His face took on a strange expression, a little sheepish, a little defiant, almost as if he were embarrassed that he'd been
caught, and at the same time daring her to ask more.
"May I look at it?" she asked, keeping her voice soft and, she hoped, unthreatening. It was strange to think that Colin was insecure about anything. Mention of his journals, however, seemed to bring out a vulnerability that was surprising ... and touching.
Penelope had spent so much of her life regarding Colin as an invincible tower of happiness and good cheer. He was self-confident, handsome, well liked, and intelligent. How easy it must be to be a Bridgerton, she'd thought on more than one occasion.
There had been so many times—more than she could count—that she'd come home from tea with Eloise and her family, curled up on her bed, and wished that she'd been born a Bridgerton. Life was easy for them. They were smart and attractive and rich and everyone seemed to like them.
And you couldn't even hate them for living such splendid existences because they were so nice.
Well, now she was a Bridgerton, by marriage if not by birth, and it was true—life was better as a Bridgerton, although that had less to do with any great change in herself than it did because she was madly in love with her husband, and by some fabulous miracle, he actually returned the emotion.
But life wasn't perfect, not even for the Bridgertons.
Even Colin—the golden boy, the man with the easy smile and devilish humor—had raw spots of his own. He was haunted by unfulfilled dreams and secret insecurities. How unfair she had been when she'd pondered his life, not to allow him his weaknesses.
"I don't need to see it in its entirety," she reassured him. "Maybe just a short passage or two. Of your own choosing.
Perhaps something you especially like."
He looked down at the open book, staring blankly, as if the words were written in Chinese. "I wouldn't know what to
pick out," he mumbled. "It's all the same, really."
"Of course it's not. I understand that more than anyone. I—" She suddenly looked about, realized the door was open, and quickly went to shut it. "I've written countless columns," she continued, "and I assure you, they are not all the same. Some I adored." She smiled nostalgically, remembering the rush of contentment and pride that washed over her whenever she'd written what she thought was an especially good installment. "It was lovely, do you know what I mean?"
He shook his head.
"That feeling you get," she tried to explain, "when you just know that the words you've chosen are exactly right. And you can only really appreciate it after you've sat there, slumped and dejected, staring at your blank sheet of paper, not having a clue what to say."
"I know that," he said.
Penelope tried not to smile. "I know you know the first feeling. You're a splendid writer, Colin. I've read your work."
He looked up, alarmed.
"Just the bit you know about," she assured him. "I would never read your journals without your invitation." She blushed, remembering that that was exactly how she'd read the passage about his trip to Cyprus. "Well, not now, anyway," she added. "But it was good, Colin. Almost magical, and somewhere inside of you, you have to know that."
He just stared at her, looking like he simply didn't know what to say. It was an expression she'd seen on countless faces, but never on his face, and it was so very odd and strange. She wanted to cry, she wanted to throw her arms around him. Most of all, she was gripped by an intense need to restore a smile to his face.
"I know you must have had those days I described," she insisted. "The ones when you know you've written something good." She looked at him hopefully. "You know what I mean, don't you?"
He made no response.
"You do," she said. "I know you do. You can't be a writer and not know it."
"I'm not a writer," he said.
"Of course you are." She motioned to the journal. "The proof is right there." She stepped forward. "Colin, please. Please may I read a little bit more?"
For the first time, he looked undecided, which Penelope took as a small victory. "You've already read almost everything I've ever written," she cajoled. "It's really only fair to—"
She stopped when she saw his face. She didn't know how to describe it, but he looked shuttered, cut off, utterly unreachable.
"Colin?" she whispered.
"I'd rather keep this to myself," he said curtly. "If you don't mind."
"No, of course I don't mind," she said, but they both knew she was lying.
Colin stood so still and silent that she had no choice but to excuse herself, leaving him alone in the room, staring helplessly at the door.
He'd hurt her.
It didn't matter that he hadn't meant to. She'd reached out to him, and he'd been unable to take her hand.
And the worst part was that he knew she didn't understand. She thought he was ashamed of her. He'd told her that he
wasn't, but since he'd not been able to bring himself to tell her the truth—that he was jealous—he couldn't imagine that
she'd believed him.
Hell, he wouldn't have believed him, either. He'd clearly looked like he was lying, because in a way, he was lying. Or at
least withholding a truth that made him uncomfortable.
But the minute she'd reminded him that he'd read everything she'd written, something had turned ugly and black inside of him.
He'd read everything she'd written because she'd published everything she'd written. Whereas his scribblings sat dull and lifeless in his journals, tucked away where no one would see them.
Did it matter what a man wrote if no one ever read it? Did words have meaning if they were never heard?
He had never considered publishing his journals until Penelope had suggested it several weeks earlier; now the thought consumed him day and night (when he wasn't consumed with Penelope, of course). But he was gripped by a powerful fear. What if no one wanted to publish his work? What if someone did publish it, but only because his was a rich and powerful family? Colin wanted, more than anything, to be his own man, to be known for his accomplishments, not for his name or position, or even his smile or charm.
