In which there are toasts, but no trousseaux
(March, 1815)
content warning: terminal illness.
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Dear Fred,
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Angelina had been staring at those two words for the better part of half an hour — interspersed with occasional sips of coffee and anxious glances out the window. It was unseasonably sunny after several days of downpour, but morning showers still managed to break through now and again.
Writing correspondence was supposed to pass the time more quickly until she was due to set off for Alicia Spinnet's house and an afternoon in the village. Instead, it felt like the longest morning of her life.
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Dear Fred,
Thank you for your most recent letter
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Fred wrote often, nearly every week. His letters were always amusing — they could hardly be anything but — filled with tales from Brighton, musings about the news of the day, and sometimes descriptions of the few officers' wives of his acquaintance, with whom he was certain Angelina would get along famously.
And then there were his regards — particularly in the early months of their engagement — so earnest Angelina would have thought them ridiculous and insipid if she'd read them in anyone's voice other than Fred's slightly impudent one.
My darling Angelina.
Counting the days until we're together.
I can't sleep for thinking of you.
The men here accuse you of being a figment of my imagination, so magnificent you are in my description of you.
That last one had then gone on to tease that it must not be so, because he was fairly certain that a figment of his imagination wouldn't have felt quite so warm to the touch when he'd slipped his fingers under the neckline of her bodice.
By the time Angelina had finished reading Fred's plans for taking the temperature of every remaining inch of her skin, her breath had quickened such that when Colonel Weasley encountered her in the hall he enquired whether she'd just come back from her daily walk.
None of this, therefore, was displeasing to Angelina.
But neither did she have any idea what to say in return, most days. News from Ottery St Catchpole in the winter season could only use up so much ink. And Fred was certain to have heard most of it anyway from any number of his family members writing to him as well.
And though Angelina cared for Fred, she had very little to add in the way of endearments or flirtations. She could not fill a page with longing or admiration. What on earth was she supposed to say, beyond, I am glad to hear from you, or, I'll be very happy indeed when you've come home?
She knew Fred didn't expect more from her — and to be fair, even his own declarations of passion had tempered with time and distance — but all the same, it seemed a poor showing not to respond to his faithful contacts.
Today was one of those days when Angelina could not think of a single event she felt compelled to commit to paper. Angelina was hardly an idle person; she was, in effect, the acting mistress of Holden House — Colonel Weasley allowing her to order the household as she liked, as he managed his business affairs. But these weren't the sort of things you put in a letter. They were as essential but unremarkable as washing one's hair or mending a dress.
And yet, for as busy as Angelina kept, these days she was also uncharacteristically bored, thanks to…
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Dear Fred,
I'm very sorry, but when I see your brother I am going to wring his neck.
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Angelina rarely saw George these recent months, and it was intolerable and inexcusable of him. Occasionally for tea — it was always her who asked — or once in a while at any number of the small parties that popped up. But now it had been at least a month since they'd gone riding together, despite a handful of dry days that would have allowed for it.
Twice in the past fortnight she'd gone to Burrough House, but George was neither in his barn, nor was there any response when Angelina knocked several annoyed pebbles against his window. She had not gone around to the front door because, as much as she held Mrs Weasley in esteem, she couldn't tolerate one more wedding conversation.
The clock striking one put an end to Angelina's epistolary efforts. She cast the discarded, crumpled pages into the fireplace and collected her outdoor things whilst she waited for the carriage to be brought around. Then she set off to collect Alicia as promised.
It had begun drizzling again before she and Alicia arrived in the village, carriage wheels splashing through puddles between uneven cobblestones. At Alicia's urging, the driver deposited them in front of the milliner's shop where they took immediate cover for the next twenty minutes.
"I did say we should have gone into Honiton," Alicia muttered as they perused the offerings which had not changed much since last autumn, when that season's London fashions had finally made their way there.
"And get stuck in the mud miles from home? No, thank you. Besides, the new fashions won't have made their way there until next month at least."
"Well, what about your trousseau— Oh!" Alicia interrupted herself. "You and Lieutenant Weasley should go to London after you marry, of course! It's the perfect timing, and you can find anything you may need there."
Angelina squinted a little in distaste. "I should certainly hope not. If I never go back to that tiresome town again it will be too soon. Oh, look, it's Kate!"
The moderate weather had brought out several other ladies. They spotted Kate Bell just outside the milliner, and later Demelza Robins at the stationer, and Orla Quirke down the road from the baker. Each time, after the pleasantries had been exchanged, Angelina was called upon to recite her impending wedding plans.
And recite she did, in the same manner as one might describe specifications for a new dress.
"Take care," said Alicia after they'd parted with Miss Quirke, "you behave almost as if you're less excited than everybody else about your own wedding."
