Chapter 1802 London
LONDON
Miss Eleanor Trowbridge, dressed in a pink satin dress and white gloves, with a pearl-encrusted bandeau across her blonde hair, skipped gracefully down the line of gentleman.
Then, after rounding the corner, she took her partner’s hand once more and ducked under an archway formed above them by another couple’s hands.
Eleanor grinned at Captain Fitzwilliam as they emerged and settled back into their line.
The final strains of the music sounded, and she curtsied; her partner bowed and offered his arm, leading her to the side of the ballroom.
Her face was flushed with the movement and with the heat of a summer’s evening.
‘You do not know that dance,’ she teased him.
‘I truly do not. I was following Lord Archer for most of it, but he abandoned me at the third section.’
‘I saw it happen. That is when you trod on Miss Palmer.’
They both laughed. ‘You shall not want to stand up with me again,’ challenged Fitzwilliam, knowing what her answer would be.
‘I think I shall bear it. I shall just have to teach you more steps.’
He tilted his head down to whisper in her ear, ‘I shall be a willing pupil.’
She looked up at him, her eyes fiery with anticipation, and he felt no less excitement.
While no official engagement had taken place, there was an understanding between them that it would be secured soon. One full season might, to one couple, seem too short a time to be sure of a courtship; but to another, it could feel as long as a lifetime. He was ready, and she was hopeful.
It had been early in the season that Captain Fitzwilliam had spotted a pretty girl whose eyes seemed to be challenging him across the ballroom and had entreated his brother to make the introduction.
Thomas, the elder Fitzwilliam brother, had laughed, ‘You make quick work of the London scene, Richard. She certainly seems interested. One moment…’
In a matter of minutes, Miss Trowbridge and her mother were talking to Captain Fitzwilliam and his brother, who was styled Lord Charlton.
The mother’s eyes widened considerably when she heard the title of the elder brother, and there was no doubt she was keen to secure his interest for her daughter, but Miss Trowbridge had eyes for no one but the young soldier.
As her mother engaged his brother in conversation, Captain Fitzwilliam had the attention of Miss Trowbridge to himself. She began, ‘I have not seen you around the town before, sir. How can that be?’
‘I have been posted in Gibraltar, Miss Trowbridge, but now that we are peace, I am happily returned.’
‘And do you enjoy ballrooms, when you are used to barracks?’
‘I like both well enough. I am certainly appreciative of varied and lively company, having spent a year with a hundred men on a rock. I welcome new acquaintances.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ she replied.
Their initial attraction had given way, over the coming weeks, to a very real attachment between them.
He admired how unafraid she was – bold in her actions as well as her conversation.
Some evenings, she danced with nobody but him, and touched his arm as she spoke to him.
She was not afraid for people to see how attached she was, and that made him love her more.
She noticed how he went out of his way to put people at ease; he was well-mannered, but he also seemed principled; she had seen him argue a point with gentlemen far senior to him, and she liked him all the more for it.
He occasionally drank too much, but she supposed this would improve with a more settled life.
More than anything, she liked his steadfastness towards her; he had not looked with interest at another since the first moment they met, and nor had she.
When Captain Fitzwilliam called at the family’s townhouse late in the summer, he was shown into her father’s study.
He was a large, balding man in his sixties, with a genial look and a low, calm voice.
He did not look horrified to see the young man at his door, which seemed to Fitzwilliam a good start.
‘Come in,’ he beckoned, his smile one of resignation.
‘Thank you.’ Fitzwilliam walked in stiffly, stood opposite the desk, and announced rather formally, ‘Sir, I come to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage.’
Mr Trowbridge sighed. ‘Yes, I thought as much.’
Fitzwilliam said falteringly, ‘I – I love her very much. I would endeavour to take good care of her. I only have an income of—’
‘Captain Fitzwilliam, I know what your income is, approximately. It is that of an officer in the army, and not yet a very senior one. I have seen you with my daughter, and I have asked around about you.’
Mr Trowbridge proceeded to deliver a painfully accurate report of the captain’s fortune, prospects, character – he had heard reports of Fitzwilliam’s drinking and fighting within his barracks – and his ability to provide for a wife.
‘I intend to take a house as soon as I am able—’ interjected Fitzwilliam rather desperately.
‘It could be ten years before you can do so.’
Fitzwilliam had no answer: it was true. He felt suddenly foolish, like a love-struck boy with nothing to recommend him. Mr Trowbridge’s manner was not unkind, but it was unyielding, and the truths it held fell like blows.
‘My own estate is only of modest means, Captain Fitzwilliam – much like your own family. Certainly, your father holds the earldom, but there is not a great deal of wealth, I believe. And what wealth there is will never come to you, as the younger son. My daughter must marry well. I do not have a substantial dowry for her, and I want her to be comfortable.’
‘But—’
Trowbridge held up his hand to indicate that he had not finished. ‘Were it merely this reason, I might be willing to overlook your lack of fortune. But you are a soldier.’
Here, Fitzwilliam did object – and fiercely! – asking through gritted teeth, ‘And is there no honour in that, sir? In a man who fights to protect his country?’
‘There is great honour in it, Captain.’ Mr Trowbridge looked weary. ‘But if you truly love my daughter, what life do you hope for her, while you fight or march or conquer?’
‘My life has not been so much abroad – a stint in Gibraltar, which held little danger, but otherwise, I have been stationed at home.’
The other man nodded. ‘It will change.’
Fitzwilliam looked puzzled.
