A/N: This fic is a Regency AU, and was written as a birthday present for ilarual. Thanks go to l0chn3ss for the ever astute eyes, as well as to bendandcurl, a fellow lover of Austen, who offered very sound and thorough advice.

Coverart is by the fantastic and talented Yyeann.

This is Part I of II.

He had loved her since he could remember, since before he knew that such a thing as love existed, really knew and understood. He had loved her since they were twelve and thirteen and splashing through the cow pond on her father's grounds, since the moment she had hiked up her skirt and flashed him that daring, brilliant smile as she kicked water in his face. He had loved her since before then, too, if one counted the space between, the time when he was too young to feel aught but the bonds of friendship; even so young, when they were but children, she had been the sun in his sky, bright, shining, and constant, a beacon of light and hope.

Now that she was twenty-one and he was twenty-two, Soul knew what love was. He knew it as the light in his heart when she was near and the ache when they were apart, knew it as the longing to be close to her he could feel singing through his blood, his very bones, that same longing that made his fingertips itch to stroke her skin every time he saw her and even when he did not, that plagued him with dreams that no proper gentleman would ever admit to having about a lady, especially not one he had known since before he had even left the nursery.

Not that he had ever been a proper gentleman or she a proper gentlewoman, but there was a wide difference between tromping through the woods together in torn attire as they were now and completely abandoning any notion of reputation, sense, and propriety.

To onlookers like the Widow Mjolnir, nosy neighbor, world traveler, and notorious gossip, their walk was acceptable because they were accompanied by Mr. Blake Starling, the young curate of Sir Albarn's parish, and his lovely and foreign wife, Mrs. Tsubaki Starling. Both were looked down upon for their Eastern heritage, but Sir Albarn had married a woman of the East himself, and had no qualms when the true priest of the parish, adoptive parent of the young man in question, had essentially gifted the living of his first (though certainly not his most lucrative) parish to his ward upon his marriage last Spring. It was modest, but adequate to support a young gentleman of limited means.

Since the curate had never paid much heed to the rules of propriety himself, his worth as a chaperone was severely tested when he and his wife disappeared into the shrubbery, leaving Mr. Solomon Evans, second born son of the Duke and Duchess of -shire and Miss Maka Albarn, only daughter of Sir Spencer Albarn, Baronet, M.P., and well known libertine, to their own devices.

On this particular day, those devices included hiking up a previously unblazed game trail through the woods to find an ideal picnic spot, since Maka insisted that by its position and direction, this trail must lead to the peak of White Cliff, highest point in all of -shire county. The cliff was rumored to have a spectacular view from the top, and Maka was determined that they would find their way to that coveted spot this time (for they had made the attempt to reach that point through exploring other paths before) or would spend all day trying.

For his part, Soul was also determined, though his goal was far more weighty, his nerves writhing beneath his rolled up sleeves as they finally crested the hill and found themselves at the clifftop they sought. Maka let out a most unladylike whoop of triumph, flashing him that smile that never ceased to light up his world, before settling a hand on her hip and tapping her foot daintily, allowing her previously hiked up skirts to settle around her. The branches they had plowed through had been merciless, and her blue muslin was torn in several places, the hem of her cloak mud spattered, and her sensible leather shoes looked beyond salvaging. Her hair, that had begun the day neatly wound around her head, had fallen out into twin braids, wisps of ashy-gold framing her face in the bright afternoon light, a face that had earned a rather prominent scratch on the forehead from a wayward branch, red and angry, but not bleeding.

Miss Albarn was completely disheveled, but Soul thought she had never looked more beautiful. The sight of her left him awed and nearly shaking at how unworthy he was, at how unlikely it was that a creature so achingly lovely would ever, could ever, stoop to love him in return.

For as much as he admired her beauty, and he did, it was her unwavering spirit that he truly loved. It was that same endless spirit, her unshakeable will-the fire and passion and courage that burned so brightly in her green, green eyes-that left him breathless and aching and so so afraid of leaving her, that drove him here and now to lay bare his heart. His parents had informed him this morning of what he would do, had given him no say, and the thought of leaving her behind was too much to bear.

