Chapter Text
The morning had dawned particularly fine in the small village which nestled itself perfectly into the rolling Tuscan hillside. Life moved slowly in these quaint out of the way places, the very buildings themselves seeming to be imbued with a sense of peace and tranquillity. Yet Colin had felt ill at ease since his arrival a few days prior.
Indeed there had been a feeling of unsettledness which had plagued him throughout his travels across Italy, Spain and France. One could almost, but not quite, describe it as a constant yearning to be home.
It was all a nonsense, he had kept telling himself. The letters from his family, which trickled in as he moved across the continent, told him that everything was quite well back in England. He wished they would have dampened his disquiet, however they only served to remind him of the distinct lack of replies to his missives from another quarter.
Penelope Featherington had been a most faithful correspondent on his previous travels, truthfully he had written to her more than he had his own family. She had a way with words which could not help but enchant him; her clever questions and endless curiosity had him eagerly crossing the lines of his letters in order to fit all the stories he wished to tell her onto the page.
Colin had hoped that this journey would prove to be no different. By the time his ship docked in northern Spain he had already composed his first letter to her. It promptly sailed to England on the evening tide and he eagerly anticipated her reply as he set off to explore the marvellous new country which lay before him.
That letter was followed swiftly by another and then a third. He detailed the beauties of the Basque countryside, the bustling towns of Bilbao and Corunna which were now thriving after the Peninsular War. The food was exquisite, the people open, interesting and friendly. The group of pilgrims he had met whilst on a trek were fascinating and he had been thrilled when they invited him to join them as they walked the final part of the Camino de Santiago to Santiago de Compostela.
After the fourth letter and as those from his other correspondents began to arrive at his lodgings, Colin started to become concerned. He had been meticulous in enclosing his address to her and had left forwarding instructions at each boarding house in which he had stayed. Yet after a short sea journey down the Iberian coast to Cadiz, still no letters from Penelope awaited him.
There were many reasons which could explain her lack of replies, the most mundane probably being the likeliest. Postal systems were not as developed across the continent as they were in Britain making the loss of letters a common occurrence. Indeed he was certain a few had gone astray the previous year, their replies not quite matching each other when they arrived.
This, however, did not explain why he still received nothing from her during his stay in Gibraltar. The British colony had good links with English ports and the post arrived twice weekly. Indeed in the fortnight he had remained there, at the behest of the Governor and his wife who were eager for better society than the present company afforded, he had been practically swamped with letters from back home.
As each day passed increasingly worrisome scenarios began to fill his head. What if Penelope had taken ill? What if her cousin had decided to cause trouble after Colin had revealed the scam the scoundrel had been perpetrating? What if her family had not escaped the taint of scandal despite his best efforts to make it so?
It was rather lucky that by this point he was in Granada and a full day’s ride from the nearest port or Dunwoody, his valet, might have had to lock him within his rooms to stop Colin from boarding the first ship whose destination was anywhere near England. In the end, once he had calmed, he had to content himself with sending a hurried letter to his sister rather plainly enquiring after the health of their mutual friend, for his previous oblique queries had gone unanswered.
By Toledo he had received a reply from Eloise. It proved disappointing and frustrating in equal measure, much as this whole journey was turning out to be. The letter contained nothing more than a rant about trust, loyalty and severed bonds of friendship, much of which Colin was at loss to explain the relevance to his original query.
In desperation he had written to his mother. He knew she would infer more than she ought from his enquiry but by this point he cared little beyond knowing Penelope was well. Madrid passed by in a haze of pessimism and alcohol. Zaragoza and Tarragona were a little better. Colin tried to enjoy his time in those cities, the beautiful architecture, the historical buildings, the wonderful local cakes and pastries; it should all have enthralled him.
Yet every evening when he sat with his journal to document his day he would inevitably end up writing another letter to his absent friend. On more than one morning he had caught Dunwoody sighing as he set off to post yet another missive which would likely receive no reply.
Barcelona was where he had finally obtained some answers. His mother, clearly sensing his distress, had replied with haste; the letter preceding him to his lodgings there.
In the end it had turned out to be a simple enough explanation, as he should have assumed it to be all along. Penelope was in good health as far as his mother knew but she and Eloise seemed to be embroiled in some sort of tiff which had rendered his sister rather the ogre these past few months.
The missive ended up a crumpled mess between his hands. A great feeling of displeasure filled him at the thought that Penelope did not seem to consider him enough of a separate friend from his sister to warrant a continuation of their correspondence despite her falling out with Eloise.
