Chapter Text
Alfred does not know why he came to the church this morning.
One might suggest piety as a reason, yet Alfred has never felt any fondness for priests and scriptures. His religion lies not in words written on a page nor in Latin sung to the sombre tones of an organ. His God is in nature. In the lace of a dragonfly’s wings, in the symphony of the dawn chorus, in the startling yellow of an Auk’s beak, that is where God is found. Stone buildings are void of divinity, in Alfred’s humble opinion, and he would rather be called deviant heathen than claim he found any enlightenment in a church. Thus perhaps piety is not why he finds himself sat in a pew in the balcony of the church, half-hidden in shadow.
Alfred is sure there are many irreligious folk in attendance this morning but he rather doubts their motives will illuminate his own. For while many a man accompanies his wife and daughters when he would prefer to be in his club or attending business, Alfred is here alone. He is not here to appease a relative nor put in a good showing for the ton. If that were the case, he would not have arrived as the sermon began nor snuck upstairs out of sight, nor would he be planning to wait until the church empties to leave. Unlike the debutantes, mamas and suitors below, this morning is not another step on the road to marriage, a ball by another name. For his road has hit an abrupt end.
It must be masochism, a habit he thought he had mastered. What other word best fits the way his eyes stare down not upon the priest but upon Penelope Featherington and her new beau. With every glance across the aisle, every mouthed word, every shared smile, a weight pulls Alfred’s heart deeper into his chest. Though he knows his heart is unwounded, even figuratively as he never claimed to love Penelope nor hold any romantic hopes for the season, it is an almost physical pain. At times, when he lets himself ponder, under the influence of brandy alone in his bedroom, the what-ifs and could-have-beens, the pain brings him to tears and groans. And yet unlike any rational being he seeks out that which makes his suffering greater.
“This is the Word of the Lord,” intones the priest. “Thanks be to God.”
Alfred heard not a word of the man’s sermon. The summer sun through the windows reflects off Penelope’s hair like tongues of flame, each spark igniting her beauty anew in his eyes. There is not a woman in the ton with hair like hers. Not even her mother and sisters can boast the same shade, nor the same complement to their complexion. It was one of the qualities that first drew Alfred to her, a moth to a flame. Then he noticed her ostracism, so akin to his own, and how ill she fitted in her own skin. They had much in common and it was Alfred’s belief that they were two pieces of a puzzle fitting together, their patterns aligning, rough edges blending. They were a practical match, a happy match.
As the priest reads the banns — “If any of you know cause or just impediment…” — Alfred wishes he could jump from the balcony and stride down the aisle delcaring that they could not marry for he has loved her openly first. It would satisfy many of his dreams if he could kneel before Penelope and declare her worthy of more than a man who needed to be jealous in order to court her. Alfred would do so in a heartbeat, if only he thought she would accept.
As the priest moves on to the next couple, Alfred watches the looks and smiles exchanged between Penelope and Mr Bridgerton. No, all he would gain is her pity and all he would give her is a guilty heart. She loves Mr Bridgerton. She has loved him for a very long time. Though her self-esteem is newly blossomed, it is strong enough to grasp what she has finally been given and not let go. Not even his Lordship will entice her away from the third son. In the end, forcing himself back into her life will only cause her pain and Alfred loves her too much to do that.
Alfred will not return to her life. He will not give her his love. But that does not remove its existence in his heart. He loves her too much to never see her again. So he sits in a shadowy pew on the balcony of a church, watching as Penelope and Mr Bridgerton gravitate towards one another, even as the congregation departs around them. With the ton outside it would be no hardship to slip away through the backdoor with no one the wiser to his presence, but as his eyes cannot leave his love his body cannot leave the seat.
If his heart is forever condemned to beat for Penelope Featherington, he must drink in every moment she is near. Watching the couple in the church where they will be wed drives a knife slowly through the meat of Alfred’s heart. There is a burning, maddening need rising within him to stand where he stands, to hold her hands, to be at the end of that aisle. It is torture and yet, a glutton for punishment, he cannot leave. He might rationalise his inaction as providing a chaperone for the couple, whose mamas should never have let them out of their sight so close to the wedding. Perhaps it is his fate to be a guardian angel over Penelope Featherington, never marrying or moving on. What an end to the Debling line!