And then there was the scariest prospect of all: What if his writing was published but no one liked it?
How could he face that? How would he exist as a failure?
Or was it worse to remain as he was now: a coward?
* * *
Later that evening, after Penelope had finally pulled herself out of her chair and drunk a restorative cup of tea and puttered aimlessly about the bedchamber and finally settled against her pillows with a book that she couldn't quite make herself read, Colin appeared.
He didn't say anything at first, just stood there and smiled at her, except it wasn't one of his usual smiles—the sort that light from within and compel their recipient to smile right back.
This was a small smile, a sheepish smile.
A smile of apology.
Penelope let her book rest, spine up, on her belly.
"May I?" Colin inquired, motioning to the empty spot beside her.
Penelope scooted over to the right. "Of course," she murmured, moving her book to the night table next to her.
"I've marked a few passages," he said, holding forward his journal as he perched on the side of the bed. "If you'd like to read them, to"—he cleared his throat—"offer an opinion, that would be—" He coughed again. "That would be acceptable."
Penelope looked at the journal in his hand, elegantly bound in crimson leather, then she looked up at him. His face was serious, and his eyes were somber, and although he was absolutely still—no twitching or fidgeting—she could tell he was nervous.
Nervous. Colin. It seemed the strangest thing imaginable.
"I'd be honored," she said softly, gently tugging the book from his fingers. She noticed that a few pages were marked with ribbons, and with careful fingers, she opened to one of the selected spots.
14 March 1819
The Highlands are oddly brown.
"That was when I visited Francesca in Scotland," he interrupted.
Penelope gave him a slightly indulgent smile, meant as a gentle scolding for his interruption.
"Sorry," he mumbled.
One would think, at least one from England would think, that the hills and dales would be a rich emerald green. Scotland resides, after all, on the same isle, and by all accounts suffers from the same rain that plagues England.
I am told that these strange beige hills are called tablelands, and they are bleak and brown and desolate. And yet they stir the soul.
"That was when I was rather high up in elevation," he explained. "When you're lower, or near the lochs, it's quite different."
Penelope turned to him and gave him a look.
"Sorry," he mumbled.
"Maybe you'd be more comfortable if you didn't read over my shoulder?" she suggested.
He blinked in surprise.
"I would think you've already read all this before." At his blank stare, she added, "So you don't need to read it now." She waited for a reaction and got none. "So you don't need to hover over my shoulder," she finally finished.
"Oh." He inched away. "Sorry."
Penelope eyed him dubiously. "Off the bed, Colin."
Looking much chastened, Colin pushed himself off the bed and flopped into a chair in the far corner of the room, crossing his arms and tapping his foot in a mad dance of impatience.
Tap tap tap. Tappity tap tap tap.
"Colin!"
He looked up in honest surprise. "What?"
"Stop tapping your foot!"
He looked down as if his foot were a foreign object. "Was I tapping it?"
"Yes."
"Oh." He pulled his arms in more tightly against his chest. "Sorry."
Penelope refocused her attention on the journal.
Tap tap.
Penelope jerked head up. "Colin!"
He planted his feet down firmly on the carpet. "I couldn't help myself. Didn't even realize I was doing it." He uncrossed his arms, resting them on the upholstered side of the chair, but he didn't look relaxed; the fingers on both of his hands were tense and arched.
She stared at him for several moments, waiting to see if he was truly going to be able to hold still.
"I won't do it again," he assured her. "I promise." She gave him one last assessing stare, then turned her attention back to the words in front of her.
As a people, the Scots despise the English, and many would say rightfully so. But individually, they are quite warm and friendly, eager to share a glass of whisky, a hot meal, or to offer a warm place to sleep. A group of Englishmen—or, in truth, any Englishman in any sort of uniform—will not find a warm welcome in a Scottish village. But should a lone Sassenach amble down their High Street—the local population will greet him with open arms and broad smiles.
Such was the case when I happened upon Inveraray, upon the banks of Loch Fyne. A neat, well-planned town that was designed by Robert Adam when the Duke of Argyll decided to move the entire village to accommodate his new castle, it sits on the edge of water, its whitewashed buildings in neat rows that meet at right angles (surely a strangely ordered existence for one such as I, brought up amid the crooked intersections of London).
I was partaking of my evening meal at the George Hotel, enjoying a fine whisky instead of the usual ale one might drink at a similar establishment in England, when I realized that I had no idea how to get to my next destination, nor any clue how long it would take to get there. I approached the proprietor (one Mr. Clark), explained my intention to visit Blair Castle, and then could do nothing but blink in wonder and confusion as the rest of the inn's occupants chimed in with advice. "Blair Castle?" Mr. Clark boomed. (He was a booming sort of man, not given to soft speech.) "Well, now, if ye're wanting to go to Blair Castle, ye'II certainly be wanting to head west toward Pitlochry and then north from there."
This was met by a chorus of approval—and an equally loud echo of disapproval.
"Och, no!" yelled another (whose name I later learned was MacBogel). "He'II be having to cross Loch Toy, and a greater recipe for disaster has never been tasted. Better to head north now, and then move west."
