(Whoops, this little thing has been sitting on my hard drive for months. I'm way late to this particular party, but what's five or six months among friends. Can I promise there will be any more? Nope. Can I promise there won't? Nope.)
"You can always hold my hand if you need to feel steady."
They were walking, hand in hand, along the beach.
The sand beneath his feet shifted as the water rolled in and rolled out, the seaweed tickling his toes under the gentle waves. He was lightheaded, happier than he could remember feeling in an age — a touch giddy and precisely the opposite of steady, if he was being honest with himself, which he almost certainly wasn't.
She let go of his hand in order to reach in and fish something out of the surf, hiking her skirts a bit higher to prevent them dipping into the water as she bent down. He purposefully turned his gaze to the horizon, hands behind his back in the stance of eternal patience that was second nature to him, until she had straightened again.
She rinsed the object lightly in the water and admired it briefly, then turned and handed the small, perfect sea shell to him with a coy smile.
"There. Something to remind you that there can be beauty even in defeat."
He accepted it warily. "I never said I didn't want to go to the seaside, Mrs. Hughes. I simply thought that since the staff doesn't get out much beyond an occasional trip to a local fair, London could provide them with somewhat more… cultural depth. I clearly overestimated their interest."
"Well, I hope you're not too disappointed."
He studied the delicate little shell for a moment, holding it between thumb and forefinger, then met her eyes once more.
"How could I possibly be disappointed in the face of such beauty?"
He tucked the shell into his vest pocket, and slipped his hand back into hers. "It will help me to feel steady when I can't hold your hand."
The radiant smile he received in reply, he thought, was worth a touch of unsteadiness.
They walked on.