Chapter Text
26 January, 1810
4 St James's Street, London
Dear Penny,
I know that you won't be surprised when I tell you that I do not like writing letters. Not at all, but especially, not to you. I don't want to write you letters. I want you here with me so that I can talk directly to you. See your face and hear your laugh. Watch you roll your eyes at me, which you're probably doing right now. I know I've barely been gone a week, but I already miss you something fierce and I wish more than anything that you had come with us.
No. I wish more than anything that I had stayed behind with you.
I wonder if Lady Ruth will think it's improper for me to write to you. A year ago, the only worry I had in the world was whether or not I was going to get bayoneted in my sleep, and now I'm wondering if my grandmother is going to cuff my ears for sending a letter.
(I don't think she's actually the type to cuff a man, even her grandson, especially if he's full grown and been through war. But as much as I truly like Lady Ruth, I'm quite terrified of her. Even if she will keep trying to feed me cake.)
I wonder what you're doing right now. I mean, not right, right now. Of course, you're reading this letter. (Which is awful, and I'm sorry.) (Maybe part of the reason I hate this so much is because I've not had need of letter writing since I got back and this just dredges up feelings and memories I'd rather have left buried in France.)
But none of that now. I don't want to think about that. I sat down to write you this letter to tell you that I miss you and that life is sad and empty when I don't have you around and it makes me melancholy.
You know me better than anyone. I've never been melancholy in my life.
I never told you this, but when I was younger, before I'd ever come to the attention of Mr Davy, I used to dream about my family coming to find me, bringing me home with them. We'd all live together, my parents and a few siblings and some dogs, in a big messy mob in some fine house somewhere and I'd have everything I could ever need.
And now here I am. No parents, but a grandmother, and an Uncle and Aunt, little cousins, small noisy dogs, a townhouse in London with a whole pack of servants that won't even let me wipe my own chin. Bank notes in my pocket. Nice clothes and a carriage at my disposal.
So, why am I so miserable?
I shouldn't tell you this, because I think you'll be ashamed of me, but we swore no secrets, and I will feel better if I get it out.
While we were at the ball last night, I kept looking at the door and thinking of what would happen if I walked out. Just walked right out and didn't look back. No mind for a destination. I just wanted to leave. I wanted to leave it all and pretend this never happened. That it was another one of my wild childhood fancies, and that anytime I liked, I could decide to stop it, and I'd be back home with you and your parents and all of your siblings. Where I had all I needed.
Good Lord, Penny.
Why didn't you try to talk me into staying?
If you weren't my only friend still alive, I should be quite cross with you for throwing me to the dogs. (I am grateful to Lady Ruth, of course, for wanting me. But I don't belong here.) (I don't want to belong here.)
Would you believe me if I told you that it wasn't my intention to write you a letterful of complaints? I began this with the notion of telling you about the ball, not my plans to escape from it.
I know that you find balls distasteful and frivolous, so I won't bore you with the details. Even if you wanted to hear them, I couldn't tell you what any of the women I danced with were wearing, or how they had styled their hair, or even what their names were. I did think it would be nice to make some more friends, but you can't hold a decent conversation during a dance, and I didn't really have anything to talk about. My partners were only interested in me for the gossip they'd heard. Apparently, the whole town's been whispering about me since the news broke that I was Lady Ruth's grandson.
To the people of the ton, that's all I'll ever be.
To Mr Davy, I was...I'm not even sure what. An experiment? Certainly not a son.
But who am I, to me?
I'm not a soldier. I'll never be the great figure of a man Mr Davy groomed me for. I'm no hero, nor patriot. I'm no longer a beggar, but I'll never be anything better.
Maybe a foundling like me never makes up the difference, no matter how many wars we fight, or families we find.
(You see? I told you being apart from you was making me melancholy.)
If I'm to be truly honest, then I suppose I'll have to admit that something happened last night that started me on this current train of thought. A circumstance which I've not been able to get out of my head. Maybe putting it down to paper will help rid me of it.
We'd been at the ball a little over an hour. The rooms were too hot and crowded and smoky, and I was miserable. I was trying to put on a good face for Lady Ruth and Lord and Lady Salisbury. I'd just managed to get myself free for a pair of dances, when I felt a hand grab my coat sleeve. I jumped. I was so on edge the whole evening, it's a miracle I didn't do worse. It was Lady Ruth, tugging on my sleeve. I bent closer to her and she whispered in my ear: "The young Mr Grimm-Pitch and his covey of followers."