"Aye," chimed in a third, "but then he'll be having Ben Nevis in his way. Are you saying a mountain is a lesser obstacle than a puny loch? "
"Are you calling Loch Toy puny? I'll be telling you I was born on the shores of Loch Toy, and no one will be calling it puny in my presence." (I have no idea who said this, or indeed, almost everything forthwith, but it was all said with great feeling and conviction.)
"He doesn't need to go all the way to Ben Nevis. He can turn west at Glencoe."
"Oh, ho, ho, and a bottle of whisky. There isn't a decent road heading west from Glencoe. Are you trying to kill the poor lad? "
And so on and so forth. If the reader has noticed that I stopped writing who said what, it is because the din of voices was so overwhelming that it was impossible to tell anyone apart, and this continued for at least ten minutes until finally, old Angus Campbell, eighty years if he was a day, spoke, and out of respect, everyone quieted down.
"What he needs to do," Angus wheezed, "is travel south to Kintyre, turn back north and cross the Firth of
Lome to Mull so that he can scoot out to Iona, sail up to Skye, cross over to the mainland to Ullapool, back down to Inverness, pay his respects at Culloden, and from there, he can proceed south to Blair Castle,
stopping in Grampian if he chooses so he can see how a proper bottle of whisky is made."
Absolute silence met this pronouncement. Finally, one brave man pointed out, "But that'll take months."
"And who's saying it won't?" old Campbell said, with the barest trace of belligerence. "The Sassenach is here
to see Scotland. Are you telling me he can say he's done that if all he's done is taken a straight line from here
to Perthshire? "
I found myself smiling, and made my decision on the spot. I would follow his exact route, and when I returned to London, I would know in my heart that I knew Scotland.
Colin watched Penelope as she read. Every now and then she would smile, and his heart would leap, and then suddenly he realized that her smile had become permanent, and her lips were puckering as if she were suppressing a laugh.
Colin realized he was smiling, too.
He'd been so surprised by her reaction the first time she'd read his writing; her response had been so passionate, and yet
she'd been so analytical and precise when she spoke to him about it. It all made sense now, of course. She was a writer,
too, probably a better one than he, and of all the things she understood in this world, she understood words.
It was hard to believe it had taken him this long to ask for her advice. Fear, he supposed, had stopped him. Fear and worry and all those stupid emotions he'd pretended were beneath him.
Who would have guessed that one woman's opinion would become so important to him? He'd worked on his journals for years, carefully recording his travels, trying to capture more than what he saw and did, trying to capture what he felt. And he'd never once showed them to anyone.
Until now.
There had been no one he'd wanted to show them to. No, that wasn't true. Deep down, he'd wanted to show them to a number of people, but the time had never seemed right, or he thought they would lie and say something was good when it wasn't, just to spare his feelings.
But Penelope was different. She was a writer. She was a damned good one, too. And if she said his journal entries were
good, he could almost believe that it was true.
She pursed her lips slightly as she turned a page, then frowned as her fingers couldn't find purchase. After licking her middle finger, she caught hold of the errant page and began to read again.
And smiled again.
Colin let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
r /> Finally, she laid the book down in her lap, leaving it open to the section she'd been reading. Looking up, she said,
"I assume you wanted me to stop at the end of the entry?"
It wasn't quite what he'd expected her to say, and that befuddled him. "Er, if you want to," he stammered. "If you want to read more, that would be fine, I guess."
It was as if the sun had suddenly taken up residence in her smile. "Of course I want to read more," she gushed. "I can't
wait to see what happened when you went to Kintyre and Mull and"—frowning, she checked the open book—"and Skye and Ullapool and Culloden and Grampian"—she glanced back down at the book again—"oh, yes, and Blair Castle, of course, if you ever made it. I assume you were planning to visit friends."
He nodded. "Murray," he said, referring to a school chum whose brother was the Duke of Atholl. "But I should tell you,
I didn't end up following the exact route prescribed by old Angus Campbell. For one thing, I didn't even find roads
connecting half the places he mentioned."
"Maybe," she said, her eyes growing dreamy, "that is where we ought to go for our honeymoon trip."
"Scotland?" he asked, thoroughly surprised. "Don't you want to travel someplace warm and exotic?"
'To one who has never traveled more than one hundred miles from London," she said pertly, "Scotland is exotic."
"I can assure you," he said with a smile as he walked across the room and perched on the edge of the bed, "that Italy is
more exotic. And more romantic."
She blushed, which delighted him. "Oh," she said, looking vaguely embarrassed. (He wondered how long he'd be able to embarrass her with talk of romance and love and all the splendid activities that went with them.)
"We'll go to Scotland another time," he assured her. "I usually find myself heading north every few years or so to visit Francesca, anyway."
"I was surprised that you asked for my opinion," Penelope said after a short silence.
"Who else would I ask?"
"I don't know," she replied, suddenly very interested in the way her fingers were plucking at the bedcovers. "Your brothers, I suppose."
He laid his hand on hers. "What do they know about writing?"