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princess-geek · 4 months ago

Text

White Peonies (Part I)

Book: Desire & Decorum

Series: Unspoken Desires (Modern Desire & Decorum AU)

Summary: Another peek into the past, this time to lift the veil on Mary’s life and three generations of fascinating women of the Howard family.

Main Pairing: Vincent Foredale x Mary Howard.

Word Count: +/- 7280

Rating: General (but with light mentions to adult/violent situations, sickness and death).

Notes: 💖English is not my first language. Please, excuse me for any typos /or grammatical errors. 💖Special thanks to @rosesnink for proofreading.

💖 This is my submission for @choicesficwriterscreations ‘Fics of the week’

(December 1945 )

After the war, the Captain James Arthur Howard returned to Grovershire, his hometown, with the love and saviour of his life, his Italian fiancé, Elena Moretti. They got married on December 24th of that year.

The couple settled in James Howard's small cottage. The war had interrupted the works, so it needed a lot of love and sweat to make it comfortable again.

The first few months were hard, but that didn't discourage the newly-weds. Together, they finished the works on their modest home.

Taking advantage of the skills honed during the war, James opened a small automobile repair shop. Elena worked at home, but no less hard. She baked cakes and biscuits in the Italian way for the village tea shop and sold the vegetables she grew in her garden at the market.

They had two children: Thomas, born in 1947 and Sophia in 1950.

At the beginning of the 60s, the Howard’s future seemed promising: James had a lot of work and had to take on an employee to help. Thomas was showing interest in mechanics and was already working as his father's apprentice on Saturdays. James had high hopes for his son. He dreamed of Thomas becoming a mechanical engineer. Besides continuing to make cakes and cookies for the teahouse, Elena had started to cook pizzas to order a few days a week. She got Grovershire hooked on her Italian flavours; Sophia had passed her Eleven-plus with flying colours.

However, the summer of 1961 was shadowed by tragedy. Thomas caught pneumonia and could not resist the consequences of the disease. He passed away on September 1st of that same year, leaving a deep scar of loss in the family.

This caused two very different reactions: James became more demanding towards Sophia, and Elena became an overprotective mother.

Sophia finished her studies with distinction. James Howard's sister, who lived in London, tried to convince her brother to send her niece to London. She was planning to get Sophia a job at the bank where her husband was working. Despite the aunt and niece's pleas, James and Elena refused to be apart from their daughter.

Nevertheless, Sophia was determined to not let her parents' fears stop her to blossom. Even though there weren't many job opportunities in Grovershire, she found a position as the doctor's secretary.

She was a quick learner, so in a short time, Sophia was helping the doctor with some procedures, showing great competence. Dr Morrison encouraged her to become a nurse.

Despite her parents' reluctance, Sophia liked that idea and was saving money for nursing school. Becoming a nurse would not only allow her to do something she enjoyed, but also conquer her independence.

Therefore, besides her job at the doctor's office, Sophia never missed the opportunity for any extra work.

However, one of these extra jobs would change her life completely.

Mr Oliver Paterson, a handsome and clever young lawyer, arrived in the small town to take over his great-uncle's office. As there weren’t many legal disputes in regions like Grovershire, Mr Paterson needed a secretary only for a couple of hours a week, so, on the recommendation of Dr Morrison, he hired Sophia.

Among legal proceedings books, letters, stacks of papers to organize, tea and Italian biscuits, the cordial relationship between employer and secretary didn't take long to become something more. Sophia didn't expect to fall in love, but in a few months, she couldn't think of anything other than a future with Oliver.

She was so confident in a life with him that within a few months, Sophia introduced Oliver to her parents. His charm won over the Howards, who welcomed him as a member of the family.

Thus, when she found out she was pregnant, Sophia wasn't too worried. That would speed things up, and soon they would get married. Even though she couldn’t work for a year or two, Oliver made enough for their little family and her nest egg would allow them some extra comforts.

Her dreams and her heart shattered when she told Oliver she was expecting a child. Upon hearing the news, he not only refused to take on the child, but also announced that he was moving to the USA, quoting the bastard, ‘to work at an important international law firm'.

If that was true, Sophia never bothered to confirm. Overnight, the charming Mr Paterson disappeared without a trace, owing her money and leaving a child without a father.

Disillusioned, ashamed and fearing her parents' reaction, Sophia fled to London to her aunt's house. Upon learning of the rumour that Oliver had gone to the USA, the Howards feared that Sophia had run away with him. The couple was losing hope when James's sister called to say that her niece was there. James and Elena came to London to join her daughter and the rest of the family for the holidays.

Despite her fears, with her aunt's help, Sophia told her parents she was expecting during the holidays. Those were the saddest holidays since Thomas' death, but her parents reacted better than Sophia expected.

They had already lost a son, so even though they were not ecstatic about their daughter's situation, they assured her of their love and support every step of the way.

Sophia returned to Grovershire with her parents. Ignoring the scandal caused by gossipers, the family prepared to welcome the baby.

This time, it was her parents who were making plans for Sophia to go to nursing school. They would take care of the baby for as long as necessary.

On August 8, 1970, Mary Helen Howard was born. The labour went well, but Sophia caught a serious infection at the hospital, and died a few weeks later.

It was another terrible loss for the Howards, but this time, they had a beacon of hope to hold on. Baby Mary became the reason for their lives. James and Elena decided that they would not let the shadows of the past dim their granddaughter's light.

Mary was a lively and healthy child. There was some drama in her teens, nothing that wasn't normal and that they couldn't deal with.

Since childhood, she had revealed a natural talent for music, dazzling everybody with her voice and piano skills on Sunday services and school plays.

Full of pride, the grandparents bought Mary a small piano, making her promise to keep good grades though. She kept her promise and finished high school as one of the best in her class.

Nevertheless, from an early age, Mary showed signs of wanting something different. Elena could understand her granddaughter's heart. Before the war, she had dreamed of becoming an opera singer. In fact, Elena had tried to escape to Milan a couple of times during her adolescence.

In addition to her talent, Mary had the aura of a diva, like the Italian prima donnas. Elena saw how she fascinated everyone who listened to her, as if her voice could cast a spell. Such enchantment power could give her much success, but it could also open the door to some heartbreak. As a grandmother, she could only prepare Mary for life the best she could…and prepare James too.

When Mary turned 18 and told them she was going to move to London to pursue her dream of becoming a singer, her grandparents buried their fears and let her fly.

Unfortunately, Elena and James didn't live long enough to see the first fruits of Mary's labour.