Her indomitable spirit gave him hope that she might accept him despite all obstacles, in spite of anything and everything if she loved him as much as he loved her. Because Miss Maka Albarn had never cared what anyone thought, least of all him. Oh, she kept social protocol when it was required of her-conversed politely if sometimes a bit archly, dressed as she ought, exhibited proper behavior-but during her leisure hours and outside the confines of society, she felt she might act as she chose, and Soloman Evans was one of the very few people she admitted into that precious time.

Soul supposed it was fitting that he was her one true confidant, her constant companion. She was the Baronet's headstrong daughter, a young lady who spent her leisure hours exploring the limited world around her, who lived through her books and pursued not the accomplishments on which most of her sex prided themselves, but rather, found fulfillment in the furthering of her own strength and knowledge. Soul himself was the odd albino recluse, second son of a Duke, home tutored as was typical, but also carefully kept from the public eye to limit rumors of his odd appearance, trained up for a military prospect as was every second Evans son before him, yet taking solace in the pianoforte, a pastime more suited to the ladies, so his father had reprimanded him time and again (though the good Duke had never once implied the same of his elder brother's standing love affair with the violin). They were, neither of them, typical, and neither of them performed for strangers.

Pianoforte was not the only thing that young Master Evans had taken refuge in-he had also sought and claimed refuge in her, their closest neighbor's daughter. In her, his only true friend. In her, the only one who had ever really understood him-his fear of others, his struggle to be good enough and his realization that he never could be. In her, the only one who had seen the very shadows of his soul and still smiled at him like he mattered. Soul loathed hiking, yet had tromped through the entire county at her side many times over, was not a great reader, yet had shared countless books with her, avoided people when he could, yet would spend all day in her presence. He would spend every day for always in her presence if he could, which was really why he was here today. Maka was his reason-he would follow her anywhere.

Sometimes, often if he was honest, Soul wondered if he meant even half as much to her as she had come to mean to him. He hoped that he did. She suffered his nearly constant presence, and he was the only man she allowed to call her by her given name, Maka, the only one she really trusted-to all others, she was Miss Albarn. Surely that meant something-he truly hoped it did.

Upon noticing that she stood with her eyes on him expectantly, the young man raised his own eyebrows in silent question, only to receive a flip of the hand in his direction and a slight tilt of the head in response.

Ah yes, of course-he had the basket and he had been standing there gaping at her like a country squire might gape new arrived on the Ton.

Placing the basket down, Soul moved to retrieve and lay out the thick quilt they had pilfered from her father's linens; while she was no dainty lady, it had been a long hike and she must be tired. He certainly was.

For a time they said nothing as they sat down side by side and spread their repast before them-Maka had managed to obtain cold meats and cheeses and boiled eggs from her father's larder, and Soul had nicked a fresh loaf of bread and several dainty pastries from the kitchen of his family's estate, along with some cherry cordial from his mother's stores. It was a suitable luncheon, and in all, they both seemed pleased as they partook of it in companionable silence. The lady's eyes were fixt on the horizon, marveling at how all of -shire county seemed spread out before them in miniature; the gentleman was far more busy watching her, taking in her awed expression and her contented smile as she continued to eat.

After a time, their meal nearly finished, their hands met on the last pastry and Soul's pulse raced as Miss Albarn met his gaze and blushed prettily before pulling her hand back as if she had been stung. He picked up the pastry and smiled at her; there were words he needed to say, but he had never been good with words.

"You should take it," he said as he moved the dainty little desert closer to her, his hand hovering before her mouth. "Such a sweet delicacy is better appreciated by one of its own kind."

She laughed at that. "Why, Solomon Evans, that was almost charming. Are you sure you did not send your brother in your place for our luncheon?"

He scowled at her use of his given name, but nonetheless brought the pastry nearer and was surprised when, instead of hitting him with a hidden book as he had expected, she parted her lips and allowed him to push the little tart into her mouth. As his fingertips brushed her lips when she closed them, he had to suppress a little shiver-they were soft and warm and the urge to defy all decency and lean in to kiss her was nearly overwhelming.

He did not, however, and soon the moment passed. As Soul moved his hand back to his lap and as Maka swallowed the little pastry, he tried to ignore the tingle in his fingertips where they had touched her so intimately.

The time to speak was now, before she turned his mind to other things.

