Aftermath ~ blue eyes blue

He is utterly startled when Carlton admits her into the parlor, for her visit is unexpected and her appearance is utterly changed from the last he saw her, only the night before at the Harveys' dinner party where they hardly talked to anyone else for constantly talking to each other. She looks nothing like the vibrant, vivacious girl he's come to know. She looks distraught, pale, and upset instead. Her clothing is dark and drab – traveling clothing, he recognizes, with a thrill of horror and panic. But she wasn't supposed to leave for another week and a half! He thought he had that long to...

To what?

His mind blanks; he feels nothing but shock.

What, exactly, was he planning to do with such a short amount of time left to spend with her? What has he been doing since Dickon and Mary's wedding, other than being in her company as much as possible? What on earth has happened?

As soon as his butler bows out and shuts the door, he hurries to her and takes her hands, only to find them icy. He wonders why she didn't put her gloves on.

"You're freezing," he murmurs hurriedly, drawing her closer to the large fire. "What's happened? Cece, what's wrong?"

"My father," she whispers, her teeth chattering from cold. "He took ill, very suddenly. A stroke, they believe. Randolph telegrammed for me to return home immediately, because the doctors don't think he'll survive but a few more days and I must see that all of his affairs are in order. I told Mrs. Harvey that I simply had to come see you before I left, even if I saw no one else. I knew you'd wonder if I didn't... If I just left without saying goodbye... But I must leave at once, I... I have to go home..."

She trails off and squeezes her eyes shut; yet she does not cry. He feels momentarily helpless – as helpless as he did while Mary nursed Dickon back to health, as helpless as he did while his uncle monitored the cases of influenza around Thwaite, as helpless as he felt whenever he read casualty lists in the papers each day during the war. God, the war seems so long ago now; in only two months it will be 1920. And it is surprising how, for a man of action, there are times when he isn't certain what to do at all. Times when he feels lost, as lost as he did when he was a child in a dark room, determined that he would die from a hunched back. He struggles to pull himself out of his worst memories and back into the present.

He knows that her aging father is Cece's only family – the hours they have spent talking and laughing and telling secrets at various parties and dinners and outings are etched in his mind, almost more clearly then his best friends' wedding is. God, she's hardly spent time with anyone else in London since they met, for Mr. and Mrs. Harvey always approved of her standing up with him at various social events, believing he would be completely impartial and unlikely to be attracted to her due to his common sense. Because of all the young, single men in the upper social circle, Colin would understand that Cece had a serious beau back in the States. And so he stood up with her, first as a friend, and because he liked her sense of humor and her dry wit that matched his so well, and then with the slow sense of dawning as the weeks went by that he was attracted to her in ways he'd never been attracted to anyone else.

And so he also knows her mother passed away when she was a child and that she has no grandparents, aunts, or uncles. Her father is a business magistrate of a paper company in New England, and her future fiancée, a wealthy landowner whose grandfather made a fortune of owning railroads decades ago, are all she has left in the world. He swallows and steels himself, for the only thing he can do is let her return to her home to her father's side. Because of Randolph, he cannot ask her to stay in England, though he wishes to heaven he could.

"Have you booked a passage home?" he asks, his mind clearing because if it doesn't, he'll drown or suffocate or something desperate. For the first time since he was ten years old, he hates himself for thinking in such practical terms. He wishes he could hold her instead, and tell her everything would be all right. He can't even do that, though. It would be wrong, because of Randolph.

Mary would scold him, he thinks ruefully. She'd tell him to shove his common sense under a rug for a change, and to hell with Randolph. Worse, Dickon would look at him sympathetically and say absolutely nothing, because he wouldn't have to. He can't even stand to see his two closest friends in his head right now, because he knows, deep down, that they're right. He should tell Randolph he's terribly sorry about everything and just ask Cece to...

God. To what, exactly?

Marry him?

His heart seems to stop. He's too young, isn't he? He's not even technically of age, yet. He's not even finished with university, yet. How can he even be certain he's...