The rain had finally let up but for a few sprinkles, and Angelina took down her umbrella.
"Well, I don't see what there is to lose my head over."
Alicia sighed as she always did whenever Angelina was utterly hopeless.
"Angelina!" The voice belonged to Ginny, who was picking her way toward them around a large puddle, a basket of shopping hanging on her arm.
"Oh, Ginny, good morning!"
Though she appeared to have less than her usual vibrancy, Ginny greeted them both warmly.
"Has your mother come with you?" asked Angelina. "Or your brothers?"
"Oh, no. I've been staying here, as a matter of fact. Visiting Luna Lovegood. Helping, really. That's what this is." She indicated the basket on her arm.
"Oh? Is everything all right?"
"Mr. Lovegood is unwell. Had you heard?"
"I think I recall hearing he'd caught a chill, but I swear that must have been months ago."
"Some time ago, yes. It got better and then, unfortunately, it didn't. He's been confined to his bed these past two weeks. And, you know, Luna's all he has." Ginny smiled ruefully. "Mama didn't like it at first, my staying here; but it's only Luna, for heaven's sake. But I swear, I may just as well have said I'd be sleeping unchaperoned in an Army encampment, the way she went on about it. Anyway, she relented in the end, so here I am. George is, too — he's been helping in the print shop."
Angelina felt a little twinge of guilt. "I see. That's kind of him."
"Yes, well, he's on about printing presses more than ever now. Lunatic."
"So, is he is also staying with the Lovegoods, then?"
"Oh, lord, no. He comes in the mornings."
"Is he there now?"
"I think so. I expect he's nearly finished for the day. I'm on my way back now, actually."
"Oh, good! We'll walk with you."
So they found themselves in Mr Lovegood's tiny shop, where there was currently no one at the front, but faint whistling and movement could be heard coming from the room in the back.
"George?" called Ginny. When there was no response, she shouted more loudly, disappearing for a minute into the back room.
"He won't be a moment," she announced as she reemerged, looking annoyed but satisfied. "If you'll excuse me, I have to take these things upstairs."
"Give my regards to the Lovegoods," replied Angelina gratefully.
"What exactly do we want with Mr Weasley?" Alicia asked in confusion after Ginny had disappeared upstairs.
But before Angelina could answer, George appeared, wiping his hands absently on his work trousers. His collar was open, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, and he wore no waistcoat. His hands were blackened with ink, and there were smudges up and down his freckled forearms, and likewise across his cheek, nose, and brow where he'd wiped at his face. Sweat shone on every inch of his skin that wasn't covered in ink stains. It dampened his hair so that little bits clung to the outline of his face.
His look of faint confusion turned into a grin, as if nothing could have pleased him more.
"Angie! Mrs Spinnet! What brings you here?"
"We saw Ginny out walking. She mentioned you were here. I see you've been keeping busy."
"Ah — yes, that's why I'm not exactly fit for company." He glanced down at himself and then sent Alicia a teasing grimace of apology for his state of undress. "Sorry."
Angelina was unconcerned about this.
"Do you know what time you expect to be finished?" she asked.
The question seemed to catch George off-guard, but he replied, "Four o'clock, I suppose? Why?"
"Very well," said Angelina, ignoring the question. "We'll see you at four."
"I…" George hesitated too long, wondering whether he'd forgotten some engagement, and before he could question it, Angelina nudged Alicia out the door.
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Above stairs, Luna watched placidly as Ginny produced an assortment of sandwiches and cakes from a basket prepared by Mrs Weasley. Dr Weasley had delivered it that morning when he came to visit Mr Lovegood.
"What does my father say today?" Ginny's tone was light, but bracing.
"The same as every day."
Ginny pursed her lips thoughtfully, then urged, "Well, surely no better is still better than worse?"
"I think Papa would agree with you," Luna replied softly, stroking a limp tendril of hair that hung in front of her shoulder. "He says he only wishes to be comfortable now."
Ginny caught Luna's meaning, and her hands gripped the handle of the basket, as if by doing so she might cling to the moment in time before Luna had said it.
"Luna…" Ginny searched her face. "No, you can't really mean that."
Luna's eyes were a bit glassy, but her voice was steady as she replied, "Papa hasn't been well for quite some time. We've known this must happen eventually. It's not so surprising."
"He'll rally," countered Ginny, sinking into the chair next to Luna. She clasped Luna's hand with both of hers. "He must."
"It's kind of you to say so."
Absently, Luna traced a finger along the vines painted on her chipped teapot. They were curious vines that appeared to bear both daisies and radishes. Ginny watched with growing dismay. That was the one thing she couldn't fathom about Luna — the ease with which she seemed to accept things that were out of her control.