********

Even though she was aware it wouldn't be a fairy tale, some obstacles along the way made Mary’s heart waver.

During her first few months in London, she lived with a great-aunt. Mrs. Lee knew her great-niece's talent, so more than just a house, she wanted to help her pursue her dream. Even at short notice, she managed to get Mary to apply to the Royal Academy of Music and get an audition. Mary was not accepted that year, but her great-aunt encouraged her to take a sabbatical and prepare to apply in the following year.

Sadly, her grandfather's sister died suddenly, and her cousins sold the house immediately.

As if she had predicted what was going to happen, her great-aunt had found her a job as a live-in maid. It was far from perfect; however, it gave her a roof over her head. The job was allowing Mary to save some money but depriving her of enough time energy to dedicate to the music.

On one of the nights off, Sophia and Dahlia, one of her coworkers, went to a pub in another part of the city. It was a cosy place; the people were nice and there was live music that night. They were having so much fun that the girls didn't notice the time passing until the first ring of the bell. They asked for one more pint.

“This one's on me, girls. It’s my last night here, and you're my last clients. Cheers!” The waitress said, drinking a pint with them.

As she drank, Mary found herself watching the musicians arranging their instruments. One of them was particularly attractive, but it wasn't what lit her spirit. Mary had an idea. “Do you know if they will hire someone to replace you?” She asked the waitress.

“My boss interviewed some candidates today. I don't know whether any of them were selected.”

“I am interested in the position. I have some experience. Besides, I'm also a singer. I would save your boss some money by performing on nights like tonight.” Her experience was limited to a summer job at the town pub, though, but she tried to sound as confident as possible. It was a long shot, but at least she could do what she loved for a couple of hours a day.

“After making money, Mr Brown's favourite thing is saving money.” The waitress laughed. “I'll meet him here in the morning to settle our accounts. Show up here, maybe he'll fancy you.”

With Dalia’s help, Mary called sick day. Pretending to leave the house to go to the doctor, Mary went to the pub and presented her proposal.

“Miss Howard, are you aware that I won't pay you not a penny more for singing, right? At least, not until you give me evidence that your performances will make a profit.”

Mary nodded. Mr Brown asked to take a pint and prepare a couple of drinks. Her hands were shaking, and she could feel the sweat running down her back. Then he asked her to sing a song. From her point of view, it didn't go very well, but he didn't seem to hate it.

“You're not very fast, but you look like someone who learns quickly. Very good, Miss Howard. I'll hire her for a month to see how she goes. No guarantees! You start tonight. Welcome to ‘The Black Panther'!”

Even with guilt on her conscience, for the first few days, Mary pretended to be sick and sneaked out to the pub. After a week working there, Mr Brown showed no signs of being unhappy with her work, so Mary resigned.

She was without a roof over her head again, but she managed to persuade Mr Brown to let her sleep for a few days in a sleeping bag at the back of the pub. Dahlia let her shower and wash clothes secretly at her former bosses' house.

A few days later, Mary found a room in a flat shared by college students who hung around the pub. They were noisy and even more messy, but that wasn't what kept her up at night.

It's been almost two months since she had started working there and Mr Brown still hasn't allowed her to perform, not even a song in karaoke night. Every day she took the guitar with her in the hope of having an opportunity.

Dahlia offered to try to get her job back as a maid. Mary was tempted to accept.

Arriving at the pub in an afternoon, Mary found Mr Brown very distressed around the karaoke machine.

“This is a disaster! The machine will never be ready in time for tonight! ‘The Golden Lion’ will feast on my clients tonight!” He mumbled dramatically to himself.

Mary saw an opportunity in his drama and volunteered to perform. After thinking for a while, Mr Brown concluded that it was better to have an amateur singer than to run the risk of clients swapping him for another feline.

Mary barely had time to feel nervous over the next few hours. While carrying out the evening's tasks, she chose what she was going to sing and reviewed the chords in her head. Dahlia hurriedly brought her a change of clothes and some makeup, so Mary could get ready.

Minutes before going onto the small stage, nervous butterflies invaded her body. She was so tense that could barely open her mouth. Playing with the gold necklace that her grandmother had given her, a familiar melody began to play in her head, calming the butterflies. Although she couldn’t speak Italian, Mary had heard her grandmother sing it so many times that the verses flowed like a Milanese diva: ‘E quest' è il fiore del partigiano /O bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao, ciao, ciao/E quest'è il fiore del partigiano / Morto per la libertà”.

Feeling warmer in her heart, Mary picked up the guitar and sang to the pub's customers as if she were singing at a packed opera.

She did not remember how many songs she sang that night, for as soon as the first notes left her guitar and her lips, Mary lost track of the world around her, only occasionally being awakened by applauses.

“Not bad for a girl from Grosshire.” Mr Brown said counting the money at the end of the night.

“It’s Grovershire, but thank you. I hope there will be more nights like this.” Mary tried to decipher his intentions.

Mary started to perform once a week at the pub and hosting the karaoke nights. Mr Brown was cheap, but he was fair, sharing part of the profit with Mary. Thanks to the extra money, Mary could leave the chaos of the students’ flat and rent a studio. It wasn't big, but to her it was her own Buckingham Palace.

For months, customers old and new came every week to listen to the nightingale of ‘The Black Panter’.

One night, after her concert, a woman gave her a business card. She asked Mary to stop by her office the next day. “I can’t promise you the world, but I can put you on a bigger stage.”

‘Lemay Events

– Your dream, come true’

Intrigued, Mary showed up there on the next day. Mrs. Lemay, the woman who had approached her the night before, explained that their event organisation company was growing, and they needed a full-time singer at their service.

“Your voice, Miss Howard, is divine and deserves more than weddings and corporate parties. I'm sure someone with more power than me will listen to you and take you where you deserve.”

Even if that didn't happen, at least she wouldn't have to share the songs with the beers. Despite the salary wasn't much higher, it would allow her to save up for a demo.

Working with Mrs. Lemay, Mary travelled around the British islands, singing for all kinds of people and occasions... even funerals. Wherever she went, Mary enthralled all who listened to her and made Mrs. Lemay prospers. Over time, Mary and Mrs. Lemay had become close friends. After her grandparents were dead, Mrs. Lemay was the closest thing Mary had to a family.

At times, her charms attracted some unwanted attention. Not all of them were drunk wedding guests. Some of those who tried their luck were decent and handsome guys. However, Mary ignored any advances, whether drunk or sober. Except if they brought flowers. Mary always accepted the flowers. Especially if they were peonies.

