Talisman

Mary had been unable to think clearly or maintain a conversation since Edith delivered the news that morning. She walked the grounds of the Abbey caught in a maelstrom of restless thoughts.

How unlike Edith to deliver good news. Or was it good? How could she feel happy at such news. What she felt was pain, a pain she couldn't put a name to. She clutched at her stomach, cursing the return to fashion of corsets.

So lost in her own thoughts was Mary that she didn't notice Matthew until he was but a few feet from her. He was holding the small toy rabbit she had given him so long ago.

When she looked up he saw a face wretched with confusion; a kaleidoscope of panic, hope, regret. Under his gaze her face softened a little, though her eyes shone bright with unshed tears. For a moment he was heartened that he could give some small solace to Mary, until he realised that he was also the author of her pain. He had known she was hurt by his engagement to Lavinia but until this moment he had not guessed at the magnitude of her distress, or her love for him.

Their eyes were locked together. In her current state, his face was inscrutable to her, though an observer would have been in little doubt as to his feelings.

The distance between them closed. Mary could scarcely breathe. Matthew's fingers traced her cheek before resting lightly on her neck. Her eyes clamped shut at the headiness of the sensation. Their lips barely grazed each other but that feather light touch was enough. They sank into the kiss. Matthew could feel the very breath of Mary deep in his lungs. Neither had realised before now just how keenly they had been holding their breath; not just in these few minutes but ever since they had first seen each other after two years' estrangement. For Matthew the kiss was as if a man stranded in the desert had discovered an oasis. As it deepened it was as if that man, limited only to water for years, was suddenly re-discovering wine.

For Mary it was such relief to be in the embrace of the man she loved and so desired that her legs nearly buckled beneath her. All restlessness left her. As Matthew's arms slipped around her waist, still holding that blessed rabbit, her hands circled his neck, fingers delving into his hair, so thick, so soft.

When Edith reported that she had seen Lavinia boarding the London train that morning and was being seen off by Isobel and not Matthew, Mary thought little of it, though each mention of Lavinia and Matthew still caused her private pain. She was barely listening as Edith continued on, complaining of Isobel's reluctance to convey some information or other and insisting she tell Mary in the exact terms that Isobel prescribed. Slowly the intelligence entered her consciousness; Lavinia had left for London and would not be returning. Mary knew not what she did once the realisation hit her, but she had found herself at the very tree where they had flirted so tentatively all those years ago.

And now this kiss. No words or declarations of love were necessary; through this kiss they spoke more eloquently of love and longing, desire and devotion, than any words could. Yes, they would marry, but where or when this happy occasion took place was largely irrelevant, for this was the moment they were truly wedded. It must be said, however, that the thought did occur to each that marriage couldn't come soon enough.

And all this while that ragged bedraggled rabbit was pressed to Mary's back. Now matted and thick with the blood-tainted soil of the battlefield, it would become their most treasured talisman.