A Gentleman's Discovery:

My sweet, 
       
      The moon and I had a conversation about you last night: I went for a stroll and paused on the bridge just under the moon's glow. I looked at her reflection beneath me and asked her why I must suffer so. I had no thought whatsoever of her answering me back, I assure you. But then she told me something rather astonishing. She told me that you, my love, have been waiting your whole life to be loved as I love you; but that you must come to it on your own terms. And so I shall be patient, dear love, until you are ready to see me as I am. 
      I know this life has been a very difficult one for you, and you have stood at the brink of despair and refused to let it take you. If ever there has been any braver deed, I am not aware of its existence. 
     Yours is the soul mine longs for. Last night as I stood in the light of the moon, capturing its beauty in my memory, I suddenly knew hers must be a sister to your soul. For there could not be two such beautiful creations with no connection to one another. 
      Have you ever stood under the light of the moon, darling? She whispered to my soul answers to questions I'd never voiced--yet they were the most desperate kind. Questions like you, sweet heart, and if ever there was a hope of you. 
      There was a connection of souls under that light, and I can't help but think, did you feel it too?
      I shall wait a little longer for you, love, for I have felt a soul who knows ours and I know that I have a chance with you yet.

             Please: thank the moon for me,
      Your hopeful love


Thomas knew he could never send this one. But if felt better to get some of that overwhelming sentiment out of his system. It was almost too much for him to handle, a new hope of her.
      Perhaps he could count on Percival.
      Perhaps.

A Musicale with the Lady:

Cecilia could no longer avoid social engagements, having become rather healthy--pity that it was. Almost the moment she informed her dear Mamma that she was feeling better, she was bombarded with luncheons and dinners and dances, even a musicale, all to which they'd been invited but forced to decline because of her poor health. Her mother was frantic sending replies and apologetic acceptances. Cecilia had hoped to stick to their original refusal (though usually she didn't mind society life), but there was to be no putting her mother off.
      And so, as a dutiful daughter, Cecilia arrived at Grevton Place with her Mamma at the proper time. She sat through excruciating pleasantries before the musicale was to open. She responded to inquires of her health she knew wouldn't have been made if it weren't for her mother's lack of propriety in changing her mind about their ability to come. She allowed a number of gentlemen to take her hand, all the while knowing they were only after the promise of a sizable dowry. She accepted their half compliments without thinking too hard of their sardonic undertones. She did all this without a complaint. Until Mrs. Mansley approached.
      "Oh, dear Miss Wells! I cannot tell you how very relieved I was to hear of your recovery! Indeed, I was left in quite a state when I heard the news, even a fit if you were to ask Mr. Mansley (though I can add no attestation to my having called it that), for often has a young girl taken cold and suffered for the worse off because of it--even lost their bloom! But now I see that you are well, and there is no point in asking after your health, and therefore the only thing worth asking over is your Mr. Bradley. I wonder, how is our favorite conspirator?" Cecilia took comfort in the fact that it was one of her shorter monologues.
       Cecilia did her very best to keep her sarcasm to a minimum, being aware of how unladylike a trait it was. "I daresay, Mrs. Mansley, I am quite sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but as it so happens my Mr. Bradley, as you so endearingly put it, has been engaged some six weeks now while he has been away from the City."
        One would have expected, next, for Mrs. Mansley to console her young friend. It was, however, a very different reaction she received. "Well." Began Mrs. Mansley, "Let me tell you something young lady: cultured young men do not know who or what they want until it is put right in front of their faces. A girl such as the likes of you," she put extra emphasis on this phrase, "will not catch a husband by being coy. Men do not want a conversationalist, they want someone who makes them look good at a party; they want someone to run their homes; someone to agree to their schemes. Do not wait for a man to sweep you off your feet, Cecilia. He simply won't. You've got to tell him what he wants."
      Cecilia was very nearly appalled. "And what, pray tell, of love? "
       Mrs. Mansley clucked her tongue and shook her head. "Don't be a child, Cecilia! Love is something invented by the writers of fairy tales to comfort the poor. You, my dear, have been born to high society and there are certain standards to which we must live. It is expected."
       Cecilia could not hold back anymore. "And is there not more to life than what is expected?" 
       "There is nothing more to life than that, dear. Not in England."

Needless to say, Cecilia was left quite out of sorts after such a conversation. And so it was not such a surprise (at least to a certain lady) that when all the music had been played, and recitations were called for that Cecilia got up and recited a little sonnet written on the back of a napkin. Clearing her throat, she began. 

"The Ideal Man:

He stands with all virtue about his face,

No other is found worthy of compare.

For he contains all elegance and grace,

While sophistication adorns his air.

His words are kind, yet matched with quick wit.

All the world's sweetness envelops his speech.

No word of his will you dare to forget;

All vocabulary within his reach.

Every goodness he has acquired

Is practiced daily with calm focused care.

Thousands have his noble actions inspired,

With his perfections so notably rare.

Tis a pity that such is mythical,

For perfect men are merely fictional."

[The Ideal Man written by Alexandra Dorine Jesperson]

The Gentleman's Response:

The room was shockingly silent after Cecilia's performance. Thomas felt rejected. He knew she must have put up with a great deal earlier in the evening to have gone through with the spectacle at the end. He took greater comfort, for once, in the fact that in her eyes he was merely a friend and the interlude previous was not directed at him; but he couldn't help but feel terribly insulted and chastised and dejected all at once. Perhaps he had only imagined everything he had consoled himself with--that she would ever grow to return his affection.
      When Thomas returned home that evening, the poem ran through his head on an endless loop. The words echoed their sentiment and he understood them perfectly. Tis a pity that such is mythical, For perfect men are merely fictional. She believed there wasn't a man alive that she could be happy with. It was as if she undervalued men in general. She knew nothing of their characters, how they think and feel.
      With these thoughts and frustrations running through his head, he sat to write, yet again, to the lady.


My dear lady,

      You have said tonight how you despise all that is in a man. Though I realize you have little experience, and that there was some justification in your speech, I cannot help but tell you how unforgiving a speech it was. You, my lady, though claiming to know much of the way of a man, know little to nothing of it. How often have I seen young ladies such as yourself succumb to the dictates of Society! For if you were to know the truth: there is no value in witty comebacks, or clever looks. Have you not seen the way people of Society place infinite importance on whether they look just right or curtsy properly?  Have you not grown sick of  people pretending to be your friend, people only interested in what you have to say until they've got their gossip and leave? Have you not tired of insincerity? 
      You have spoken your piece on the ways of Society tonight, now let me address mine. In response to your own sonnet, I shall give you another. It is from the poet Ben Jonson who speaks of the true nature of not only life, but love also, as it contrasts to society. 

