While many lovers of “high literature” will not accept Bridgerton into their lives—whether in book or screen form—there can be no denying the power of the story as it continues to ingratiate itself into popular consciousness. With season three, the frenzy around Julia Quinn’s alternate version of Regency-era society life in London has only amplified, primarily thanks to the dynamic of “Polin.” Also known as: Penelope (Nicola Coughlan) and Colin (Luke Newton). The latter, a Bridgerton, is at last coming to realize that he’s had romantic feelings for Miss Featherington all along. It’s sort of like Dawson (James Van Der Beek) being too daft to comprehend his love for Joey (Katie Holmes) until she puts on makeup and a dress at the end of the first season of Dawson’s Creek. As for Colin, it takes being asked by Penelope to kiss him (so that she does not die without ever having been kissed) for him to get gobsmacked by his own long-dormant feelings. Suddenly, he’s the one having wet dreams (by Regency-era standards) about her.
But their love is bound to be marred by more than just navigating their way out of the friend zone. No, in the end, what their obstacle boils down to is the fact that Penelope is a writer. At a time when women are not supposed to be anything other than wives or old maids. And seeing as how it remains a truth universally acknowledged that women aren’t treated with the same seriousness as men in the writing world, one can imagine the appallment on Colin’s part. Not just that his fiancée would “dare” to write, but that she’s actually successful at it, having stashed away over ten thousand pounds as a result of the money earned by selling her scandal sheet. And yes, if Penelope were to make her money from that “genre” of writing today, it would be endlessly undermined by those who would denigrate her work, telling her that all she can do is write down “mindless gossip.” In the era she lives in, however, gossip is perceived as being much less frivolous than it is now. After all, as Penelope phrases it to the whole of the ton at the Dankworth-Finch Ball, “Gossip is information. It forges bonds. Especially for those of us who are told so little.”
For, yes, ultimately Penelope realizes that writing is a political act, and that she’s been misusing her power all this time. Even so, Queen Charlotte (Golda Rosheuvel) turns out to be amenable to the reams of gossip she provided for the ton. After all, as she says, “What is life without a little gossip?” Especially as a rich person with not much else to occupy the hours sans manufactured worries and concerns—chief among them being how one is perceived. In truth, the only reason Queen Charlotte shows such mercy to “Lady Whistledown” upon unearthing her identity is that she wants to keep such a worthy player in the social game. In the past, she would have called Penelope an adversary, but in this new iteration of Lady Whistledown’s newsletter, the scribe seems to be more concerned with elevating the voices of the marginalized. As Pen (yes, an overly appropriate diminutive) explains it to Eloise (Claudia Jessie), “Writing was the only way I felt I could have a voice. And I should have been using the column to give a voice to the other voiceless.”
And the voiceless, in this period, comprises at least fifty percent of the population: women. Women who are told they are decorative, at best, and nothing more than “breeders” at worst. The conditioning of women themselves to believe that their gender is both lesser than and solely intended to serve men is something that has caused deep-rooted internalized misogyny over the centuries. Perhaps Penelope’s mother, Portia a.k.a. Lady Featherington (Polly Walker), puts it best when she rhetorically asks, “How was I to raise daughters when, all my life, I was taught that all power comes from a man?” This worldview is so firmly ensconced in the women of the day (and the women of the present, for that matter) that the following exchange is made so casually between Penelope’s pregnant older sisters, Prudence (Bessie Carter) and Philippa (Harriet Cains). One in which Prudence tells Philippa that she must be having a girl since she’s “so lacking in sparkle lately.” Philippa probes, “What do you mean?” Prudence replies, “It is said baby girls steal one’s beauty.” Hence, yet another reason to abhor having a girl over a boy—in addition to the fact that girls aren’t “worthy” of being heirs to any throne, title or otherwise “noble” inheritance. So what good are they if they can’t secure one’s familial fortune? That is, apart from being, as mentioned, necessary to “breed” men.
As for the cutthroat competition encouraged among society women (and women in general) to compete for the erratic favor of well-to-do men that can support them for the rest of their lifetime, it hardly makes for a pleasant or “sisterly” atmosphere. In contrast, the vibe is every “bitch” for herself. Because of course you’re going to be a bitch when your objective is to steamroll anyone who stands in the way of you and marrying a rich (or at least semi-rich) dude. The lack of scruples this tends to create is made manifest in the behavior of Bridgerton characters like Cressida Cowper (Jessica Madsen) and Lady Featherington, the latter of whom defends some of her more illegal behavior by telling Penelope, “We have done the best we can with the opportunities that society has afforded us.” And sometimes doing “the best” actually means doing your worst as a society woman. For Penelope, that “worst” was taking the risk to write about the world around her exactly as she saw it. Detailing the unvarnished truth in a manner that women aren’t even allowed to verbalize vocally, let alone immortalize in written form. But Penelope defies that unspoken rule because writing is the only thing that makes her feel seen.
