Sweet, Sweet is the Greeting of Eyes pt. 1
Lady Veronica x Forsythe Pendleton Jones III
Summary: Itâs 1819 Englandâtwo young adults have found a mutual admiration for each other over hours of exchanging words about poetry, literature, science and the arts. The first, Lady Veronica, is wealthy beyond imagination, but so isolated in her country home. The second is Forsythe Pendleton Jones III, an academic who thrived while educating the underprivileged youths of London. The bond they slowly form over time is what they both want and craveâŚbut what did it all mean for their own futures - both together, and singularly.
Notes: Oh my god. This is my first ever actual fic, let alone a regency!au, I hope you like it @kindnessinpain2000 , time got away from me this month, but this was fun to create! I really loved all your requests, but this vibe really stuck in my mind. I think Iâll probably do 1-2 more parts if you love thisâŚHappy Holidays love! Also, I know the title is from a John Keats poem he wrote in a letter in June 1818, to George and Georgiana Keats - which was first published in 1925, but I swear itâs something theyâd exchange in this fic, so Iâm going with it.Â
Warnings: Honestly none, maybe just some major slow burn, and a touch of the typical moody Jughead we know and love.
It was 1819 and spring was finally here. As he approached Pembrooke, hired on as a tutor by one of the wealthiest families on this side of Oxford, he couldnât help but miss the city. The constant change of faces, never-ending booksellers and his students. He taught underprivileged teens and young adults how to read. Watching each come alive while reading his favorite literature was fascinating to him. Leaving London for permanent employment at a country house didnât spark anything thrilling for him, but the financial security felt like a need due to unforeseen familial issues that recently arose. Little did he know his entire future would be upended soon enough.
Forsythe Pendleton Jones III was an academic who had a way with words. Compared to others of a similar age, he was incredibly well educated. With a swath of floppy dark brown waves, a stare that could pierce oneâs soul and an air of mystery behind his eyes. Women of all ages noticed him. He was never one for romance, he could be, but no one intrigued him longer than a few minutes. That is until he walked into the entrance hall of the country home. He was greeted by The Lord and Lady Pembrooke and more specifically their only daughter, Lady Veronica.
As the weeks passed and time turned to months, he fell into a simple routine, or as simple as one could get existing within this environment. His mornings consisted of tea, reading alone in the study prior to making his way to the north library for daily education. He tutored Lord Pembrookeâs young nephews from Spain, who now lived in England year-round. Although compared to his typical London pupils, they had been exposed at an early age to some of the best literature, art, music, mathematics, and sciences one could afford. However, just like his former pupils, the boys still had that spark in their eye and an excitement for learning. Most days were spent this way, with evenings in the library, where he often read aloud to the family and distant relatives or friends of the Lord and Lady who spent weekends in the country.
During the seemingly endless evenings immersed in a book, he grew to look forward to Saturdays most. This was when Lady Veronica read to the boys in the afternoons while he prepared the lessons for the following week. Oftentimes he found himself distracted and lost in thought while she took over the study with her voice, which was so unlike him. Where were these thoughts creeping in from, why her of all people, itâs not like he had a chance to ever publicly declare he had these thoughts about her. They were from two very different backgrounds, while he was well off and had some slight social advantages, her father would never allow for their lives to intertwine romantically.
It was after one of these weekend afternoons, while he was lost in a recently published science essay for the boys Monday lessons, that he looked up just as Lady Veronica passed by the desk and softly dropped a small envelope on his never-ending stack of textbooks. After they shared a mutually discreet glance, she was gone from the room. Although he was anxious to rip the parchment open and delve into whatever she had written to him, he slowly collected his papers, books, quills, sure to not forget her mysterious note and with haste escaped to his living quarters in the north wing. Once inside, he settled at his chair near the window to unseal the unassuming note. He was immediately caught by her graceful and quickly scrawled words. It was not known that he had a fondness for the romantic sonnets of the past and present, but more specifically Lord George Byron. How she had known this, he assumed was purely coincidental.
And like music on the waters
  Is thy sweet voice to me:
When, as if its sound were causing
The charmed oceanâs pausing,
The waves lie still and gleaming,
And the lullâd winds seem dreaming:
        Meet me in the garden at half-past dusk tomorrowâŚLV.
Moving from the window to his desk, removing a quill, some parchment and settling in to contemplate how to reply. He needed to write something in such a way that conveyed every thought of her that occupied his mind, without seeming entirely too infatuated or overbearing, Â he scrawled down, not his own words, but Percy Bysshe Shelly.