Still to be Neat:
Still to be neat, still to be dressed

As you were going to a feast;

Still to be powdered, still perfumed; 

Lady, it is to be presumed,

Though art's hid causes are not found,

All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a look, give me a face,

That makes simplicity a grace;

Robes loosely flowing, hair as free;

Such sweet neglect more taketh me

 Than all th'adulteries of art. 

They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

[Poem: Still to be Neat, written by Ben Jonson: 1609 A.D.]

An Outing with the Lady:

It was, of course, needless to say Cecilia got rather a sound reprimand from that dear mother of hers. Apparently it was not considered ladylike to tell half of London their aspirations were mythical. Sulking later in her room, she reasoned that it was about time somebody woke them.
     There was a knock at her door, and before she could react, Wendy was swept in with the ends of a breeze. The moment her eyes caught Cecilia's there was a sense of peace. Then came the sarcasm. "So," she said with a calculated ease, "Found any perfect men lately?" Cecilia only shot her a look that could have scared a confession out of a priest. Wendy, the saint that she was, shoved it off and took her friend's hand. "Let's have a walk," she said, coaxing Cecilia up off her bed and out the door.
      Once the ladies had retired to the gardens, they were free to talk openly. "What's really going on with you, Lia? You've never made public displays before unless you wanted to get a point across."
       Cecilia sighed. She could see there was no point putting her off. "All my life I've wanted everything London had to offer: the balls, the parties, the company. Only, it suddenly feels as though the all of it has grown stale. And the other day someone scolded me for not being the one a certain gentleman proposed to. For not being the one he wanted. It's just--have you ever wondered what it would be like to really fall in love--and I don't mean admiration, I mean truly, desperately, agelessly in love? Have you ever wondered what it would be like to feel something?"
        Wendy felt Cecilia's words as an echo in her soul. But she knew nothing would change the world they lived in. "Lia, you and I lead very separate lives from the rest of England. Our society demands perfect behavior or you are thrown to the wolves as an outcast. Society is cruel, but what other alternative do we have than to conform? Do you wish to bring ruin upon yourself? On your family? Your acquaintances? That is the road to which your kind of thinking leads. Do not let the tide drag you under."
       Cecilia was left bereft after her friend's words. She could hardly believe her ears. Were they not friends? Should she not have consoled her instead of warning her? She could hardly make sense of what had happened.
      Eventually she felt Wendy shift beside her. Her hand was outstretched, and in it was a copy of the "Society column" from that morning's Times, the story of Cecilia's rather infamous performance splattered across the page. "Thomas said to give this to you. He thought it could help put things in perspective." After that Wendy was gone.

Hours later, Cecilia was reconciled to this new vision of society life. If it was refinement they wanted, they would get just that. They seemed, however, to also require a suitor, and while she had no current prospects, she had a devious imagination which she was certain could catch her a suitor all in a matter of a single knock.
      The hard part came after Thomas opened the door.

The Gentelman's Memory:

All Thomas could do was remember that day, almost four years prior, when his life changed forever.

It was a crying day to begin with; the heavens wept rain that left the earth a slippery gray and the air cleansed and fresh, and a girl cried drops that fell only to be mingled with heaven's tears on her dress. Thomas couldn't blame her for crying, the graveyard loomed all around them as a cage that suffocated them with longing for those past.  It was her father's grave they stood next to. It was freshly dug, freshly filled, freshly forgotten by the world. 

      Only, she hadn't forgotten. She felt the pain as poignantly as though her heart were buried with his and she had to learn to live without it. Thomas knew suddenly that he was an intruder on this private moment between father and daughter. He turned to leave, but she caught his hand and would not let him move. "You can't go." she whispered. "Everyone's gone. You're all I have." 
      His breath caught in his throat as he tried to speak. Instead, he only gathered her into his arms and let her cry on his shoulder, feeling as though he were holding the broken pieces of her heart together. That's what unnerved him; how fragile she had suddenly become and how each broken piece of her seemed to seep into his soul. 
      And then, suddenly needing to explain herself, the girl pulled back and whipped at her tears. She took Thomas's hand and starred down at the grave. "All my life he did everything I asked of him," her voice was raw with emotion, and it almost pained Thomas to hear her that way; in the way that emanates such great desperation that you can't help but marvel at the force of their soul. 
       She attempted to clear her throat, but nothing in her voice changed as she continued on. "If I asked for a dress, I'd have it. If I asked for a game, he'd play it. If I asked him to climb to the top of the world, he'd do it and bring me back his favorite star as a prize. But when he got sick, I didn't think to ask him to get better. I didn't know how bad it was until it was too late. And then those last few days when he started to get worse and I could feel him slipping away, I couldn't ask him to stay. I knew he wouldn't be able to, even if I had asked. It was the only thing I really ever needed from him, Thomas. I didn't need that dress or the game or his star, I didn't need any of it. I just needed him; and I never asked him to stay."
      Thomas couldn't think of how to respond. He couldn't comfort her: nothing in his experience compared to how much pain she was in. There was nothing he could do for her but let her lean on his shoulder.
       So when she turned to him and addressed him with that same desperation in her voice, he couldn't do anything but agree to whatever she asked of him. "Promise me," was all she could force out until she cleared her throat and tried again. "Promise me you won't leave too."
      Thomas felt again the stab of her pain. He nodded and gathered her into his arms. "I promise," he said with all the fervor of his soul. "I'll never leave you alone."
       It was at that precise moment, when she was pressing up against his shoulder and his nose was full of the smell of her, that he knew he would do anything she asked of him. And perhaps that meant he loved her, because he too would climb to the top of the world and bring her his favorite star.

Thomas now starred back at that same desperate girl whose soul had been shattered the day her father died and whose heart he had tried to mend every day since.
      But today he paused before he granted her request. "Now hold on a minute, Lia. You want me to court you. . . without courting you?"

      Cecilia rolled her eyes. "Look," she said, trying to explain for the umpteenth time why and how desperately she needed this. "It's only until this whole thing blows over; it's not like it'd be permanent damage to your reputation." 

      Reputation was the last thing Thomas was worried about. He was more concerned about being rejected by her; living as though she loved him but knowing all the while it was just a guise to her; could he really endure such torture? Thomas knew deep down inside that if it would lessen her own pain, then he could. No matter the extent of the pain, she was always worth it: even if she was the one that inflicted it in the first place. 

      Thomas sighed and ran a hand through his hair, thinking of what to do. Without warning her desperate plea filled his mind: "Promise me you won't leave too." He had promised her he'd never leave her alone. He silently cursed himself for having made the promise which now placed him in such pain. 

       He looked back up into her eyes. "We do this on one condition: you can't back out until I say it's safe." He knew it sounded extreme, but if they were going to do this, he was going to make sure it was done right, even if it did hurt. 