Colin paced the room furiously, the cramped quarters providing little relief to his restless energy. How could Penelope have so easily cast aside their friendship he wondered as he took the five strides which separated the window from the doorway. The tiled floor was well worn beneath his feet before his thoughts took a turn towards becoming more charitable.
A vision of Penelope presented itself in front of him as he sat himself heavily on the rickety bed of his rented room. Sweet, kind-hearted Penelope, with a worried look in her eyes as she feared causing strife between himself and his sister. Suddenly it seemed completely understandable that she had not written him back, clearly not wishing to put him in the middle of whatever argument she and Eloise were having. She truly was much too good and he would ensure to tell her so in his next letter.
In fact, Barcelona and its sights could wait, he would sit and write to her that very instant. The paper in front of him was soon filled with every sort of reassurance to Penelope that he would not let whatever trivial matter had come between her and Eloise affect their own friendship; that he would dearly love to hear from her but that he understood if she did not feel comfortable in writing to him at the present time.
He watched that letter go with great satisfaction, confident in the fact that he had performed his duty as a loyal friend admirably. Penelope, he was certain, would be pleased to continue to hear from him as he progressed onwards in his journey. Perhaps if he made his letters interesting enough he could even coax her out of her reticence to reply.
Colin took to his travels across France with renewed enthusiasm, his fears now somewhat calmed. He toured the vineyards of Champagne and the lavender fields of Provence; watched the sun set from the beautiful beaches of Nice. When the turquoise of the Mediterranean Sea reminded him of Penelope’s eyes he wrote of it only in his journal, not quite brave enough to confide such thoughts to her in a letter.
True to his word, he remained a faithful correspondent to Penelope. When each letter only brought further silence from her he tried his best to tamper down that small hint of disappointment which filled him. If there was an annoying voice at the back of his mind which whispered that something was still not quite right, he did his utmost to ignore it.
The little niggle of unease had become a constant companion by the time he made his way over into Italy, although he tried his best to immerse himself in the country which was every bit as delightful as all travellers had always claimed it to be. Impressive Roman ruins greeted him in Verona, Lake Garda was stunning and his meals were divine in their simplicity.
Still, surely, surely by now he should have received at least a small note from Penelope?
A nearby church bell tolled the early morning hour, the antiquated windows of the boarding house doing little to dampen the sound. It drew Colin out of his reverie as he proceeded to pull his nightshirt over his head with a sigh. When he turned to Dunwoody to take his pressed linen shirt for the day, there was a slight frown on his valet’s face. For some reason his gaze lingered for a second too long on Colin’s shoulder before he coughed uncomfortably and looked away.
“What is it Dunwoody?”
“It…it is nothing Sir.” The other man replied uneasily.
“How many times have I told you that you need not be so formal?" He tutted. "You may call me Colin, as my friends do.”
In truth Dunwoody had become an invaluable companion throughout his travels. His steady level headed character was in direct contrast to Colin’s much more impulsive nature and had served them well during several problematic situations which they had encountered during their journey.
“At least one more time Sir.” Came the very proper reply from his valet.
Colin shook his head jovially and began to peel back the shirt which he had just donned, determined to check what had discomforted Dunwoody so.
“Have the bed bugs finally got to me?” He asked jokingly, remembering the many nights spent hovering a candle under his mattress in an attempt to kill the annoying mites whilst endeavouring to not burn down the entire inn or boarding house in which they were staying.
The grimace he received by way of reply from Dunwoody did nothing to settle the sense of foreboding which was slowly spreading within him. Hurriedly he began to run his gaze over his chest, checking with his fingers for any small bites or blemishes on his skin. He almost skimmed past the ever present soulmark on his shoulder, almost.
A gasp caught in his throat as his eyes landed more fully on the mark which in recent times had served as nothing more than a painful reminder of his naivety. For the first time in months he allowed himself to inspect the dark lines which traced along his skin. Most were as prominent as ever, but there, right in the centre, on the very tip of the quill which made up one half of his soulmark, the line looked rather less pronounced.
Surely it was just a trick of the light though? Surely his soulmark could not be weakening?
With little thought he pushed past his valet, his sole objective being to reach the very small, very worn mirror which hung above the washbasin in the far corner of the room. The angle was awkward as he attempted to lift his shoulder enough to catch its reflection, the placement of the mirror indicating its only purpose being to show the barest glimpse of one's face and not much else.
Huffing in frustration at his lack of success and slightly panicked by now, Colin turned to Dunwoody. “Does it look like it is fading to you?”
His valet shifted nervously from foot to foot before replying. “This is not something which is normally discussed in polite conversation, Sir.”
“Damn polite conversation! Does the mark look faded to you too?”
