London lay in his road to Tunbridge, and the colonel resolved to pass the dreariest, most forsaken time of year in the city. He staid at the Hallendale’s London house, thinking to share the company of his brother, but the Viscount was no-where to be seen; the colonel supposed that he—like everyone who had anywhere else they could be—was gone thither. The colonel had no inclination for wagering or other low pursuits, and so was denied the pleasure of frequenting even those thin assemblies at this season. He spent his days alternately walking along Oxford Street or Piccadilly, having coffee at Gunther’s, or sitting in the Hallendale’s library, thinking of what he would say, should anyone perchance walk in. Indeed, anyone who happened to look unawares at Colonel Fitzwilliam would have assumed that he was in town purposely to be lonely and ill-used. Satisfying even his own desire to feel himself miserable, he finally left for Tunbridge, but then only on the coldest, wettest day of the spring.

Taking a room at Mount Sion, Colonel Fitzwilliam resolved on visiting the coffee houses, assembly rooms, circulating library, tavern, and shops as a general antidote to his persistent depression of spirits. He saluted the ladies walking along the Pantiles under the colonnade in inclement weather, and through the lime avenue on bright days out to the country lanes, walking through the ancient farmsteads. He began to shape his days so as to take the waters in the morning, stroll in the afternoon, and attend a ball, concert, or some other entertainment in the evening. He purchased some small pieces of Tunbridge Ware: a glove box for Elizabeth with a beautifully inlaid flowering branch and butterfly, and a dressing box for Georgiana with a kitten curled up in a basket. A young, single man in a smart uniform of rank will always attract the fair sex, and Colonel Fitzwilliam was no exception. His ease of manner and congenial conversation added to his other attractions, and he was become quite popular within the space of a few days at Tunbridge. As a result, the Colonel was, in general, finding that his spirits, whilst not encouraged to the point of elation, were at least sufficiently recovered as to be called tolerably composed.

One dreary, wet afternoon, about a week following his arrival, as the Colonel was taking his customary stroll under the colonnade, he was startled from his thoughts by the press of an hand on his shoulder and an unexpected voice,

“Colonel Fitzwilliam!” cried Mary Crawford, “I am so relieved to find that it is you after all, and that I have not accosted a stranger with such fond familiarity.”

“Mar…Miss Crawford,” began the Colonel, trying to collect both his wits and his composure before having to finish the sentence. “What a surprise it is to see you here. I had imagined you in Norfolk these many weeks.”