The Girl with a Sweet Laugh

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April 1881

Chrtian

Christian lay on his side. The dawn was breaking on the horizon, as he studied the way the sunray gleamed on Anastasia's hair.

She was fast asleep, a shadowy spirit to the world, yet a true reality to him.

Last night he held her hands, drawing her close to his body, and talking about everything under the stars until he was exhausted from keeping his eyes open. In the morning light, he always took time to appreciate the beauty beside him.

Her hair was so soft, he assumed, for he never had the experience to feel other than his own hair, which the strands were too curled to be called soft. Perhaps it was like a silk, or satin. Or something entirely Anastasia's.

In his mind, her laugh was melodic, a spring breeze that brought forth the warmth. The blue in her eyes was ocean he longed for her to see. Alas, he didn't think it was wise to speak alone when he travels, so he had to be content with bringing only books about the sea and faraway land.

And what books those were. The previous owner of the mansion never installed a library, so he had built a bookcase inside her chamber that he filled weekly because his Anastasia liked to read. From arts and politics to science and fictions. Each and every one of them would be signed as 'Anastasia,' since she was the rightful owner of everything in his life, including his heart.

He would read to her all night long, when the darkness inside the house crept around him and he needed to flee from those evil pasts. He pictured her reciting him a poetry while her fingers ran through his hair and he laid his head on her bare shoulder. It was magical. She was magical.

His mind drifted to the here and now, realizing that the day had just begun. Truthfully, he didn't want to move from her side, wanting to live here for the rest of his life. But the farm needed to be tended, especially when the Taylors were out of town to visit Gail's sister.

With a deep sigh, he untangled himself from the bed. Stooping beside her, he kissed Anastasia's lips, desperately pretending that he kissed the real flesh instead of empty air.

"I will be right back, sweetheart."

He hated going to the town.

Curious gazes, nervous laughter, derogatory whispers. They all saw him as an abnormal, an outcast. The polite ones usually threw small smiles; the other, however, asked him about the witch he once called mother.

Christian ignored them all.

Arriving at the market, he stopped the buggy on the side of main street. Once he dismounted, the humming of people's chatter made him aware of how busy the town this particular day. Christian made his way slowly, avoiding a group of women as they walked pass by, commenting under their breaths on how ridiculous his hair or his beard or his entire being was.

This motion sends him move closer to the bookstore window, where his eye catch one of the newest releases.

A book by an English poet he wanted to read.

He could see Anastasia reading the book, sitting on her rocking chair by the window, the sunset cast a glow behind her.

Fueling by his need to see her smiles, he entered the store. The owner, an old man with fatherly gaze, spotted him and spoke kindly, "Nice to see you today, Christian."

He gave him a small smile. "Good morning, Mr. Campbell."

"I see you've found my latest books," Mr. Campbell moved away from his desk, eyeing the young man and the display beside him. "I was just about to mail that to you. I remember you said to send some poetry books."

"I did. Thank you for your kindness, sir."

"Oh, that's nothing. Nothing." Mr. Campbell looks like he wanted to say something more, but he resisted. It always broke his heart seeing Christian since he was but a small child. "Shall I pack the book to be mailed?"

"It's all right, sir. I will bring it myself," he took one copy of the book after paying the price. "However, may I use your pen? I need to sign this at haste."

"Sure, here you go."

Mr. Campbell gave Christian his old pen, which he used to scribble down Anastasia's name with utmost care, so the ink didn't spill. "There. That's more like it." So that when he would return home, she would instantly see her name in her new book. He could almost hear her sweet voice saying thank you to him.

"Well, well, what brings the mythical Mr. Grey here."

Christian turned his head to be greeted by a familiar face with a familiar sneer. Too engrossed he was with his purchase that he didn't notice the person he detested the most had entered the store.

"Jack."

Jack Hyde gave him a smug grin, a notion Christian would find intimidating in the past. But then his nose wrinkled as if smelling a bad air, "I'm surprised that you left your hermit's sack to join with the rest of the world. You must be bored much speaking to the walls of your house."

"I'm not—"

"On another note," he waved his hand dismissively, "I have been quite busy readying the school programs. Shame you could not make it to finish your college. I had wished to win over you fair and square."

"I'm not interested in teaching."

"Sure, you do have a strange mind," he said, clicking his tongue. "You think tending a farm is more… let's say… approachable than speaking to a child, do you not?"

"I prefer tending the farm than interacting with you, yes."

Christian heard an ill-veiled laugh coming from old Mr. Campbell, who looked like he had a trouble with his breathing.

Jack narrowed his eyes, wisely holding his tongue. He stepped closer to the bookstore owner, "I need to order sheet music. And perhaps a new holder."

