A/N: Though I wish I had the stamina and creativity to write three epic novels on one topic, North and South (US mini-series) is not at all mine.
The tall, thin adolescent sat down carefully on the wooden swing, painted white, on the enormous house's front porch. Placing the palm of his hand on the seat before slowly lowering himself to meet it, he tried not to take up too much space beside the girl sitting on the swing. She was very small—not thin, certainly, but short and with a set of Cupid's bow lips that made her seem very fragile. At nineteen, Tillet Main had no experience talking to women aside from his own mother and youngest sister, aged only five.
His stature made him look imposing so that, when he approached a girl whose eye level met square with his chest, she did not notice the timidity with which he looked down at her. His every move was orchestrated to appear as friendly as possible, but it had failed him. Until now, with Clarissa Gault. Tillet had no idea why, but this particular girl, shorter than many of the neighbourhood girls, had keenly conversed with him for the last hour and a half.
They had stepped out to breathe in the fresh air for which Clarissa's father's plantation was renowned. This was, at least, the excuse that Clarissa gave Tillet; in reality, she had tugged on his shirt sleeve at just the right time before her older half-sister could come over to meddle in her business (and probably snatch Tillet, whom she'd never have noticed before, away from Clarissa). Clarissa prided herself on being a lady, and she had merely whispered to Tillet that she felt a bit faint in the crowded room, making sure that her sister could hear.
She was happy to be out here, away from the brouhaha of the party taking place inside. From where she sat on the porch swing, she watched Tillet as he told her about his difficult French course in his first year at Yale. Even after he sat down on the swing to her right, she still had to look up to see into his eyes. After a long, unblinking moment, the corners of her eyes began to water. Tillet, in his inexperience, mistook these tears for discomfort or sadness; he immediately fumbled with the words in his current story and could not remember where he'd left off when he finally regained his train of thought.
"You were just telling me about a boy named Weston who started singing nursery rhymes instead of reciting a poem he'd been assigned to memorize in front of the whole class," Clarissa filled in, her long eyelashes darting up to show off the cleverness in her gaze.
She let a noticeably more pink-cheeked Tillet continue, but her eyes were focused on the long, masculine nose and the way the sunlight fell on the honey-coloured curls coming from his scalp. She liked the way his big, dark eyes followed her wherever she went, for it gave her a feeling of security she'd rarely known.
Tillet's voice trailed off. Clarissa noticed immediately that the sonorous sound that echoed across the porch had quieted. She looked further up, trying in vain to follow Tillet's eye. But she could not, for Tillet was looking at the top of her own head. Just staring. If it had been any other boy, Clarissa would have frowned and asked to be taken inside after such a display. And despite how happy such lady-like deportment would make her father, François Gault, who had a hard time believing he'd ever find her a suitor, Clarissa did not regard Tillet in the same way as any of the rude boys who didn't want a decent girl at all.
"Is something wrong?" she asked in her lilting voice.
Tillet stammered. He raised his hand, pointing a long finger at Clarissa's head, which only confused her more.
Finally, he said, "A leaf's just fallen into your hair." He was transfixed by the light green leaf in contrast to Clarissa's rich mahogany tresses.
Clarissa almost giggled, but quickly composed herself. She breathed a sigh and, smiling, swept a hand over her hair. She tried a few more times but—
"It's—not quite—just a bit to the right—um, I think it might be stuck among the strands," said Tillet with about as much ease as Weston at his poetry recital.
Clarissa's eyes widened a little. For the first time that day, her girlish innocence was not feigned. "Oh, would you mind getting it out for me? I haven't any way to do it myself and I can't go inside like this to find a mirror…"
Tillet reasoned she had a point, but wrestled with his fear of hurting girls or being hurt by them. Finally he decided it was the only manly thing to do; he'd pick the leaf out of her hair. He'd finally get to feel her presence.
He put his large, slender hand on her scalp as lightly as if he were a young girl brushing a playmate's hair. But every atom in his body warmed at the touch, and Clarissa was no stranger to that feeling at this moment. He plucked the leaf out easily and examined it with comical interest in its appearance before placing it in Clarissa's small cupped hands. He'd certainly never had that kind of courage before. But Tillet's palm rested on her scalp for a moment too long. His body remained tilted towards hers just a little bit longer than necessary for the operation of removing leaves from heads.
And before Tillet knew it, François Gault, as tall and imposing as Tillet seemed, walked up the three steps of the front porch. Tillet's hand drew back instantly; in that moment, he cursed his right hand for even existing because he could find no inconspicuous place to put it. Gault's hands had not changed position from their usual spot on his lower back. He gave Tillet a long look that paralyzed the poor young man in a way not unlike the trance induced by Clarissa. But, upon closer inspection, Tillet saw that there was no mark of hatred or anger in the man's eyes and felt—tentatively—safer.
Finally, Gault spoke with a matter-of-factness that better suited an offhand remark on the weather. "Mr. Main, I think it is time for you to rejoin our guests," he said, nodding towards the front door of his stately home. "That is, if my daughter is to maintain her honour as an unmarried girl."
Tillet rose sharply from the porch swing, causing it to totter and Clarissa to inhale suddenly as she nearly slid off of it. He tried to steady it with his hand but it seemed that everything he did only made him appear clumsier and guiltier. So he simply nodded to Gault and started towards the door. He didn't dare look back at Clarissa. But before he left them he remembered his gentlemanly duty. "Sir, please do not blame Clarissa. It really was nothing, but the fault is entirely mine."
"My boy," said Gault, putting a hand up to silence Tillet. "I feared for a moment that you had become too well acquainted with my daughter. But when I hear you say such a thing, I know you have not come to know her at all." He laughed heartily as Clarissa cupped her face in her hands. He turned to Tillet. "All is not lost, son. But if you wish to speak to my daughter, I demand that is on more legitimate terms. If you are patient, I will call on you to meet with her here at Providence," he added, looking up at the carvings surrounding the front entrance to his house.
Tillet nodded, for once grateful that his throat had become impossibly blocked with words. He walked inside and pretended to mingle with the other guests. When he looked out through the window onto the porch, he saw François Gault shifting his weight from heel to toe in order to propel the swing back and forth lightly. Tillet remarked that father and daughter had the very same rosy-cheeked, hearty laugh.
A/N: Comment if you enjoyed or if I can improve. And yeah, laziness provokes idiom overuse.