A gust of wind, a brush of cold, Phoebe was happy. "It's the end of summer!" she declared happily to Monty, who was walking behind her down the hall.
"Yes, Phoebe, it is. Do you like the end of summer?"
Phoebe nodded excitedly. "I love summer. I love every time of year. Flowers in spring, beautiful colors in autumn, frost in winter, but the end of summer is gorgeous."
"I thought you would be sad about this time of year, Phoebe. You seem to love summer, I would have thought you wouldn't want it to end."
Phoebe laughed. "I suppose that's possible. But I love everything. It's the time for the leaves to change to the warm colors of the sunset-" The door bell went off with a resounding and long series of bell-like chimes. Actually, they were bells. Phoebe ran off to get it, leaving Monty staring out the window at the few trees whose leaves began to fall.
"Sibella!"
Monty was pushed from his appreciation of the outside to his appreciation for the inside. He came around the corner to find Sibella in a beautiful pink dress, for summer of course. Not as prudish, though she never was prudish in the first place.
"Phoebe," Sibella returned with a warm smile. "Monty!" She ran to hug her lover, who embraced her. The interesting thing about the relationship was that Phoebe was alright with their touches, their affections. It was strange and it wasn't. Phoebe just happened to be uninterested in sex. She didn't like it, she didn't want it. Monty kissing her hand was enough for her, and she loved that. She loved love.
"Sibella, how are you? You're outside, not shopping. What's happened?"
The blonde brushed off her dress, some pollen or dust floating down. "It's the dying light of summer, Monty. It's a lovely time of year. We should all go out."
"That's it?" Phoebe asked. "Sounds lovely."
Monty nodded. "Where would we go, though?"
"The gardens!" Phoebe was insistent on this fact, and neither Monty nor Sibella could deny her sweet, innocent smile. She was the purest of them.
"I hope you're happy," Sibella muttered as Phoebe walked around in her skirt and blouse, enjoying the warm summer air.
The brunette simply laughed. "I am happy. This is a beautiful place. Kensington Gardens are lovely."
"I have to agree," Monty said, joining her over by the flowers. "Come join us, Sibella!"
Sibella had no desire to join them. She wanted to sit on the bench and not be disturbed. It wasn't that she didn't like the outdoors, but she would rather have dragged them both shopping with her, or into the city for a walk. The park was not her favorite. Maybe even go for a ride in a motorcar? She didn't like sitting in the park.
"Excuse me. We need this bench."
Sibella turned her head to see a young boy with a stick in his hand. He looked about 11-years-old or so. "Excuse me, but I'm sitting here," she said, trying to be kind. It really just sounded false and syrupy.
The boy frowned. "This is my prison cell. I need it."
"You don't need it."
"Yes, I do."
Sibella wrinkled her nose. "I shall sit here, and you shall choose another bench."
The boy looked sorely disappointed when the blonde would not move. "Are you sure I can't have this one. This is the one George always uses."
"Who's George."
An older boy, about 14, walked up to them with a smile. "I'm George. What's Jack been doing now? Jack, are you causing trouble?"
"I am not."
Before she could state her dilemma to the older of the boys, yet another came along. "You guys left me behind," he complained.
It seemed Sibella would never be allowed to vent, for now Phoebe and Monty were by her side. "Oh, you've made friends. Who are these young men, Sibella," Monty asked.
"I'm George."
"Jack."
"Michael."
"Boys!"
The three boys turned to see an older woman, late 30s, early 40s perhaps, running towards them. "You boys should not run off like that," she chided to them. "You scare me when you disappear!"
Monty laughed. It sounded like something he might have done as a child.
"Oh, I do hope they haven't bothered you any," she said, winded. She was clutching her chest like it was hard to breathe. She caught Phoebe looking at her strangely, and she quickly said, "chest cold."
Again, Monty laughed and put out his hand. "Montague D'ysquith Navarro. Monty, if you'd please."
"Sylvia Llewelyn Davies. I'm so sorry that my sons have come by to bother you. I'm still searching for one. He usually sits here."
Phoebe beamed. "I'm Phoebe Navarro. I'm not his sister, I'm his wife." That distinction apparently had to be made as many people who didn't know of the D'ysquiths would assume they were siblings.
"A pleasure." Sylvia's honey voice was sweet and warm and smooth. It was very English, but not posh. It was laced with a creamy simplicity. "I think I've heard of you. It's so unfortunate what's happened to your family, Missus Navarro. A terrible tragedy indeed."
Monty looked down guiltily at his feet. As he did, he saw the shadow of a boy coming up behind him. Turning, he saw a young boy scowling at them. "Can I help you?" He asked.
"Peter," the woman said with a relief and sightly apologetic sigh. "There you are. I thought I told you not to wander."
"I wasn't wandering. You all decided to move the picnic away." He sounded so annoyed and unpleasant. It didn't make Monty feel good at all.
"Well, I suppose we should be going, then." Sylvia already had a picnic basket and blanket over her arm. "It was nice meeting you three. Perhaps we shall meet again?"
"Tomorrow?" Phoebe asked, enthusiastic.
Michael jumped up and down. "Tomorrow! Oh, please mother!"
Sylvia laughed her musical laugh. "Alright, alright. Tomorrow. Until then, Mr and Mrs Navarro. Oh, I never caught your name, Missus..."
"Holland. Sibella Hallward Holland."
"Well, it was nice to meet you as well, Mrs Holland."
"Bye!" The boys waved as they ran off, Peter with a book trailing them, and their mother herding them away.
Phoebe looked absolutely delighted. The brown hairs on her head seemed to reflect light like a halo. "Children. I love children."
There was a pause and Sibella smiled after the one lagging behind. "I wonder what his story is."
The light from Phoebe seemed to fade and she turned to Sibella with a sad sort of smile. "His father's just passed."
Sibella's head snapped up. "What?"
"His father. Not just, but recently. Arthur Llewelyn Davies, barrister. He was Sylvia's everything. The glue in the family."
The new realization hit Sibella hard. Loss was such a horrid thing. "Tomorrow, then? And we'll bring them something to eat?"
Monty nodded at Sibella's sudden empathy. "Tomorrow."