Out in the snow: A vignette
Matthew watches Mary leaving the house to walk and then follows her outside. He tells her not to marry Carlisle. She’s in tears and Matthew, moved, inches closer to her.
“Tell tell me, Mary,” he says, his eyes full of concern and pity for her. She turns away, briefly, her face half-hidden by the shadow of the trees, the sound of her tears muffled by the rustling of the leaves, the festivities inside the great house.
She shivers, her insides contorting with spasms of fright and defeat. The brush of his fingers on her salt-ivory skin sears her and she jerks aside, the violence of her push only matched by his still-gentle hold.
“Tell me, Mary.”
And so she told him about the years of anguish, the days of mourning, the hours of regret. She told him about deception and despair, lust and longing.
And she told him about love.
“Tell tell me, Mary,” he says, his eyes full of concern and pity for her. She turns away, briefly, her face half-hidden by the shadow of the trees, the sound of her tears muffled by the rustling of the leaves, the festivities inside the great house.
She shivers, her insides contorting with spasms of fright and defeat. The brush of his fingers on her salt-ivory skin sears her and she jerks aside, the violence of her push only matched by his still-gentle hold.
“Tell me, Mary.”
And so she told him about the years of anguish, the days of mourning, the hours of regret. She told him about deception and despair, lust and longing.
And she told him about love.