led to various consequences, as was clear to Thea even while she was quickly flipping through the diary, seeking answers to questions she had long stopped asking yet still longed to have answered.

Her mother, despite her keen insight into society’s scandals, had been just as naive as any other young lady of her standing. As a girl, she had been overlooked, pushed into the background, perhaps because of the dreadful dresses her grandmother had chosen for her, or because of her shyness, or, as Uncle Bert used to say, because of her peculiar fascination with her neighbors.

Thea had never known who those neighbors were. As always, names were never mentioned. Now she did.

The Bridgertons.

She did not know exactly what had happened, but one thing was clear: everything had changed when her uncle Bert lured Colin Bridgerton. In front of half the eligible bachelors of London, Colin Bridgerton had declared that he would never court Penelope Featherington.

Her mother had been his friend, yet he had humiliated her.

Dorothea, too, could see the consequences.  

In reading those pages, she came to understand why her parents so often answered questions that other parents left without reply. Knowledge, to them, was a means of ensuring the past could not repeat itself. And Thea had long known how the imprudent words of a man could ruin a woman’s reputation, how Colin Bridgerton’s words ruined her mother’s in particular. Their friendship was, in itself, compromising in its very existence; if he spoke in such a manner, there must surely have been a reason.

Her mother had been justly furious. Furious enough to refuse to answer any of the letters he had sent her during his Grand Tour.

The diary gave no clear explanation as to why her mother had been so desperately in search of a husband, but in any case, when Colin Bridgerton returned from his Grand Tour, he found Penelope Featherington transformed.

Her mother described how she had altered her appearance and, resigned to the fact that there could be no future for her and her childhood love, the only man she had ever believed she could love, had begun to look about her for a union of convenience.

For Thea, who knew how much her parents loved each other, it was a curious read.

Yet it made sense that her mother would remind Thea that happiness is not always found where, or with whom, we expect.

Through her reading, Thea discovered how her mother’s transformation had attracted a few lingering glances, yet she remained hopelessly awkward.

Mr. Bridgerton, determined to earn her forgiveness, had offered to help her learn how to feel more confident in her dealings with gentlemen.

It had been painful for her mother, for those very dealings brushed against the tender scar of her broken dream. Yet it seemed the lessons were bearing fruit, until, quite suddenly, everything collapsed.

Between the diary’s pages lay a clipping from Lady Whistledown’s column, which read:

"By the light of the moon, it is easy for one to mistake the night as a place of safety. Which is why, perhaps, both Featherington sisters snuck away early last night with their husbands. But one must never forget that, despite the cover of night, there are still eyes upon us all at all times. We know there is one young lady who most certainly wishes her plans had remained in the dark. Penelope Featherington, who was so certain that she would not find a husband on her own, that she had to enlist the help of Mr. Colin Bridgerton. And while we knew Miss Featherington’s marital prospects were slim at best, this recent scandal will certainly make any further hopes disappear. This author would not be surprised if Miss Featherington should wish to return to her familiar shadows once and for all."

Thea was shocked by the way her mother had written about herself. Her heart ached for her. Then the diary entries became scattered, confused. Thea read on with growing unease.

"I had the most magical dream. Colin came to apologize. I, resigned to spinsterhood, never knowing a man’s touch, asked him to make me a woman. And he did. One kiss became something more, and I was lost. It was like falling, but without the pain."

Pages later, a new entry:

"Lord Debling is courting me. He is not what I once dreamed of, but he will make a good husband. He is kind, and his fondness for nature is… unusual. Birds, deer, hares. He loves them all so much that he will not even eat them. I find it curious, but not unpleasant. Perhaps peace is what I need."

Thea sighed. Debling sounded tedious, too absorbed in his strange ideas about animals. But her mother had seemed resigned to his proposal. Thea did not understand what had gone wrong.

She kept reading. The following pages told another story.

"Colin interrupted Lord Debling’s proposal. He chased after my carriage. He grabbed my hand and asked me to marry him. For a moment, I thought I was dreaming. But I could not say yes without him knowing the truth. I told him. I told him who I was. And he left me in the middle of the road."

Thea held her breath. The despair in the following entries was palpable.

"He announced his engagement to Cressida Cowper. My disgrace was not suitable for him. My heart is weary. I should never have wanted more than what I had."

Then, a short line, written in a trembling hand:

"It was not a dream. It must have really happened. I am with child."

Thea placed the diary on her lap, her heartbeat loud in her ears.

Her mother had believed that night with Colin was nothing more than a dream.

Why?

The question haunted her, but she could not read further or attempt to decipher what those pages concealed, for her sisters were calling her, she had been away too long, and Thea could not reveal what she now knew.

Thea kept pondering what she had read, about things she did not fully understand, until weeks later, when she overheard her father speaking to his apprentice about the effects of certain substances on the human mind. Poisons that cloud memory, drugs far more potent than alcohol, used to dull the senses.

