Chapter Text
OCTOBER 1883 | The Morning After the Opening Night of the Metropolitan Opera
He kisses her very softly, gently, and she kisses him back – and it is perfect, he thinks, quite perfect. It is exactly right. She’s grinning against his mouth as he kisses her, and he knows she feels just as happy as he does, and the thought makes him want to laugh with happiness – to dance, to shout with happiness.
It is not a passionate kiss – there will be time for that, later, he thinks – he hopes – but it is tender and romantic and he tries to put as much feeling into it as he can while still remaining as proper as he can be while doing something wholly scandalous. For it is terribly improper to kiss her like this – in public, where anyone can see – when they are not engaged – not even courting! If he didn’t know his own heart, his own intentions – how true they are, how much she means to him, how honourable he intends to be towards her – he would feel quite ashamed.
But there is nothing shameful about kissing her like this, he thinks, holding her hands. Not when she responds to him so joyfully, when his heart races in his chest with emotion. Not now that he knows – that he finally understands – that he loves her.
They break apart, and he nudges her with his nose, resting his forehead on hers, as she gasps, “oh,” at him, her eyes alight with happiness. Oh, indeed , he thinks, giddy. Oh .
The door opens too quickly – just as he was planning on embracing her again, torn between taking her face in his hands and kissing her, and speaking to her of his feelings, his intentions. He wishes he could do both at once, that both did not require his mouth.
Her voice is so sweet when she bids him goodbye, her eyes sparkling at him, and he feels as light as a cloud, like he’s going to float up into the sky, not a care in the world. He tries to make his voice as meaningful as he can when he says his goodbyes, catching her eye, seeing her flush with happiness at his gaze.
***
He doesn’t know when he fell in love with her, nor does he know when he realized it.
He doesn’t think he was in love with her the night he danced with her at Gladys’ ball, or even the night he returned to Mr. McAllister’s Casino party. Not yet. Perhaps he was almost there – he had certainly been attracted to her, liked her very much, harboured a great deal of tender feeling for her – but he doesn’t know if it was love. Perhaps it was love. He doesn’t know.
He is torn between thinking he might have been a little in love with her for ages – a year, or more – and somehow hadn’t known it; and thinking that it seems to have sprung out of nowhere in these last few months, blooming out of their friendship in ways he never expected. Somehow, he thinks both are true at the same time.
But he knows now – he thinks he has known since the agony of Mr. Montgomery’s proposal. And it has only beat louder in his chest as the days have passed. And then the joy he felt when she broke her engagement – the relief had swept through him like a wave crashing onto the sand.
He cannot lose her again – he won’t. He will court her, he decides, although it feels like a foregone conclusion at this point. Hadn’t he sworn not to court a young lady until he wanted to marry or until he was in love, and ideally both? Both are true, now, he realizes, his heart beating very hard as he walks home.
Of course he will court her, for he is in love with her – he wants to marry her and father her children and live with her, loving her and holding her and talking to her and laughing with her until he dies.
***
He goes back to see her later that same day, unable to wait for the next day, like he thinks would be proper.
He can’t wait until tomorrow, he thinks, nervously. What if he loses her again? What if some man blunders in off the street and she somehow becomes engaged to him? He cannot risk it, unlikely though it might be.
Bannister admits him, begrudgingly, into the sitting room, where she sits, looking tired but lovely. Her aunts, he learns, are both taking their afternoon naps, and he thanks Providence that he chose this moment to call.
She invites him to sit next to her on the settee. He does so, his heart in his mouth.
“Miss Brook,” he begins, nervously, looking at her face. “I hope you know I meant no disrespect, earlier.”
She flushes a little. “I – of course, Larry. I know that.”
“If you – if I was improper,” he swallows hard. “I hope I did not offend you. I hope you do not think I was a dreadful cad.”
She shakes her head, and then gives him a smile that is equal parts shy and coy, which makes his heart thump so loudly he thinks she must surely hear it.
“You’re not a cad, Larry,” she says – and she touches his arm so gently, making him draw in a shallow breath, nervous again. “I know you.”
“I – I don’t know when it started,” he says, flushing now, looking at his knees. “I cannot – I do not know. It was like I woke up, one day, and it was there, and I could not explain it, and I could not say when it started, or how it started, or why it took me so long to realize it. Or why it hadn’t started earlier – years ago, even. Or if maybe it did, and I somehow didn’t know.”
