Chapter 2

-x-

Miss Tyler was lying in the grass next to the river, barefoot and in her old tattered dress, when she first met the gentleman.

From the great height he was at, simultaneously because of the hill he had found himself on, and the fact he was already rather tall - and riding a horse - he caught a glimpse of a young girl lying in the sunshine, her hand gently stroking a tired but seemingly happy dog. Her glowing features, accompanied with the soft tune she was humming, compelled him closer, and he could not prevent himself from dismounting his horse and greeting her, reluctant to miss the opportunity of meeting such a kind-looking young woman purely because society deemed it an improper introduction.

"Good morning," he murmured quietly, so as not to startle her.

Opening her eyes in confusion, Miss Tyler peered up at the man and horse before her curiously. Despite every second thought in her mind telling her it was proper to do so, she did not stand up; every first thought in her mind told her she was far too comfortable lying there in the warm sun.

"Good morning," she replied.

Amused by the girl's amused expression, the gentleman ventured further into conversation. "I do believe I am slightly lost," he admitted.

"Are you now," replied Miss Tyler with a teasing air.

Intrigued by her sarcasm, he spoke before she could realise her mistake and take back her impolite comment, "Yes. I'm looking for Chiswick House, and I saw you, Miss...?" he waited patiently for her to insert her name, but to no avail; she remained silent, her eyes fluttering closed again. He cleared his throat. "I saw you, and thought you looked kind enough for me to inquire the way."

Miss Tyler opened her eyes and turned onto her side to face him fully. "It is right in front of you, Mr Smith," she answered, her tongue poking from between her teeth as she smiled, suggesting to him that she was highly entertained by him being lost.

He looked up from her face, and realised with a start that she was correct; a large estate loomed into view from beyond the river, and he felt very silly - but strangely, not in the least embarrassed - not to have noticed or presumed it to be the very place he was seeking.

"Ah. Yes. Quite," he muttered. Then he realised something else, and grinned widely at her. "Miss...whoever you are; how do you know my name?" he asked with an arched eyebrow.

"The House has been expecting you," she explained.

"You live in Mr Mott's residence?"

"I do."

"Are you..." he trailed off.

"Am I what?" she prompted, staring up at him innocently.

"Weelll, as far as I know, he only has one granddaughter, and you aren't her."

"Aren't I?"

"You're fair-haired. She has auburn hair, I believe."

"She has indeed."

To her amusement, Mr Smith sighed. "I'm very envious. I've always wished I could have had red hair."

"Well, you'll certainly like Miss Noble, then," Miss Tyler laughed.

"You still haven't told me your name," he pointed out then, startling her a little by sitting down next to her in the grass and stroking Bessie the dog's back.

"This is Bessie," she informed him, removing her own hand when his got very close to hers.

"And that's Arthur," Mr Smith replied casually, nodding back towards the horse. He looked into her eyes deeply. "But who are you?"

She fought back a smile at the persistence of the man. "I'm Ro – well. Miss Tyler, I believe people have to call me, but my name is Rose."

Mr Smith chuckled at the mischief and defiance held in the girl's eyes; she was a creature like nothing he had ever seen before, of that he was certain. "Well, which should I call you?"

Miss Tyler pretended to consider this thoughtfully, resting a finger on her chin. "Well, perhaps until we are better acquainted, it should be Miss Tyler. And indeed, after we are better acquainted, is should be Miss Tyler also. It is all formalities. Even my friend's parents, Mr and Mrs Jones, still call each other Mr and Mrs Jones; and they have been married for goodness knows how long. Alas, apparently that is what is appropriate."

"Quite. Often, though, what is appropriate is rather boring," nodded Mr Smith, and she was struck with the realisation that this man, man, she was talking to as if she knew, or as if she could trust, or feel at ease with, though she'd only just met him, was going along with whatever she said; never once reprimanding her for speaking out of turn, neither did he laugh at her for talking nonsense, nor did he ignore her outspoken behaviour and ride off with a disapproving look. Indeed, he agreed with her, her thoughts on society that she daren't utter to many of her friends for fear they would scold her for it.

"It is," she said slowly, suddenly in awe of this conversation she was having.

"So perhaps, for now, while there are no others about – you are Rose, and I am John."

She once again fought back a smile, biting her lip in earnest. "That is who we are," she murmured. "John."

They stared at each other for a few moments in a peaceful quiet; both internally marvelling at the likeness they had found in each other's manner.

"Rose?" he whispered after a short while.

"Yes?"

"I'd just like to s - "

At this point, the gentleman was untimely interrupted by Bessie the dog jumping up between them and scampering off into the cool water of the river, having evidently grown too hot sunbathing.

