matildavaughan
It was such a wonder, how she used to be oh so happy to see him before, that her chest felt like it wouldn’t able the keep all the emotions and her heart would burst. Those emotions has been so familiar yet exciting once, and now she felt… well, she actually didn’t know how she felt as she saw him, in some hidden shop that had served as shelter not even five minutes ago. Perhaps this was a wake-up call, to make her realize that she wouldn’t truly be free of what had happened between once, not when the small seemed smaller and they always somehow run into each other.
Oh. No, the word caught in her throat as she looked down at the now forgotten cup of chocolate, wanting nothing more than running out of the shop and into the rain if that meant to put some distance between them. No one knew, she reminded herself. Yet some sense of panic and anxiety washed through her at the many possibilities of this going wrong and her having issues with her brother now that they had finally reached a point where everything just seemed so in place. It would be my pleasure,“ she said softly, politely.
He had a point – anyone who found them together would wonder why, considering there was no connection between their families. A known Whig with a known Tory, that would certainly raise some eyebrows and questions. With a nod, she returned to her seat and reached for her cup, but it didn’t seem as inviting as it had before. Her heart skipped a beat, a cold sensation rushed through her veins, at his words. Of course he knew. It would have quite absurd to expect he didn’t. Even against her best judgement, Matilda couldn’t help but wonder what he thought about it, about her – the rumours hadn’t been kind.
Matilda took a deep breath and dared to look up, right into his eyes, afraid of what she might find in them. The uncomfortable weight in her chest was making it hard for her to breath, and the grip on the cup tightened. "Thank you. I-” Matilda wasn’t sure of what she had tried to say, when there was no explanation owed nor asked, for that matter. “He has been friend of our family since always, I guess it was just a matter of time.” Had they not been so stubborn about it, this scandal would have been avoided. But there was no need to dwell on that. “I do wish you happiness as well, Thomas.”
Thomas watched her face, carefully, the play of emotion there, writ in the soft tension of her brows, the faintest touch of moisture at the edge of her eyes. In another time, another life, another world, his fingers might have moved, unbidden, to the soft porcelain of her cheek, to feel the silky strands of her hair, as he ran his fingers through the golden thread of it, or to steal from her face a single silver tear with which to anoint his aching heart. He did neither, however, flexing all his considerable self-control as, instead, he took a seat opposite her; smiled amiably as if all they’d ever been were friends.
He was grateful for her friendship, in any case, all the more so now that, he suspected, it cost so much to give; now that it was all he could ever ask of her. Both of them had been banished from England, after all, for ever daring to hope for more between them. For a time, during exile, he’d dreamed of sneaking across the sea, of finding her wherever she’d been sent, and making her his bride - damn the consequences! But he’d not known where to look and foolish youth had given way to prudence and, ultimately, as he now found, his unflagging desire for her happiness. At last, it seemed, at last she had found it - without him. He would do nothing to disturb the sweet placid pool of her joy.
“I am glad,” he supplied, as he sat, a small, secret smile - reserved for a rare few in his acquaintance, one she had once known all too well - curving the edge of his lips. “That you have found a means of snatching victory from the jaws of defeat.” Despite himself, he smiled softly, arching a brow. That, he thought, was the girl he had once known. The rumors had not been kind, but they’d stirred a soft leap in his heart of a strange kind, a joy that was not happiness, at the knowledge that, whatever had been done to Matilda Vaughan to punish her for foolish passion, her high spirit had not been crushed.
Despite himself, Tom felt the lightest hint of his brows contracting, but he forced a smile and carried on. “I...” he licked his lips. “I shall be bold enough to say, my dear friend, I pray he may be to you far more than a friend to your family.” He nodded, hoping that he had managed to convey what he meant. He did not wish for her a marriage merely of duty, of simply comfortable partnership - though he did wish that match for her as well - but a bond of abiding passion and deep understanding. Matilda deserved no less.
Inclining his head, Tom arched his brow. Something welled in his gut, heavy and mottled, seeping into his chest like a slow leak of poison. He’d pictured happiness, once, held it in the palm of his hand, but that was not, now, the path he saw for himself. His life was to be one of sacrificial duty - that would be enough. “That is a sweet thing,” he said, lifting his hooded eyes to find hers, forming the hint of a smile. “And sweeter, still, upon your lips.” His smile rounded a touch more and he wished to take her hand, gratefully, knowing her wish to be genuine, but still he did not dare touch her.
Instead, he chuckled, softly, leaning back into his chair as though he could escape the confines of his own caving chest there and laughed. “If I may say so, myself, I have done quite well. I confess, I have...ambitions I wish to see come to fruition. Ambitions which,” he laughed, softly. “May prove somewhat distasteful to your own views, but ones which I shall not deny in any case,” he added, half-teasing. Though it was these views which had sundered them, he hoped that, now, all these years later, they might at least laugh at them...it was that or despair.