Not that her mother's unfortunate affair with her boyfriend (or ‘The Piral’1 as her grandmother referred to him when she thought Mary wasn't listening) made her sceptical about love. Her grandparents' example had shown her that true love was real and wonderful. Mary had a sweetheart in high school, but she had decided long ago to prioritise her dream over romance.

One morning, Mary and the musicians were preparing the repertoire for a wedding, when Mrs. Lemay arrived at the office ecstatic. An obscenely rich guy had hired them to organise his party at The Trafalgar St. James.

“He hinted that there will be royalty among the guests. I promised him nothing less than the pinnacle of perfection.” Then, Mrs. Lemay turned to Mary “Take care of your voice over the next few weeks, Mary. Take a vow of silence if necessary. This is a lifetime opportunity!”

Mrs. Lemay hardly slept for weeks to get everything to beyond magnificent.

*****

Mary had never been there before, but the hotel certainly never had shined as brightly as it did that night.

She was determined to shine as well. Mrs. Lemay told her some important names in the music industry were among the guests. She rented an exquisite burgundy dress for the evening so that Mary's figure would not pass unnoticed in the opulence of the room.

Before the party starts, the hosts went backstage to greet the musicians. Although obscenely rich, the Sinclaire’s did not match to the stereotype of the rich snob people. The husband was clearly the more extroverted of the pair shaking hands with everyone and exuding a good mood. Though more discreet, the wife seemed to be a very sweet person. She was holding a cute toddler in her arms. When Mary tried to play with the little boy, he hid in his mother's red hair.

Behind the curtain, the sumptuous room was intimidating. There were many famous faces among the guests, including musicians and singers she admired. She felt a knot tightening her stomach. Mary thought she was going to throw up before getting on stage.

“Head up, dear Mary!” Mrs. Lemay encouraged. “This night will change our lives forever.”

Despite the applauses from the audience at the end of the first part, Mary came back to the dressing room very frustrated with herself. Her nervousness had gotten out of control, woken up her parodic perfectionist side.

“Mary, that’s fine, no one noticed got the lyrics wrong. I didn't notice it myself.” Mrs. Lamy quickly prepared some tea to calm her down. Mary was her main asset that night, she couldn't let her lose control.

Mary was about to take the first sip, when she was interrupted by a loud noise. The loud knock on the door only irritated her even more. Annoyed, she set the cup down with such force that she broke it, staining her dress with tea. “Shit!”

Mary gathered herself as best she could to open the door. Standing t the door, there was a young man. He was very tall with an aristocratic bearing.

“There is no need to attack the door. You scared me!”

“I…I’m sorry, Miss Howard, it was not my intention.” He said in a rather posh accent. Despite his imposing appearance, he seemed to be very nervous as he faced her.

“May I help you, my lord?”

“How do you know…?”

“I didn’t know for sure, but I noticed that you seem to be very close to Mr Sinclaire, so there was a high probability that you had some title.” She made sure her words had a harsh tone. She didn’t like to sound like a diva but the last thing she needed that night was a playboy looking for an unwary girl. Men like him only brought problems to women like her.

She looked him straight in the eyes to be sure he was understanding that he had no chance with her. That technique had worked on other occasions. Nevertheless, looking at him more carefully for those seconds, she couldn't help but notice that he was very handsome, with all the attributes of the charming princes. In addition to a breathtaking shade of blue, Mary noticed something else in his eyes that was pulling her towards him with an overwhelming force.

“Vincent Foredale, at your service, Miss Howard.” He kissed her hand gently. “I have to say I’m bewitched… my body, my soul… your voice is divine…Would you be so kind as to agree to go out with me after your performance? There’s a lovely place near here that’s open until late…”

“You can stop right there! This isn’t my first fancy party, so I know how this end with men like you…or rather, how you want it to end… and I’m not interested. Did you really think you would convince me with a Jane Austen paraphrase? Points for erudition, but no thanks.” Mary closed the door in his face, scared by what he was making her feel at that moment. She leaned against the door, trying to process what had just happened.

Despite her harsh words, the young lord didn't give up and remained at the door, declaring his good intentions. “I’m sorry if some called gentlemen took improper liberties with you, Miss Howard, but I assure you I have the best of intentions. If you are still listening, Miss, I’m just asking for a chance to get to know you better. I feel your voice is just the pale reflection of your beautiful soul. Please, I will do anything to prove my pure intentions. I will be at your disposal all night if you change your mind.”

“He seems to be a very decent guy, Mary.” Mrs. Lemay smiled.

“You can’t be serious, Mrs. Lemay! I don't have time to play Cinderella!”

"Cinderella never asked for a prince charming. She just asked for a night off to have fun. You are already at a glamorous party and wearing a beautiful dress. Why don't you have some fun? I can see that you liked what you saw and heard, Mary, don't deny it. I know you better than you know yourself. Bonus, he's very handsome.”

“He is, but I can’t…” Mary was torn between following what she had set in her mind or following the impulse of her heart.

“If you have doubts that are just sweet words, why don't you test it?

“Mrs. Lemay, how am I supposed to test him?”

Mary glanced at the clock. The break was ending. She had to calm her heart and mind quickly. The singer thought that if she asked him something ridiculous, he would stop bothering her, ending the torment. “This is a terrible idea, but here I go…”

Mary opened the door, almost slamming Vincent with it. “Oh… you are still there!” Mary blushed. “It is not polite to eavesdrop behind doors. Someone like you should know that.”

“I wasn’t eavesdropping, Miss Howard… I…” Vincent got flustered.

“I will accept your invitation with one condition: You will have to sing tonight. You will open the second part of my concert.” She smiled playfully.  

“One song, one date?” Vincent repeated, “Do you mean, right here and now?”

“Yes, on this very stage.”

“I…I’m afraid I don’t sing very well, Miss Howard.”

“You said you would do anything… I thought gentlemen always kept their word.” Mary turned her back and closed the door. She heard footsteps moving away. Problem solved. Mrs. Lemay left her alone to get ready.

Her time was coming, so she walked towards the stage. As she got closer, Mary heard the notes of the piano resounding on her body. Peaking behind the curtain, she saw him bravely facing the shame. The fact that he has accepted the challenge baffled her.

“Wise men say/ Only fools rush in/ But I can’t help falling in love with you/ Shall I stay? / Would it be a sin/ If I can’t help falling in love with you?”