“Perhaps a little.” Dunwoody finally, after what felt like hours, reluctantly agreed.
Colin could feel his chest beginning to tighten as the gravity of the situation became ever more apparent to him; the air in the room feeling much too thick for him to take a proper breath. This could not be happening, not now, not to him. Soulmarks vanishing was something that occurred to other people, to unfortunate individuals whose soulmate gave up on their love. It did not happen to Bridgertons. They all married their soulmates.
Striding over to the washbasin he poured some water from the pitcher with shaking hands. The cool liquid which he splashed on his face did little to calm his spiralling thoughts. Why him? Why now? What was he to do? He tightly gripped the sides of the wooden stand, feeling very much as if it was the only thing tethering him to reality.
Dimly he was aware of Dunwoody attempting to gain his attention. The increasingly frantic utterances of ‘Sir’ barely registering in his consciousness as his whole focus narrowed down to the concentric circles which spread as the drops that fell from his chin hit the water in the basin.
“Colin!”
If the pouring of the rest of the water pitcher over his head was not enough to shock him back into the present, then Dunwoody calling him by his given name certainly was. He knew he must look terrible as his valet gently ushered him towards the bed, pressing a silver flask into one hand and a towel into the other once he had sat himself down.
Deciding it was preferable to descend into a drunken stupor than attempt to smother himself with the towel, Colin unscrewed the top of the flask and took several large gulps. The alcohol burned as it made its way down his dry throat, the ensuing coughing fit forcing tears to spill from his eyes.
Having not broken his fast yet due to the earliness of the hour, the brandy…was it brandy? It did not matter what alcohol it was, for it was doing its job admirably, very quickly brought a pleasant sort of numbness to his panicked thoughts. Colin chanced a glance at his shoulder and very much wished he had not. The rays of sunlight streaming in through the shutters cast an even greater contrast between the lines of his soulmark.
This was why he had been feeling so unsettled all this time. The reason for the unexplainable desire he had at each port town to jump on the first ship which was to raise anchor and head for England. A choked sob escaped him as he thought on how long he had wasted gallivanting around Europe when he should have been back home searching for his soulmate.
Dunwoody, who had been hovering worriedly, patted him awkwardly on the back.
“Why did you not tell me before?” Colin cried as he buried his face into the towel.
“It is not considered proper to speak of such things.” Came the apprehensive reply from his valet.
Whilst it was true that the topic of soulmarks were generally only discussed with the closest of confidants or indeed solely with one's soulmate, it hurt Colin to think that in a matter of such incredible import, and to a Bridgerton a soulmark was very important indeed, Dunwoody did not trust their friendship enough to confide in him.
Had they not shared many a meaningful conversation during their trip? Had they not taken all their meals together and even shared a room when space was tight at an inn? In fact he always refused to allow Dunwoody to bunk in the stables as most other servants did when travelling. It seemed to Colin that his lot in life was to be perpetually disappointed in his friendships.
“Surely we are past the point of discussing only that which is proper? Are we not friends?”
With a sigh, the other man sat himself wearily on the bed next to him, taking the flask which had fallen onto the mattress and having a rather large swig out of it. “As much as it is possible for a valet to be friends with his employer.”
Colin laughed hollowly. “Perhaps I should have Anthony pay your wages and then we may be true friends in earnest. Lord knows I have scarce few of those.”
For though Colin was generally popular amongst his peers, his easy going character and charming manner ensuring he was well liked whether he was in London or abroad, he often found it difficult to form anything but the most superficial of connections with people.
Of course his family was the exception, the Bridgertons being famous for their close ties. But with family also came expectations, the necessity of being how everyone else wished him to be. As the third born son he served little practical purpose, neither the heir nor the spare, so instead he carved out a different role for himself.
He was always prepared with a quip or joke, always there to make his siblings smile or his mother laugh, always ready to charm them out of their anger or melancholy. It was a role he was happy to fill, a part he played well but it invariably left him feeling rather empty, repeatedly making him long for more. For someone who saw and accepted all of him.
Colin had been unfailingly certain that he would find that deeper connection he craved with his soulmate, with the one person he was fated to be with above all others. Foolishly he had believed to have found her a couple of years ago but she had turned out to be nothing more than a liar, eager to exploit his romantic notions for her own gain. Needless to say he had been much more cynical about his soulmark after that.
In fact he had sworn off women, romance and the idea of soulmates entirely for the past year. Colin had assumed he would have plenty of time to find the lady whose mark matched his, the darkness of the lines on his skin a testament to the constancy of her feelings. Now, however, it seemed she had become tired of waiting for him.
