Mystery of Joy
Chapter 4: Meadow
by Lynn Saunders
Come live with me and be my love, and we will all the pleasures prove. - Christopher Marlowe
Late August, 1914
Diamond-patterned light filters bright through the leaves as she sits beneath the tree, his head in her lap. He's fallen asleep, bowler hat tipped low over his brow like a gunslinger, and she won't disturb him. The little field is secluded, and no one will see.
He shed his coat and tie hours ago, rolling his sleeves in the warm sunshine. Now, his long legs stretch out to her right, crossed at the ankle. One large hand rests against his waistcoat buttons, and the other is slung haphazardly to the side, toward her. The Works of Christopher Marlowe has slipped from his fingers and tumbled onto the quilt beside them. His palm is up, and she can see his heart line, the crease dashed and dotted below his knuckles; a testament to his years of hurt, as her grandmother would say.
They've never had a picnic together before today. Rarely have they ventured out just the two of them, mostly for the sake of propriety. He'd seemed nervous when he asked her, bashful even, reaching a tentative hand out to lean against the banister with that one unruly section of hair dipped across his forehead. Why now, she wonders. Why after all this time?
She suspects he has been thinking on their near kiss. He had told her to find someone else in one breath and reached for her hand in the next. His words had rung empty and hollow in the dark alleyway between them, but his touch was a warm flicker in the night, startling in its intensity. She'd bolted as soon as the creak of the door brought her back to reality. Later, alone in her room, she had rolled her eyes at her reflection in the mirror and huffed a long sigh. Nothing was ever easy between them.
She secretly admires him while he rests, imagining reaching out to lay a hand on his chest, running her fingers under the fabric of his waistcoat, feeling the steady rise and fall, his heartbeat against her fingertips. She is intrigued by the place where his collar meets the rise of his neck.
His lips twitch into a smile, and she realizes he is awake. She reaches out to trace the fold of his palm, and his fingers slowly twine with hers. She stares at their linked hands in wonder for a moment, watching as his thumb strokes the back of hers.
His left hand moves to the brim of his hat, tipping it away from his eyes so that he can see her face. Their eyes lock together, and she's drifting into him. He rises onto his elbow and turns toward her, keeping their fingers pressed together against the quilt. He's going to try that kiss again, she thinks, and her lips part in anticipation. He reaches up with his free hand to slide his thumb across her cheekbone before pulling her mouth down to his, brushing her lips tentatively first, then moving deeper. He groans as her mouth opens to him and cradles her face in his hands as their lips part.
She gives him a shy smile, and he heaves a sigh, remembering their troubles, she knows. He presses his forehead to hers for a moment before easing down beside her, and she brushes the hair from his temple lovingly as they rest an arm's length apart, knowing they will wait together.
* This section ties directly to my fic 'A Meeting at Night.' This is one of the first "prequel" chapters I wrote after publishing 'A Meeting at Night' and 'Homecoming.'
* You should really read The Passionate Shepherd to His Love, a pastoral poem by Christopher Marlowe.