"My parents have decided I am to take my Grand Tour," he said after another minute of silence. She looked surprised for several moments at his news before her face became more guarded, and he could not understand how to read her caution.

"Ah! When shall you leave, then?" she asked, voice carefully neutral.

"Soon-no more than a few days from now." He also kept his voice neutral, afraid to show too much too soon-unsure of how to show all he felt within his heart.

"That is very-sudden." She settled on.

"Yes, well, Father feels I have wasted enough time on 'girlish pursuits,' and mother insists this finish be put on my education before I am sold off to the military then married to the highest bidder."

"Soul!" Maka gasped, seeming positively scandalized.

"What?" he said, eyebrows raised in challenge. "It is but the truth."

"Be that as it may," she said, letting out a long breath. "Your parents are doing what they think best."

"Yes, best for them, I have no doubt. But I would prefer to do what is best for me."

She sighed. "How do you know this is not what is best for you? I would give much to be in your place, to be given the chance to see the world. You mustn't scoff at it so quickly, before you have even considered-"

"It is not that I have no wish to see the world," he interrupted, voice low. He took in a breath, deep and calming, heart galloping in his chest as he noted the small furrowing of her brow, a mark of her annoyance and probable confusion. "It is only that I would choose to remain at your side."

"Soul, you cannot stay here. I will always be your friend, but you cannot-"

"Let me finish!"

She went scarlet at the second interruption, fisting her gown tightly in her anger.

"I would prefer-" he paused for another breath "-to see the world as a honeymoon tour."

Her anger drained, face growing white. She breathed out a small, "Oh." As Soul simply remained looking at her expectantly, Maka soldiered on. "I did not realize-" she began, shaking her head. "That is to say, I did not expect-well, I had no notion you had found a suitable match, let alone proposed, but I suppose congratulations are in order."

Laughing, a short, rough sound, Soul shook his own head. "Do not congratulate me yet, for the lady has yet to agree-and is so stubborn that I begin to doubt she will even see what is before her eyes so plainly."

Maka pursed her lips. "That is unkind to say of the woman you would wed, Soul."

"You are really something, Miss Albarn, I hope you are aware of this."

She frowned at him, more likely at his use of such formality than anything, but said nothing.

"Maka," he sighed, reaching to take her hand. She colored violently but did not choose to remove it from his grasp, and somehow, that gave him the courage to say what he must-perhaps gifted him with the smallest sliver of her own bravery and eloquence. "I wish to stay by your side, as I said." His voice was shaky but audible, his stomach in knots as he addressed the woman upon whom his entire happiness hinged so completely. "For it is you, Miss Albarn, who I would marry, you with whom I would see the world, you who have long possessed my heart, my very soul, you who I would follow to the ends of the earth and beyond, if only you will let me."

Holding her gaze as he spoke, searching, imploring, Soloman Evans watched the color of the woman beside him heighten by increments until she finally dropped her eyes to her lap, though she did not reclaim her hand.

"Soul, I-we-" she shook her head, met his gaze, took a breath of her own. "I-had no notion that what you felt for me was the same-that you saw me as more than a friend and companion. I-" she shook her head again, and there was something so distraught in her expression that he desperately wished to hold her, desperately wished that she would consent to be his that he might be granted that right. "You must seek elsewhere, Soul. I cannot be your wife."

"No-no, Maka," he said firmly, desperately wishing to mold her will to match his own. "You can be, you need only say the word and you will be. Please."

She looked like she was slowly breaking, her face colorless, her lip quivering, though her eyes were green steel, strong, inflexible. "Go-see the world as they would have you do-find someone more suitable."

Reading the resolve in her eyes beneath the distress, Soul could feel her slipping through his fingers and knew he had to stem the flow. He would not lose her-could not lose her. "You are the only one who is suitable, Maka; I will not marry anyone else," he said quietly, earnestly. "I love you-only you-the depth of my ardor is without limit, irrevocable, the constancy of my affection far beyond changing."

"No," her voice was barely above a whisper as she made to remove her hand from his grasp, but he held on all the tighter, refusing to let it go, to let her go. "This cannot be." There was struggle clear on her countenance, a war waged within that he was desperate to sway. He could see the tension in her frame, her muscles taught with the urge to flee, or perhaps with the strain of resisting a different urge, one to fling herself at him bodily and hold him to her. He desperately hoped it was the later. "Our families," she continued, "your family, would never allow it."