“What are you talking about?” She asks him, looking nervous and hopeful and a little confused.
“You, of course,” he says, giving her a shy smile. “You. My feelings for you.”
She flushes deeply, and breaks into a beautiful, radiant smile. “Oh, Larry,” she breathes. “Oh.”
“I –” he breaks off, nervous. “I do not know how it took me so long. How I didn’t see it. I’ve been a fool, Miss Brook. A complete fool.”
“You’re not a fool,” she says, softly. “And,” she looks at him, and he meets her gaze, feeling a little braver, “you must call me Marian, now, I think.”
“Marian,” he says, and he takes her hand, gently, smiling broadly. “Marian,” he repeats, enjoying the sound of her name. “Marian, Marian.” He laughs, disbelieving. “I’ve been a fool.”
“No,” she giggles. “I didn’t – I didn’t want to admit it to myself.”
“Admit what?” He asks, breathlessly, daring to hope – living for whatever she is about to say next.
She laughs then, unrestrained. “Why – admit my own feelings for you, Larry. What else could I mean?”
“You –” He croaks, unable to speak. “You – you care for me? As I care for you?”
“I hope so,” she whispers, her cheeks pink. “I hope you care for me the way I care for you.”
“I do,” he says, immediately. “Or at least – I hope you care for me the way I care for you. For I love you, Marian. I am in love with you.”
Her breath hitches in her throat, but she does not withdraw her hand – she merely looks on him, as though in a daze.
“I know it may be – too much, too quickly,” he says, hurriedly, wanting her to understand. “I do not expect you to feel the same, not yet. I will – I wish to court you, to win you, Marian. If you’ll let me. Please – know that I never intended to kiss you without declaring this. I was simply – I got carried away.” He breathes, nervous, unable to look away from her. “I couldn’t not kiss you. The way you looked. Knowing you were free – that I could court you. I couldn’t lose you.”
She gapes at him, and then he sees the tears in her eyes, and feels panicked – what has he said?
“What –” he gasps out, worried and embarrassed.
“Larry,” she murmurs, her voice thick with emotion. “Oh, Larry. Larry…I…” she squeezes his hand with emotion. “Larry, of course I love you.”
These are the words he’s been dreaming of, of course, but he still feels incredulous – struck dumb – at the sound of them.
“Really?” He breathes. “You – you do?”
“Yes,” she nods, laughing now, even as the tears start spilling onto her cheeks. “Of course I do.”
“You – Mr. Montgomery…” he stumbles over his words, unsure what exactly he is trying to articulate.
She shakes her head. “I never loved him. I told you that he and I didn’t love each other. It was you – I just didn’t want to admit it to myself. Not when – not when you weren’t courting me, when you were never anything more than my friend.”
“I was a fool!” He exclaims, clutching both of her hands in his. “I was a damned fool, Marian. Forgive me, please. I should’ve – I should’ve started courting you that first day I met you in the road.”
She giggles at this. “I don’t think it would’ve been the same. Not without our friendship, first.” She looks at him, her eyes wide and tender, blushing. “I think we had to become friends first, to really fall in love.”
“Why?” He frowns. “I thought you were lovely that first day. I wanted to know more about you.”
“And I you,” she blushes again, at her own words. “But I mean, if it had happened then – it would’ve just been built on a passing fancy – on attraction –” she flushes more – “on thinking the other one charming. But this is different.”
“You are so wise,” he says, looking at her with admiration. “Yes, I see what you mean.” For he thinks it is so much sweeter, so much better, so much deeper – to fall in love with a friend like this.
“For we know each other,” Marian says, squeezing his hand again. “We know each other – good, and bad, and foolish and brave and everything in between. We haven’t been trying to impress each other. And we like each other anyway.”
“I more than like you,” he says, leaning closer to her. “Haven’t I told you I’m in love with you?”
“Yes,” she blushes, “But it is better to like and love than merely love, don’t you think? For sometimes I think I loved Tom and I liked Dashiell – but I feel both for you…and it is like experiencing both together magnifies each ten times over.”
These words burn into his skin – they are so right, he thinks, gobsmacked again at her brilliance. “Marian,” he breathes, tracing the contour of her cheek with his finger. “Marian, yes. That is exactly it – that is exactly how I feel about you.”
She reaches out a hand to touch his jaw, quite gently, sending a whole-body shock through him. She caresses his cheek, running the pad of her thumb across his scratchy cheek. She cannot enjoy this, the way he enjoys touching her smooth skin, he thinks, dumbfounded.