         

A Duo against the World:

The gravel crunched beneath them and the carriage swayed as it always did turning onto a drive. Cecilia bit her lip as the house came into view; Thomas fiddled with his cuff. Nerves were getting the best of the pair, but, as soldiers in a war, they put on their fronts like plates of armor.
      Thomas adjusted his cravat and said, "Don't worry. It'll all be over soon enough, though I confess I will be sorry to see the gaggle of adoring young ladies dissipate because of our agreement." The word tasted foul in his mouth, the very essence of his torture. Cecilia cast him a sideways glance and smirked at his sarcasm.
      "Shouldn't you be more concerned about it being us two against the world?" A sudden soberness filled her voice, and the weight of her words echoed in the silence between them.
      Thomas, adopting an air of confidence he didn't quite feel, said, "I'm more worried about the rest of the world being against us."

The night began like all others--carriages pulled up to the doors, guests were announced, and gossip was shamelessly exchanged. The whisperings started almost the instant Thomas and Cecilia walked through the front doors and didn't stop for the rest of the evening.  Cecilia leaned heavily on her escort, hoping he might somehow shield her from Society's harsh remarks. This, however, did little more than provoke the Gossips into fantasizing a scandal.
      Dinner was served just in time to save the couple from yet another introduction, and the party-goers took their seats. It was not ten minutes into dinner when a mumbling at her side caught Cecilia's attention. If she strained her ears, she could just make out the words: "Seems the young poet has finally abandoned her childish notion of true love and rejoined the realms of reality." 
      This biting observation was followed with another, rather sharp observation spoken a tad too loud for the privacy of the aforementioned whispered conversation. The speaker, a stout, horse-faced old woman, clearly directing her comment straight at Cecilia said, "Perhaps she has thought better of her actions than to contradict those who know more than she." Cecilia could feel the woman's eyes on herself, summing her up. 

      Cecilia, foolishly proud that she was, could no longer take this. Rumors she could handle, a little harmless gossip here and there was only to be expected, but when it was so blatantly stated--practically to her face--she would not tolerate it. She cleared her throat, but never let her eyes wonder from off her plate as she interrupted their conversation, "I'm afraid it was rather less climactic than all that. You see, we are quite in love." 

      The ladies, now abandoning their former attempts at being discrete, both turned toward Cecilia only to convey how utterly appalled they were at the notion. "My dear," the first of the two chided, "have you not been listening? Love simply does not exist." 

      Cecilia was growing more and more frustrated, and her voice was rising along with her annoyance as she once more endeavored to make them understand, "Your superior age is a credit to you, to be sure; but do not be mistaken in thinking that your minds can lend any of that knowledge to your heart. For the heart, like any other muscle in the body, must be exercised else it will lose its health and become as the hearts of this society: ignorant, decrepit and useless."
      It was the second, more persistent, of her two combatants that spoke now, "Well, I never! Young lady, I suggest you learn what is and isn't proper and conform to the rules of this society, or else there might not be any of it left for the likes of you when you come to your senses. "
      Just as she was about to really give the two reprobates a piece of her mind, something stopped her. Cecilia inhaled sharply, surprise and something else she couldn't quite name surging through her body. Thomas's hand was a burning chill on top of hers, and she had to fight the urge to draw back from the shock it sent up her arm. After a moment had passed in which Cecilia's next exhibition lay stillborn on her tongue, Thomas removed his hand.
       The next few minutes of their dinner were a two-front war. On the one side, Cecilia fought the urge to give her dinner companions a rather sound tongue-lashing on the virtues of innocence of the heart. On the other, her mind raced to understand the turmoil of flutterings within her stomach; the pulsing of her skin where Thomas's hand had been, reminding herself it was only to keep her silent.
 Surely it was all diplomatic. It had to be.

A Gentleman's Confession:

The night had ended only a few moments before, and Thomas left to call for the Carriage. Standing out in the frigid night air, he stared blindly at the grandeur of the estate around him. He inhaled, letting the chill of the night penetrate his lungs, savoring the feeling of being alive under the great expanse of the horizon. It was liberating.
      He wasn't certain how this change had come about, he only knew that everything within him had come undone. But maybe whatever had come undone had opened his soul: unlocked the something that had always held him back, and now all the universe was spilling into the cracks between what used to be. His mind raced; his stomach was in knots; his heart was reeling. And his arm was on fire.
      A sound at the top of the stairs where he stood caused him to turn around. Thomas had to wait for the door to close before he could see the currently silhouetted newcomer. As his eyes adjusted again to the dark, Thomas recognized Cecilia's silent form pausing at the door. He was, for the thousandth time, taken aback by her beauty--noticing the way the moon grave luster to her hair, how the breeze coaxed a blush onto her cheeks and nose, and how, even in the darkness, her eyes shone almost like a lighthouse--drawing in everything and everyone around her.
     Suddenly struck in that moment by the realization of how deep his affection for her was, he knew irrevocably that this arrangement could not go on. Had he not already seen how torturous it could become? After only a touch of their hands, he had come completely undone; he could only imagine the havoc furthering an association of this standing would reek on his life.
      Thomas took one step toward her. It was time to put an end to this. Walking nearer, he began constructing the words in his mind--drafting them as he had done so many times with his letters.
  
My dearest love,
    I know your views of me to be indifferent, but I can no longer keep my silence.

     Taking yet another step, Thomas was confident he could finally say the words he had so often fantasized. He continued on with his confession, convinced of the truth of his words.

    For the silence has suffocated me; stalking me like a ghost through dinners and parties and balls, preying off the fear I have of rejection, reminding me of the convenience of silence. And though it protects my sense of comfort, the convenience of my silence has become my demon; for is it not a curse to be held back from your potential? To constantly be haunted by the threat of what could be?

     The thought outraged him; to think he was doing this to himself. But all that would end soon.

    No. From this day forward I shall refuse to let my demon control me. I have lived too long in the shadow of its reign, and now I must tell you what my demon seeks to hide; and that is that I am yours. For you fill my mind, my heart, my soul, and not a day has gone by without the knowledge that if it weren't for your presence I would be lost to the abyss of this lonely world.
      There, love. Now you know the truth, and though my demon may consume me for it, know it was worth the hope of you.

