Archive of Our Own

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The Nineteenth of July, Eighteen Fifteen, on the road between Calais and Paris

(Sent by post on the Twentieth of July, Eighteen Fifteen from Paris)

Dear Penelope,

I am just now en route to Paris, after travelling non stop for the past two days. Seven hours to Dover, a pleasant six hour crossing (in which a fellow nearby appeared to be rather queasy, I did not envy him, Pen. He had his head over the side of the boat for five of the six hours, I hope that is not too vulgar of an image), and an eleven hour journey from Calais to Paris, on which you now find me six hours into.

I have so far passed the journey by writing in my journal in great detail of the boat ride, which in addition to the poor man I mention above, also contained a couple who I do believe may have been eloping, Pen. I did not have the heart to tell them that Gretna Green was rather more North than Calais, however they seemed to be happy together and it reminded me, Pen, of when we were younger, and we snuck out to the market to see if we could buy quills and we saw that couple who were behaving in a rather intimate manner. Do you remember? It made you burst into laughter, as I recall, and your maid tried to take you home, but we did not allow it, as we were determined to find our new quills, I for my journal and you for, well I do not remember. And then my mother, along with Daphne, saw us, and your poor maid got into such trouble, however my mama did not tell your mother. Instead she took us home and gave us biscuits, remember, Pen? Well this couple did so remind me of that couple, perhaps they were the same one. Though that could not be, as this pair looked rather too young to have been intimate four years ago.

I have written a full ten pages in my journal of the boat ride. I shall not bore you with any further ramblings here, however you must let me know if you wish to hear any of them, as I do have some funny tales.

I have also written to my mother, and to Daphne. I am now writing to you (of course) and after I finish your letter, I plan to use the remainder of my time to write to Benedict, Kate, Eloise, Francesca, Gregory and Hyacinth. If last summers trip is anything to go by, I expect replies from at least half, but most certainly not all. Though I know I can count on your replies, Pen.

I am sure you shall have some tales of your and Eloise’s adventures to recount by the time this letter reaches you. I do hope you are not suffering to deeply in the quiet of the country, as I know you do enjoy observing the goings of the ton. 

I look forward to your reply, I shall be in Paris for at least the next fornight, I have attached my forwarding address.

Yours truly,

Colin Bridgerton

 

Journal Entry

The Twenty Fifth of July, Eighteen Fifteen, Paris

I have now been in Paris for six days and I do believe my French lessons are coming into use with great success. I do not believe I could quite fit in as a Frenchman yet, however I did pick up some new clothing which I’m told is all the style on the continent. I believe Gregory, in particular, will envy my jacket when I return. I toyed with picking one up for him, however I will keep an eye out for something more exciting to be his gift, if I were to tell him I had purchased a coat for him, he might not write back to me at all for this entire trip.

I have not had any responses to my letters yet, it has been near a week since I sent them off, so I shall be expecting some soon. 

In truth, I do not mind just yet. The sights and excitement of Paris are much too enticing for me to really miss home or anybody there. I have spent some time with some new friends here in Paris and have met some rather interesting gentlemen, and some rather more interesting ladies. One such lady will speak only French to me, and no matter how often I try to explain that my French is passable, but not fluent, she will not converse in any other way. Odd since I have seen her converse with other Englishmen in our own language many times. No matter, I do believe it is down to my own ignorance, as an Englishman in France, one cannot expect to be accommodated for his own idiocy.

There is however another lady, one who seeks me out at every occasion, and who has allowed me to accompany her for a night time promenade by the Seine. She certainly speaks to me in English, whispers in my ear as we promenade and I must say the accent with which she speaks raises goosebumps on my arms. I can now declare with great certainty that Paris has some of the most beautiful women the world. How lucky I am to be surrounded by them, on the tree lined streets of Le-Marais, in the charming cafes along the Seine or at times, when the city is still, alone at night. In those moments alone, as my fingers trace freckles from cheek to collarbone or as I watch the way starlight dances across skin, I marvel at how one can feel such intimacy but also such great distance.

I sometimes find myself at a loss as to how I have ended up here, in these moments when it is just the two of us, when I am allowed these intimacies that might otherwise be forbidden, when I taste the delicate skin of her neck, as my lips graze hers, the sweet taste of her, I question how I have come to be here, and why. These thoughts plague me, thoughts that I am underserving of such deep physical connection when I find myself unable to awaken a similar emotional connection. Ought I not be drawn by a likeness of mind and an interconnection of feeling, in parallel to the earthly desires that are brought about when she wraps a hand around my arm? Perhaps, I allow the notion too much thought. Perhaps, I allow it too much credit, however I do find myself, when I am finally completely alone, wondering whether this is all there is to romance and love, whether I have placed too much credence on the idea that I should be afforded more than mere physical diversions. 