As she spoke, I could actually feel the whole room hush. An alarum started to clang in my head at the suddenness of the change; it was the same sort of stillness that prefaced doom on the battlefield. That feeling of knowing that something is about to go very wrong, just before the fellow next to you takes a round in the head and goes down. If Lady Ruth hadn't been keeping her firm hold on my sleeve, I don't know what I would have done. I gritted my teeth and told myself that I wasn't at war, that I was safe, that we weren't under attack. I stared hard into Lady Ruth's eyes; they're a sort of leached out blue, like age has faded their vibrance. Her gaze was sharp like a spark and undaunted. I told myself that the smoke in the air was from candles and cigars and not gunpowder and fire. That the room was packed tight with bodies, but they were all alive and none of them meant me any harm. (Not the sort of harm that matters.)
She kept talking while all of this was rushing in my mind. I only caught snippets: "…family estate…broken engagement…had his limit…disinherit…"
I had no idea if she was still talking about the same man, or someone new, or more than one someone.
My mind slowly became aware of another change in the room, flowing along like the tide: all heads turning in the same direction.
At first I thought they were all turning to look at me, and that did not help my shattered nerves, but they weren't paying me any mind. I let out a gust of breath and then I turned, too, because there just wasn't anything else for it. I had to know what was happening. (This is why I prefer to take up position with my back firmly against a wall. I don't like surprises.)
The best I could tell, it was a large group of newcomers to the ball that was drawing the attention. They were all young, about my age, and oozing the stench of finery.
I counted seven gentlemen (for they were most definitely nothing less) and three ladies. The ladies walked arm-in-arm at the front, unescorted by a single one of their male companions. The one in the centre had a crown of soft golden hair atop her head, coroneted in tiny flowers, that shone like noontime sun under the chandelier as she walked. She was the prettiest thing I ever set eyes on, and she carried herself like she knew it, but her face was entirely open, her countenance friendly and full of some kind of joy as I've never known. Her friend to the right was tanner, slighter, shorter, and with a face dotted in freckles even more aggressive than my own. The lady on the left was darker than her friends, also freckled, but with bright, rosy cheeks and curly brown hair that bounced against her neck as she moved.
I couldn't feel farther from the battlefield if I was at the other side of the world.
As the ladies passed, I got a full view of the gentlemen. Or, rather, one gentleman. Once I'd caught sight of him, I couldn't look anywhere else.
He was in the centre of the group, and he looked for all the world like he was holding court. He was so starched and pressed, I'd never have believed he could even move in his tight trousers if I hadn't watched it happen. His collar was so precise, it was nothing shy of a miracle that he could still manage to turn his head. For being a figure so impeccably tailored, he kept his hair unfashionably long, down to his shoulders. Midnight black, shining like it was full of stars. His skin was a stark reddish gold colour and he had these droopy eyes and lips. Everything about him just looked spoilt and rich. He seemed a whole head taller than the men around him, even though I don't think he was. It was something in the way he carried himself, like his joints didn't bend, though his movements were graceful as a dancer.
While I stared, Lady Ruth carried on whispering. "Got himself a new heir last year, thanks to that young wife of his—God knows they've been trying hard enough. Now he doesn't have to pin all his hopes on our dandy."
I was totally lost by this point, but I was at least fairly certain that the dandy in question was the same man I, and maybe everyone else in the ballroom, was watching.
I'll say this for Lady Ruth: she won't be out-gossiped, no matter how much these society people will wag their tongues about us. From the moment we arrived, she had been giving me a running narration on everyone at the ball, I suppose in an effort to make sure I was informed. Or maybe because it amused her. I'm still getting accustomed to her sense of humour, which seems to be: the more ridiculous, the better.
"Mr Grimm-Pitch?" I asked Lady Ruth.
"Mr Grimm-Pitch is the son, Mr Grimm is the father."
That clarification only further confused me. "What?"
"It was a stipulation of the boy's mother's father. Was determined that his name would live on, though he only had daughters. So, Mr Grimm had to adopt his first wife's name with his, in order to secure anything in the marriage. Not that he needed the money, mind, but you know how these things go."
"I don't." I admitted.
At that, she stopped whispering and pulled back to look at me, something unreadable, but I think sincere in her eyes. "No, of course not."
She released my sleeve, turned me to face her straight on, and said, "whatever else comes of this trip, Simon, I didn't bring you here to try to change you. I want that least of all. I only want to know you, my boy. Don't let this world and these people taint you."