When Penelope and Mr Bridgerton begin to dance, a moment taken straight from the romances, Alfred laments the few dances he had with her, none more so than the one stolen from him. If he had known the dances, which brought such joy to Penelope’s face, were in short supply he might have savoured them more. He might have lingered on the dancefloor, brushed his fingers across her palm as they separated, loathe to lose contact with her soft skin. He might have asked for more dances, hang the rumours and gossip that would have come from dancing more than twice together at one ball. Now there is unlikely to be another dance in his future, with little desire or incentive to continue his search for a wife.
Control returns to Alfred’s body and he is released from his vigil when Penelope takes her fiance’s arm and leaves the church. The moment they are out of sight, he bolts from his seat and scarpers down the stairs, intent on making it out of the back door and to his waiting cab before anyone sees him. Like a fugitive on the run or a gazelle escaping her predators, he lingers in doorways and peers around corners. Thankfully, all of the socialising is limited to the front of the church. In the plain, unadorned hallways and cramped storage rooms there are no lords or ladies to be found. No one can question his presence if no one sees him.
Alfred winces at the sunlight as he exits the church. Keeping to the shadows has its disadvantages. But even his blindness will not stay him any longer. His heart, though pained, demanded to see Penelope Featherington. Urges fulfilled, he wants nothing more than to return to his hermitage and not leave until he must once more see his love. That has been his life for the past few weeks since that disastrous ball, and it has suited him perfectly well. It will suffice for the foreseeable future.
He thought nothing could deter him from his path. His heart is taken by a woman who has forgotten all about him in favour of her one true love. A life of solitude and isolation seems a fitting end. It is not as if he truly enjoyed society and its adventures. He has always been a single-minded fellow, even when he was a young boy. Nothing deterred him from following the Great Auk to its nesting place, and nothing will deter him from this.
Until, as he places his foot on the step of the hansom cab, a flash of colour in the corner of his eye draws his attention. No one was supposed to be back here. He should be the only one. If some debutante has strayed away from her mama and seen him, skulking away from the church and shirking all company, the rumours will abound and his shame will magnify. Worse, his shame will reach Penelope’s ears and he could not bear her pity or guilt.
Alfred reaches a hand into his pocket, fingering the folded bills and coins with which he might bribe the interloper. He turns a confident face to them; the worst thing to do would be to act as if something was amiss. The words are already on his lips when he registers who it is who has come here.
Even if he did not recognise the sharp features of her face, he would know her by the cut and colour of her gown. Cressida Cowper has never been a wallflower. She is always the first thing seen when entering a ballroom, with her towering hairstyles and grandiose dresses. This dress, a lurid pink, encrusted with gems and with the strangest sleeves Alfred has ever seen, would be more suited to a ball or a soiree than a pious Sunday at church. Alfred had not thought her to be in attendance this morning, for, though his eyes never strayed from Penelope, he certainly would have noticed this frock. Yet it seems just his luck that, as she has at every ball he has attended, she has found him when he does not wish to be.
Prepared to rebuff her flirtations, it takes him a moment to note the slump of her shoulders and the downward curve of her lips and the fact that she has not yet noticed him.
How odd, Alfred thinks. For once they exist in the same place without her attentions solely on seducing him. Were it not for the dress and the hair, he might think it another woman altogether.
He blames the ensuing feelings on his compassionate nature. When his dogs back at his country seat act out of sorts, more lethargic or affectionate or aggressive, Alfred cannot stay away. He cannot delegate their care to his kennelmaster or the footmen. He cannot trust their health to the veterinarians and set his worries aside. His compassionate heart demands even the smallest or meanest creatures receive some of his care. Seeing Cressida Cowper so unlike herself piques his curiosity and demands he at least ask if things are alright.
Alfred gestures for the cab driver to wait a while longer and the man happily accepts a few coins for his trouble. Saying a silent goodbye to his quick getaway and hoping that this is not a ploy to flirt with him further, Alfred says, “I say, Miss Cowper, are you well?”