When forced to confront the key players of society at the aforementioned ball, Penelope starts by saying, “I had never thought anyone would take my writing seriously. Why should they? No one has ever taken any part of me seriously. I only realize now how common that feeling must be. To be a young lady to whom no one listens.” And sometimes, the only way to separate one’s gender from what they are actually saying is to put it down on the page. To, for all intents and purposes, “disembody” oneself. For when the truth is laid bare on the page, readers are often little considering the person behind the message as opposed to the message itself.
Unfortunately, the reality is that the impact of Lady Whistledown is in large part due to the masking of her identity. And, as usual, the idea that women can write with “cleverness” or “biting wit” is undermined by the suggestion to Queen Charlotte that perhaps the writer is actually a man. Such condescending speculations continue to this day, with many presuming that someone like Elena Ferrante must be a man. As a matter of fact, when Ferrante’s identity was supposedly outed, traced by a journalist to Anita Raja, many were quick to point out that the fixation with undermining a female author’s success is tied to somehow making it mired in scandal. As Jeanette Winterson of The Guardian stated at the time of the “unmasking,” “At the bottom of this so-called investigation into Ferrante’s identity is an obsessional outrage at the success of a writer—female—who decided to write, publish and promote her books on her own terms.”
The same goes for Penelope, who some might insist “invited” such scandal into her life by herself writing a scandal sheet. But to call it only that is a reductive way to diminish all that it represents: as Winterson said, “a writer—female—who decided to write, publish and promote on her own terms.” Especially since the terms set forth in this time and place are designed to bind women with their hands behind their back entirely.
Accordingly, in the sixth episode, “Romancing Mr. Bridgerton,” when Penelope tells her mother she’s still not feeling well, Lady Featherington insists, “You have the rest of your life to lie around and do nothing. But for now, until you walk down the aisle, and settle into this marriage, your duty is to make Mr. Bridgerton feel as if he is the most important person in the world. To cater entirely to your husband. His dreams, his wishes. At least in the beginning…” Penelope then asks, with genuine sincerity, “What about my dreams?” Looking at her in confusion, Lady Featherington replies, “What dreams? Ladies do not have dreams. They have husbands.” She tries to add the “consolation,” “And if you are lucky and you fulfill your role, sometimes what you wish for may come true…through him.”
The fact that Colin has recently acquired aspirations to be a writer should only make such a phenomenon more painful for Penelope, who is later seen packing away her pen and paper beneath the secret floorboard of her room (#aroomofonesown), staring at the contrast between her engagement ring and the paraphernalia she’s about to bury for good. The contrast between the scene of her burning all her issues of Lady Whistledown set against Colin avidly writing with glee is not lost on the viewer of course, who can easily see that men have the unlimited freedom to do such things. To one day arbitrarily pursue whatever it is that strikes their current fancy.
When Colin does finally realize who Penelope truly is, his anger is expectedly immoveable. But the source of that anger has less to do with what Penelope wrote about his family over the years, and more to do with his latent jealousy of her talent and success. At that time, it would have been unthinkable for a woman not only to write, but to actually make something resembling a “career” out of it. Even Jane Austen, who wrote most of her work during the Georgian era that preceded the Regency one, had to write anonymously, the covers of her works reading simply, “By a Lady.” Her name was not printed on any of her novels during her lifetime. Penelope, at least, has the privilege of forging a path toward taking ownership over her work as a woman. But, again, this is an alternate history of life in the Regency era.
That much is made all too glaring by Colin’s overly accepting words: “I think in truth, I…I have been envious of you. Of your success. Of your bravery. And now I simply cannot believe that a woman with such bravery loves me.” And, speaking of “brave,” Coughlan has been called that much too often throughout the press tour for this season of the series. All because of her decision to appear in the buff for a six-minute sex scene. The implication being she isn’t “thin enough” to be so bold with her body. But when someone called her “brave” during a Q&A in Dublin, Coughlan replied, with the same rapier wit that Lady Whistledown might, “You know it is hard because I think women with my body type—women with perfect breasts—we don’t get to see ourselves on screen enough and I’m very proud as a member of the perfect breast community.” And that’s the other thing about being a “woman writer” (note that few ever bother to modify the word writer by saying “man writer”): no one takes you seriously if you also happen to be attractive. Indeed, “hotness” is a detriment to women who want to write. For they’re even more likely to be viewed as creators of “frivolous content.” Which is part of why Penelope was cast as someone supposedly “dowdy” a.k.a. not conventionally attractive. The gossip would be considered even frothier if she was “a prime article.”
However, as Colin starts to see her through a more erotic lens, it is her looks that he becomes more enraptured with as opposed to her mind. By the end of the season, he has the “strength of character,” as a man, to marry the two qualities together, informing Penelope, “If my only purpose in life is to love a woman as great as you, then I will be a very fulfilled man indeed.” And that’s when you know for sure (if you didn’t already): Bridgerton is a fairy tale. For the only man to have ever really accepted a woman’s “writerly mind” as part of the package with her body is Leonard Woolf…and maybe John Gregory Dunne. But that was perhaps for the mutual benefit of financially capitalizing on a shared interest.