The thought was strange, but could it be? Her mother believed it a dream even as she wrote about it. Could she have taken something? But how had it happened?

This meant something else, too, her biological father might not have known of her, but he had known there was a possibility. And yet, the same man who said he would marry a woman carrying another man’s child to protect her had also left her mother in an impossible situation.

She had always known there was something in her mother’s past, something that explained why they never spoke of it.

But only now did she understand the full extent of it.

Now, she knew why her mother had left the Ton forever.

Why she had never gone back.

And, as Thea let the weight of it settle over her, as she blamed Colin Bridgerton for it all, for the first time, she wondered: had Penelope Dorset ever regretted bringing her first daughter into the world?

***

Thea kept returning to the attic.

A morbid curiosity compelled her to read further.

She made many discoveries.

The doubts she had once harboured about her mother’s love for her were eased by several entries, especially the one describing the first time her mother had felt her move…

October 1815

"Today I was frightened. I did not understand what it was, and for a time I feared that something was amiss. Rae managed to reassure me; she told me she had heard that this fluttering sensation means all is well. It was my child. The baby had begun to move. Now that I know what it is, I long to feel it again. Today I was frightened, and I am still so. Will I be a good mother? I do not know, and that frightens me. Yet I am also happy; I do not think I have ever been so happy as when I realised that today, for the very first time, I felt my child."

…and another, written only a few days after her birth.

January 1816

"I watch her as she sleeps, so serene and still. Rae says she has my eyes, yet I believe they are his. Of me she has only the hair; in every other respect, she is entirely Bridgerton. And yet, I could never wish her to be otherwise. She has all her fingers, two bright eyes, and a small, delicate nose. Her cry is clear and true; Doctor Dorset has assured me she is in perfect health. If she resembles him, she will no doubt be beautiful. My little gift from God."

Thea knew the meaning of her name was Gift from God, yet seeing how often her mother had written it in her diary moved her deeply.

How could she ever have doubted that she was loved, when for all her life she had known nothing but love?

The discoveries she made through her reading, however, did not concern only herself or her parents.

She learned that the woman she had always called Aunt Eloise was indeed her aunt, one of her natural father’s sisters.

She learned that the late Aunt Marina had been the very same Miss Thompson whom her father had nearly married.

She learned that Uncle Phil was not the natural father of her cousins, and she wondered whether they knew.

Part of her wished that they did, for who better than they could understand what she was feeling?

Thea and the Crane twins had always had so much in common, more than with her other cousins; it made sense that this might be something they could also share.

Yet if they did not know, she would not be the one to lift the veil of ignorance.

She had always been aware that Thomas Dorset was her father in a different sense than he was to her younger siblings; but had she not known, to discover it in such a manner would have shattered her.

As she continued to read her mother’s diaries, she also sought to understand how, in her youth, she could have come into contact with substances that affect the mind.

To that end, she slipped into her father’s study and began reading his books.

It was no easy task, and it took time; at thirteen she could not hope to grasp everything. She had gathered a few scraps of knowledge in the past, idly leafing through her father’s books, but this time her purpose was different. Though she did not seek to master every detail of mind-altering substances, she had a reason for her inquiry, and for that reason her study, though superficial, was methodical. Thus she patiently seized every occasion to inform herself.

It was there that her father’s apprentice found her one afternoon.

Edward Blake was but five years her senior, yet a young man of marked sensibility and a steadfast devotion to the study of the medical arts. When he saw her reading treatises on mind-altering substances, he became most concerned.

The young man did not press her directly, yet Dorothea was not a fool; she could read the undercurrent in his questions.

To answer without truly answering became something of a game between them, and in time their acquaintance deepened.

But one afternoon, he set aside the pretence. In a matter of months he would leave for medical school, and if she did not tell him the reason for her inquiries, he would speak to her parents.

Thea hesitated at first, her fingers tightening upon the spine of the book she held. The quiet of the study seemed suddenly oppressive, the air thick with dust and the faint scent of ink and vellum. Edward stood before her, composed yet resolute, his grey eyes steady upon her face.

At last, after extracting from him a solemn oath that he would tell no one, she entrusted him with the truth.

Edward listened with grave attention, leaning against the desk, his hands clasped loosely before him. When she had finished, he remained silent for a moment, as though weighing his words.

“Perhaps,” he said at length, “your mother took something belonging to your grandparents?”

The suggestion struck her with the clarity of a sudden bell. It was a possibility she had not considered.

From the very first pages of the diary, she had gathered that her grandfather had not been a good man. Could her mother have taken something that belonged to him? Had she done so deliberately? Had it happened before? Or had it been no more than a random, fateful accident?

And so, with him as a quiet accomplice in her search, they agreed that when they parted, she would write to him with whatever discoveries she might make.

It was through those letters that the story would, in a sense, repeat itself — but the ending?

That would be very different indeed.