But what could be causing his soulmate to waver in their affections so suddenly? Heaven forbid, had she met someone else? A cold chill ran down Colin’s spine at the horrifying idea that his soulmate could be falling in love with another man. All the while he was stranded thousands of miles away. After all, what could he possibly do all the way from Italy?
“Perhaps we should return to England then?” replied Dunwoody, making Colin aware that he had spoken that final question out loud.
“You are right Dunwoody.” He said, beginning to feel a new sense of determination spark within him.
The other man muttered something sounding suspiciously like ‘I usually am’ which Colin chose to ignore as he sprung up from the bed. Now that the initial shock and despair had begun to abate, a plan was starting to form in his mind and time was most definitely of the essence. Striding over to the writing desk by the window he cast his eyes over the large map which they had been using to track their journey.
“We should head back post haste. What is the nearest port? Pisa?”
Dunwoody came to stand next to him and pointed at a town quite a way north from their current location. “I would suggest Genoa. It is a day’s further travel but there will be many more ships sailing from there as it is a very busy port.”
“We will head to Genoa then.” Colin agreed willingly, clapping the other man gratefully on the back. “Have I told you how invaluable you are, Dunwoody?”
“Many a time, Sir.” He replied dryly, his valet’s focus now turning to retrieving their bags from the top of the armoire. “Although mostly when you are in your cups which might explain your lack of remembrance of it.”
Colin frowned into the drawer he had just opened. Hazy memories came unbidden of Dunwoody ushering him safely back to their accommodation after his oftentimes melancholy mood had led him to overindulge in drink. “I have not been very good company on this trip, have I?”
“It is not my place to complain." Dunwoody shrugged. "You have been more than generous allowing me to travel with you as an equal all these months. Not many valet’s are so privileged.”
“You are more than just my valet, you are my friend.” He declared honestly.
“As your friend then I am sorry for not telling you about your soulmark sooner, Colin.” Dunwoody replied contritely.
Although Colin was not sure he wished to know the answer, the question fell quite unwantedly from his lips anyway. “Has it been fading for very long?”
“I have had some suspicions for a couple of weeks but it is only in the last few days when it has become truly noticeable.”
Colin nodded in acknowledgement, the reply being slightly less dreadful than he had feared. “Then we had better hurry back to England, find my soulmate and set things right, had we not Percy?"
Dunwoody twitched at the use of the nickname which he had divulged to Colin that one time when they had both taken rather too much of a liking to the sherry in Jerez.
“Percival?”
The grimace on the other man’s face only deepend. “If you do not mind Sir, I am not terribly fond of my given name, so Dunwoody is preferable to either of those.”
“Very well as you wish, we shall continue to be formal with each other.” Colin quipped, feeling rather than seeing Dunwoody’s wince as he hurriedly began to empty the chest of drawers, throwing shirts, cravats and trousers haphazardly into the open portmanteau which now rested on the bed.
“Sir, why do you not go arrange the transport and I shall take care of the packing?”
Looking at the disarray of clothing which already overflowed from his bag, Colin could not help but agree with the wiseness of such a division of labour. He quickly made his way towards the door, only pausing with his hand already on the handle when Dunwoody called out to him.
“Sir?”
"Yes, Dunwoody?"
The other man did not halt in his rearranging of the mess which was the portmanteau as he replied. "You may wish to make yourself more presentable before heading downstairs, the other patrons might not appreciate your lack of proper attire." He gave Colin a pointed look as he neatly folded another shirt, then calmly added. "Although Signora Cassini might not mind."
Signora Cassini was the proprietoress of their rented rooms. She was a lady, well into her old age, who had made no secret of her appreciation of Colin’s handsome face or fine form. Her suggestive comments, which were easily understood despite her broken English and Colin’s limited Italian, had made him blush on many an occasion.
Much as he was doing now as he realised that he had almost walked out of the room wearing nothing more than his trousers and a half open shirt. Quickly he put on the waistcoat which Dunwoody held up for him and carelessly tied a cravat around his neck before this time exiting the room in search of a stablehand.
Within the hour everything had been stowed, the bill at the boarding house had been settled and the horses were readied. Colin snapped on the reins of his stallion, setting them off at a swift pace across the Tuscan countryside. A sense of calm filled him as he realised that in less than a month, all going well, he would be back home.
The plan, once he arrived in England, was simple enough. He would waste no time in finding his soulmate and courting her properly. There would be afternoon promenades in the park, lively dances at balls, little trinkets of affection and large bouquets of flowers. Whatever doubts she was having in her affections for him would be quickly dismissed as he proved his worth as a most determined suitor. He was certain they would be married by the end of the season.
After all, how difficult could it be to court one's soulmate?