Lady and Lord Whisledown

Prologue

There were far more differences between Penelope and the other Featherington women than similarities. Truly, she did not know how she could be more juxtaposed. It appeared to Penelope that her likeness to her family was that in last name only.

First and foremost, Penelope despised her house colour, the colour yellow. She couldn't think of a far worse colour, to be honest - especially with hair like hers. At the first fitting with the modeist, Madame Delacroix pulled fabrics, silks and laces of lighter tones; blues, sages' and lilacs.

Lady Featherington all but laughed and decreed yellow a 'happy colour' and as Portia said out loud, 'Penelope is going to need the most help she could get'. "these colours" Portia continued "would hide your more um," with a brief pause "unfortunate features" looking directly at Penelope' belly and then to each of her arms.

Penelope said nothing. Sly comments were heard around the store, but no one dared say a word to her face.

As Madame Delaaixore brought out yet another horrid citrus-yellow dress she looked just as disappointed as Penelope.

"This is perfect!" Portia exclaimed ignorantly. Penelope was not convinced, and by the look on Genivenes, neither was she. "Maybe they might even seduce you!" Penelope did not understand why this was a big deal but the gasp in the room confirmed it was not a good thing. "You will need all the luck you can get this year." she finished.

All Penelope wanted was to make her mama happy, and that meant she left with no blue, no sage and no lilac gowns that day. Every visit since that day in 1814 to the modeist remained as much a torment.

Another difference of note is that; she was far more intelligent than her elder two sisters. Her second sister Phillipa married a man based on an equal admiration for gouda cheese for God's sake. She couldn't judge her too vehemently however for they appeared madly in love. in truth, Mr Finch was truly a great brother-in-law.

Never in her life did she think either of her elder sisters would indeed find herself a love match. She couldn't help but smile each time she thought about it. She knew, for certain, that she would not find one for herself.

Penelope knew exactly what she was, she did not deny it, or give in to the fallacies her mama had convinced her two elder sisters. She knew her purpose in this world; not be too loud, not to be too witty and talkative but also not boring. To be light on her feet, to speak French, Latin and Greek or whatever language her 'suitors' deemed necessary for marriage. Penelope needn't worry about such things however, she hadn't been a serious suitor since her debut in 1814, three years prior. Indeed, she did not even have a serious suitor ever.

She did not dare think she was a beauty of any proportion; she had been told as much by her own family. She was not skinny by society's standards, she had vibrant unruly auburn hair, and a few blemishes on her otherwise creamy complexion.

Penelope knew when she walked into a ballroom, or a garden party or anywhere else for that matter no eyes turned - well apart from Cressida Cowper.

Cressida has always been known for grace, never putting a step out of line. However opposite rules applied when it came to Penelope Featherington. At every event without a doubt, Cressida would stalk over to Penelope make a snide remark, accidentally pour drinks on her, accidentally rip her dress, or beg a man hanging off her every word to dance with poor, poor Penelope Featherington.

She knew deep within her heart, that her destiny would be wed to an elderly man with a bad breath, decaying and using her in ways not yet described, or to stand at every ball alongside the widowed and chaperones - not to mention having to live and take care with of mama as she grew elderly, also decaying. She could not decide a worse fate.

Penelope stood in the corner of the ballroom wishing she was someone else every single time. Wishing someone would break through her shy exterior and discover her true self. She rather thought herself a kind, witty, comforting and relatively nice person. Such dreams and expectations were foolish for Penelope, and at the age of nine and ten, she was not.

Instead, she found solace in standing in the shadows, listening, observing and reporting on all she knew. She was the most famous, albeit anonymous, gossip writer London had ever produced. No one knew of course, which if Penelope was honest with herself was most thrilling. If people like Cressida Cowper and the rest of society shall show no mercy, then neither would Lady Whistledown.

Do not be fooled, Penelope was, IS, a good person. She did what she could to help the people she loved, even if they did not know, and even if they did and did not agree. She would not apologise for what she had done in the past, even if it meant hurting the three people who had shown her kindness in her life. Not even then.

Please be kind. This is my first ever fic and i am nervous lol