Suddenly the door opened and another person joined them on the stairs. Thomas hesitated, and it was just enough for the man to reach Cecilia. Thomas shrunk back into the shadows, suddenly suspicious of the encounter.
      Cecilia's laughter pierced the night, and she leaned in to hear the man's next comment, coyly placing her hand on his sleeve. She shot him a look of pretended shame. Thomas knew that look. Cecilia was quite unabashedly flirting with him.
      Thomas waited until they departed company to inform her the carriage had come. Walking near her, he gruffly laced her arm through his. "We're leaving," he exclaimed.
      The ride home was stiff and awkward--a change the friends weren't exactly used to. When they reached her home, he got out of the carriage and helped her down. Without a word, Cecilia walked to the door. She opened it, but did not go in. She turned and started at him for a moment. She hesitated, and then spoke,"Are you cross with me because I told those women we were in love? I was only trying to prove a point--they don't believe in love, you see. Nobody seems to believe it exists." She mumbled her next comment mostly to herself, but Thomas heard it all the same. "Maybe I'm going crazy. Or maybe they're right, and I'm just as naive as they say."
     All thought of being angry dissipated at her words. Thomas walked to where she stood. "I'm not cross with you, Lia." he said softly, using her nickname like he did whenever she reminded him of how it was when they were children, of how very vulnerable she could be at times.
      He placed a hand on her cheek, not being able to help himself. He raised her downcast eyes to his and said, "And I definitely don't think you're crazy."
      Hope filled her eyes. "Then you think it exists?"
      Thomas couldn't help but smile, letting his fingers slip delicately into her hair. "Of course it exists."
      The pair of them stood like that for an eternity, no longer needing words but communicating from soul to soul; heart to heart. Eventually, Thomas pulled away. Clearing his throat he said, "It's getting late; I should go." He then turned and walked back to the carriage.
      Just as he reached for the handle, her quiet voice stopped him. "Thomas? " she waited for him to face her before continuing, "Thank you for believing in me."

A Lady's Reflection:

Cecilia's mind was bombarded with a thousand different thoughts; the night had felt to long--been too full--to have merely been one.
      She was beginning to understand, now, what Thomas had meant when he said that he was more afraid of the rest of the world being against the two of them rather than the other way around. She knew that she was not alone;  that Thomas believed in something; in love; in her,  and knowing that was more powerful than all of the world's disbelief.
       As she laid down to sleep, what should have been the silence of the night brimmed with liveliness, and her thoughts refused to be quieted. In attempt to quiet her mind--indeed, her wondering soul--she sat up, lit a candle and retrieved her journal. The moment her quill touched the page her words came as unleashed beasts, growing to animation--flickering to life--pulsing with the force of her own heart.

My dear diary, 
      I hardly know what to write; only that if I do not these words will consume me from the inside out, and I shall be left destitute. However much I tried, I could not hold back their truths; and my only consolation shall be that mine are the only eyes to read them--the only heart vulnerable to their revelations. 
      It has been years now--or perhaps it has lasted my whole life--that I have searched for a reason to life. A reason to wake in the morning; a purpose for living through the day. I have been told by every other person of my acquaintance that what I search for doesn't exist. That it can't exist. I have, so often, felt a fool for trying to believe in the one thing I had no way of seeing but somehow knew existed. I have felt that all the world was against me--is against me--pushing in, endeavoring to crush what little faith in it I had, and that I have done as well standing firm through it as a paper boat in a tsunami. 
      But today I have learned a new truth. Nestled between the fingers of all the doubt and cynicism, it has gradually come unraveled until I could no longer deny its existence. All this time I thought I was fighting against a mighty power--the governing principle which controls the entirety of our world. Yet suddenly all that came crashing down as I realized it was all just a facade. Their disbelief had instantly become nothing but a barrier to hide behind as I realized how truly weak they were. 
      Their doubt had never been a strength; it had always been a restriction. Never has their skepticism enabled them; it has only limited them. And with just a touch of the hand--another perspective added in support to mine--I have overcome them. Just as their refusal to believe binds them, my adamancy to believe sets me free. It is now a certainty in my mind that the power of individuals united in their beliefs can be more powerful than every other being in the universe opposing them. 
      I suppose this revelation has come to me through simple means; yet these simple means have never before felt more powerful. And though a friend is known to be a most commonplace occurrence, I now am inclined to conclude that a friend can be a most marvelous miracle. And yet, it seems as though Thomas and I are now something more; for he has set my soul soaring from the cage that had captivated it, and he has joined his strength to mine that together we might overcome the falsity of the world. 
      Perhaps we are not merely friends but harmonized souls.
      

A Tete-a-tete with the Couple:

A little less than a week later, Thomas and Cecilia were on their way to yet another unavoidable social affair. The difference with this one, however, was that it was quite safe; it was only a small, rather family oriented, garden party hosted by Percival and Miriam. And as the pair arrived arm in arm, Cecilia began to feel readjusted to society life.
      Miriam descended upon the couple almost the instant they walked through the door, unlaced their entwined arms, and inserted herself between them, exclaiming, "Thank goodness you two have arrived; Percy's been forcing the same joke on the guests for nearly two hours now, and I swear if I hear it once more, I might just lose my head!" she paused long enough to give a shuttering squeeze on both their arms. Turning to her left, she whispered, "Thomas, do be a dear and distract him, will you?"
      He hardly had time to nod his consent before the group reached Percival's band of gentlemen. Looking up, Percival said, "So, you've come at last. I was just telling Mr. Banks here the most capital story I heard in Town yesterday."
      With a glance from Miriam, Thomas interrupted with, "Come now, Percy, the poor fellow shan't want to hear it again. Besides, there are introductions to be made." Then, turning to the aforementioned Mr. Banks, Thomas introduced him to Cecilia. The small group conversed for a few minutes on minimal matters before their Mr. Banks excused himself to head to the refreshment table. Thomas turned to his brother and entreated him toward the library on the pretense of discussing a business matter.

      Percival objected with a teasing grin as he said, "What, and leave all our guests to fend for themselves?"

      "I'm sure they'll make do; besides, Lia's had enough of me already today, and I've no doubt she and your lovely wife will find something to talk about." And with that they departed. 

     

Thomas and Percival sat in the corner of the library, looking out through the window to the party below them. "So, about this business matter--it seems to be getting along quite nicely, yes?" Thomas knew very well to what 'business matter' his brother was referring.
     Thomas sighed and slouched down in his seat. "Nothing about our circumstance has changed, Percy; it is merely as I told you--a business arrangement to repair her reputation."
      His brother scoffed. "Oh, posh. That little faux pas of hers was forgotten the day after she uttered that blasted poem. Listen to me, Tom, she came here with you, she's leaving with you, she's here for you. And even if that is because of your arrangement, I would be glad of it. Whom did she go to when she thought she was ruined? She came to you. She trusts you, Tom."
       "Of course she trusts me, Percy! We're friends! That's what friends do--they trust each other. But they don't up and marry each other--the idea's preposterous!"
       "Why?"His shout cut their conversation in half--hanging in the air like an arrow frozen mid-flight. "Why can't you get it into that thick skull of yours that the only kind of love worth having is the kind that starts with friendship? I can't imagine how miserable my life would be if Miriam and I weren't friends--if i didn't like spending time with my wife! How can you even think that just because you're a friend to her you can't be something more, too? I had hoped you had more sense than that."