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Campbell, "I heard they hired a new music teacher for the school."

"Yes, apparently, it is my duty as a school board," he enunciated meaningfully while eyeing Christian, "to provide anything he need."

Christian just smiled and shook his head. Really, he thought, some people never changed.

"I need to go buy the farm supplies, Mr. Campbell. Please mail me if there's a new book from Browning."

Jack looked baffled. "You bought a poetry book?"

"Yes," but Christian didn't elaborate more. "Good day to you, gentlemen."

With the last look he gave to Jack, Christian exited the store.

By the time he was on the way back from his farm, the fog had fallen, surrounding the world with mystical veil.

He had known that his estate and farm were the only places in this village the shadow seemed to be quickly formed. It was this time like this, he was not surprised that the children would point their fingers at him and yelled out, 'Demon!'. No one would dare to walk along his lane where the nearest sight was one's own hand, and the forest seemed to be like a never-ending maze.

No one except this shadow.

Christian had seen the tiny shadow from the distance. He blamed his own overactive imagination for the illusion, but when the horse galloped nearer and nearer, he realized it was real. And it was not a shadow.

It was a slip of a woman. She wore a dark coat over a plain cream dress, with her head covered with a shawl, shivering on the road like a leaf shook by the wind.

Christian found it odd, because no woman in Glenfield would dress like that—like some kind of foreigner, who didn't know how hard winter here would be. And it struck him as he realized that this woman indeed was a foreigner.

Suppressing his natural apprehension, he said carefully,

"Good evening, ma'am."

The woman halted abruptly, making Christian felt guilty. She must be shocked of frightened, that a man was suddenly appearing. She turned her head to him, but it was impossible to make out her appearance with thick fog and that dull brown shawl around her face.

She uttered with a muffled voice, "Good evening, sir."

There was something in her voice that he could not help but marvel.

His lips curled into an involuntary smile. "May I help you? What are you doing this late wandering around my land, ma'am?"

She nervously fidgeted. "I'm sorry I came from the station, but I think I'm lost."

It was then when Christian dropped his gaze at the heavy-looking luggage near her left foot. Why didn't he notice it before?

"Where are you going?"

"To the Armstrong, sir."

"Well, climb in, then. The Armstrong lived beyond my house, so I could help you."

"Oh, I don't mean to impose."

"It's all right, ma'am. We don't want you wandering to the Silver Brook, it's dangerous in this kind of weather."

Christian heard the gratefulness in her note as she accepted his help. "Thank you so much, sir."

He assisted her to climb the carriage, noting with slight displeasure and surprise at how tiny this woman was. But it was not his place to say anything, so he quickly turned around, climbing to his seat, grabbing the reins as he commanded the horse to walk.

Silence ensued as Christian didn't know what to say. She began to talk first.

"Um, are you a family of the Armstrong, sir?"

"No, I am not. Are you?"

"Ah, no. I board with them, because I didn't have a relative here."

"I see."

He wanted to say why she was here, but was it polite on the first meeting? Or was it perfectly fine? Dear God, how he wished he was normal enough to converse with someone.

Maybe Jack was right.

Maybe he really was good for nothing.

"Is this your book, sir?"

He snapped back from his musing by her timid question. She was holding the book he bought for Anastasia.

"Yes—oh, no. It's ah—it's for someone."

"How lucky that someone is. I recall this is a recently published work from Browning. I always wanted to read it."

"You read Browning, too?"

"Yes. In fact, one of my friends from college said that it was an unhealthy obsession of mine, reading her works like a man possessed."

At her sweet, soft laugh, Christian felt something tugging at his heart. The heart that was beating for his Anastasia.

This was not right.

So, instead of laughing along with her, he built up his invisible, yet impenetrable walls.

The woman, perhaps sensed his quick change of attitude, put down the book gently on the seat beside him. "Did I say something wrong, sir?"

Christian's mouth thinned. "No, you did not."

She remained silent for the rest of the journey. Only spoke when he helped her climb down.

"Thank you, sir…?"

"Grey. My name is Christian Grey."

He knew she wanted to say something else, but for the life of him, he didn't want to hear it.

"Good night, ma'am."

Christian drove the buggy hastily, praying to God that he could erase the woman's laughter from his head, for he was afraid that he would betray Anastasia.

He pictured her waiting for him with her opened arms and rosy smile, wearing the perfect blue dress that would look more perfect on her. And he would forget this evening for the rest of his life.

So troubled his mind that he didn't look back to see the woman outside the Armstrong's gate unwrapped her shawl, studying him with her bright blue eyes.

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a/n: [04-18-21] Thank you for reading! I'm sorry for any mistakes you might find here. Until laters :)