As he sang the first song verses, an intense shiver ran through her body, making her heart pounding fast.

He wasn't a nightingale, but he wasn't terrible. Although she couldn't hear, she could guess from the looks and the whispers he was going to be the laughingstock of the night among his peers.

For a moment, his voice lulled her to dreams of the love that the song promised. Could it really be true?

When he finished, the musicians hurried him out, and Mrs. Lemay hurried her entry. They just had time to catch a glimpse of each other.

Mary resumed the concert as if nothing had happened. Minutes later, he reappeared, sitting at the tables in front of the stage.

In some songs, Mary invited the audience to dance. Vincent never left his seat, even though some women invited him directly.

*********

At the end of the concert, Mary assumed Vincent was waiting for her outside the dressing room but there was no sign of him. Could he just be playing around with her? Whatever the case was, she decided to take a walk around the hotel to see if she could find him.

As she walked through the never-ending corridors, Mary crossed paths with Lydia Sinclaire. She was walking back and forth with her son in her arms. The boy was crying desperately, and his mother seemed about to start to do the same.

“Is everything all right, Mrs. Sinclaire? Is the boy sick? Would you like me to call someone?”

“No, Miss Howard, thank you. He woke up grumpy and is throwing a tantrum to go back to sleep.” Lydia sighed. “He's usually a calm baby. I don't know what's going on with him today.”

“Maybe it's because he woke up in a strange place for him and not in his comfy crib.”

“I know you must be tired, Miss Howard, but...Could you sing for him, please? I have been here for almost an hour. I have tried everything.... not even breastfeeding is calming him down.” She vented in despair. “I think he likes your voice because he fell asleep before the end of the first song.”

Mary didn't have the courage to refuse a desperate mother. Bringing back her babysitting skills, Mary gently took the boy from her mother's arms. “Shhh, my, my, why are we so angry, little angel?” She stroked his curls. “What are you up to? ‘Beatles’? ‘Elton John’? ‘Oasis’? No. I think ‘Queen’ suits you better.” Mary smiled. “I was born to love you/With every single beat of my heart/Yes, I was born to take care of you/Every single day,” She sang, rocking him softly. The crying decreased with each verse until the little blue eyes began to close. Once the song was over, Mary hummed the melody until he returned to the world of dreams.

Mrs. Sinclaire was very grateful. “Thank you so much, Miss Howard. I will make sure your kindness will be rewarded.”

Mary continued with her quest. Almost giving up, she called the elevator to go back to the dressing room. When the doors opened, she came face to face with Vincent.

“Miss Howard!” He gasped. “Thank God you are here! I was afraid you were gone!”

“I thought you would be…” The two spoke at the same time, both trying to explain themselves.

Vincent invited her to 'The Red Lion'. They walked there, all the way in silence, arriving almost at closing time. Fortunately, Vincent knew the managers and they let them stay after hours.

After ordering something to eat and drink, Vincent tried to make conversation, but all his eloquence stammered before her.

“Something tells me you don’t have much in the way of picking up a girl!” Mary laughed.

Vincent turned red. “No, I don’t have. My friends tried to give me speed lessons tonight, but as you may notice at your door, they were useless.”

“Good thing I like Jane Austen.” She smiled. “Which is your favourite?”

“’Persuasion’. It's not a popular choice, but I like the idea that true love always finds a way.”

“Good choice of words. You should try more often. With practice, you will certainly be able to persuade more women.”

“I mean it when I say I would very much like to know you better. I don’t want to just ‘pick up you’, Miss Howard. You or any other woman. I collect pens, not lovers.” Vincent fidgeted nervously with his glass.

“Does that mean you see me as a potential lover?” She teased him.

“Miss Howard, that wasn’t…I...” He almost dropped the glass.

“Or I am not handsome enough to tempt you?”

“No, it's quite the opposite...You are rather alluring... I'm sorry, maybe that wasn't the best choice of words this time.”

“You can call me Mary and it’s okay, I was only teasing you.” She took his glass and put it on the table. “If it’s not a lover, what are you looking for, Viscount Vincent?”

“I have never wanted a lover...I have always wished for someone who I can share all my secrets with.”

“Don’t you have a best friend for that?”

“I do, but...Miss Howard...Mary... My soul has been dormant, and you awakened it with the first note you sang. I have felt nothing like this.”

“How can you say that? It hasn't even been a couple of hours yet since you met me!”

“Singing the way you sing, with that passion and depth... I can feel that you are certainly the sharpest and most ardent woman I will ever meet.”

From those first sentences on, the conversation between them never stopped, extending from the pub for the rest of the night at The Green Park. The young viscount's embarrassment faded into conversation, allowing Mary to glimpse an intelligent and sensitive man. Although his noble bearing never wavered, Mary found no trace of vanity or pride in him.

Despite the obvious gulf between their lives and some of their ideas, he never, even for a moment, seemed upset or irritated by what she was saying, listening to her with respect and attention.

He obviously put on his coat on her back before she even felt cold. Even in that moment of closeness, Vincent didn't try to touch her, he didn't even look at her cleavage, despite the dress exposing that area.

Mary was truly enjoying her time with him. Maybe enjoying too much, as the voice in her head was warning. She had a plan for her life and was determined to stick to it. And her plan didn't include falling in love.

However, the more they talked, the more she wanted to know about him, to be closer to him.

Mary didn’t remember falling asleep, but somehow, she woke up with her head resting on his chest, snuggled on his body. They were surprisingly warm under his coat at that hour. She inhaled the soft scent of his shirt. The last few hours had been a beautiful dream, but it was time to come back to reality.

He insisted on driving her home. Mary accepted it. She would sing at a wedding mass in a couple of hours and couldn't be late (and being with him a little longer was a bonus).

Vincent got out of the car and helped her out. ‘God, why you have to be so nice?’, Mary thought to herself.

“Thank you for this lovely night, Mary.” He kissed her hand. “May I hope to see you again?”

Her head said no, but her heart went ahead. “That depends.” Mary flashed him an enigmatic smile.

“Of what?” Vincent had an adorable, confused look on his face.

“If you kiss me. I have been waiting for it all night.” Mary had wanted to kiss him since he left the stage. Vincent cupped her face. She felt his hands shaking. “And promise me that we won’t fall asleep on the grass again. Even the peasants back don’t survive a night on the ground.” His arms gently circled her body. Mary’s hands instinctively grasped his shirt. “I am not a crystal glass, Vincent. I will not break.”