Cecilia and Miriam walked arm in arm as the sun began to set behind the horizon. They'd spent the last hours welcoming guests and making small talk with gossip-prone ladies of the Ton; it was just within the last ten minutes they'd gotten any time alone. As they walked, Miriam began to notice a certain quietness from her companion. Upon inquiring as to why, Cecilia only shook her head, saying, "I was only thinking."
      Sitting down on a garden bench, Cecilia asked the question that'd been on the tip of her tongue ever since she'd arrived. "It's just, I was wondering about you and Percy. How did you know you he was the one?"
      Miriam smiled, looking across the lawn to where her husband stood surrounded by other men of her acquaintance. "Percy..." she paused, searching for the right words. Abandoning her plight, she told her everything at once: "Percy drove me mad. But then I got to know him, and we became friends. He made me laugh. When I was with him I never had to worry about pretending to be something I wasn't. I knew I loved him the day I realized that when I was with him I knew exactly who I was." Cecilia smiled, following Miriam's gaze to the group of men where Percy was. Among them she found Thomas, and the moment her eyes fell on him he turned and caught her stare. He smiled and let everything else around them disappear, though they were yards apart.
      Eventually a man in the group noticed Thomas's distracted state and turned to see Cecilia gazing in their direction. He flashed a grin, winked, and turned back around. Cecilia's cheeks suddenly began to burn, and she became all too conscious of Miriam's eyes on her. Flushed, she stood and began to walk away, murmuring something about seeing what time Thomas wanted to leave, but all the while only feeling the man's stare boring into her figure. 

The Gentleman comes for Tea:

The door was ajar by the time Thomas reached it. He'd come unannounced, again, taking upon himself the liberties of a claimed suitor. But he paused before entering the small tea-room he knew Cecilia would be in; voices drifted under the door and seeped through the empty space to his ears, which pricked with the familiarity of the sounds.

      "My, what a tease you are, good sir!" her voice was higher than usual; there was a dropping feeling in his stomach.
      Thomas knew he shouldn't, but the temptation to stay concealed a moment longer was too strong. His efforts were quickly rewarded as he heard the low, rumbling sounds of masculine laughter tumbling out the door. All his muscles tensed as he paused to hear the man softly whispering something that sounded dangerously close to 'sweet nothings'. He was suddenly filled with rage for this impudent blackguard flirting with his Cecilia--and when he knew her to be obliged to him, too! For indeed, what sort of a man would stoop to such subterfuge? Thomas would not allow it; not when the stakes were so high. Not when he was in danger of losing his Lia.
       With furious vehemency, he shoved the door nearly out of its frame and strode into the room. "So," he cried, closing in on his prey, on Cecilia's unwarranted suitor, "it has come to this, has it? Well, know this; I'll not stand for it any longer! Just what were you aiming for--to steal her out from under me? And then what? Dump her on her head when someone more exciting comes along? I should hope not, for such is not the way of a gentleman as you so unfoundedly presume to be. And you," he turned on Cecilia, "what were you thinking to entertain this scoundrel?
      "Do you not know what sort of man he is--that he would take advantage of you, squander your goodness?" Thomas paused, knowing his words had  not come out as thoroughly as he'd wished, but not able to go on for the look of sheer fright on Cecilia's face.
       Clearing his throat, the intruder (whom Thomas believed to be a certain Mr. Pritchard) interjected his own sentiment, "Now look here, old chap, you seem to have been quite misinformed."
       Thomas spun to face the man, infused with anger, appalled by his forward manner. "No, you look here, old chap," he spat the repetition and continued as calmly as he was able without strangling the man, "I think it's high time you left. And if you refuse, I shall not be adverse to forcibly removing you from the premises myself." If the threat had not convinced the man, the look he shot him certainly could not be misunderstood, and Mr. Pritchard slowly left, all the while glaring a look of vengeance at Thomas Roudington.  

The After-Math:

The room was heavy with silence. Thomas pretended he didn't feel Cecilia's defiant gaze on his back as he strode casually to a chair and began arranging a plate with finger sandwiches. He pretended he didn't notice the air thick with tension; he pretended she had never met that Mr. Pritchard.

      When he could no longer handle the silence between them, he rather forcibly set his plate down and turned to her and stuttered, "Listen, Lia--" but before he could finish, she interrupted him. 

      "No, you listen, Thomas Roudington. I have never been so humiliated in my entire life! Why, you had absolutely no right coming in here and acting as you did! And treating him in such a fashion--he a guest in my home, too! I could positively strangle you for being so rude!"

      Thomas did his best to keep cool, but a tongue-lashing as sound as that (especially when the deliverer was as close to tears as she was) did his composure no favors. "What the devil do you mean I had no right? I, being your oldest, dearest friend who swore to your father on his deathbed that I would see to it you would come to no harm or injustice, I who have wanted nothing but the best for you, (and that's not even mentioning my being your suitor) I have no right?"

      Cecilia gaped at his presumptuousness. "Of course not! We both know that promise you made to my father was to be enacted only upon the most dire of situations. Not when I had invited a man into my home that didn't particularly strike your fancy!" 

       "Fine. But father aside, what exactly were you planning to do about me? We had an arrangement, Cecilia. Does giving your word mean nothing to you?"Thomas could tell this wasn't quite the right button to push with her. But all the same he had to do it. He had to know, once and for all, how she really felt. 

       Cecilia seemed to explode in that moment. "You have never been a suitor to me, Thomas! You said so yourself, it was all an arrangement: a business transaction between two people in a spot of trouble. Well, it turns out it only created trouble, not fixed it. So I'll thank you to not mention it again." 

      For an instant, Thomas fell silent. He'd known this had been coming. He only hadn't known how much it would hurt to hear her speak the words; how it would hurt to hear her say he meant nothing to her; that he was simply a means to an end. But, just as he had fallen silent in that instant, in the next he was nothing but roaring fire and anger. After all that he had done for her, all that he had gone through for her, this was how she repaid him! Thomas spoke with a harsh finality. "That's fine, Lia. That's just swell. But know this: the next time you think your world is falling apart, I just might not be there to put it back together for you. And then, perhaps, you'll remember why you ever came to me with that blasted arrangement."
      As Thomas began his stomp out of the room, Cecilia suddenly felt the need to get in the last word, overcome, in that moment, by the sudden, powerful question of why. And though she could never know the implication of her words, they were ripped out of her in a force of longing. "Why did you ever care so much, anyway?"
      Because I love you. The thought came to him quietly, desperately. Though an explanation of it seemed futile, the answer, at least to him, was clear. He turned around for a final time before leaving, and, with a sad look in his eye, he answered her. "Because we are friends, and I was foolish enough to hope for something more."