“Well, Larry – aren’t you going to kiss me?” She asks him in a quiet voice, smiling. .
He pulls her to him without another word, and he kisses her like she’s oxygen. His friend. His love. Marian. He cannot believe it.
He tries to get down on one knee, after breaking the kiss, and her eyes widen in shock. “Oh, Larry – I don’t know – not yet. Let’s – let’s be sure.”
“I am sure,” he says, determined. “I am more than sure. There is no doubt in my heart, Marian. Not about this. Not about you.”
“You are so dear,” she says, and he thinks he sees tears again. “You are the dearest man in the world. I love you.”
He opens his mouth, trying to find the words.
“Darling,” she says, and it makes his heart race. “Believe me that the answer will be yes, when the time comes. But I want to make quite sure we are suited to each other. That we aren’t throwing ourselves into something out of – attraction or excitement or foolishness…” she trails off, sounding embarrassed. “It’s too important to be rash. I love you too much to be so hasty.”
“Let me court you?” He asks, grinning. Of course he had meant to propose, but he doesn’t mind wrongfooting her like this. “Marian, say you’ll let me court you?”
She laughs again at this, and gives him a look that says nice save. “Of course. Of course. What other answer could there be?”
He kisses her again. “Don’t make me wait too long, sweetheart. To hear your answer.”
“I just answered,” she giggles, kissing him.
“To the question you know I wanted to ask. The question I will ask you, if you’ll let me. When the time is right.”
“It will be yes,” she says, as he slides his arms around her. “I just – I want to be quite sure. And I want you to be sure.”
“I’ve never been surer of anything,” he says, nudging her nose with his. “I promise you.”
She gives him a look that says she knows how he can be – passionate, easily carried away, with the best of intentions.
“It’s not a whim, my love,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s not a passing, fleeting fancy. Let me prove it to you. Let me prove it to you and then let me ask you to be my wife, properly.”
“Please do,” she says, her eyes dancing. “I do want to be your wife.”
“Careful,” he whispers to her. “Careful, or I will take that as an acceptance, darling.”
“Larry,” she giggles, leaning close to him – he cannot help himself, he kisses her again.
“When? How long must I wait to ask?” He pulls away from her, admiring the blush of her cheeks, the way her whole face seems lit up under his gaze.
She laughs. “It’s not a train schedule, Larry.”
He kisses her again, gently at first, holding her hands as he did the first time.
To his astonishment, she pulls him closer, snaking a hand into the hair at the nape of his neck, and pressing her lips against his more insistently. He answers this unspoken request at once, pulling her to him, one hand gripping her waist tightly and the other cradling her face. He kisses her passionately – the way he has wanted to, the way he has dreamt of, the way he has longed to – and she returns his kiss readily, enthusiastically – meeting his tongue with her own, shocking him again.
“Where – where did you learn to do that?” He asks, astonished, when they break apart, leaning his forehead to hers.
She flushes. “A lady has to have some secrets, Larry.”
He grunts at this – Tom Raikes, he thinks, jealous again. But Tom Raikes isn’t here right now – Tom Raikes isn’t kissing Marian. I am, and she loves me, he thinks, his heart swelling.
“You’re not jealous?” She looks at him incredulously, stifling her laughter.
“A little,” he whispers, embarrassed. “I hate to think of any other man kissing you. I had imagined, once –” he breaks off, sheepish, “that I might be the one to teach you about kissing. Back when we first met.”
“You certainly took your time, then,” she giggles. “In making your interest known.”
“I know,” he says, grinning. “I won’t make that mistake again.”
“There are other things still to teach,” she whispers, turning very red at her own words, thrilling him. “Are there not?”
“Marian!” He looks at her, astonished, grinning. “I am stunned – scandalized, even! – that you would say such things to a man who is not even your fiancé!”
“It won’t do to pretend to be scandalized, Larry,” she says, grinning and blushing at the same time. “For I know you aren’t.”
“And yet you speak of such very scandalous things,” he whispers back, his eyes dancing.
"It won’t be scandalous once we are wed,” she breathes, “and we shan’t do them until then, Larry.”
“Of – of course not,” he blushes now. “But just to hear you say that we will be wed makes me the happiest man alive, Marian.” He cannot stop grinning. “I love you, you know.”
“I know now,” she says, smiling, the happiness evident in her voice. “I know now.”