Aftermath ~ cindy, i'll marry you someday
They are cloistered in the library, at a small study table in a dark, hidden corner.
She secretly wonders how he can study in the dim light, and with the heavy rain drumming steadily against the thick windowpanes.
He secretly wonders that she has nothing better to do with her afternoon then drop by to meet him here and distract him from his studies. Not that he minds, particularly – because the idea that she has sought him out on such a very purpose is exciting. He reminds himself not to get his hopes up.
"I only stopped by to say hello," is the first thing she says when she locates him in this dark, hidden, chilly corner. "I was out shopping for new stationary and I happened to be passing by. I thought you might be here."
He keeps his voice sardonic. "I'm always here. But seriously – stationary? Today?"
It is pouring outside – typical British weather. He would have expected most girls to remain indoors on such a day, writing letters or reading sappy romance novels or practicing music or having tea before a warm fire. Wealthy society girls just don't play outside in the cold rain. Not even American girls. In fact, the only girl he knows of that will venture out into this kind of downpour is Mary; he can well remember times during their early teens when she would sneak outside while it was raining, simply because she had to see the garden growing. He was always positive she would catch a cold after she returned inside an hour later, soaking wet...while Dickon was positive she was the queerest lass he'd ever met (and didn't hesitate to say so, more than once).
"Mm, yes. I was completely out, and I simply must write some letters this afternoon. Mrs. Harvey's stationary is too girly for me." And with that, she seats herself across from him, without invitation but with a pretty smile.
There is a momentary silence, and then, of course, they begin the usual, teasing debate that is typical of their conversations – though it is whispered, due to being in a library. It wouldn't do to disturb the other patrons.
She starts by berating him on remaining in Mr. Harvey's conservatory the other night, for the entire party, instead of socializing.
He attacks with asking her why she never came back to keep him company.
She loftily remarks that she was enjoying herself with the other guests, and that she isn't tied to him specifically.
He sourly tells her he needs to study, lest he make poor marks.
Her pretty lips curve up and she reminds him he could pass an examination blindfolded.
He wrinkles his nose at her in irritation.
Her eyes sparkle with silent laughter.
He starts making random guesses as he tries to keep writing an essay, desperate to get a reaction out of her.
"Caroline?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Concordia?"
"Just because I live in the state of Massachusetts does not mean my parents named me after local townships."
Thoughtfully, but without looking up, he muses, "We have the same initials, you know."
"Ah! Thank you for pointing that out. Because, you know, I'm so daft I never noticed it before."
He can't help smiling at her sarcasm. She attended a woman's college in the States and he knows she's quite intelligent – more so then most girls he knows of her age. But it doesn't stop him from teasing, or making guesses.
"Catherine?"
"You may as well give up. You'll never guess." She sounds highly amused.
"Cecilia?"
"I should be heading back. Mrs. Harvey will wonder if I'm out too long."
He grins mischievously at her. "No, no. I know – Clotilda!"
She looks nauseated. "What a revolting name. No, it's absolutely not Clotilda. Goodbye, Colin."
"Celeste?"
"No." She rises gracefully and rearranges her cashmere coat, pulling her hair out from beneath the collar.
He pulls his notepad out again, and crosses through the names he has guessed today that are clearly wrong. "Camilla?"
She tugs one of her slim, snug leather gloves onto her hand again. "No, Colin."
He stands up and skirts the table to stand close to her. The scent of her perfume – a soft, pleasing, faint waft of lavender and crisp sea breeze – makes him light-headed and unable to think as clearly as before. "Chastity?" he murmurs.
"You are absolutely wicked." She smiles up at him, her dark cloche hat framing her pretty face and almost hiding it, almost making it secretive and mysterious. "But no, that's not it, either."
He leans closer. "I'll guess it right, someday."
"Well, you haven't even come close, yet." She tugs the other glove on.
"Constance?"
"I'm not a nun, Colin."
"No, definitely not." He grins.
"I simply must go. I told you – I only dropped by to say hello, and Mrs. Harvey –"
"Cassandra?"
"No, no, no." She punctuates each word with a smile and a tap to his chin. "Goodbye."
He glances quickly at his notepad. "Carnation?"
She bites back a giggle. "Interesting, but no."
"Clarice?"
"No. And how many times must I tell you goodbye?"
"If I keep guessing, you'll stay. Charity?"
"No, and I'm not feeling very charitable at the moment either. Goodbye, Colin."
She turns to leave, but he follows her.
"Colette?"
She shakes her head and keeps walking between the towering shelves.
"Cybil?"
His hands are itching to grasp her about the waist and turn her around. He wonders what it would be like to nuzzle his face into her neck and breath her scent in deeply.
"No."
"I'm almost out of 'C' names, Cece."
"Well, you haven't guessed mine yet, so there must be some more."
"Cassiopeia?"
She turns, startling him, coming face to face with him in the dark aisle. For a moment they hover, inches from each other. Colin rests an arm on one of the shelves so he is leaning over her. He bends slightly and inhales, becoming very nearly dizzy, and he is quite glad they are hidden from view of other patrons. They are too close for normal standards; anyone who happened upon them now would definitely think they were more then just friends.
"No," she whispers.
"Cynthia?"
She smiles slightly. "Hmm. Surprising. Closer."
Without thinking, he actually leans closer, his arm slipping off of the bookshelf, his free hand falling tentatively towards her hip, brushing lightly against the soft wool of her coat. His feet shift and their bodies brush.
"I meant," she says, stuttering slightly and standing straighter, almost meeting him in the process, "You're closer to guessing my name. Not lean closer, Colin!"
"Oh," he breathes. His hand rests, feather-light, on the fabric.
"I'll see you at dinner tomorrow night?" she whispers, tracing his chin with her gloved finger.
"Claudia?"
"No."
"Cecille?"
"Didn't you already guess that?"
"I guessed Cecilia earlier."
"Oh. Well, no. It's neither. I told you – you were closer when you guessed Cynthia."
"Clemency?"
"Tomorrow night. Dinner with the Harveys?"
He sighs. "Very well."
"I'll see you then." She smiles softly at him.
He only realizes he's standing like a dazed idiot when she's been gone two full minutes.