Informalities
"Good day, Mr. Turner." Will watched as Elizabeth headed towards the door and outside where he knew a carriage would be waiting for her. He cringed at the formality with which she used on him. To her he was Will. Not Mr. Turner, not William, but simply Will. Always Will.
However, he had brought it upon himself that that was what she had called him, for he had refused to call her by her name so casually. But how could he? She was the mayor's daughter. A beautiful young woman born into privilege and class. And he... he was just a poor black smith's apprentice with nothing to offer her but rough, hard working hands and the fruits of his labor; a bunch of swords, cutlasses, and daggers. How could he compare with the Commodore? The smarter and more suitable match with a lady of such high standings.
Then again, she had insisted that he used her first name when addressing her. In fact, she longed to hear that word pass through his lips and into her ear. She had admitted it herself. 'Will, how many times must I ask that you call me Elizabeth?' And what had he said? 'At least once more, Miss Swan.'
With a bit of hope sprouting within him, he rushed to the door just in time to see her climb into the carriage, the skirts of her full dress swaying slightly behind her.
"Good day," He sighed before bringing himself to whisper a name so sweet. "Elizabeth." It was finally said aloud, but not so much as for her to hear.
"Good day, Mr. Turner." Will watched as Elizabeth headed towards the door and outside where he knew a carriage would be waiting for her. He cringed at the formality with which she used on him. To her he was Will. Not Mr. Turner, not William, but simply Will. Always Will.
However, he had brought it upon himself that that was what she had called him, for he had refused to call her by her name so casually. But how could he? She was the mayor's daughter. A beautiful young woman born into privilege and class. And he... he was just a poor black smith's apprentice with nothing to offer her but rough, hard working hands and the fruits of his labor; a bunch of swords, cutlasses, and daggers. How could he compare with the Commodore? The smarter and more suitable match with a lady of such high standings.
Then again, she had insisted that he used her first name when addressing her. In fact, she longed to hear that word pass through his lips and into her ear. She had admitted it herself. 'Will, how many times must I ask that you call me Elizabeth?' And what had he said? 'At least once more, Miss Swan.'
With a bit of hope sprouting within him, he rushed to the door just in time to see her climb into the carriage, the skirts of her full dress swaying slightly behind her.
"Good day," He sighed before bringing himself to whisper a name so sweet. "Elizabeth." It was finally said aloud, but not so much as for her to hear.