In the Weeks Following:

After Thomas left that afternoon, his world was irrevocably changed. Cecilia and her Mr. Pritchard officially became a couple, and he was forever forced into the shadows. He found himself over and over lamenting not having taken Percy's advice. But never did he lament it more than when he saw Cecilia (that darling, beautiful girl who used to be his) with the high and mighty Mr. Pritchard.
      On one occasion, when Thomas happened to be passing by a private alcove in the garden of somebody-or-another whose ball they were attending, he heard their strained voices arguing, once again, in the cruelest of manners. He turned his head--ever weary for her sake and ready to intervene if need be--to see the pair standing a stone's throw from other. Thomas noticed the way the fiend clutched at her wrist until his knuckles turned white and in her eyes all the brightness seemed to shatter with the pain. However much pain she was in, though, she would not cry out for it; she refused to give him the satisfaction of a triumph over her. At least that could stand to her credit--that she was brave against his tyranny.

      Thomas eventually pulled away, knowing she would never forgive him for intruding. To her it would seem like he didn't trust her to be on her own--she would see it as a degradation.
       Along the cold carriage ride home only one thought ran through his mind, his own words reverberating in his mind, twisting and convulsing until they were something of an entirely separate nature than when he had first uttered them. They were intended, in the moment of their first coming into existence, as a chastisement for her actions; now, however, they served only as a chastisement to him.
       ...The next time you think your world is falling apart, I just might not be there to put it back together for you. And then, perhaps, you'll remember why you ever came to me...
      He could see clearly now how he'd driven her away, and now that his world was falling apart she was no where to be found to help him set it to rights again.

The Lady's Letter:

Cecilia sat sullenly on the edge of her bed holding her sore wrist and studying the incriminating finger-shaped bruises already beginning to form. She closed her eyes to force back the tears that resided just behind her lids. When had her life become so forlorn? And how had she become so desirous to fit in that she would throw away any chance of happiness she had for a little well-placed attention?
        Oh, how she longed for someone to talk to--for someone to help her understand herself amongst this world of constant confusion. If only there was someone she hadn't pushed away.
        Her thoughts took an unusual turn to the Poet's Juliet Capulet, to whom she had always felt a sort of connection, herself living in a world where the love she so desperately sought was looked down upon and openly mocked.  And so, taken by the utterly hopeless idea that it was, she sat to write to the only person she could think of.



Juliet,
Dear Juliet,
I have always longed to have known you: to have known a soul loving enough to end centuries of hatred. I have longed for that gentleness, that innocence, when in this dark and perverse world I have felt such qualities to be shamed and looked upon as a weakness. It is certainly a marvelous thing that in your own world of unappreciation and restriction (especially to the members of our own gender)  your soul was not crushed as countless others were. Tell me; how did you find strength to defy society, indeed to go against the feud? Is it not true that, even though in doing so it, in the end, killed you? But then tell me this: was it not all worth it?
      Whatever the answer may be for you, I can tell you for me it was. I have not made half the sacrifice you made, but whatever I have done has transformed me. It changed me from who I pretended to be to who I was meant to be all along; but more than that it has given me knowledge of myself and an added confidence in who I will yet become.
      Now, dearest Juliet, though I have praised you so highly for the strength of your soul, there is one area on which I disagree.
      At the conclusion of your story, the solution which you found was in death never to be parted from your love. But allow me to say this: could you not, even in your despair, have fathomed a life beyond your grief? Does not one live to love again? And if, through your trial, you were meant to grow, could you not have grown a new heart fresh from agony for your departed love? Can one, in all honesty, learn to love again?

      It is from my own experience that I ask this. I have thought once that I was in love; that I must have been in love, but now that it's gone I've begun to think differently. There was, in the midst of everything, a constant confusion, which never allowed me to ever feel fully at peace. 

      My object in writing this now is to ask how you know when you've found the right one. How does one define love? The heart is of a strange makeup--prone to excited impulses of feeling, each varying in intensity from the last, which leave the mind to ponder which one ignited your love. Was it the one who turned your life into something new, or was it the one you'd overlooked your entire life because he'd always been there--the one whose memory burns your cheek until you can't help but remember the way his eyes glistened in the moonlight and his fingers felt in your hair every time you see him?
      Is love defined in the moment you first see them, or the last? Or, is it simply that moment in the middle that plays over and over again in your mind? Is love defined by the length of your bond or in the infinity that lies between each look you share?
      And perhaps I do not seek an answer to these questions at all; perhaps I do not wish to know how to define love or to recognize its first seconds of existence. But perhaps it is enough  to know that it exists, and that if we do not define love then maybe it defines us.


Cecilia pushed the paper aside, knowing nothing could ever come of it, but feeling better for having written it all the same. She thought of Thomas and how, before she'd complicated everything, he'd always been there for her--how she could have told him about anything. And in that moment she realized having him there for her was worth more than the horrid Mr. Pritchard's small attention had ever been.
      She suddenly knew she must terminate her relationship with Mr. Pritchard. Cecilia would be alone once more, wanting nothing but to regain Thomas's favor (and even more, but the hope seemed too extravagant), but too frightened of another rejection to even consider broaching the topic with him.
      If only she'd seen things as they were before she'd allowed Mr. Pritchard to ruin her life. Perhaps then she might have realized how desperately in love she was with the long gone Thomas Roudington.

A Breath of Fresh Air:

Thomas wandered aimlessly across the grounds behind his brother's home, hoping the fresh air might clear his head. He'd just come from speaking to Percival about an issue with his steward and stepped out for a quick walk before lunch. Above everything else weighing on him lately, Cecilia was at the forefront of  his mind. So absorbed was he in his thoughts he almost didn't notice Miriam come to call him in for the midday meal. Still looking at the ground, he said, "I thank you, Miriam, but I'm afraid I have too much business back at the Hall."
      Miriam could tell his spirits were dampened. She nodded her understanding and said, "That's just as well. Why don't you let me walk with you back to the house?" Without waiting for a response, she laced her arm through his and they proceeded slowly across the grounds. After a moment of silence, she tugged on his arm and said, "What's on your mind?"
      From the forlorn look he shot her, Miriam knew at once what his answer would be. The only question was whether he would try to ignore it or not. Finally he gave up the battle of deciding and let out a long sigh that sounded suspiciously like Cecilia's name. Miriam gave a pout. "I thought you would be thinking of her. I can't tell you how sorry I was to hear about this Mr. Pritchard character."
      Thomas could see it would be pointless to hold out any longer. Turning to his sister-in-law, he asked, "Miriam, tell me, if you ever had a fight with Percy, what would you do?"
       Surprisingly enough to Thomas, Miriam laughed a little. "That's simple: I would leave him alone long enough for him to realize he was wrong." This evoked a sliver of a smile from Thomas, which was all her intention, and she soon enough revised the statement by saying, "But of course I'd apologize as well."
       Thomas seemed to be in the worst sort of agony, murmuring to himself, "I'm afraid an apology wouldn't be as effective in this situation." And then, looking up, he said, "Everything within me seems to be out of sorts; every time I think of her something deep inside my chest constricts  in the harshest pain I have ever felt--real, physical pain as though an arrow pierced my heart. And when I speak her name my lungs fill with water and I cannot breathe enough air to satisfy my body and soon I feel doomed to perish." He paused for a moment, searching for the right words to express the extent of the torture of his confusion. “What is it about love that makes you feel as though you are drowning?" He spoke slowly--desperately, knowing at that moment something inside him was dying, but knowing also that something else was coming alive, too.
       Miriam paused before answering, trying to make sense of his words in accordance to her own. When she finally found the words for an adequate response, they had come to his carriage outside the house and she left him with this last sentiment: "Maybe it's because we all have to let things in us die before we can wake up and remember how much we cherish the taste of fresh air. And that's what your Cecilia was--a whole gallery of fresh air."