I wanted to laugh at that. I wasn't her boy; I wasn't anybody's boy. And I was far past tainting. But I didn't say this, because I didn't think she wanted to hear it. No matter what she claimed, Lady Ruth didn't want to know me, she wanted to know the idea of me that she had drawn up in her mind: a sweet young boy with her daughter's eyes who could bring back some memory of the child she had lost and make her feel charitable without actually having to breathe the dirt of my reality.
My life wasn't supposed to touch this world and these people.
As I was so eloquently reminded by Basil Grimm-Pitch. That's not even his full name. No, his full name is Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch, like his family was paying by the letter and they had something to prove.
(According the Lady Ruth, he got the Tyrannus and the Pitch from his mother. Suppose when you look at it from that perspective, I actually came out with the better break.)
No sooner had she finished telling me all about him than she marched me over to the group and introduced me without a moment's hesitation or preamble.
Well, no, she didn't introduce me to him, actually. She introduced me to the Golden Lady, Agatha Wellbelove. Lady Ruth is chummy with her family, it seems, and they spent several minutes catching each other up in that way high society people have of talking but never actually saying anything.
At the first lull, Lady Ruth introduced Miss Wellbelove to me. That's who I am now, apparently. The kind of man who has people introduced to me, and not the other way around. The kind of man who can ask for an introduction if he wants one. (I suppose there are exceptions to that, but it's hardly ever been true before.)
Miss Wellbelove was pleasant enough, but made no effort to mask the fact of her being completely indifferent to my existence. Strange though it may sound, her utter lack of attention made me feel excessively grateful to her. Every other woman I'd met took it as her due that as a young, unmarried man of newly discovered fortune and family, I should have hung on her every word and made love to her.
There was a time I would have liked that, I think. To be the dashing hero who sweeps into ballrooms commanding attention. But now that I've a fair chance at catching a lady's eye, it's the furthest wish from my mind. There's irony for you. Or whatever you call it.
Her two friends both looked as if they might be willing to entertain me, but hardly had need of waiting for my leisure, as they were both soon approached by a handful of hopefuls looking to stand up with them. Not a single one of them tried for Miss Wellbelove, though, she was easily the handsomest not just in her party, but in the entire ballroom. I didn't take her for impoverished, so I can't say exactly what it was that kept them away, except maybe a certain knowledge that she'd cut them for the temerity to make an attempt.
After the other ladies departed for the dance, my Uncle and Aunt joined us. Lady Salisbury and Miss Wellbelove are both keen horsewomen and fell into easy conversation.
What then transpired I think I can honestly say was the most peculiar experience of my life.
In the jostle of people, I ended up arm-to-arm with Mr Grimm-Pitch and received a sneer for the effort.
"Some of us have the good manners to mind personal boundaries," a smooth, deep voice complained as he turned around to look down his long nose at me (he's a bit taller than I am), ostentatiously dusting off his coat. Like he was afraid I'd brushed off on him.
Having no patience for that kind of remark, I replied, "More's the pity. Some of us haven't any manners at all."
"Ah, Simon. I see you've met Mr Grimm-Pitch." Lady Ruth sounded much too cheerful for the occasion. "Basilton, this is my grandson, Simon Salisbury."
It still sounded wrong, hearing that name. I spent twenty years being Simon Snow; I still feel like Simon Snow. I mean, I suppose I still am, but now I'm not just Simon Snow, I'm Simon Snow Salisbury, and the weight of that name sits heavily and sets me tipping off balance.
"Mr Grimm-Pitch is quite a good man to know about Town, Simon," she barrelled on as if we weren't both staring at her in shock.
"I'm not a good man for anyone to know," Mr Grimm-Pitch retorted and made an attempt to move off. He was prevented from making his escape, however, because Lady Ruth was in his way, and he couldn't very well shove her aside. She is somewhat hardy, so I reckon he could have done, if he was the sort of man who thought nothing of anyone save for himself. (He is precisely that sort of man.)
"Truer words!" One of his friends cried out from the pack behind him. A pale, weedy man, who looked more suited to taking ill to bed than strutting around a ballroom for a jape. "A very bad man, indeed, our sweet Basil."
One of Mr Grimm-Pitch's eyebrows shot clear up to his widow's peak. "Call me that again, and I shall prove you all too correct. Where is my groom? I shall ask him the use of his crop."
"Oh, shall you?" Another man jeered, jabbing an elbow to the side of the weedy troublemaker.
I had a feeling there was some joke the rest of us weren't meant to be in on, but Mr Grimm-Pitch didn't seem to think it was funny. "I swear to God, the next one of you who opens his mouth—"
"What'll you do with it—"
"I think that's enough," another man spoke. The voice was hard, and it carried an accent I wasn't familiar with.
