Isabelle
Isabelle sat alone in the furthest corner of the dining area. It was between noon and evening. She sat in the shade of the autumn trees.
Thomas watched her from afar. No suitor dared near her, no gentleman glanced in her direction. Thomas felt a small fire rise within his core at the thought of it. It was better there was no competition to eliminate.
She was draped in autumn colors, the lightest shades on the inside and the darker ones outward. Her brown hair curled and laying loosely on her dark brown wrap, it blended so well you had to be right next to her to see the difference.
This festival brought her no joy or happiness, nor did any other social gathering. Isabelle was always invited, though often she wondered if it was for a more sinister reason. She was so plain and the other so fair compared to her, was that why she was invited? For comparison?
Isabelle drew in a deep breath in her solitude. She would bring herself to tears from her own self pity. She watched the others dance and smile from her corner, and tried to be happy for them.
Thomas watched her from the shadows. He saw every pain on her plain face. Every emotion as it traipsed past, leaving it’s momentary marks. Her eyes betrayed her every thought. He averted his gaze as she fought back her tears. The pain was too great to bear. He took a deep breath and regained his strength from the same air as she.
In an instant he thought, what will become of Isabelle?
The time of her youth will come and pass with nary a suitor to pass her a glance. Too soon will the time come when she is no longer invited to social gatherings. A social outcast with no standing in society. “Old Maid” they will call her and not darken her door.
He glanced at her sitting alone. Her pulse will never quicken like a minuet dance step. Her smile will never surface from adoration’s cause. She would never feel as if she was a wanted object of desire. Tools of his trade meant to beguile and bewitch, he could use them all on her. She would be none the wiser, and he would be all the richer.
Isabelle had lost her fight, a single tear fell down her left cheek. A sun ray glinted off it for a second, and at that moment Thomas knew what he must do.
A single resolve filled him, he no longer felt ashamed.
Thomas approached Isabelle and gracefully wiped her tear with his index finger. “You need not cry for me, Fair Isabelle. I am but a lowly soul in your midst, a waste of a good tear.” he kissed his finger.
Thomas motioned about around himself, “It is such a beautiful day, maybe it was tears of happiness.” He took her hand and kissed it, “I should cry as such, when I gaze upon you.”
Isabelle blushed and glanced away.
Thomas watched her, he drank in every detail of her face. The cinnamon sprinkle of her freckles, the deepness of her mahogany eyes. His gaze grew solemn and serious, “Isabelle, belle of the feast.” He reached out and touched her face gently.
Isabelle jerked backwards instinctively.
“I presume too much.” Thomas apologized and withdrew his hand quickly. “Still my news is the same.”
Isabelle felt a pit grow inside of her stomach. He was going away, like everyone else in her life. They all went away, and did not return.
Thomas could see in her eyes the pain he was creating. “I have been called away to sea.” He wished at once he did not have to speak further, the tears were beginning to well in those deep brown eyes. He had to muster the courage, he could not drown here in her tears and die.
Thomas closed his eyes and steadied himself, “I will return to you.” He opened his eyes and stared straight into hers. “I vow on all that I have, on all that I will become. I will return to you. To win your love, to hold your hand and make you mine.”
Isabelle’s tears had halted. Her heart had leapt out of it’s place and was beating inside her throat. Dare she believe such as this? Would it be folly?
“If you would have me.” Thomas stared at her with all seriousness.
“I would have you.” The words escaped her before she even knew she whispered them into the wind. She could not scarcely believe she uttered them. Her hand flew to her lips as if to stop them, but it was too late.
A slow smile crept over the face of the scoundrel, Thomas. His scar evident in the orange glow from the evening sun. Still Isabelle could not help herself, she wanted him. Whether it was charm, or her fear of becoming an unwanted “Old Maid”. She knew she wanted to experience this emotion they called Love, even if it was a fable.
The evening ended and Thomas parted her company with a promise to return.