Sitting in his carriage on the way back to Roudington Hall, Thomas felt utterly defeated. He knew he would never completely get over her, but he didn't know how he could ever live with such despair. Overcome by his hopelessness, he slowly slid his eyes closed and sent up a silent plea: Father in Heaven, if it be thy will for Cecilia and I not to be together, then let it be thus; only, let my pain be lessened. And if---he hesitated, knowing that what he was about to ask for was entirely impossible, and yet he couldn't help himself from asking--if there is still a chance for us, let me not be too blind to see it. 
    He opened his eyes quite certain that it would be a long time before the prayer was answered, if ever it was. But as he looked to his left he saw something remarkable; a pair of white party gloves lay on the seat opposite him. He picked them up and examined the delicate workmanship of the embroidery. They must have been Lia's.
     A slow smile spread across his face, for surly if ever there was a sign from the heavens this certainly was it. One thing was suddenly absolutely clear in Thomas' mind: nothing was too impossible for heaven.


Thomas preferred to walk across their adjoining out of Town estates, but he was in too much of a rush, fearing if he didn't take the opportunity that instant, it'd be gone forever. Finally he settled upon taking his horse. When he arrived at the stables, he met a strange sight. Obsidian, the horse that had belonged to Cecilia's father, was absent from his stall. Upon seeing the stable master round the corner, he called him over to inquire about it. The old man wasn't much help as he insisted no one had had the horse saddled in nearly four years, ever since 'the Master' died. This puzzled Thomas, concerned for the horse's sake of the lack of exercise. "And why is that," he inquired.
     "It would be unwise, sir. The horse is mad, he is."
      "Mad?" Thomas asked incredulously.
      The man nodded. "Aye. 'T were what killed the Master, sir. He were on it when the madness came on, inspired by a wild snake, no doubt, and the Master was thrown. Pummeled near death, he were, and his brute of a beast ran straight on into the forest. Doctor did what he could for the Master but an infection took hold, near 's I can remember. After the Master's death, we found the horse in the forest; wild as a boar, he was, and worse too, since he were kept hungry for so long. Even after all these years back, I don't believe he'll ever be quite right in the head again."
       Taken by a sudden terror, Thomas loathed to ask the question that then sat on the tip of his tongue, but it came out all the same. "And you're certain no one came out for a ride?"
      The old man's face twisted in an attempt to remember. "I might have seen the young Miss Wells in here earlier, if that's what you mean. Though I can't reckon as to why; she hasn't been on a mount since her pony days. That Mr. Pritchard was with her, though, and between the two of us, sir, I didn't care for the way he was addressing her. I might not be as smart as some, but I sure as anything can recognize a scoundrel when I see one, you mark my words."
       Thomas hardly registered the man's last words, so plagued with fear was he for Cecilia's well being. If she had indeed taken the steed out for a ride, nothing good could come from it. He mindlessly nodded and dismissed the man, too preoccupied in his thoughts to formulate a proper response. Instead he ran to the house, taken by the urgency of the situation, blood coursing through his veins so swiftly that his mind was filled with the rushing, pounding sound of his world crumbling before his eyes. If Lia was on that horse...if she were to be hurt...! He couldn't fathom the consequences.
      Reaching the house, he threw the door open and charged into the parlor, exclaiming, "Where is she?" There was only a maid in the room, who jumped quite largely when the door to the parlor had been forced open in such a way.
      "Who, sir?"
      Thomas was becoming more and more aggravated with every second. "Cecilia! Where is Cecilia? I need her!"
       Flustered, the maid replied, "I believe she went out for the day, sir. She had a terrible fight with Mr. Pritchard and sent him packing. He'll not be back, if I heard rightly." Thomas, dismissing the fact that the maid had listened in on the conversation as well as the fact that Mr. Pritchard was once and for all out of the picture, continued on in his search of the house, only concerned now for Cecilia and her safety. He spoke over his shoulder to the maid through his frantic search.
      "Where did she go?"
      "I believe she went for a ride, sir."

The Lady's Ride:

An hour earlier: 
      Cecilia wrung her hands together, nervously awaiting Mr. Pritchard's arrival. She knew their relationship couldn't go on any longer, but she was terribly desperate for the confrontation to be over with. Finally, she stopped her pacing and forced herself to sit still on the edge of a settee that faced away from the door; she couldn't bring herself to watch for his appearance with only empty anticipation in front of a closed door.
      Just as she was beginning to hope he wouldn't come, a chilling voice overran her spine. Though he said only the simplest phrase which otherwise could have been taken for a pleasant inquiry, Mr. Pritchard spoke with just enough contempt to fill every fiber of Cecilia's being with disdain. "A penny for your thoughts, M'dear?"
      His condescending attitude had grated on her one to many times. Suddenly she spun around to face him. "Is that all I'm worth to you? A Penny?"
      Mr. Pritchard gave a slight, almost imperceptible shrug. "If you'd rather not take it, I'm sure I could find a better use for it." Glancing down at his pocket watch, he slid easily into a chair near the fire, apparently thinking nothing of the insult he had just delivered. Rolling his eyes and looking back up, he said, "Suppose we hurry this along; eh, pet? I've a very important meeting with the boys tonight."
     She brushed aside his mention of the boys, his infamous group of highly untoward, so called gentlemen with an affinity for trouble, and launched into her next question: "Why are you here, Louis?"
      Her question caught him off guard. "Aren't I supposed to be?"
      "No, I mean why are you with me? Or is obligation the only thing binding us together?"
      Now he began to smile, the sneer spreading through his countenance like a virus. "So you've been talking to Roudington again, have you? I thought I made it apparent you were to stay clear of the impudent fiend."
      Cecilia turned slightly and mumbled under her breath, "I'm not so certain he's the fiend."
      "Yes, and I'm not a gentleman," Mr. Pritchard scoffed.
      "But that's just the thing; you're not," she said, finally facing up to the man. "Being a gentleman doesn't always refer to social standing, Louis. It means you are respectful and amiable and good--chivalrous; a word of which I'm not even sure you know the meaning. You've been none of those things but instead you pretended to be something you weren't, and I was blinded by your flattery. I believed you when you said that the only reason Thomas didn't want us to be together was that he would lose control over me; that he was too selfish to want anything better for me. But I can see now that you were wrong: you were always the one afraid to lose control. Well, I've had enough. Thomas was right about you, you know. You are a scoundrel."
       Cecilia could she her words infuriated him, and there was a part of her that felt proud of the fact; and yet, the other part was scared to death at what she'd just done. Mr. Pritchard clicked his tongue. "Oh, dear, dear, dear. You've fallen in love with the man. Well I'm terribly sorry to disappoint you but I'm afraid you're rather too late. But don't worry; I shall forgive you in time."His sneer deepened just then, as if he knew and loved exactly how autocratic he was being. He took another bored look at his pocket watch and began gathering his hat and gloves from off the tea table where he had deposited them. Once he had possession of his belongings again, he turned to her. "Look, I can see our conversation has upset you terribly. Perhaps we should finish it tomorrow? The boys don't like to be kept waiting, you know." And with that he walked out the door and down the stairs.
        Cecilia was stunned. After all her attempts, he had broken the argument in three quick sentences. She was snapped out of her trance, however, when the front doors slammed. She couldn't let him leave like this, still having the upper hand. She grabbed her shawl and ran for the stables.