Perhaps a thought for another day…

The Thirtieth of July, Eighteen Fifteen, Paris

(Sent by post the next morning)

Dear Penelope,

I have not heard from you, I must assume that my letter has reached you, although I do sometimes find myself wondering at the efficiency of the postal service from the continent. It has now been ten days and I am enjoying Paris greatly.

Pen, I do believe you would like it here. I take my morning strolls past the Seine and it sparkles, truely sparkles, as if it were smiling back at me. It is neither brown, nor dull like our own river, though I have to admit I do sometimes miss our dreary River Thames. The Seine is blue, so blue. I struggle to find the words to describe it but could perhaps settle on a colour similar to your eyes the sky on a warm summers day, when not a single cloud tarnishes the blue, and the sun is bright overhead and the sky shimmers, beckoning you out to greet it. Like those days in the past, Pen, those summers when you would come to Aubrey Hall to visit Eloise, and I was back from Eton, and we used to spend our days on the lake, or exploring the fields. Sometimes I wish we could enjoy those times once more, when we were carefree and you and Eloise did not mind so much that I tagged along on occasion. 

I have been rather enjoying something called a croissant to break my fast. It is a pastry, Pen, quite unlike any we have at home, flaky and buttery and quite delectable. My preference is to have one with strawberry jam, though I don’t suppose you care to hear of the minute details of my breakfast, do you? The French, whilst their tea is left to be desired, does a marvellous job of coffee. I think, Pen, you should enjoy both the croissant and the coffee if you were to try it. If I could, I would bring you some back, however I do not believe either will last the entire journey I plan to take, and so I shall spare you. 

Tell me what you are up to? Have you and your sister yet retired to the country? Or is your mother taking her time remaining in town? I believe my family has not yet decamped to Aubrey Hall, I expect you should know better than I, as I have not yet had a response to my letters. Except for Hyacinth. And Hyacinth did not tell me. She did, however, tell me a funny story of how Gregory had nearly gotten himself jammed in between a cupboard and a wall whilst trying to search for something or other. Quite how he ended up in that situation, Hyacinth did not tell me. Between you and I, Pen, she is not the best of writers, and I seem to receive only half a story. Perhaps you heard of the incident? Was it as funny as it sounded?

I plan to stay here in Paris a few more days. I have seen the Observatoire de Paris, the Louvre and took a rather splendid tour around Versailles only yesterday. I believe I have only managed to see a quarter of what the city has to offer. However, I feel the next stop calling me. It will be Geneva next, Pen. My tutor tells me there is much to see there, although I confess I know nothing of the city. I have a long road ahead, I am to stop over at least once between Paris and Geneva as the distance is too long, however I am keen to continue, and am quite willing to embark on a long carriage ride to get there more quickly.

Oh, I did forget, Pen, a day or so ago, I was walking amongst the Jardin du Luxembourg and I saw a pair of ladies who looked quite like you and my sister. One with brown hair and a tall stature and the other, her arms linked with her companions, with red curls, rather petite, just like you, Pen. The were giggling together, their hands up to their mouths and they did so remind me of you that I nearly called out. Imagine their reaction if I had done so. I imagine some rather firm words might have been called in my direction, don’t you think, Pen?

I attach my forwarding address in Geneva for your ease of use.

Yours truly,

Colin Bridgerton

 

Journal Entry

The Sixth of August, Eighteen Fifteen, Geneva

Well, I must say the people of Geneva are a lot less accommodating than those of Paris. Which is to say something, given those of Paris were hardly the most welcoming. However, the mountains, the Lake, the sights, are spectacular. So spectacular that they rather make up for any and all people related demerits. My accomodation looks right out onto the Lake and I plan to spend many hours there, reading and writing and contemplating all that is good in the world. I have not yet met any ladies in this city, though I cannot say I am burdened by that fact. I grew rather weary of some of the delights of the company, and have still yet to determine how other men spend their lives in singular pursuit of such occupation.

The Seventh of August, Eighteen Fifteen, Geneva

(Sent by post the same evening)

Dear Pen,

 

I hope you are well. I have still yet to receive any of your letters and I do hope all is well at home. I have to imagine by now that you have made your way out to the country, and so may be too far from my own family who are settled now at Aubrey Hall to bring news of the Bridgertons. However, I wait eagerly for news of the Featheringtons.

I received a reply from my mother, Gregory (only one paragraph), Kate and Francesca and they all speak of the lovely summer they are enjoying at Aubrey Hall. I do wonder, between you and I, Pen, whether Kate (and my brother) would prefer to have the place to themselves. Do you think having five of ones siblings and ones mother joining you for your summer is preferable to being there alone with your new bride? I think not. Kate hinted that she and my brother might be taking an extended honeymoon. If that is the case, I certainly think my siblings may have contributed to the decision.