She shook her head. "Luna, this is dreadful news."
"Thank you. It's as horrible as I knew it would be. Perhaps more."
Luna lost herself in thought for an agonising moment; she could almost have been a statue, or in a trance.
"When my mother died, it was so sudden. And with Papa, I know it's coming… but I don't think that makes it any better.
"It's an odd thing to plan for, isn't it?" she mused, and Ginny could not say which of them she was really asking. "Imagine if you knew all the bad things that were coming. You would have to feel sad even before you're sad, angry before you're angry. You could try on every emotion, like a shoe. Until you found the one that fit properly."
Ginny couldn't think what to say, so she squeezed Luna's hand.
Luna looked at her then, deciding, "Or maybe you don't get to choose. Maybe it's chosen for you when the bad thing happens, and it takes you by surprise all the same. How do you suppose one can ever prepare for that?"
Ginny did not respond; she could not. It was impossible.
For Ginny had never had cause to imagine a world that she could not bend to her will.
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George took little notice of the carriage parked outside the print shop as he strolled out at ten after four with his coat tucked under his arm. It was infernally hot inside, and he drank in the frigid air and hardly noticed the gooseflesh raising across his arms or the hairs there standing on end.
"George."
The voice made him halt and about-face, seeking the source.
"Going home?" asked Angelina, who had opened the door of the carriage from within.
George blinked. "I thought to."
"Good. Allow me to offer you a ride." She opened the door more widely, and George could make out Alicia sitting just across from Angie.
"Oh, I couldn't do that to your carriage." George held his arms out, demonstrating the dishevelled and dirtied state of him. "Or Mrs Spinnet."
Angelina gave him a look that was supremely unimpressed. "Get in the carriage, George."
"Right you are," he replied smartly, climbing up to take the seat next to her.
No one but George could have noticed that Angie was… out of sorts. Not with the pleasant way she made idle conversation with him and Alicia after enquiring after Mr Lovegood's welfare.
It wasn't exactly annoyance, and it was hardly anger. It didn't crackle or hum or boil to an invisible steam. There was just something about her that was like the gooseflesh on his skin.
When they'd deposited Alicia safely at home, Angie moved to sit across from George. In the ambient light from the Spinnets' house and the last sliver of sunset, George threw her an affectedly innocent look. Angie returned it with a steady one.
"You've been avoiding me, Georgie," she said simply.
"No such thing!" he protested.
"Really? You've been a curiously difficult person to find."
"Have I? Well, now you see where I've been hiding. Except that I ain't hiding. Obviously."
"For an entire month?" she countered.
"Has it been that long?" He affected a tone of blithe disbelief — entirely insincere for someone who had been used to see Angie at least twice a week for the past two years.
"Do you think I'm stupid?" she asked, calm in a way that would have discomposed anybody but him.
"I think you're a lot of things, Ang. Be assured stupid ain't one of them."
She withheld any response, waiting for him to continue. By the flickers of light from the lantern outside the carriage she watched him smooth his hair back.
"As you've said, I've been keeping busy." The insolent smile was evident in his voice. "Idle hands, you know. Devil's tools."
"The entirety of you is the devil's tool, George."
"Why, thank you."
Then Angelina did get annoyed. "You really won't tell me?"
"Honestly, there's nothing to it," he insisted. "I've been all over, really. Print shop, the cartwright, this and that. You know how I like to work on things when I'm thinking."
"You seem to have done more thinking lately than all the minds at Oxford combined."
"Fighting words, Angie."
"But very well. What would you say if I asked you to come around one evening and have a look at our hall clock?"
"Why, is it broken?" he asked with genuine surprise.
"It will be in about half an hour."
George laughed, openly and easily, and although he couldn't see enough of her face he fancied she was biting back laughter as well. He nudged her boot with the toe of his.
"Angie. How could I ever ignore you?" His head cocked to one side. "It'd be bloody impossible, after all, you know where I live."
"Yes, and you're never there anymore," she returned, though her tone was less accusing now.
"I'm disappointed, I wouldn't have put it past you to sit in the parlour until all hours until I come home."
"Don't be ridiculous, I'm not your mother." She paused for effect, adding smoothly, "I'd have sooner hid in the shrubbery outside your window."
"There's my girl."
That odd feeling, like gooseflesh in the air between them, had vanished. The interior of the carriage was warm, but more than that, he could almost feel Angie relaxing without touching her.
"I don't suppose you've anything pressing on Sunday after church?" he offered.
"Not a thing."
"Well, then, I'm entirely yours to command. How does that sound?"
"Good," Angie decided after a few seconds' deliberation. Her voice softened. "Thank you."
