Emma woke before the sun, dressing in the dark. She chose practical clothes, a simple walking dress in deep blue, a wool cloak against the January cold. Her blonde hair she braided simply, pinning it away from her face. The house was silent as she slipped out. London at dawn was a different city. Quieter. Softer. The streets mostly empty except for delivery carts and servants starting their day.
Hyde Park loomed ahead, vast and shadowed. Emma entered through the gates, following the path she'd memorized during solitary walks. The Serpentine stretched before her, a ribbon of dark water reflecting the pre-dawn sky. The bridge arched over it, elegant and empty. Almost empty.
Charles stood at the center of the bridge, his hands on the stone railing. He wore a heavy coat, his breath misting in the frigid air. He looked like a painting, solitary, contemplative, beautiful in his sadness. He turned as Emma approached. You came, he said the same words as yesterday. You asked me to, she replied the same answer.
They stood at opposite ends of the bridge, a dozen feet of space between them. The world was gray and hushed, balanced on the edge between night and day. I couldn't sleep, Charles admitted. After I left you yesterday, I went home, dressed for tea with Beatrice, sat through two hours of discussion about roses versus peonies, smiled, nodded, pretended I cared. He laughed, a broken sound. And the entire time all I could think was that I'd rather be in that reading room with you, talking about nothing, holding your hand, being myself.
Emma walked toward him slowly, closing the distance. I couldn't sleep either. What did you do? I stood at my window, watched the stars, wondered if you were looking at the same sky. I was. Charles's eyes found hers. I was thinking about the first time we met. Do you remember? Every detail. Tell me.
Emma leaned against the railing beside him, their shoulders nearly touching. It was summer. A ball at Hawthorne Manor. I was seven. You were 12. I'd run away from my governess and hidden in the garden. You were crying, Charles said softly. Your dress was torn. You had dirt on your face. My father had yelled at me. Called me clumsy and stupid because I'd knocked over a vase. Emma's voice grew quiet. I was hiding because I didn't want anyone to see me cry. And then I found you. You were hiding too. From your father. He'd struck me for speaking out of turn at dinner.
Charles's hand moved unconsciously to his jaw as if feeling the ghost of a blow. We were both running from the same thing. Pain? Yes. He turned to face her fully. And then you said something. Do you remember what you said? Emma smiled despite the tears gathering in her eyes. I said, Why are grown-ups so mean? And I laughed for the first time in months. I laughed. Charles's own smile was sad and fond. And then you took my hand and said we should make a promise. That when we grew up we'd be different. Kinder. And you'd marry me so we could be kind together.
They stood close now, so close Emma could see the flecks of amber in his dark eyes. Could count his eyelashes. Could feel the warmth radiating from him despite the winter cold. I meant it, she whispered. Even then, I meant it. So did I.
Charles's hand lifted, hovering near her face. Can I? Yes. His hand cupped her cheek, the touch achingly familiar. Emma leaned into it, her eyes fluttering closed. Emma, he breathed. I want, I need, she opened her eyes. Found him staring at her with such raw longing it stole her breath. What do you need? She whispered.