Vincent bent down, his lips against her cheek, brushing it lightly. “I am afraid if I kiss you, you will vanish in the air.

“I am not Cinderella, and we are a long way from midnight, my lord.” Mary smiled sweetly, reaching up and pulling him closer to her.

Once, she had read in a book that after a first kiss, there is no going back. It changes both people. At that time, she thought it was exaggerated. It only took a few seconds to change her mind. Kissing Vincent was as natural as breathing. It wasn’t just the touch of two lips. It was the meeting of two souls. And they talked, through the lips, the heart beatings, the soft sighs… Mary tried to deepen the kiss. Reluctantly, Vincent pulled away, whispering against her lips. “If I don’t stop now, I will never be able to let you go from my arms.”

“Is that a promise, Viscount?” She grinned at him, dizzy with the intensity of what his lips had told her.

Vincent peaked her lips. “So, I suppose that this opens the door to a second date?”

“What are you doing to me, Vincent Foredale?” Mary thought aloud as she caressed his face.

From that day on, there were not many days when they were apart, both arranging their lives to spend as much time as possible together. For almost two years, Mary felt like she was living in heaven on earth.

It didn't matter if it was a romantic weekend away, a Sunday lazing around on the sofa, an afternoon playing cards, making him coffee in the early hours of the morning while he wrote down new ideas for his novel or a morning trying to teach Vincent how to cook... all these moments were precious and only made her fall in love even more.

Besides Vincent’s heart, Mary had caught someone else's eye on that night at 'The Trafalgar St. James'. A music producer contacted her sometime later, offering their services to book her some concerts at small festivals and opening the concerts of some renowned singers. He also asked her to write some original songs to record. If they liked it, there could be good news soon.

As the months passed and their feelings deepened, Mary found herself wondering when Vincent would introduce her to his family. When she asked about it, he avoided the topic. He justified the delay with the need to prepare both sides.

Like most noble families, his parents would certainly still have many of the old prejudices. The encounter between their worlds would be a shock for them and herself. Mary had agreed that the moment would require preparation and patience.

Besides, it was also in the interest of Mary's career to keep a low profile for a while. A malicious article in a tabloid would be a damage difficult to repair.

Although Mary understood his reasons, she noticed there was something wrong with her boyfriend. Over the last couple of months, Vincent looked tired and worried all the time. He was spending less time with her and, sometimes, when they were together, she could say his body was there, but his mind was away.

In those moments, she felt the shadows of doubt take over her heart 'Would Vincent be ashamed of her?' 'Did he truly intend to take her to his parents?' 'Was she just a rich boy's entertainment?

On the holidays in 1993, Vincent whisked her away for a surprise travel. At first, she was a little disappointed upon arriving in Scotland. She hoped his surprise would be Christmas at Edgewater, not a cottage in de the middle of the fields.

On the night of Christmas Eve, Vincent asked her to dress warmly, let him blindfold her, and follow him. Although Mary found it a strange request, she followed Vincent. After walking for some time, they were climbing a small hill. When they reached the top, Vincent removed her blindfold.

Opening her eyes, Mary was lost for speech, enraptured by the northern lights above them. On the night they met, among the many things they said, Mary had commented that she would love to see the northern lights one day. Mary didn't know what made her happier: if she finally saw the lights, or if Vincent remembered that little detail.

“They are so beautiful…so magical! Don’t you think, Vincent? Aren’t they the most wonderful thing?” Mary beamed at the sky.

“No, they aren’t.”

Mary turned to him, staggered by his response. Then she saw him kneeling before her. He gently took her hand and kissed it. “You, my dearest Mary, you amaze me every day with your heart, the wits of your mind. When I met you, my soul was almost extinguished, but you became the light of my life. People say that I was born with the best life has to offer, but in reality, it is with you that I discovered the best life there is. Neither lands, nor treasures, nor titles have done in years what you have done in these months... You make me a better man with your love. My Mary, would you be so kind to accept me as your husband?”

The intensity of what Mary felt at that moment raptured her. She was shaking, laughing, and tearing up all at the same time.

“My dearest Mary, please say something…even it’s not what I wish to hear…” Vincent was getting worried.

“What your family will think? I am just a…” Mary stammered.

“You are the most important person in my life. I will find a way for us; whether like it or not.” Vincent hugged her tenderly.

“No, Vincent. We will find a way.”

“That means…”

“Yes, my love. My heart has no choice but to love you forever and furthermore.” Mary caressed his face.

Vincent twirled her in the air, deliriously happy. They kissed wildly, reasserting through their lips all the affection, admiration, devotion and passion for each other.

In the intensity of the moment, the ring box slipped from Vincent’s hands. Fortunately, it fell at Mary's feet. Vincent took it out of the box and gently placed it on her finger. It was made of gold, with three flowers. The central flower was made of small pearls and adorned with a discreet diamond.

“It’s stunning, Vincent.” Mary beamed.

“I designed it myself. I know it's simple... I tried to make it look like a peony...at least it's white...You deserved a bigger diamond... I can’t afford it now, but I will spend my life making up for it.”

“I don’t care about what it’s made of. It means hope, a promise of a future with you. Nothing else matters to me. Our love is the is the greatest treasure of all.” Mary kissed his hand devotedly.

*****

The following weeks were crazy for Mary, between services for Mrs. Lemay and some scheduled concerts. Vincent had something prepared for Valentine's Day, but it was impossible to be with him. Her concert ended too late for his plans.

To make up for him, Mary convinced Mrs. Lemay to give her a weekend off to “rest her voice”. They didn't do anything special. They barely left their castle (aka Mary's flat). Not like they needed anything else anyway. Their hearts always had a lot to tell each other.

It was a mild February Sunday morning. Some rays of sunlight coming through the window woke her up. Vincent was still sleeping soundly. The morning light illuminated her hand resting on his chest. Every time she looked at her engagement ring on the hand her heart skip a beat with so much happiness. Mary had never spent much time fantasizing about wedding plans, but after singing at so many, she had some ideas.

She planted a kiss on her lovers’ chest. Maybe they could discuss it over breakfast. It was time to go get bread.

Mary rarely had any problems getting up in the morning, but for a few days now, she's been struggling to get out of bed. Mary was exhausted, but she couldn't stop now that there was light at the end of the tunnel for her music. Rolling her body off the bed, Mary felt her head heavy, and for an instant, the small room was spinning around her.

After coffee, Mary was sure she would feel better. Nothing was more wrong. The coffee tasted horrible that morning.