"That does not matter!" he cried. Soul had believed, as hurried and unpremeditated as his proposal was, that she returned his affections and that love would sway her every reservation. Now he was not so sure, and the thought that, perhaps, those brief touches, those small liberties she gave to him and only him might be the marks of friendship rather than ardor stung as surely as her refusal ever could. "You-" he insisted, desperate to get through to her, "You are all that matters!"

"If only that were true!" Maka exclaimed with sudden heat, sounding far more like herself than she had since his first confession. It made his heart swell with the idea that she might want this as much as he ever could.

"It is the truth, Maka, you have my word."

"No, Soul." The fire drained from her face and voice as quickly as it had come, and his heart sank. " I wish that it were enough, that we could live on love instead of bread, but this is not the way of the world." She sounded so sure, so unshakeable that he himself was shaken to his core.

"We will make it work," he insisted, unmovable. He should have considered that she might not be willing to marry a man with only a small fortune as his inheritance, yet they could live, they would never starve, and he had thought she would prefer marrying him to becoming the prize of some slobbering merchant's son. Clearly, he had been mistaken.

"You are a second son, you must marry well-your portion is not adequate to the lifestyle of your station." Maka was insistent, so insistent that he should not, could not, possibly want this that he wanted to rail at her, to ask her where all her vaunted courage had fled, but he knew his anger would not win her heart, would not sway her judgment, not now. He must be calm, must think matters through and show her that their situation was not impossible, that they could make best of it together.

"My portion is adequate if we are willing to accept a more modest way of life for a time, and I still have military prospects. We will have enough, Maka, I swear it!" he pleaded, willing her to listen, to believe, in him, in them.

"No, we cannot, must not wed!" The vehemence of her tone stunned him. "It matters not that you-that I-" Maka shook her head again. "I am beneath you, Mr. Evans." Her choice to address him so formally was like a slap, a purposeful distancing. "Your parents would never approve, but even in the best of circumstances, even if our parents looked upon the match with a friendly eye, you know that my father's estate is entailed, that upon his death, my mother's small portion is all that I can expect as he has squandered away everything else. Even you, with your firm disregard for the ways of the world, must see that we cannot marry."

His fist clenched at his side in anger, frustrated by the force, the heat of her refusal. If only she would put such passion into him, into them, into making this work-

"You are not beneath me," Soul replied hotly, unable to keep the anger from his tone, the hurt. "Perhaps-perhaps it is that you believe me to be beneath you? That you would hold out for better?"

Her face went white then red, stunned, as if he had struck her. "No," she shook her head violently. "No, that is not what I-"

"Then we will make this work," he repeated for a second time, his words taking on new weight in his anger. "Marry me, and let our families be damned!" For the barest instant, he saw her resolve waver, and then he witnessed the change as the battle was lost, her face shuttering at his vehemence, watched as she carefully schooled her features, felt her slipping farther from his grasp with each passing second.

"No," Maka shook her head yet again. "Your parents would surely disown you for such defiance, my father will never approve if they will not, and we would be left with nothing but scandal." Her tone was so clipped and clinical as she presented this reality that he wanted to tear his hair out.

"We will go to the Americas if we must!" Soul cried out suddenly, renewed inspiration striking as he clung to a stray, desperate thought, a dream he had long had but had never spoken, as he had long believed it to be a thing of smoke and mirrors and foolishness. Now it felt like his only hope, and if that hope needs be built on vapors and sheer desperation, then so be it. "We can pool what they cannot take from us and make our fortune there." He was frantic; he was losing her and it was too much, far too much to bear. "Together, we can make it work-as long as we are together, can't you see that?"

"Did you even think this through, Soul? Did you even consider what this would mean?" Her voice was low, seething as her calm was replaced by anger. Her eyes looked as though she was about to strike him with one of her books, though her words were far more painful than a blow from a mere book could ever be. "Is all this really because you think you love me, or is it because you cannot stand to be in the presence anyone else for longer than several minutes? Is it truly love you feel, or are you merely afraid to face the world alone?"

