1804: Cambridge, England
Peter Alcott burst into his rented room, kicked off his shoes, flung his damp coat in the general direction of the rack, and reached to launch his hat so it would spin across the room-no hat. Peter patted his hair, which was distinctly wet, so he had forgotten his hat. Probably at the lecture hall.
No matter. Peter laughed and leapt onto his bed. Life was good—he was seventeen, and had his own room and no one watching over him and reminding him to be a gentleman. Peter was perfectly capable of being a gentleman, wearing uncomfortable clothes and saying the proper things in the proper accent, but it was a relief to throw it all off and be whoever he wanted to be. Indeed, becoming a man and moving up to Cambridge was much better than being at Eton, even though the classes took actual thought. Peter didn't mind thinking.
Best of all, he had a letter from his sister. He'd refused to open it downstairs, despite the landlady's barely-veiled curiosity. He was friendly with her and the other lads, but this—this was something precious.
Precious—Peter spun around, so his stocking feet went up the wall and his head flopped over the side of his bed. He wiggled his bare toes and his blood swirled and rushed, making him feel deliciously alive. He closed his eyes and imagined Eliza right there in the room with him, so he could enjoy her letter all the more.