Laughter

The first time he'd heard her laugh, the very first time, in another one of those balls Mama forced him to attend, he had been mesmerized. He was standing but a few feet away from her, and she was deep in conversation with a couple of other ladies, his sister included, and one of those ladies (Lady Spenser, he thought) made a joke of some sort in hushed tones, drawing out laughter from their group. He was sure he heard his sister snort, something she would kill him for should he ever tease her for it or die trying to deny it. But, in all honesty, it wasn't what drew his attention to them, it wasn't what had him pondering. It was her laugh—tinkle-y and soft, almost like a flutter, should it be made into an action. It was sweet and short, and he vowed right then and there that he would do everything just to hear it again.

He didn't do good in his promise, however, and it had taken him longer to be able to draw it—the sweet melodious sound of her laughter—out of her. He had been too distracted with her smiles, her vibrant blue eyes, her creamy skin which he had wanted nothing but press his lips to (and he had, mind you, but only in her knuckles or her cheek, and only when she permitted it). It struck him, weeks later of knowing her, that he had made that promise of making her laugh again, when she did laugh at something Rosamund had said. Rosamund had invited her to tea and with their Papa's encouragement, he'd tagged along (much to their Mama's chagrin). They spent hours together, and at one point he had the courage to finally tell her that she had a beautiful laugh, one she'd responded with a giggling laughter, shy but sweet, and it had made him smile so much his jaw had hurt.

His heart had beaten faster at the sound. It was such a beautiful sound.

When he'd pursued her, with his Papa's blessing, he'd made it a point to make her laugh all the time, even the smallest of laughs, he'd tried. He'd felt that not only did he like hearing it, it had been a balm to his conscience knowing that even if he was pursuing her for all the wrong reasons, at least he could make her laugh.

Somehow, and to his utter disappointment (not at her, never at her, but at himself), that laughter had faded away when they'd married. Not at first, she'd been too happy to be married to the man she'd claimed to be in love with, but later in the marriage, definitely later when it had become clear that the man she'd loved had not felt the same way.

It broke his heart. And he felt like a world class cad. She was not anymore the Cora he knew, the hopeful, spunky young American who always had a smile on her face. And he realized that he had done this to her. Or Mama had, but he'd not stopped her from doing so. Or this life had, but he'd not make it any better for her. In the end, it was him. He took away her laughter, her spark.

Once before, he'd been able to fool himself that she'd been happy, just because he'd been able to make her laugh. But then, a few months into the marriage, when there should only had been wedded bliss—she'd stopped laughing, and he could no longer fool himself. And that had broken his heart, and made him pull away from her little by little because of the guilt.

It took a long time before she'd started laughing again. He'd noticed that it had been small ones at first, small and clipped, as if laughing would get her into trouble. But it had started again because of him, because of something silly that he'd said when he'd come up and had tea with her (the first time in months since he'd started avoiding her that he'd spent time with her alone willingly, except for the nights where they'd had to…well). He'd thought then that he would try again, again and again, just to make sure that it that laughter only grew, not disappear.

When one day, he'd come home from the village fuming, and still trying to calm down from the argument he'd had with his father, he'd sought her out. They'd been married now for almost a year, and he found himself enthralled by her more and more, craving her company more than anyone else's, and relying on her to make all the gloom around him go away with her touch. He'd heard her speaking to someone in the library, and upon investigation, he'd found that it had been one of her American friends, Anne Robinson, who'd been in town to marry into nobility like she had (as simple and offensive it might sound). As he peered into the room, he'd seen her throw her head back in unguarded laughter, and the sight of her, a wide smile in her eyes, head thrown back slightly, the sound of her laughter passing through the room, echoing off the halls, made him smile. It made all the anger in him melt away. And then he knew.

He had realized then how important it was to him that he'd keep her happy, not just laughter happy, but happy happy.

And now, as he lay beside her, his nose nuzzled to the crook of her neck, a year and half since they married, he could not help the smile from creeping to his own lips as her chest vibrated and the sound of her laughter carried itself to his ear. Long gone were the days when they spent the night apart in different rooms, separated by walls and doors, blanketed by covers that did not keep them as warm as each other might have.

He pulled back to look at her, his gaze boring into hers, making her halt her funny story for a moment to look at him, and mutter a self conscious "what?" when he wasn't so quick to hide the intensity of his look.

He shook his head, leaning down to press a soft kiss to her lips, smiling against them when she did, too.

"Nothing darling," he whispered, as he rested his forehead against hers. "You just make me so, so very happy."

And the girlish, giggling laughter that escaped her lips was just enough to make his heart flutter and his soul to lift.

There was nothing else in the world that made him happier than her.

Fin

5/21/15