Chapter Text
She had waited for his return for three complete solar cycles. He had promised her in his letters that today would be that day. So she waits a little more.
Her son’s curls are finally goldening at the tips, his rounded cheeks a pleasant shade of rose. She smiles, telling his nursemaid without lifting her eyes off of the boy that they should like to wait together. His father would be eager to hold his son. His heir. Her happiness.
The nursemaid leaves and her steady footsteps echo along the hollow corridor, a reminder for the lady of the house that the estate is vast. The prestige, grand. The duty, heavy. But she has played her role well—has been playing her role well. And the fruits of her labors are now hers to reap: the moment her husband sets foot back into his home and sees how she has managed it. Kept it lively for him. Kept it thriving for him. Kept it vital for him to return.
Perhaps to stay.
For his son. For her.
Her son hears the horses before she does, leaping from the hems of her dress to the gigantic oak door. She naturally starts to call for him but holds her tongue for the thought that her son might like to greet his father for the first time. Her husband would certainly appreciate the gesture. Any father would be excited to finally meet his child.
Then the door opens and she wishes she had held her son close. To shield him from the answers to questions he is yet to understand. But mostly, to shield her heart from the pain and longing her life is now wont to lead.
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Esteemed members of the ton, it is with a heavy heart that this Author extends her condolences to Lady Debling for the untimely passing of her husband, Lord Debling, whilst on an expedition to the North. To help our gentle readers to recall, Lord Debling secured his match with Lady Penelope Debling (nee Featherington) three seasons ago before the start of the very expedition he has succumbed to. This Author has chronicled at the time that the union between Lord and Lady Debling was a practical yet content one. Lord Debling leaves behind a son.
Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers, 1818
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“Brother, must you keep pacing in my room? The floorboards are about to collapse.”
Colin tears his eyes away from his feet to stare at his younger sister Eloise who is sat on her bed, the latest Lady Whistledown issue on her lap.
“It is you who has asked me to meet you here. I would not have started pacing otherwise,” he argues, feeling the tension creeping up on his shoulders.
“Well, had I known you would behave in this manner I would not have approached you about the subject.” Eloise crosses her arms over her chest, a furrow deeply lining her brow. “It is only out of my sisterly concern for your well-being that I thought you ought to know. Sulking does not suit you. Especially these last three years.”
Colin scoffs, suddenly feeling affronted that Eloise, of all people, was telling him this. “I do not sulk. I am perfectly content. I travel the world and marvel in all the secrets and wonders it has to offer. What do I have to sulk about?”
Eloise sets her lips into a straight line. “Precisely. You travel, ergo, you are running away.”
“Running away?” he breathes out incredulously. “Pray tell, dear sister. Why do you think that my travels equate to me running away? What would I even be running away from?”
Eloise does not speak for a moment. Her blue eyes—the same exact shade as his—study his face sternly as if she was weighing something in her mind and whether it would be worth it to speak it. Which, in and of itself, is quite uncharacteristic of his sister who, more often than not, runs her mouth before her she has the chance to think. This unnerves Colin in more ways than one. But before he can interrupt her in jest, her eyes flicker over to the Lady Whistledown issue that started all of this.
Colin watches as his sister trails her thumb over the edge of the folded parchment. Eloise nibbles on a chapped piece of skin on her lips before nodding to herself, as if to convince every fiber of her being that this was the correct thing to do.
She looks up and holds his gaze with a determination he has never seen on her before, declaring: “You are unhappy, Colin. I know you miss her because you love her.”
Upon hearing this, Colin’s breath hitches, his throat suddenly feeling dry as an influx of buried memories flurry through his head like ten dozen unsent letters being blown away by a fierce wind.
He shakes his head, feigning ignorance. “Her? I am remiss to whom you speak of, Eloise.”
Eloise sighs, pity evident in her eyes. She tries for a smile, a small one but encouraging nonetheless.
“Penelope, Colin. You love Penelope.”