The days following their meeting in the garden passed in a blur, each one stretching out like a slow, languid hour. Arabella's life seemed to remain the sameâfilled with endless social obligations, carefully orchestrated dances, and the relentless pressure of maintaining appearancesâbut beneath it all, there was a shift.
A quiet yearning that neither the ballrooms nor the drawing rooms could still. It whispered to her in the quiet moments when she was alone, when she could close her eyes and remember his voiceâsoft, sure, as though he were speaking directly to her heart.
It was in these moments that Arabella allowed herself the luxury of remembering. His words, so carefully woven together, had become her constant companion. And with each passing day, she found herself thinking more and more of himâthe poet who had not asked for her love, but had simply taken it, piece by piece, with every glance, every word.
She found herself longing for their next meeting, the quiet moments between them where the world fell away, where it was only the two of them beneath the apple tree,or in the shadow of some forgotten garden.
But for now, she was here, in the drawing room of her father's estate, surrounded by the familiar faces of noblemen and women, all laughing and chattering. It was a grand affair, one of her father's many attempts to show the world that the Montclair family was more than just wealthâthey were the heart of society itself.
Arabella's gaze flitted from one face to another, but it was all a blur. She was no longer interested in the carefully crafted smiles or the polite pleasantries. Her mind was elsewhere. Her thoughts were consumed by him.
"Arabella, my dear, you must join us for the waltz." The voice pulled her from her reverie,and she turned to find Lord Hastings, his arms outstretched, waiting for her.
She smiled politely, offering him a graceful curtsy. "Of course, my lord," she said, allowing him to take her hand.
As they danced, Arabella's thoughts drifted once more to the poet. She had not seen him since their last meeting, and a strange sense of longing began to stir inside her. It was not the longing for the world she had knownâit was a deeper ache, a pull toward something unknown, something that had yet to be discovered.
She could feel the poet's presence in the air, like an invisible thread that tugged at her soul. He was always there, even when he was not. His words, his touch, his gazeâthey lingered in the spaces between her thoughts.
"Arabella," Lord Hastings said, his voice interrupting her thoughts. "I see that your mind is elsewhere. Is there something troubling you?"
She turned her gaze back to him, forcing a smile. "Nothing at all, my lord. Merely lost in thought."
He gave her a knowing smile."Ah, young love," he said with a soft chuckle. "I remember the days when I, too, was a poet of the heart."
Arabella stiffened slightly at the mention of poetry, her thoughts immediately returning to the poet who had captured her attention so completely. "Do you?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
"Oh, yes," Lord Hastings replied with a smile. "I wrote many verses in my youth, though none were as fine as those of the true poets. But there is something about poetry, Arabella, that allows the heart to speak its truth."
She nodded, her thoughts drifting once more to Alexander. The poet had not written for her,not in the way Lord Hastings spoke. His poetry was not for the masses; it was for her alone, a private language that they shared,one that transcended the world around them.
"I do not think," she began slowly, her voice soft, "that poetry can be bound by the rules of others. It is not something to be measured or critiqued. It simply is,when it is true."
Lord Hastings glanced down at her, surprised by the weight of her words. "Indeed," he said,though it was clear he had not expected such a reply from her.
Arabella could feel the poet's presence like a shadow against the edge of her thoughts. His voice echoed in her mind, and for a moment, she felt as though the room around her had faded away.
"Excuse me," she said suddenly, her voice far more urgent than she had intended. "I must retire for a moment."
Lord Hastings blinked,surprised by her abrupt departure, but Arabella was already stepping away, moving toward the exit with a quiet urgency. Her pulse quickened as she left the room, her heart pounding in her chest. She had to see him.
The garden, though still and silent, seemed to call to her. She had left the ball behind, and in that moment, nothing mattered except the pull of the words he had spoken to her.
She made her way through the garden path, the soft rustle of leaves beneath her feet guiding her steps. The moon was high in the sky, and the night was cool against her skin. She passed the rose bushes, the statues that dotted the grounds, and finally came to the apple treeâjust as she had promised.
And there he was, waiting for her. His figure was bathed in silver light, his eyes catching the glow of the moon as he turned to face her.
"Mockingbird," she whispered, her voice a soft sigh of relief.
His smile was slow, knowing,as though he had been waiting for herâfor this moment. He stepped closer, and she could feel the warmth of his presence, the quiet strength of his gaze.
"You came," he said simply.
"I could not stay away,"Arabella replied, her voice trembling with an emotion she could not name.
He reached for her hand, his fingers gentle against hers, and she did not hesitate to let him pull her closer.
"There is something," he said softly, his voice low and intimate, "that I must ask of you,Arabella. Something that only you can answer."
Her heart skipped a beat, her breath catching in her throat. "What is it?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
He leaned in, his lips almost touching her ear. "Will you let me know you, as I have known you in my heart?"
She trembled at his words,the weight of them settling in the space between them. There was no turning back now. There was only this.
"Yes," she whispered, her voice filled with the quiet certainty of someone who had already given their heart away.