You do not have have same problem, I would imagine Pen? Have Mister and Missus Finch joined yourself, your mama and sister in the country? It might be rather quiet otherwise? Do tell me of any news you hear from your advantageous situation. My siblings are not very reliable narrators and I would imagine you hear more than I in your correspondence with Eloise?

Geneva is enjoyable. I prefer Paris, Pen, and I am looking forward to moving onto Marseille shortly. I am only in Geneva one week, I had thought to perhaps visit Lausanne whilst I was here, but I am anxious to move on so I will attach my address in Marseille for any return letter as I do not think you shall reach me here. I have three days travel ahead when I finally depart for Marseille and I do believe that most of those days will be spent observing the views that pass by. The continent is really rather beautiful, Pen. I believe my brother Benedict could not do it justice with his painting if he tried. And I certainly cannot do it justice with my words, though I have tried. I have filled fifty pages of my journal, with what, I do not know, ramblings and more ramblings,  my siblings would say, I do not think that you would be quite so cruel. I shall never read it again, and I do not know why I take the time to write it, however it makes me feel like I am at home, the comfort of the notebook feels homely. Is that silly, Pen? You will tell me if I am a fool.

I met a man in Geneva who has been travelling for near two years now. Can you imagine, Pen? I am enjoying myself, however I do not believe I could be away from home for so long. He has been to forty cities, and his skin is brown like leather. I would say it was rather unbecoming, however my own will soon turn that way, I fear, and so I shall say nothing for now.

Do write soon with news of home. I attach my forwarding address in Marseille.

Yours truly, 

Colin Bridgerton

 

Journal entry

The twenty sixth of August, Eighteen Fifteen, Marseille

Marseille is beautiful. Exactly what one might dream of when picturing France. I while away my days watching the fisherman go about their day and enjoying the warmth of the sun on my face and visiting the sights. The vibrancy of the city is infectious and I have found myself in long conversations with traders and other folks, in which I am able to hear of the passion and pride the cityfolk have. I cannot say I feel such emotions about anyplace I have been and I find myself experiencing envy of sorts at the zeal they display. I am not sure what I have in my life that would elicit such fiery animation.

My only hope is that when I return from this trip, I return having found some sort of purpose, perhaps not my true purpose, perhaps some small aspiration or other. Otherwise, what am I really doing this all for?

I have yet to receive a response to my letters from anybody except mother, Kate, Francesca, Hyacinth and Gregory. Written down, that sounds like a lot of correspondence, however I have written to many people, upwards of ten. I seem to recall receiving many more letters last summer. I suppose they are busy with their own endeavours, I do hope my letters have made it to their destination as I would not like anybody to think that I am not thinking of them.

I set off shortly for Barcelona and I look forward to experiencing Spain, where I have heard the residents dance in much different manners to Englishmen and the food is different still to the French food I have experienced so far. 

The thirty first of August, Eighteen Fifteen, Barcelona

(Sent by post on the Second of August)

Dearest Penelope, 

 

I now find myself in a new country, the difference to France is palpable and I do believe I prefer Spain, or what I have seen of it so far. Unfortunately, my itinerary does not allow me to see much more of the country, perhaps I shall return next year, and make directly for Madrid. I met some fellow travellers today who have spent two months already here and they are only just beginning their tour of the country. The thought makes me really quite envious.

Pen, the evening last, I had the pleasure of seeing the Fandango danced. I could not picture any of our balls including the Fandango, I think our mamas would positively faint at the sight of it. I think you might like it, however. You do seem to prefer a lively dance to a dull one. I hope it is not too forward, Pen, for me to tell you that I believe the dance borders on indecency, and I am not sure I ought to have borne witness. It really was rather playful, I shall show you perhaps, when I return. Though as I have now already forgotten exactly how the dance went, I am unlikely to be able to remember any of it by the time I return.

I am quite lacking in proper updates from home, Pen. I hope you might be able to send word shortly, though I do understand that you have much to do. I had not wanted to mention it, however as I have not heard I must ask, how is your family coping after the devious ploys of Lord Featherington? I think of you frequently and hope you are working through what I can only imagine is a period of unhappiness for the family. I know you will make your way through this with your head held high, Pen, as you always do. When I return, I expect I shall find you all back in the ton, as rested and recovered as one can be, following a summer in the country. 

I am in Barcelona for another week yet, however in case you are unable to write soon, I attach my forwarding address in Rome.

Yours truly,

Colin Bridgerton