Chapter Text
Pepper writes to him once she’s heard.
Dearest Anthony,
I worry about you. Tidings about your upcoming marriage have reached me, and I intend to swallow the sting of betrayal—of hearing the news second hand—for my intuition tells me that is not of your own volition.
Write to me Tony, my worries shall ever increase if no reply comes my way soon. Tell me of your sorrows and fears, and know that I shall always be at hand. With my true promise of unfailing secrecy, disclose everything confined in this matter and along with a deeper understanding I shall offer my utmost efforts to soothe your woes.
If not on paper, then do you require me to visit? Tell me yes, and I’ll depart most readily.
It is not what Tony needs, a confidant—as Pepper proffers herself to be.
He feels inclined to lie in isolation, in order to give his mind the silence it demands to grasp the sudden turn of his situation. Talking about it again does not yield any benefits, for his breast by now feels empty and hollow.
Frankly, he is tired.
But with a tenacity like hers, ignoring her proposition is out of the question. She will do nothing but fret and distress until the agony becomes so profound it grows to be tangible. And Tony does not want it for her, this unhappiness is his sole burden to carry.
Still, Pepper needs to be consoled.
Nonetheless, he can still inundate her with placating balderdash and hope that it is enough to dissuade her.
If she does not relent, then he has more than a week to wallow in his lonesome thoughts before her arrival requires his optimistic persona in motion.
He puts off penning the reply until it is midnight and only the single light of a candle, with the sky overcast, illuminates the paper as he writes with painstaking strokes, concealing his unwillingness to respond.
Pepper, Light of my Life,
There is no need to fuss. Yes, it is true that I am getting hitched to a bastard—but a rich royal bastard. So you need not to worry about my present and prospective situation. The same cannot be stated about my reputation, but I have no image to polish to begin with. It is, ironically, an ideal match.
It is true that the agreement has been made without my explicit consent, my father does get ahead of himself sometimes, but I hear that the Lord FitzRoy is an attractive man, not rivaling my own I am sure, but enough to keep me amused and entertained.
You do know I have a penchant for aesthetics.
You write as if I’m dying instead of getting married, do cheer up sweetheart, your overwhelming concern is needless. Indeed, I have never been fond of the thought of marriage, but I was young and naïve then, and if it is marriage to a man who is reputable and ravishing then I have no qualms about proceeding. If only we can skip the ceremony and dive into the honeymoon, I shall be most obliged.
There is no need for a visitation, I’m sure it will only inconvenience you, but if you must then please be my guest.
Her response reaches him a day late as it rained dramatically hard the day before and a light shower drops from the sky after. Tony thinks that for once fate has finally stopped forsaking him and has finally deigned to favor his wretched existence—that is until he reads a terse letter conveyed by a sopping postal boy.
Darling,
You delude no one but yourself with your nonchalance, Anthony. When this letter reaches you, perhaps I am more than half-way or more towards your residence—Rochford house.
As for 'never been fond of marriage' and '—was young and naive then.'
Tony your latest correspondence as a single man has been filled with censures and renouncements of matrimony, which was ironically sent a week before the announcements of your engagement became prevalent.
I eagerly await the moment of my arrival. And I am sure you anticipate it with an identical keeness.