He's what?

In...love...with her?

Love...?

Cece, unaware of his own internal struggles, looks up and nods at his question. "Yes. Mr. Harvey booked a first class cabin for me on the Aquitania."

He forces a small smile. "Ship beautiful," he murmurs, thinking of the popular Cunard liner's general nickname amongst the upper class. A nickname different from her sister, Maury.

Her own watery half-giggle makes him feel a fraction better.

"Mm. Ship beautiful," she sighs. "She's my favorite, you know. I came here on Aquitania. It is fitting I should leave on her, I suppose." Her shoulders drop slightly and her eyes are downcast.

He tries to sound positive by making a haughty remark. Anything to hide the war raging inside of him. "Her forward funnel is too close to the bridge. It makes her look unbalanced."

"Old arguments, Colin Craven. Didn't we have this discussion only a few days ago? Next you'll be saying she's got too many cowl ventilators, if I remember rightly."

"She does have too many cowl ventilators! Far too many!" He pauses, and then shakes his head. "You are the only girl I know who can discuss cowl ventilators with me."

She laughs and leans her forehead against his chest, and he cannot help but snake his arms around her to hold her. Against him, she is soft but a bit stiff, thanks to the awkwardness of the situation. Yet he relishes it all the same with a twinge of wickedness that he probably shouldn't feel, considering her father is so ill and Randolph believes Colin's only being a gentleman in his absence. That brings him back to reality in a trice, and his brow furrows in thought.

"Why didn't Mr. Harvey book you on the Olympic? She's faster then Aquitania."

"She's inbound from New York right now, and so it will still be faster to go on the Aquitania. Otherwise, I would have taken Olympic, simply for speed."

"And I know that you dislike White Star."

"I prefer Cunard, yes."

"I'll miss you."

The words come out soberly, almost longingly. He bites his tongue and looks towards the fire, wishing he hadn't admitted it. It was wrong of him to do so, the way he meant it.

But after a moment, he feels her hand against his cheek, the coolness making his skin jolt and shiver, sending little skating sparks down his body. She turns his head so she can meet his eyes, and she says quietly, "I'll miss you too, Colin. Immensely. You've been my closest friend during my stay here. I don't think I've spent nearly the same amount of time with anyone else, except the Harveys."

And before he can quite realize what is happening, she's pushed up and her lips brush his. Startled, he stands frozen, stocked at her boldness, his arms still around her though almost limp from surprise. It is only a light kiss, for only the briefest second, but his mouth actually tingles and he feels dizzy. As she steps back, he stares at her, hardly sensing the pressure as she squeezes his hand; hardly knowing anything except the enormity of the moment. Why would she have kissed him? In friendship? Because she cares more about him then she's let on? Because it's the last time he'll ever see her? As a parting gift? Or was it something more?

"I'll write to you once I return home," she promises, though he hardly hears her. "Aquitania departs in an hour. Mr. Harvey's already sent my luggage on. Goodbye, Colin." And with that, she turns and walks to the door, glancing back once to gaze at him before slipping out into the hall.

By the time he's reached the front vestibule and thrown the front door open, having skidded across the expensive rugs and the polished hardwood like a blasted ten year old running across the moor, the cab is gone. He is a fraction too late, having been too stunned to react quicker. In frustration and despair, he closes his eyes and leans his arm against the frame. His head thunks against the wood a couple of times and he returns back inside only when he realizes he's letting the cold air into the house. Utterly dejected at having missed whatever chance he had, he tells his butler to leave him alone for the rest of the day.

It seems ages, he thinks later in the afternoon (after sitting in front of the fire like a dead man for hours, replaying the scene in his head over and over and over, and thinking of every possible scenario as to why she kissed him), since he was last on the moor. And the moor in late autumn seems as though it would fit his mood exactly right.

Perhaps his professors would grant him a week's absence. And even if they don't, perhaps he'll take it anyways.