The weedy man did stop. He didn't look like he was having fun anymore.
Mr Grimm-Pitch opened his mouth, I think to lay into him some more, when his friend with the accent, taller than all the others, and thinner, with dark brown skin, tightly curled black hair, and a wide smile, stepped forward and offered me his hand.
"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr Salisbury," he said. "Shepard."
Shepard? I figured it had to be his name and not his occupation, seeing as there was no way an actual shepherd would have wangled an invitation to the Marchioness's ball. But I wasn't sure if it was his Christian name or his surname.
"I'd ask you to forgive Shepard his shameful lack of propriety," Mr Grimm-Pitch addressed himself to me again, or maybe to everyone, "but he's American, which is unforgivable. As for the rest of this mob? I don't imagine you place overmuch merit on manners, do you, Salisbury? Or do you still go by Snow?"
"Mr Salisbury is fine," I said, ignoring his slight. Or was it a compliment? He didn't use courtesies with any of his friends, but they were friends, and we decidedly weren't. "Or Captain Snow, if you'd rather."
"Oh, a captain, are we? How very impressive. My apologies, Captain." His American friend gave his arm a light touch with the back of his hand, as if cautioning him against speaking any further.
"Wouldn't expect a man like you to know," I smiled, all teeth. I was wearing my uniform, but he probably couldn't tell rank. "You've had more important matters to concern yourself with here in London."
He didn't seem to appreciate my response. He likely wasn't used to ever being challenged. But you know that I've never had the patience for spoilt prigs like him trying to bring me low to make themselves feel bigger. And I wasn't inclined to check my reflexes when he'd made absolutely no effort to seem friendly.
"I'd ask you to forgive Baz his arrogance," Shepard (Mr Shepard?) cut in, with a hard look at his friend and an arm around his neck, "but he's just an arsehole."
Lady Salisbury gasped at that. I guess she'd been paying a little attention to our conversation after all. "Oh, dear."
Her husband chuckled. "Come now, my dear, you should be more accustomed to vulgarities, given how much time you've spent in company of my mother."
Lady Ruth waved this off. "May it never be said I am afraid to speak my mind."
"I assure you, my Lady, no one ever shall," Mr Grimm-Pitch replied, nastily. But Lady Ruth gave him an appreciative laugh.
"My reputation precedes me, then," she declared, "and I'm relieved to know it's an accurate one at that. What is your much-afflicted father up to these days, Basilton?"
I was surprised to learn that Lady Ruth was apparently on a first (or I guess second) name basis with Mr Grimm-Pitch. With his rude friends and pointed commentary on my lack of breeding, it was pretty hard to imagine him as the sort of man who could be on good terms with someone as kind as Lady Ruth. But no matter what sort of tales she wove about him behind his back, I suppose he was important (rich) enough to demand her respect to his face.
No matter how much money, or how many names, he had, I could not see any merit in my knowing him. What benefit did Lady Ruth see in it? He had a tongue as sharp as his teeth, and they had both already done a fair job of tearing into me.
"Cursing my name, no doubt," Mr Grimm-Pitch answered with little regard for the charge he was laying on his own head. His friends all laughed. Well, all except for Mr Shepard. He looked a bit worried.
"Which name?" I asked, probably unwisely.
He blinked at me, as if he could not believe I had the nerve to ask.
His friends all found my question quite amusing, though, and he was forced to allow it to pass unchallenged.
Instead, he raised that eyebrow of his again. I was beginning to understand it was his favourite pastime. "You're rather a mouthful yourself these days, Captain Simon Snow Salisbury."
I distinctly heard one of the sniggering men from earlier mutter something about a mouthful, but I didn't think it was meant at my expense.
Mr Shepard dropped his arm and turned around. "Really?" He asked.
"Leave it," Mr Grimm-Pitch muttered under his breath. "They're harmless."
"Maybe they are, but—"
"I don't care!" Mr Grimm-Pitch snapped at him.
By this point, they definitely had an audience.
Maybe they'd had an audience the whole time, I was only just then becoming aware of it. (I was having a hard time looking away from Mr Grimm-Pitch. He just didn't look real.) (I reckon if you stood him and Miss Wellbelove side-by-side, they'd look like something right out of one of those old paintings you're always going on about.)