As usual, there was a queue outside the bakery. With no coffee to sip, Mary bought 'The Sunday Times' to entertain herself. She was so distracted reading some trivial news that she almost dropped the newspaper when a lady asked her if she could see the headline.

Mary opened the newspaper wider so the woman could see better. The woman seemed shocked by the headline.

Intrigued by the woman’s reaction, Mary turned it to her. There was something controversial about Princess Diana, but that was hardly new lately. Then, her eyes reached the bottom strip of the headline.

‘Viscount Foredale and Mrs. Marlcaster announce their engagement! - Read everything about the wedding of the year on page 20.’

She couldn’t believe what her eyes were reading. That couldn't be true. Mary ran out of air as a sharp pain coursed through her body, making her throw up.

When she could breathe again, Mary flew back home. Fury, disappointment, anguish, fear... hope. She was feeling everything at once. Although it was difficult to think through the hurricane of emotions, something inside her was screaming it was true.

Her mind wanted to get home as quickly as possible to find out, but her heart was terrified.

Vincent was still in bed. Mary couldn't say anything right away, frozen by dazedness. She was clutching the newspaper on her hand, trying to come back from the shock.

“What happened, Mary?” Vincent asked, feeling that something was wrong.

His question made her blood boil. Mary threw the newspaper at him, hitting her fiancé hard in the face. “Congratulations on your engagement, Viscount Foredale! Wishing you a lifetime of joy, love, and happiness. Now get out of my house immediately!”

Vincent picked up the newspaper and read the headline. “Mary, I know what this sounds like, but believe me, I have an explanation. I should have talked to you earlier…” He stuttered, losing his colours.

“I don’t want an explanation! Look me in the eye and tell me it’s a lie!” Mary cried.

The moment Vincent looked her in the eye and admitted it was true, her heart had shattered into a thousand pieces. Mary loved him more than life, but she refused to be the other woman. She had given him her soul and body and would accept nothing less from him than the same commitment. It would be better to live without him than to live in the shadows.

To show him she was kicking him out of her house and her life, Mary tried to take the ring off her finger. Vincent knew her so well that the ring was just the right size, making the task more difficult.

“I mean what that ring symbolizes. You are my true betrothed.” He tried again.

Hurting her finger, Mary snatched the ring and threw it at him. Her hand was bleeding, but what were a few scratches on a finger compared with the abyss that he had opened in her heart?

Vincent took the ring from the floor. “Mary, my love, please, don’t do this.”

“Don’t dare to call me that ever again! Get out of my house! Now!”

@jeanele ❣  @missameliep ❣  @regencylady1810 ❣ @i-put-the-sin-in-sinclaire @whenyourheartskipsabeat ❣ @xjustin-ethansgirliex ❣@rosesnink @rosesnink ❣  @gardeningourmet ❣ @paisleylovergirl  ❣ @dailydoseofchoices ❣  @rhyssescups ❣  @storyofmychoices ❣   @lorircreates ❣ @lorirwritesfanfic

❣ @walkerduchess ❣ @indiacater

❣ @kinkypot ❣ @ezekielbhandarivalleros @anotherbeingsworld ❣ @hellooliviaolivia ❣ @pixel-writer19  ❣ @sinclaire-ity  ❣ @ezekielbhandarivalleros ❣ @marlcasters ❣ @bhartigat81 ❣ @lyannacyrill706 ❣ @daddytyrilstarfury ❣ @secretaryunpaid ❣ @allisonreilynn ❣ @fauxleaves ❣ @twinkleallnight ❣ @kingliam2019 ❣ @iloveethanramsey ❣ @surewhyynot ❣ @yvettegolx ❣ @itlivesinpixelberry ❣ @chutchoices ❣ @electroniccreatorwerewolf ❣ @spookycolorpeanut ❣ @peonierose ❣ @quixoticdreamer16 ❣ @lilyoffandoms ❣ @tessa-liam

@storyofmychoices @rosesnink @lorirwritesfanfic @gardeningourmet @dutifullynuttywitch @ladylamrian @rosesnink @storyofmychoices

#desire and decorum #unspoken desires #desire & decorum #oc: beatrice foredale #choices desire and decorum

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missameliep · 7 days ago

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Title: In a Little Book Shop - Part 1

Book: Desire & Decorum AU

Pairing: Ernest Sinclaire x Hayley Parker (OC)

Rating: Teen

Word count: ~3k

Summary: Ernest Sinclaire inherited his father’s little bookshop at London and, for the last decade, is used to the uneventful routine of a shopkeeper until a mysterious woman walks in and changes everything.

A/N: English is not my native language; there's one swear word; the poetry in bold blue letters are from Pablo Neruda's Poema 14 from "Veinte poemas de amor y una canción desesperada"; and Hayley Parker is @rosesnink's OC and I'm borrowing her.

Noe, I hope I did Hayley justice. This is just a silly little idea I had, and now I'm sharing it with you.

The Brahms’ piece playing in the back of the store swells in crescendo to a loud forte, almost muffling the sharp sound of the ancient brass bell at the door.

Like every other Tuesday afternoon, at 3 o’clock sharp, the deliveryman walked in. Head bobbing to the music playing into that gigantic white headset he never takes off, today he was carrying only one brown box that almost matched the shade of the company’s uniform.

The man nodded to Ernest Sinclaire, who had been sprucing up the counter for the past forty minutes, despite it already looking neat when he started or the fact that less and less customers have stopped by these past weeks. Not to mention most of the people who did cross the threshold were solely interested in the shop’s AC. With the heatwave, people certainly have fled London, he keeps telling himself.��

But he could be wrong.

Printed books might have gone out of fashion this season like some insist.

The situation has been so critical, he’s been considering his friend Bart’s suggestion of turning part of the antique bookshop into a cafeteria.

‘A book ‘slash’ coffee shop. It’s trending', the man often says. However, Ernest is less than thrilled with the idea of fiddling with the antique shelves his father dedicated so many hours and love to restore years ago. Except for the improvement in the acclimatization and the profusion of autobiographies, the shop looks exactly like it did at its inauguration day in 1816. The framed lithographs in the entrance testify of the superb work.

Almost bouncing, the deliveryman quickly crossed the distance between them, not sparing a second glance around, which Ernest always considers a shame. Does he even realize this bookshop has outlived 7 kings and 2 queens?