There was pain in her eyes beneath the anger, endless pain, and it cut off any anger he himself was feeling in an instant; as much as her words hurt, as much as they wounded, he had to make her see that she was wrong, that what he felt was real and true and irrevocable.

"You think this about not wanting to be alone? Absurd-as if a love felt for half my life were such an ephemeral thing. This is about not wanting to lose you. You think my loving you is some sort of delusion? A phantasm born of isolation and proximity? I am not some sheltered child, Maka, not anymore. My heart is yours whether you wish it or no, and if you will not have it because we lack something as trivial as fortune, then I will leave to seek that fortune for myself, though I would that you had enough faith to seek it by my side."

Her eyes were wide and sad as she shook her head again, squeezing his fingers with her own small hand that he held so tightly, as if she would disappear if he did not hang on for dear life.

"You musn't do that," Maka said softly, voice imploring. "Not for me. To leave your family-your brother-everything you have ever known! I refuse to let you ruin your life. I cannot, I will not allow it." Her eyes were bright as she spoke, her face earnest. "This is a figment, Soul. A fantasy. It will pass. Go on your tour, please."

He did not answer her, words lost to him, drowned in the sight of her glassy green eyes.

"I-I should go." She finally wrenched her hand away, standing abruptly.

Standing up as quickly himself, grabbing her wrist before she could flee, Soul spun her to face him, eyes searching. She would not meet his gaze, looked through him, past him.

"Maka-" his voice sounded broken, causing her to wrench her eyes up to seek his at last. "Without you, I have no life, don't you see? There is only you. For me, there has only ever been you, will only ever be you."

"No," she whispered. "You only think that because I am all you have ever known, because we have been together since infancy, but you will move on. You will." There was pain in her voice, along with conviction and resolve.

He sighed, a sound of defeat, of resignation. "Will you answer me one question before we part, then?"

Miss Albarn nodded, composing herself once more, her countenance carefully impassive, though he could read the trepidation in her eyes. He slid his hand from her wrist to grasp her hand again, forced his voice to calm.

"Do you love me?"

Soul dreaded her answer, but he had to ask, had to know.

The question clearly stunned her, because for a moment she simply blinked at him, but her eyes became yet more glassy as she took a step closer, leaning up to kiss him on the cheek softly. Hope swelled for an instant with that warm brush of her lips, but she stepped back and dropped her hand a moment later, her face a mask of determination.

"No," she finally said, voice quiet but sure.

With a painful swallow, Soloman Evans nodded, his fist clenching tightly in grief and something like resolve of his own. Nodding once, he said, "I understand," his voice just as quiet, just as sure, because he did, he truly did.

He had seen her pain, what this refusal had cost her. Even past the little niggling doubts that clawed at his soul that he simply was not good enough, he knew that her struggle could only mean that she loved him, that she believed, truly believed, that what she did was best for him. She was too good, too generous, and far too wary of the world, and Soul was positive that she must be convinced in heart that he could do better and would move past this to have acted as she did, must have come to the conclusion she would only drag him down and acted accordingly. She was wrong-but she was also stubborn, and no amount of words from him would ever change her mind. There could only be actions. He knew Maka Albarn too well not to know what she meant, not to read the truth beneath her words. "We should head home," he added lamely, his heart too sore for better. She merely nodded and, in silence, they cleaned up the remnants of their picnic, in silence, they gathered their things, and in silence, they finally made the trek home.

They met their long absent chaperones on the return journey, looking rather disheveled themselves. Mrs. Starling kept moving her eyes between them, concern furrowing her brow, but Mr. Starling seemed oblivious as he prattled on about the glory of God and the righteousness of himself, the greatest servant of our Lord and savior, until they finally, mercifully parted ways at the little parsonage that sat on the edge of the Albarn lands.

Mr. Evans had patience for none of it, heart aching and head full, for his hasty plans had been thwarted and now he must decide how to live with his love unrequited, at least for the time being. So he made new plans and hoped that this time, he could actually bring them to fruition.

Leaving Miss Albarn at her father's door, Soul took a long last look at her, memorizing her every curve and line, for he knew not when he would see her again. The next day, he was gone without so much as a goodbye, and his family announced that Soloman Evans had finally departed for his Grand Tour.