In the darkness she could not see his little smile, nor see it slip again as he fell into contemplation for a minute.
"I will confess," he said slowly, "I had imagined you would have other things on your mind during this time, as well; more important things to do."
"Such as what?"
"I don't know. Wedding things?"
"Exactly how much of my time do you expect that to occupy?"
"I'm sure I don't know," he repeated. "It all sounds deuced complicated, if you listen to Mama."
"Precisely what sounds complicated?" Angelina asked drily.
George thought for a moment. "Wedding breakfast?"
"Do you think I'm making my own cake?"
Another pause. "Banns?"
"George."
"Your trousseau?"
Picking up on his tone, Angie jibed, "You don't even know what that is, do you?"
"Haven't the faintest idea. But according to Mama, you need one. So does Ginny."
"Well, your concern for my trousseau is appreciated."
"Indeed. Someone should be concerned about it," he said in mock reproach. "Because clearly you're not."
She laughed as the carriage turned off the main road toward Burrough House.
"You'll stay to dinner, won't you?" George asked.
"Of course."
"I'm afraid it's quiet — what with Ginny and Percy both away — Oh, no!" he groaned as a thought occurred to him.
"What?"
"I've only just realised that you're leaving in scarcely two months, and everyone else will be gone, too."
"You've only just realised that I'll be leaving?"
"No, I knew that, but I didn't put it together before now… Ron and Ginny will both be off to London for the season. And Percy's already there, not that I mind. And you'll be gone. What a bleak prospect."
"Suppose you go to London as well?"
"Urgh. I think not. Place sounds dashed uncivilised, if you ask me."
Neither spoke again until they were slowing to a stop in front of the house.
"It hasn't truly felt real to me, either," Angelina admitted then. "Until now. I suppose I shouldn't say so, but part of me almost wishes I didn't have to leave."
In the lamplight flooding the carriage through the opened door, George's face was entirely sincere as he gave her foot another reassuring nudge.
"I almost wish you didn't, either."
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In Brighton, half a dozen stony-faced Captains and Lieutenants reconvened at the Hog's Head, their companies having been dismissed only moments before.
Captain James Beecham emitted a monotone string of curses under his breath whilst waiting for a round of ale.
Lieutenant Jack Anderson sent three darts hurtling into the centre of a crudely drawn circle on the far wall with vicious precision.
Lieutenants Meshach Monroe, Theodore Pratt, and Lee Jordan conferred in clipped, hushed tones.
" …can't have that many, it isn't possible… "
" …a damned hum if I ever heard one… "
" …how?"
" …where was Campbell… "
And Fred Weasley was stalking back and forth on a short track like a caged lion — hands on his hips, clasped atop his head, clenching and unclenching restlessly, and back to his hips as he stared unseeingly at nothing in particular.
" …nothing for it… " said Monroe.
" …letters to write… " Pratt muttered.
"Weasley."
Fred looked up at the sound of Jordan's voice to find him clutching two tankards of ale, one which he extended to Fred.
Stoic, he accepted it, lifted it a little towards Jordan, and drank. Jordan did the same, followed by a significant, querying look — an unspoken, Penny for your thoughts?
Fred opened his mouth, but his intake of breath was cut short and he shook his head as he realised that, for once in his life…
"I have fucking nothing to say." He took another drink.
"I have," announced Captain Oliver St. John. He raised his own tankard with a pointed look. "The King."
"The King," they repeated.
They drank to the Duke of Wellington, "Our Men," "Our Women," "Our Swords," and to absent friends.
"And one for old Boney," decided Fred with a scheming look.
When six pairs of eyes blinked at him in surprise, he clarified with a sly smile: "He's going to need it."
And they drank. And said they'd turn in after this round because they had a long day ahead of them tomorrow. And then they drank a second round.
And then they did turn in, each to his own room where he sat at his own writing desk and picked up his own pen — all to write the same letters, a week before the whole debacle would make its way into provincial newspapers across the country.
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My Dearest Angelina,
I regret that I have the most unfortunate news…
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A/N: Gosh... hi guys. I didn't write for about 6 months last year due to dealing with some personal stuff. I've been back to updating this fic but I'm really terrible about keeping up on FFN as much as I do on AO3, sorry about that! I have 6 new chapters (including this one) to share with you, so I'll be working on getting them all uploaded and posted over the next week. Thank you for reading!
(PS... If you're a history buff, don't throw rocks at me just yet.) :P
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trousseau - the clothing and linens and things that a woman brings with her when she married
(Neil) Campbell - the guy tasked with babysitting Napoleon on the island of Elba. Napoleon basically planned and executed his escape in plain view.