A/N
The songs mentioned in this piece are "If I Was a Blackbird" and "The Queen of Argyll," both by Silly Wizard, if you want to give them a listen.
She had been to his house a few times before—sometimes on hospital business, occasionally on a friendly visit or tea, and once even for dinner. But she had never come to his house with feelings beyond friendship explicitly expressed between them—never come for the express purpose of a courtship.
She had never before sat with him in his small office sitting-room, with a gentle fire crackling in the corner, freely allowing herself to examine all the little corners and details of his life—both the place where he lived as well as himself—to paint a fuller picture, to learn every lineament of the man she loved.
He watched her as her eyes roamed the room and her fingers played with his hands. As she fiddled with the ring he wore, her her eyes caught on a far corner of the room, sheltered from the heat of the fire and cold of the window by bookshelves and a hanging plaid scarf. (She could never help herself grinning at the excess of plaid that filled his house and wardrobe. It was sure to be found in any room, as a blanket draped over a chair, the cover of a pillow, or even hung decoratively. Most of these were his own family tartan, he'd told her once, when she'd asked him laughingly.) The soft, playful light of the fire obscured the shadows of the corner into strange shapes. She instinctively rose to examine more carefully, letting her arm drop to hold his hand at her side. Then she let go of him to walk almost dreamily across the room, entranced by the shapes there. He leaned back and smiled as he watched her. She had the most endearing curiosity, and always a spirit of adventure about her, even in the smallest things. He loved seeing her exploring his life now. And she was stunning in the flow of the fire, with a shadowy beauty, her light standing out from the dark shadows of the rest of the room. She laid her hand against one of the bookshelves, nestling it in the plaid fabric, to examine the items in the little alcove. Her face lit up excitedly and she turned back to look at him with an inquiring smile.
"Richard, I had no idea—"
"That I had any interests beyond medicine?" he chuckled. "I suppose that despite years of friendship, you've never really had occasion to learn about some of my hobbies." She looked a little downcast.
"No, I suppose not. You must think me terribly self-centered, I never thought to ask—or perhaps I did think of it, but it never seem quite right…"
"No, not at all," he soothed. "There are many things I don't know about your interests—a lot left to learn," he smiled. "Like your favorite books, music…"
"Yes but this—it seems you must be quite the expert! It must be such an important part of your life."
"Yes...yes I, em, I suppose so..." She sat down again and nestled in close to him.
"Tell me, please...or better yet show me!" She grinned. How could he resist her? He planted a kiss on her forehead, then he got up and slowly moved to the sheltered alcove. He bent down and let his fingers glide over the shapes at home in the space. He seemed to know their curvatures and textures by heart, for he blocked out the fire's unsteady light as he bent over them, not needing it to find what he wanted. Finally, he took something in his grasp and one shadow detached itself from the rest, joining with the shadow of his form as he stood. He returned and sat on the other side of the sofa from her, the heavy shape now filling the space between them.
"It's mostly old Scottish folk tunes I know…" he began, a little timidly.
"Sounds marvelous!" she laughed. He sat and thought for a moment, a distant look settling over his face.
"This one is…rather sad. But, em, quite beautiful." Her eyes sparkled. As his fingers settled onto the strings he seemed transported. In the next moment, still somewhat in a dream, his fingers began to move, as in a dance, gently caressing the strings. A rich, stirring melody filled the room, each note golden and resonating to the very heart. When he began to sing, he looked up at her. He had returned to her, yet the rhythmic movement of his fingers and the sound of the instrument and his voice kept them both suspended half in fantasy.
"I am a young sailor, my story is sad
Though once I was carefree and a brave sailor lad
I courted a lassie, by night and by day
Oh but now she has left me, and sailed far away…"
She was spellbound. His voice...as he sang it was like hearing the remnants of a beautiful lost world, and yet it was still him. Still completely and truly him: the man she knew and who knew her perfectly, her best friend. She wanted to laugh and cry all at once.
"Oh if I was a blackbird, could whistle and sing,
I'd follow the vessel my true love sails in
And in the top rigging, I'd there build my nest
And I'd flutter my wings o'er her lily white breast."
He was right—it was a sad song. It seemed made for the lilting nuances of his brogue, bringing out the rise and fall and turn of his tone; and it painted her a picture of the world he came from. His fingers danced on and his voice continued the story of the yearning young man and his indifferent love. She couldn't help but reach out and touch his knee as he sang it. Such things always moved her. It made her heart swell in gratitude that they had finally come together. She hardly noticed when his music had stopped and he gently leaned the guitar against the side of the sofa and put his arms around her. She looked up when he kissed her head.
"That was beautiful. Thank you." She shook her head and laughed softly again. "I had no idea..."
"Eh, well." He smiled and rested is head on hers. "I've had a bit of a musical bent since I was just a lad."
"And is it only the sad and beautiful tunes you play?" She asked with a bemused grin. He began to laugh and sat up. She looked at him curiously.
"I'll tell you what," he said with a gleam in his eye, "come to the village dance next Saturday." She gaped at him but he wouldn't say a word, just laughed again. He got up to put his guitar back amongst the shapes of the corner. He leaned it up against one of the bookshelves. It took up its positions amongst two violins of different shapes (perhaps one was some interesting variation on a violin, she wasn't sure), a guitar, and at least three various piccolo-like woodwind instruments, all on top of a large black trunk.
"Well then, if you won't explain yourself, will you at least tell me what on earth is in the trunk?" She asked incredulously.
"How about," he glanced back at her mischievously, "I tell you at our wedding." She flung up her hands in defeat, but couldn't hold back a grin.
"Well, not long now I suppose—it really can't come soon enough," she smiled, nestling into him once more.