Putting down a box with the handmade bookmarks commissioned to the talented artist Annabelle Parssons, Ernest signed the electronic receipt and took the brown box from the deliveryman’s hand. After the usual polite but wordless interaction, the man left. He was alone again when. The only sounds on the store from the first notes of one of Chopin’s nocturnals and the pens pushed aside to reach the pair of scissors in the top drawer.

Like always, he unpacked and carefully inspected the content of the box. Taking one by one, he examines the book covers, searching for any sign of damage. This time the box is filled to the brim with several copies of two cookbooks that trend whenever another season of the Great British Bake Off starts.

Cookbooks and travel guides are the best-selling items. Despite his personal opinions, he won’t complain if they keep the businesses going. Occasionally a customer after them might accept one or two of his recommendations or be drawn by the siren’s call of one of the poetry books or new authors he strategically places around the store.

It happened to that young Spanish writer whose thrilling debut fantasy trilogy became the hit of the store last Christmas. He’s not ashamed to admit he had his friend Bart rambling about the story whenever a new customer arrived nor the way he made use of the beautiful art of the cover. Some of the customers were instantly drawn to the fiery red head in the cover – he cannot blame them though, since he was mesmerized by the heroine’s beauty himself – but most of them returned merely days later to buy the other books. Which reminds him to write a note to himself to place an order for more copies of the author’s new trilogy.

A fit of laughter from a small child outside draws his attention from the paper and he smiles. His gaze follows the kid and the middle-aged woman holding their hand until they disappear after passing the large side window. The store’s location in the corner of two busy streets is privileged and is a perfect spot for people watching.

Across the street, a pair of young women, who look too young to be drinking, linger by the pub’s door, and a group of teenagers walk past the door but don’t look twice at the windows. They are probably going to the ice-cream parlour two stores down.

Keeping himself busy, he takes the recently arrived box. While moving some books aside to give space to the new ones without messing the systematic alphabetical and subject order, a copy of The Tucci Cookbook slips from his hand, hitting the ground with a dull thump. Kneeling to pick it up, a glimpse of someone outside catches his attention. An indistinct mass of blonde hair moves quickly, almost running. A second later, the bell rings sharply and hits the base producing a long higher pitched sound, like it does whenever someone opens the door with too much force.

“For fuck’s sake!” The angry feminine voice startles him. There’s some mumbling while the door closes with a soft click.

From where he is knelt, he only catches a glimpse of a pair of high heeled black leather boots, which is a rather unusual choice for a scorching day like this. The heels click sharply against the wooden tiles, while she moves around the store.

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” he speaks to make his presence acknowledged, while pulling himself up and returning the book to the appropriate place.

Moving around the box, he finally comes face to face with the woman, who had just removed an ash blonde wig from her head and was trying to shove it inside a small studded leather backpack.

The woman’s hair is dark and glued to the head with a mix of sweat and some kind of greasy product, and her makeup is heavy, covering her face almost like a mask. The long and thick fake eyelashes look like spider legs and it’s hard to even distinguish the colour of her eyes. Not that he is trying to, of course. It was a polite gaze. Not even a gaze; barely a glimpse that allowed him to acknowledge the bright enticing eyes.

Dressed all in black – black tank top, black sequin leggings, black heeled boots –, she looks like one of the artists that perform in The Club at Margaret Street. Even her lips are painted in a shade of ripe plum, almost black. If she’s one of the famous ones and is trending on Spotify or whatever is cool this week, he definitely cannot tell. Or maybe she’s just another TikToker committed to the art of making the most entertaining videos according to Bart, who often shoves the mobile into his nose to show the next Amy Winehouse, and wants to revel on the AC. As long as she doesn’t mess with the books and at least buy a bookmark, he’s fine with it.

The woman zips up the bag and shoots him an inquisitive look.

“Cat ate your tongue?” she asks and there’s a lilt of laughter in her tone. His gaze meets hers, and she looks pleased with his reaction and not offended, even though he’s been silent for impolitely long.

His first guess might be right. She’s probably famous and he’s pulling a William Thacker again. And her eyes are brown in this light.

He straightens himself and clears his throat.

“Welcome to Ledford Park Bookshop. How can I help you, miss?”

“I’m buying a gift.”

“Anything in mind?”

“A book.”

Her wide teasing smile almost makes him smile, but he doesn’t. Instead, he keeps his usual bookseller unbothered expression that some might mistake by grumpiness, which is not. It’s professional and he’s learned from past mistakes: smiling freely encourages idle conversation.

“I was thinking about poetry. Something sensual,” she speaks the last word with an accent. “Do you have anything?”

“The Erotica section is in the back.”

“Perfect!” she replies while looking over her shoulder at the window. There’s a hint of relief in her words and the sigh she let out, but perhaps he was mistaking it by the effects of the heat.

Her heels click rhythmically following him to the back of the store, and he stops himself from glancing over his shoulders and let’s his mind picture the way her hips sashay instead.

In a second, they’re surrounded by shelves dedicated to erotic poetry, art catalogues and a range of classic authors like Sappho and Ovid, to best-selling from the 20th century like Pablo Neruda.

A smug grin pulls at the corner of his mouth as she looks around, eyes wide and lips slightly parted. This is the most frequent reaction to the extensive collection. Just one of the many treasures that pleases the regular customers, who keep coming back for more books, more enlightening conversations, more ideas for their own books.

“Poetry is over there,” he points at the neatly arranged books on her right side.

Looking over her shoulder, she asks, “Any Spanish authors?”

Taking a deep breath to consider, his lungs are filled with her sexy and intoxicating perfume. It emanates from her body and hangs heavily in the air. His attention is caught by it like flies on spiderwebs. It takes all his willpower to remind himself of the question. To free himself from the web, he walks around her, trying to clear his mind, and his eyes settle on the section reserved to books written in Spanish, Italian and Portuguese.

“Are you familiar with Pablo Neruda?”

“He’s Chilean,” she corrects him without missing a beat.

“You are absolutely correct. Most people mean books written in Spanish, I simply assumed that’s what you meant... I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she speaks bluntly, “I don’t walk around expecting recognition about my intellectual capacity or general culture. Especially not from men.”

She slowly and deliberately walks in front of him, glancing over her shoulder. There’s a menacing but also hypnotizing glow to her eyes, almost catlike, what it’s probably enhanced by the eyeliner, but mostly because her eyes resemble those of big felines one would see in wildlife’s documentaries, it’s the same look when they are ready to jump an antelope. And her big defying eyes are definitely grey.

With maybe hints of blue in this light.