Walking briskly into the shelter, Cecilia called out to him. "You can't walk away from this, Louis Pritchard, I won't let you."
     She found him standing quietly, ominously, in front of Obsidian's stall. "Marvelous beast," he said, murmuring almost indistinctly to himself. He turned to her, placing his hands lightly and chillingly on her neck, "Makes you wonder why he snapped." He emphasized the last word, clenching his fingers around her until the word echoed in her mind. Snapped. That's precisely what he'd like to do to me. She shook the unnerving thought off. He moved his hands away as the devilish glint in his eye flashed. "Certainly it is a pity you couldn't ride him well enough to tame him." He looked at her, and by the expression in his eyes she could tell he knew exactly what he was doing to  her; challenging her pride one last time.
     Cecilia sharply inhaled. "That's quite enough, Mr. Pritchard. You should go. And there will be no further visits between us, understand?"
      He nodded, and, knowing he had done enough damage, left.
      Cecilia was left starring at the animal. ...a pity you couldn't ride him... It was too much. Mr. Pritchard had gotten inside her head too many times for her to be confident in herself anymore. Perhaps if she did this one thing, proved to herself she wasn't what Louis had made her out to be, perhaps then she could believe he was really gone.


Cecilia felt decidedly uneasy on the back of the great black beast; each footstep it took seemed to dig into the ground with such ferociousness it felt as though he meant to tear the ground open just for spite. Suddenly his ears went up, and he began to skitter about, and just when Cecilia didn't think he'd ever walk in a straight line again, Obsidian began charging across the open field. Faster and faster they flew across the ground, racing the horizon to what lay beyond, the reigns flailing beneath them, threatening to tangle the horse's legs and bring them both to a crude acquaintance with the earth.
      Amidst the rushing sound of blood pounding in her ears, she began to hear something that sounded suspiciously like another rider crossing the rugged terrain. Turning around, Cecilia saw a figure in the distance riding furiously toward her. Before she could call out to him, she was forced forward again by the uneven jolting of the beast beneath her. As if sensing someone coming to Cecilia's rescue, the horse sped to the edge of the earth.
     With the horse's jagged movements, Cecilia's hands lost their grip on Obsidian's mane. Suddenly, he knew he'd won. Making his final attempt for freedom from his rider, the horse reared on its hind legs.
      A rush of black fur and gray sky was all Cecilia saw as she fell. And then hooves; he brandished them above her, threatening her with their powerful swatting at the air. She struck the ground with an excruciating twist in her ankle. She closed her eyes, succumbed to her fate, not willing to watch as the horse would trample her as he had her father.
     Suddenly she felt an arm wrap itself around her waist and drag her across the rough cold of the ground. The pain of her ankle tugged at her head and she allowed the encroaching darkness to envelope her, cognizant, but only just, of being held in the safety of two warm arms.

The True Worth of a Penny:

Thomas walked into the room this time to hear the quiet closing of a briefcase and the gentle but stern instructions from the doctor. He stepped out of the way for the doctor to pass, and paused in the doorway to take in the splendor of the room and how the fire in the fireplace incited a healthy glow onto Cecilia's cheeks. He watched her and a slow smile tugged at his mouth, knowing she was safe, knowing she was his, was happiness enough to last him a lifetime.
      She looked so serene, he couldn't help but wonder what she was thinking about. "A penny for your thoughts?"
      Lia looked up at him with a sad, gentle smile. "Half a crown and I might consider it."
      Thomas shook his head as he walked into the room and sat down beside her, careful not to bump her injured leg resting on the cushion. "I'd give you ten thousand pounds if I thought you'd take it. There's nothing I like spending my money on better than you."
      She lifted an eyebrow. "Money isn't everything, Thomas."
      He nodded, his smile broadening. "I know. But you are." To see the blush that rose on her cheeks was all he had hoped for. It was like watching his world brighten with the sunrise.
      Suddenly she broke eye contact with him. Looking down at the floor, she said, "Thomas, I'm sorry about Mr. Pritchard. I should have listened to you; he was everything you warned me about, cruel and presumptuous and untoward. And when I think of how I scolded you...!" She paused and hazard a glance at him. He saw her eyes brimmed with tears and the sight wrung his heart. He gathered her into his arms, comforting her. "It was wrong of me to choose him, I know. But he seemed so new and exciting; I couldn't pass up the opportunity. And all the time I'd compare him to you, but he was never good enough. Never as good as you."
      Thomas tightened his grip on her. He never wanted to let go. She felt too good in his arms, too right. "Shhh. None of that matters now. I'm here. I won't leave this time."
     Cecilia sniffed. "You promise?"
     "I promise."
     She pulled away from him. "How can I be sure?" It was evident in that moment how much Louis had hurt her. It pained him to see the distrust on her face, but he forged on nevertheless.
    "I shall give you something to remember my promise by. What would you like? A bracelet or a necklace? My ten thousand pounds?" He'd meant that last part as a joke, but she cocked her head and wondered at it all the same.
     Cecilia looked up at him, "I think I'd take your penny."
     Without thinking, Thomas was kissing her and feeling all his despair and hopelessness melt away from existence. And suddenly something changed within him; he became entirely certain that nothing else in the world mattered but that moment, nothing mattered but Cecilia.
      Reluctantly he pulled back and leaned his cheek on top of her head, pressing another soft kiss into her hair. As he held her close, he suddenly remembered something and a smile spread across his face.
     Percival had been right after all. All was fair in love and war.