Blooming Penelope Featherington

Cruel Summer.

"Just in case you ever foolishly forget; I'm never not thinking of you." - Virginia Woolf.

Penelope Featherington was packing up her bags at the library on a late Friday night. A usual occurrence for the youngest Featherington. Even though she had left university, she still regularly attended the campus library, out of habit I suppose. It really was her favourite place in the world. It was the smell of the books, peace, and quiet that always brought her back. Penelope had built up a fond relationship with the old librarian Mrs Cook since her early university days, so Penelope was always welcome.

Ever since Penelope was little, she loved nothing more than sinking into books, stories, distant dreams. Penelope spent most of her childhood in a dream, it was better than the actual reality.

Stories existed everywhere for Penelope.

Whether it was wishing for a dream or praying for another way in life. Penelope always craved the 'possibility' even though realistically it was unattainable (as her mother would regularly inform her). Portia Featherington, Penelope's mother, would regularly berate Penelope for reading, as 'young' impressionable woman should not rise above there station with 'silly' ideas. Portia Featherington believed in marrying rich, and that was that. But Penelope? Well she believed in love. You see... Penelope Featherington was a hopeless romantic, a hopelessly devoted romantic.

It was the books.

She loved the fact that within a book, a single line on the page could transform her whole world.

Everywhere Penelope went, she'd have at least four things on her, her phone, laptop, a book, and her little journal. Within that journal she'd note down little scripts, little lines, little inspirations that came to her.

It held everything for her.

It was a window into her soul...

Penelope began her writing journey young... she was sixteen when she wrote 'The Wallflower' and then it took her six years to eventually build up the courage to get it published. Now she was twenty-two and she was debuting her first novel in a few months. It was a regency based romance, prolific scandal, and a love story. Penelope would be lying certain characters didn't have some real-life inspiration, but she had hoped that it wasn't completely obvious.

But who was she kidding, Penelope was as subtle as a brick.

The novel ended up being picked up instantly by agents, and then a publishing deal soon followed. Her agent, Agatha Danbury had worked out a really good deal where she received a rather healthy lump sum upfront. It paid for a down payment for her new apartment and set her up comfortably for a while. It was the first time in a long time, where Penelope had some type of stability.

It was needed.

However... she hadn't told anyone, she wasn't sure how to approach it. She wasn't sure how her mum would take her leaving the childhood 'home', as she was practically a full-time worker in the Featherington household. It was Cinderella eat your heart out. Portia would rely on Penelope for everything, and her sisters for nothing. Penelope had come up with an elaborate escape plan when her mother was on holiday at the end of summer, she had to cut the ties, she had too.

Penelope hadn't even told any of her friends about the novel, as she knew they would want to read it straight away, and if she was completely honest... she knew they would see right through her. Especially... Eloise.

It had been a year since she graduated, and she had successfully achieved her masters. It was a pretty big deal for her family. They weren't rich by any means, but they had always lived a comfortable life due to her father's aristocratic family lineage. Penelope was one of 3 sisters, and she was the youngest. Prudence, and Philippa were her older sisters, they constantly mocked and belittled Penelope her whole life and her mother Portia, wasn't much better.