She turns around and deliberately sashays back to him. Smiling, she takes the book from his hand. Her mouth curls into a smile, wide and showing her a hint of her teeth, and it makes her look prettier. Pretty. She’s pretty. Not enough to tempt him, but pretty enough to have people composing sonnets about long legs and shapely lips. Not him. He’s not thinking at all about how desirable her lips look.

Flipping through pages of the book, she starts reading one of the sonnets in perfect Spanish. But not any of them, she’s reading his favourite one.

When she changes language, her voice is melodious in an unexpected way, it loses the edge, every word sounds like coated in honey.

Entranced, Ernest cannot avert his gaze from her lips while she reads.

Mis palabras llovieron sobre ti acariciándote. Amé desde hace tiempo tu cuerpo de nácar soleado. Hasta te creo dueña del universo. Te traeré de las montañas flores alegres, copihues, Avellanas oscuras, y cestas silvestres de besos.

Before he realises, he’s reciting the verses with her, enunciating every word as clearly as he could.

Tilting her face up, her eyes flick from the page to his face. Her gaze burns his skin. She looks straight at him. Perhaps she’s looking straight to something hidden inside his eyes.

Her voice fades and he recites alone the last two verses.

Quiero hacer contigo Lo que la primavera hace com los cerezos.

Her expression changes, lighting up almost as if a treasure had been unearthed in front of her eyes.

“¡Guay! ¡Hablas Español!” she cries, and the next words flow quickly and excitedly from her lips, and he cannot follow them at all, except for a few of the nouns and pronouns. His knowledge of the language is practically non-existent: he poorly reads and can only speak a few sentences to save his life in case of a catastrophe.

“Sorry, I don’t. I only know some of Neruda’s poems by heart, and that’s one of them.”

He lowers his gaze, shame burning his cheeks and warming him more than the heatwave had done so far. His fingers go to the collar of his white shirt, and pull at it, loosening it slightly.

“For a moment, you could have fooled me.” Her words sound too flirty, almost daring.

Is it a dare? Would she want me to pretend?

Her lips twitch, pulling at the corners when she laughs. It’s impossible to look direct at her eyes, like one cannot look at an eclipse, risking burn their retinas. The intensity of her gaze probably does the same. His gaze wanders, then focus on the shelves, from one book spine to the next.

“Why learning the poems if you don’t speak the language?” Her long fingers run through the spines of books, stopping his contemplation. “Trying to impress the ladies?”

The silence stretches for a bit, giving him time to think; he stares at her, considering if she’d be truly interested in the truth.

“My father worked with publishing,” he started, and his voice did not falter or waver as it would years ago; it’s easier to speak about him, almost comforting as if planting these memories like seeds, they’d bloom... “Every summer I’d work a few days a week at the office... When I was fourteen, he was working on a collection of Neruda’s poems and... well, that’s it.”

“That's it? That's barely a story,” she laughed. “So, what happened? You memorised the poems to impress your father or something...?”

He shook his head and delved into the memories of the suffocating summer surrounded by manuscripts and heated arguments about the imagery invoked by the cherry trees. “Father was a man easy to please. I never felt the urge to impress him. It always seemed that being myself was enough...”

“Lucky you.” The hollow laugh that left her mouth startled him, but she recomposed herself. When she spoke again it wasn’t a question, but a statement, “Your father taught you about poetry.”

“He taught me most things, including the tragedy of translators ignoring the profound differences between cultures and the meaning lost in translation when the works is rushed, and one chooses literality over intent... I was probably too young at the time to truly understand all he was trying to say... But I noticed in Spanish the poems sounded...” he paused, searching for a word. “More poetic somehow... Melodic in a different way... And then I memorised this one. And plenty of others –”

“Which ones?” she cuts him off, and he’s about to answer – and Ernest suspects her feline eyes would compel him to answer questions until his throat was sore and his mind emptied of words – but the phone rang.

With a sigh, he excuses himself. “If you need any help, don’t hesitate in calling me.”

“I won’t.” The same expression from before returns, and so is the sharpness behind the words.

He walks behind the counter to take the call, and he can no longer see the woman; for once, he’s not worried about shoplifting.

The call takes longer than he wishes, and his patience almost runs out when the caller keeps inquiring about books’ covers that would match a specific shade of purple. The person doesn’t know the name of the author or genre, just that it's trending online.

He lets out a long exhale through his nose.

Any other day, this wouldn’t bother him, and he’d welcome the challenge, putting the phone down, he’d look around, like an archaeologist digging a site. But now he must go back to this one customer, because he needs to serve well. Nothing else.

“Maybe you should stop by. We’re open until 20:00.”

The person reluctantly thanks him and hangs up.

Ernest’s eyes search the monitor underneath the counter. She’s moved to the shelves on the side of the store, next to the psychology section, closer to Jung.

There’s a book close to her face, but her gaze is not on the pages.

“Have you changed your mind about the gift?” he asks softly trying not to startle her or sound pretentious but fails.

Her shoulders tense and heave with an intake of breath, before she turns around to look at him with an unreadable expression.

“Should I take the Neruda, or should I browse some more?” she asks breezily, one side of her mouth curled with a smirk, “I wonder if there’s something else more... suitable for my taste...”

“By all means,” he replies politely, “Feel free to look and see if there’s anything else, you’d prefer.”

“I definitely will.” She glides amongst the tall shelves closer to the window, then halts and looks at him over her shoulder. He was observing her, and his cheeks warm at being noticed.

“Our bestselling books are over that table,” he says and returns to the task of organizing cook books but still observes her.

Finally, her heels click as she comes to him.

“I know what I want,” she says casually, and the book in her hand passes to his hand.

Neruda.

Her fingers graze his, and his breath catches in his throat. He swallows hard the surprise. That’s the most human contact he’s had in several weeks, and it’s surprisingly pleasant. Not anything else. His heart is racing because he’s shocked. This entire interaction has been incredibly odd.

From the backpack, she takes a few notes to pay for the book. The money is placed in the counter, and so is the change. His attention is entirely focused on gift-wrapping the book, and not once he looks at her while doing it.

When the package is passed to her hand, she thanks him, says goodbye and leaves.

He never gets a name; but she lingers by the door and smiles pointedly at him before closing it. Surrounded by a cloud of her perfume, he wonders if it’s the last he’ll see of her.

Thanks for reading!

#desire and decorum au #ernest sinclaire #mr. sinclaire #mr. sinclaire x oc #oc: hayley parker #choices fanfic #desire & decorum au #desire & decorum #choices desire and decorum

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