"Yes?" Miss Tyler urged him on speaking, giggling lightly as she watched Bessie splash around in the river.

"Erm..." he floundered. "I'd just like to ask," he continued, deciding to alter his statement once he realised exactly what was happening here. "Who is Rose Tyler? Are you a guest, or...?"

"Or...? Or what? Am I servant?" she smiled, recognising his implication.

He swallowed, looking a little uncomfortable; he feared he'd offended her by making such an insinuation. "Well?"

"Does it matter?" she teased, bringing herself up to her knees and dusting herself off a little.

"Weellll, no. No, of course not. I was simply - "

" – of course it does," Miss Tyler interrupted. "You are a man of great nobility. Why should you converse with a mere serving-girl?"

He frowned at her. "It may matter to some, but not to me. I would not alter my first impression or opinion of someone purely because I found out they were of lower class to me," he scoffed at the idea.

"You are a rarity in that, then," she observed, and he could not tell whether that was a compliment or not. He believed it was, but with this girl...well, it was...just, hard to tell.

"You aren't though," he said needlessly, beginning to stand up. "A serving-girl, I mean – a rarity, you are certainly that yourself, I've never met such a woman as you. But a serving-girl, you are not."

She gestured down at herself. "I look dreadfully unkempt; my dress is muddy, my hair is in disarray, look – I have no shoes on whatsoever. Apart from perhaps my way of speaking, what is there to suggest I am more than just a servant?"

He looked down at her figure from his standing position, as if noticing her clothing for the first time, and smiled widely. "Ah yes, you do seem wonderfully messy. But I can tell you do nothing more than reading, dancing, and perhaps playing musical instruments each day, because of your hands," he explained, holding his own hands out to her in an offer of helping her stand up.

She took them, and hauled herself up to stand in front of him. "Is that so?"

"Yes," he murmured, holding up their still-joined hands. "If you scrubbed floors or washed linen or cut up vegetables on a daily basis, your hands wouldn't feel so soft."

She stared at their raised hands between them, mesmerised by his confident, easy way of speaking to her, being in her company, without fear of the consequences of such an action should it be observed by someone else.

Then he dropped her hands, and took a slight step backwards, watching her with a careful smile that he had to control – to stop it becoming a beaming grin.

Miss Tyler cleared her throat. "I have scrubbed floors in the past, Mr Smith, and washed linen, but believe me, you would not want to suffer my cooking skills. I am best kept well away from kitchens, vegetables and the various knives used to cut them up with."

Mr Smith chuckled, then looked at her suspiciously. "What happened to 'John?'"

Miss Tyler shrugged. "I'm not sure."

"Right," he replied, as if he understood.

"So," she said then. "Are you to ride Arthur up to the House?"

He blinked at her, wondering why it was she was so distracting. "I'm sorry?"

"Arthur? Your horse? Will you be riding him up to the House?" she clarified.

"Well, yes. I suppose I had better arrive looking, er..."

"Dignified? Distinguished? Impressive?" Miss Tyler supplied.

"Yes," he laughed.

"Very well, then," she replied. "I shall see you at the ball tonight?"

"Oh yes," he answered enthusiastically, with a quick nod.

"You like dancing?" she asked curiously, surprised.

He wrinkled his nose up a little. "Not a great amount, no. I'm not naturally gifted in the art, let's say. I usually just stand at the side and watch," he confessed.

"Oh," she replied, hoping that maybe he would change his mind and dance on that evening's occasion.

"Well, Miss Rose Tyler, thank you for informing me of where I am going," he said warmly, before tilting his head, lifting her hand and pressing a kiss to it gently. "Good day."

She smiled shyly, trying in vain to stop the blush creeping up her neck and cheeks. "Good day, Mr John Smith."

He offered her one last dazzling smile, let go of her hand, and jumped up on his horse with a flourish, before riding off towards Chiswick House. Miss Tyler watched after him, and her smile widened when he turned back to look at her over his shoulder. She waved at him briefly, laughing when he almost rode the horse into the lake, before gathering her belongings, and starting to walk in the same direction.

"It would be completely improper for a gentleman to offer a young woman a ride on his horse, of course," she muttered to herself. "So instead she must walk a mile in mud." She then smiled to herself in her happy way, and broke into a run, calling after Bessie as she sprinted past her.

Miss Tyler won her race against Bessie the dog, and returned to the House through the back door, so as to not meet with Mr Smith again; she was looking rather flushed and even more unkempt than before, and she thought perhaps her mother would have something to say about her greeting a man of ten or twelve thousand a year in such a manner...