A/N: OH MY GOSH THIS SHOW. That is all.

Two years was a long time.

Longer, to a girl who must be accomplished before she could be interesting. One could fold up old letters in linen and dried flowers, but nothing more.

One could forget.

In the dark, letter-less days it was easier to forget passionate eyes and lips. Francis was handsome enough, when seen from the corner of the eye—and even if she had ever matched Ross's bright gaze fairly, he was not there now to claim her notice.

Elizabeth was practical, in head if not in heart, and it seemed better to decide that memories of promises were not enough.

Her mother's whispers reached her ears. The letters were mute and cold beneath her fingers.

There was something more, too, an aching within—she was afraid, and she was too soft to bear it. She knew her own weaknesses. She had no real reason, in those two years, to rid herself of them.

She would marry Francis, and Ross would not return.

The memories would have to be enough.