The Story of Love

Pearl's hand left Albemarle's and her eyes scanned his face, desperate to remember everything about this moment - remember the feel of his fingertips on her palm, the warmth of their still somewhat wide-eyed surprise - loving, loving surprise. Surprise that she knew, somehow, was mirrored on her own face. That things had come to this - that she had kissed them and they had kissed back...

No books, neither prose nor poetry could match the unmistakeable emotion in the gentle tremble of Pearl's lips, the tenderness in his smile. Throw out the library, hurl it all to the wind, for the feeling of true emotion had arrived and Pearl's skin tingled at the newness of it all. 

Oh, that Nelson could have inspired this feeling in her - oh, that her mother had matched Albemarle and she the way it surely must have been intended by God. For hadn't God wept for the freedom of their knowing, in candour, what they felt? 

If this - this knowledge - was the reason Eve had been cast from eternal bliss, why! A thousand apples would Pearl eat on a thousand eternally beautiful mornings to know what she knew now. 

As their face withdrew from the carriage, with the hesitant invitation to dinner, and the further invitation to perhaps pass some time prior or after the meal, Pearl's smile dimmed slightly as she nodded. For this was not an eternal paradise, and propriety, the curse of all mankind, reminded her of the sins that others would perceive. 

For they were sins, as well her mother had reminded her. Her eternal soul was at risk, for had she not tempted, as Eve, the time and affections of a soon to be holy person? 

Where, in propriety, was the chance to do what was right? What was good? For a union with Nelson was not right, and the lack of love between them was not good. Despite her concerns with Albemarle's decision to take the cloth, she had understood why. He was a good person, and for all Nelson's desire to strengthen the family, to build society, to impress those with the ear of Her Majesty the Queen; his methods were abrupt, his tone, though rarely sharp brooked no argument, and his manner left her feeling manipulated somehow, as if there could be no question of right, or good, but only what is. 

Or what was.

He had left her alone in a splendid, richly appointed prison, and she had broken free. What had been was no longer possible - could no longer be possible, for there was no shackling a soul that learned nothing could contain it. To look back was to become Lot's wife, a statue of salt upon a hill, petrified in time, lost in the horror of the past.

And who did she have to thank but her best friend - the one who interlaced their fingers and steadied her, who stood with her as she gazed into the wind, wondering when she would be released from the grasp he held on her soul, even as she felt her feet turning to salt with the tears she could not scream to the wind? Who could she tell but that self-same best friend, the one who always knew what to do - how to use unspoken feelings for good, to utter words no one else in her life had ever dared speak for fear they would pour unbroken forever? That friend for whom a spark had been kindled, gently fanned by the breath of those words, the heat of touches she was sure must be in jest, or else...

The friend who had left her upon the steps and fled. The friend who had not returned to claim what was hers if ever she had wanted it - who now was far away and unknowably distant in affection? In need? 

What had frightened her so that she felt she must flee? What absence had taken her mind that she had not thought to take her best friend with her? For Pearl would have gone, and none of this would have come to pass - if only she had reached out a hand they would be together and she, Pearl, would protect her from all those fears if only she could.

There was so much fear in Little Thorndon - fear of knowing, fear of not knowing, fear of becoming or not becoming...

Fear of what was good or right or happiness or loss... 

Their glances spoke of a deeper knowledge, their cheeks apple blushed when they looked at each other, sometimes.

Sometimes. 

The mismatch of David and Goliath surprised all onlookers. Despite her insular nature, and her family's strategic movement, Amelia seemed alone, alone with her target, alone with the piercing ability to strike at the thing she desired most but afraid to stand against the titanous Goliath and demand it be given for it would be given as He decreed.

Would that they were all peasants. One could not begrudge the small town commoner their base needs, for what else was there? What else was there to fill the mind and occupy the body? Did peasants grunt and thrust and grab and touch for pleasure, or to fulfil the expectations she knew she...

The carriage stopped and the footman opened the door, offering a gloved hand. 

Home. 

For how long?

And how long before she was returned to the sea to sink in its misery?

She smiled faintly, took the proffered hand and left the carriage, looking up at her prison.

"I shall be dining with the Baron Liliput this evening. Please inform the staff."