Thy gentle words are drops of balm
 In lifeâs too bitter bowl;
These choicest blessings I have
Harriet! If all who long to live
 In the warm sunshine of thine eyes, -F
After sealing the small note, Forsythe needed to find a moment to slip it to her unnoticed. The family resided in the east wing, which he rarely ventured to. It needed to be inconspicuous; however, he could hardly ask her ladyâs maid, Elisbeth to hand off the note to her without stirring up whispers among the others. He decided to wait until after their shared family meal, and while he selected a book to read that evening. She routinely wandered the library and would choose favorites for him to read passages from, while Lord and Lady Pembrooke said their goodnights to the boys prior to joining for the evening. Tonight while he handed off a Wordsworthâs An Evening Walk and Descriptive Sketches, to her, they shared a quick glance and brushed fingertips. With his small token of admiration tucked inside the cover.
The night passed excruciatingly too slow for him. The following day, while he enjoyed the time spent delving into their expansive literature collection, he wanted nothing more than to somehow speed time and space up to get through the next day. Although he had a leisurely day of riding with Lord Pembrooke in the northeastern Cotswolds, on which Pembrooke sat with all of its stately, silent power - his mind was consumed entirely by Lady Veronica throughout the afternoon outing. Lord Pembrooke continued to engage in conversation with him throughout the day gone, most of which consisted of him trying to convince Forsythe into participating in his humorous antics with his valet and the young men who rode along. It was a pleasant escape from the normal academic rigors of the last weeks, but he wanted nothing more than for dusk to finally arrive.
With time finally on his side, he made his way out the north side exit to the sweeping gardens south of the home, he couldnât help but feel a small sliver of anxiety. This is not something he normally did. Secret stolen glances, mysterious garden strolls with a woman of her caliber were just not things Forsythe Pendleton Jones III participated in. But there was something different about Lady Veronica. She was an enigma. Other ladies of a similar age were already well acquainted with love and romance, oftentimes already marrying a gentleman of significant family power and notoriety. Yet, here she was, sharing mutual glances with him over literature. Discussing the works of todayâs most influential authors and poets with him in the study throughout the days. How had fate placed her in his path, was this to be a fleeting moment or the start of something more. Â
Lost in wandering a section covered in soft moss and wildflowers near the outskirts of the garden, he hadnât heard her approach. Suddenly she was next to him and he was unable to form a coherent thought to create a sentence. Luckily for him, she took the lead, âHello Forsythe, I see you have found yourself in my absolute favorite section of my motherâs garden, shall we walk?â She slipped her graceful hand into the nook of his arm and thus began their secret conversations.
As they wandered aimlessly throughout the Pembrookeâs unparalleled garden, they shared slowly about their favorite topics, uncovering what made their minds operate. When each realized, unbeknownst to them, that this was not going to be a singular incident. They were discovering that there was another soul in the universe that related to their own mind, even heart, so closely. Just as they were rounding another corner of the labyrinth they had aimlessly strolled into, thunder was heard above. Soon enough it was a ceaseless rainfall. Removing his tailcoat and draping it over her small frame, they found refuge from the summer storm, in the small garden pavilion.
While waiting for the rain to cease, they sat in comfortable silence. Each reveling in the absolute quiet that always happens during a particularly hard rainfall. While she watched the garden and contained all the words that he too was holding back for fear of breaking the magic spell that fell over them. He couldnât help but let his mind wander again. To all of the countless times he had admired, not just her mind, but her outward beauty as well. She had dark hair, just a shade darker than his own, nearly the color of a ravenâs feathers. With facial features that he saw as almost exotic compared to other women he saw while living in London, yet her face was also so familiar to him. Lost in his own mind yet again, he hadnât noticed that she glanced over while he leaned back against the pillar of the stone pavilion. With a smirk on her face and a devilish glint in her eye, âForsythe, dare I say we escape this cold night and make a run for shelter?â
After giving hardly any thought to the inquiry, âOh, Lady Veronica, I thought you would like to stay here, with me and exist in this freezing realm of silence forever?â
With a laugh and a shake of her raven-haired head, she said, âI should never leave if I didnât have to Forsythe.â Taking her hand, he whisked her into the storm across the garden, in the direction of Pembrooke.
As they ran towards the warmth of the fireplaces and dry clothing that awaited each of them inside. Unknown to each of them was what fate truly did have in store for them. The neverending hours wandering the gardens, learning the deepest feelings of one another. The endless laughs exchanged over comedic books, reading poems, literature and countless notes covertly exchanged. What it all meant for their own futures - both together, and singularly.
dailybridgerton
izzy806
tangentwithtanner