For all his smart remarks, I got the feeling that Mr Grimm-Pitch did care. And then suddenly, it didn't matter what sort of a man he was like. Because I understood him. He was putting on his brave face and hard demeanour because inside, he was really and truly bothered by whatever it was people were saying about him behind his back. And I could relate to that.
I can't even tell you how strange it felt to look around that room and realise that of all the people there, including the only two blood relatives I have in the world, I had the most in common with Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch.
And then I thought about Lady Ruth, and how even she'd been gossiping. I know she wasn't doing it to be malicious; Lady Ruth has been at great pains to keep me informed about all the social goings on around me. She said she didn't want me to be caught unawares, or feel out of place. (As if that were avoidable.)
Maybe if I'd been paying her more heed, I wouldn't be so confused about what was going on around me. Maybe I'd know exactly what Mr Grimm-Pitch was so keen to let people think didn't matter when it very clearly did.
And I don't think that's right. If it's his business, then he should keep it. I don't want anyone beating out all the dust I've been sweeping under my rugs.
That's when I decided I'd be decent and shew him a bit of mercy.
"It's a bit shit, isn't it?"
If he and his were being vulgar, then so was I. Besides, I was talking quietly. I wanted to make him feel more comfortable, and soft voices always help me.
"What is?" He asked, narrowing his eyes. He looked suspicious, like he didn't really believe I was being sincere and was just waiting for me to poke him. I suppose with friends like his, it makes sense he'd expect that.
"Having all these people insert their noses into your private affairs."
Every single muscle in his body seemed to tense and a fire flared in his eyes.
"What...the fuck...do you know about my private affairs?"
I might have miscalculated.
"N-nothing."
I was stuttering. That's how disconcerted I was.
I couldn't remember any of my words. And the ones I could get hold of, they didn't want to come out of my mouth.
"I-I mean, I-I didn't. I don't. I just meant. I mean, I get it. Yeah?"
I felt so much relief in being able to actually get out a whole sentence that I started smiling, and I must have looked like a lunatic, because he started sneering at me again. Like I smelt bad, or something. (Maybe I actually did. It was very hot in that room, and I was probably sweating like a stuck pig by that point.)
"All the-the...you know. The talk. Gossip!" I almost shouted when the word finally came to me. He flinched. I could sense eyes on me, and I knew I was making a fool out of myself, but I couldn't stop. I don't know why I couldn't stop. All I could think was that Lady Ruth was going to be so ashamed of me and not bring me out in company anymore. And then she'd send me home because I can't handle polite society. (Because I don't actually belong here and nothing she nor anyone else says or does is going to change that.)
I tried to modulate my voice, but I'm afraid that just made it sound shaky. (Which it was.) (Because I was a mess and I could feel a fit coming on.)
"I know what it's like," I said, feeling very, very small indeed. And it wasn't even his fault this time. It was all mine.
He didn't say anything. I don't blame him. I wouldn't have known what to say to me, either.
I suppose it was actually a bit kind of him not to respond. He could have been scathing. I knew he was capable of it. But he just turned away and started talking to one of his friends who'd been laughing at him, and I was left to stand there and push out all the breath I had in me to try to keep myself standing.
The ride back to the townhouse, the whole night tossing in bed, this morning, it's all I've been able to think about.
I tried to apologise to Lady Ruth, but she waved me off. Acted like I hadn't done anything to apologise for. Acted like I hadn't made her look just as much a fool as I am.
I've not gone down for breakfast. I don't know the hours they keep here anyway. I just don't feel like I can face anyone.
Not that it matters. Much as I may try to avoid them, I can't avoid him. I can't explain it, but he's in my head. I can't shake him.
His intense grey eyes and sneering mouth will not leave my mind. For hours now, they've been haunting me like the scales of judgement, always finding me wanting.
Because that's what I am. Wanting. That's what I've always been. Wanting for what I don't have, what I can't have. Wanting for food, for shelter, for family.
Wanting for some blessed peace and quiet.
He's a plague on my mind, Penny. A stain I can't blot. I spent barely ten minutes with the man, but he's burned into me like a grease fire.
There is absolutely nothing redeemable in him, and yet, I feel determined to prove something to him. To shew him—to shew all of them—that I can't be dismissed, that I'm more than Lady Ruth's charity case, a bit of scandal and gossip, some name in the broadsheets about past exploits in the war. I want to be real. I want to matter. I want people to look at me and know that I'm worth something, all on my own.
I think. I think I just want to be seen.
I know it's useless. It doesn't matter how much money I have to my name, or even what name that is. I can't be equal to the likes of him.
I can't be anything better than mud on his shiny boots.
I keep thinking