It is the summer of 1911. Polly Plummer is twenty-two years old, and she is beautiful.
"Polly," Thomas says, his voice very soft. "Polly Plummer, you are so very beautiful."
He takes her hands in his, trapping her slender fingers within the slightly damp cage of his own. "You are so very beautiful, Polly Plummer," he says again, and his voice is louder now.
She raises her eyes from where they had rested on their intertwined hands to look into his own- brown and soft, soft like the rest of him- and she smiles. "And you, Thomas, are too kind."
"Never, Polly." He bites his lip and her heart plummets. "I would- my dear Polly,"- and he drops to one knee, still clutching her fingers- "my dear Polly, I have spoken to your family. Dear Polly, dear beautiful, kind, loving Polly, will you become my wife?"
And the only thought in her head is How like Thomas, to soften even passion. But it is of no import- there is no passion in Thomas anyhow.
Yet he is kneeling before her, a supplicant, his soft brown eyes expectant. She lets her own eyes slide away, across the parlor, lets them rest on the patterned paper. But her sight goes on, on to blue skies and green hills and a Tree. And the next thought that occurs to her is, I am not kind.
And it is enough.
She drops her eyes to Thomas and says, gently, "Thomas."
"Polly!" He leaps to his feet, and in that moment she almost loves him.
Almost.
She places one hand on his cheek, marveling at how young he is. And then she leans forward, and just before their lips connect she sees the astonishment in his eyes.
Where he finds the passion for such a kiss she cannot say, but he returns her intimacy, winding those soft hands around her neck, loosing her auburn hair.
And in that wild abandon, she almost loves him a second time.
Almost.
It is she who ends the intimacy, she who draws, ever so gently, away from his embrace. She steps back and regards the soft eyes, the decorous dress, the already-bureaucratic set of the mouth. The youth.
"No," she says.
And it is enough.
And she does not look back as she walks away, as she walks out of her own family's parlor. She does not look back as Thomas sputters incoherently, as his face turns red. She does not look as she steps out onto the street, her collar ruffled and her carefully applied makeup ever so slightly smudged and her long hair unbound and brushing her neck most scandalously.
There is nothing kind about her in this moment, nothing sweet, nothing proper; and it is enough, because London has never looked more like Narnia, and her sight has never been so clear.
It is the summer of 1911. Polly Plummer is twenty-two, and she is beautiful, and she is free.