‘You know that I sit in the Commons. I hear what is happening; I follow it closely. We know that this peace will not last. It was fragile from the moment it was agreed. The French have no interest in the treaty, and it is simply a matter of time before we are at war again. It shall not be long. Where will you be then?’
Fitzwilliam looked at him, taking in what he had said. ‘I do not know.’
‘No. You do not. Perhaps Europe. Perhaps the Indies. Perhaps dead.’
Fitzwilliam stared at him, struggling.
‘I want better for Eleanor, and so should you.’
Fitzwilliam’s breathing was heavy. He felt the truth of what had been said, but it did not help.
He wanted to push the desk over, to rail against the man.
He needed a drink. He felt he must leave before he said or did something he would later regret, and so, forcing himself to look Trowbridge in the eye, he curtly said, ‘If the matter is lost, I will take my leave.’
Mr Trowbridge nodded. He felt genuine sympathy for this smart, earnest, rather naive young man. ‘I wish you well, Captain Fitzwilliam. I think you will do great things.’
Seven months after this embarrassing refusal, Fitzwilliam was at another ball.
He stood to the side of the room, conveniently near to the table where a large bowl of punch was sitting.
He swayed a little, watching the cotillion taking place in the centre of the room.
He was accompanied by two old friends, but not ones he was very fond of – Thomas Russell, whom he had known since his brief few terms at Eton, and a fellow officer, Captain Radlett.
All three were rather drunk and getting disapproving looks from better-behaved guests.
Russell, in particular, was blessed with the naturally resonant voice of the upper classes, and it was in full effect tonight.
Fitzwilliam had spent a miserable winter on garrison duty with the 149th, bored, restless and hopeless.
He might better have borne his failure with Eleanor, and the loss of his future prospects, as he saw it, had he been active and useful.
But he felt worthless doing drills and exercises in barracks.
He had not felt that before; he had not felt the call to fight so keenly.
But now – it was galling to be stuck here, when the obstacle that prevented him from her was his call to duty.
It was the first event of the season, and he had attended in some desperate hope of seeing her.
Just as he was considering leaving, he saw her, on the arm of her mother, dressed in ivory and with the same pearls, the same locks of fine blonde hair and that same smile.
He resented that she looked the same: he knew that he did not.
Ravaged by drink and regret, he was not the sunny boy she had met last year.
They had written to each other after her father’s refusal: loving words full of passion and sorrow.
But ultimately, she had listened to her father and abided by his decision.
Now, she looked at him with such concern and compassion that it hurt his heart. He must look wretched indeed.
‘Who’s that?’ asked Russell loudly, seeing the girl look at his friend.
She heard him and turned away, back to her group. Fitzwilliam ignored him.
‘Come, who is she?’ asked Radlett. ‘That blonde piece over there – pretty. She’s an interest in you, Fitz.’
‘It is Miss Trowbridge,’ answered Fitzwilliam wearily.
‘Trowbridge…’ Russell seemed to be dredging some memory up from his drunken brain. ‘Eleanor Trowbridge! I’ve heard about her.’
Fitzwilliam frowned at him. ‘What have you heard?’
‘Quite a lot of fun, I think,’ said Russell lasciviously, raising an eyebrow and warming to his subject. ‘Made quite a spectacle of herself last season over someone, maybe a soldier actually – I’m not certain. They weren’t engaged, but I hear she has a light skirt!’
‘Ah, a shame. So pretty,’ said Radlett priggishly, ‘but no one will want a girl who’s lost her virtue.’
Radlett heard a sound beside him, like a low growl, and found himself pulled up by his collar and shoved against the wall, pinned, his feet only just touching the ground.
Fitzwilliam held him roughly, saying nothing but pushing so hard against his gullet that Radlett could hardly breathe.
Unable to speak, he grabbed at Fitzwilliam, pulling at his lapel, trying to break free, but to no avail.
He remained suspended for a few seconds until, all at once, Fitzwilliam let him go.
He slumped to the ground, bending at the knee, recovering.
‘What the devil, Fitz?!’ cried Russell, as Radlett got his breath back.
Everyone in the room was staring at the display, and there was a hushed excitement. This kind of event would be the talk of the season, and they were grateful to have witnessed it.
Fitzwilliam looked around the room and saw Miss Trowbridge staring at him, horrified.
He looked back, trying to convey some meaning to her with his eyes – sorrow, apology, farewell – but she continued to look mortified.
He heaved a sigh and, with bent shoulders, hurried from the room, taking no leave of his friends.
Late that night, upon returning to his barracks, he found he had torn his jacket in the skirmish.
Looking in his kit, he found the needle and thread he always kept, but rarely used, and started roughly tacking the fabric seams back together.
His mother had taught him to sew, much to the disapproval of his father.
She had shown him running stitch, back stitch, tent stitch.
She had told him to be slow and patient when his frustrated hands wanted to race.
He did not easily get to grips with the intricacy of the task, and once, in frustration, had declared it was not a job for a man.
His mother, though indignant, had laughed at her little eight-year-old proclaiming himself a ‘man’ so soon.
But she told him that you needed strong hands to sew, which he had.
She patiently, determinedly taught him this skill, saying that he should learn to take care of himself.
She was already preparing him for life without her.
He looked down at his work and thought that she would not be especially proud of it.
It was sloppy, rushed. He pulled out the thread and started again with a neater stitch.
Once completed, he cast off and, happy with his work, put on his jacket.
He thought about his mother. He thought about Eleanor.
He thought about going to war, and he found that he was suddenly eager for it.
He would not have long to wait.