Maria leaned back on her haunches and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She swallowed again before she smiled at the debauched marquess sprawled out in front of her. 

"You swallowed," he said, gasping for air. When her smile widened in response he made a noise that was almost a whimper, and rolled his head down. His hair was damp with sweat and it fell in clumps around his face, reminding her once more of a bedraggled raven. She watched him as he put his trousers to rights, his hands shaking as they fumbled with the buttons.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"Nothing. You—I—  I've never experienced something as intense and," he swallowed loudly and ran his clean hand through his hair, "damned wonderful..."

"What, truly?"

He sighed out a partial guffaw, "Yes."

"Oh..." Maria wasn't sure what to make of this news. She knew she was good at pleasing a man; over the past several years she'd learnt well enough how to do so, but she highly doubted she was as good as whatever professional courtesans or experienced widows he'd hitherto had intercourse with. Good Lord, did he perhaps have a mistress? 

Maria looked down at her hands in her lap and realized she was still sitting on his leg. With a jolt she pushed herself up on aching, stiff legs. "I'm sorry, I must be heavy," she said as she smoothed the skirt of her chemise down her legs.

He remained on the floor, the top of his head nearly reached her navel. She had the irrational urge to cradle his head to her belly and stand like that for however long he would let her. Shaking off the impulse, she made to take a step away, when he grabbed her hand and gently pulled her back towards him. 

"Maria..." he began slowly.

She swallowed, bracing herself. He would let her down gently, she knew. For however careless he may have been in the past, he'd grown into a not entirely unfeeling man. He'd sought her out and confronted her, but he'd also listened to her and had shown her sympathy. He'd comforted her and opened up to her about his past. Perhaps, they shared a kind of bond now.

However, the bonds of their past were not enough to make a future together. He was a marquess and she a kitchen maid turned midwife. They came from two different worlds, and even though their paths had twice now miraculously crossed, they would inevitably and necessarily go their separate ways. It was the natural way of things.

It was then that she realized he had said something, but she'd missed it in her internal musings."I beg your pardon?" she asked.

His lips brushed lightly over her fingertips as he spoke softly, "Will you marry me?"

Maria balked. She must have misheard him. "I am quite merry, thank you very much." 

A slight smile dawned at the corner of his lips, "That is certainly good to hear, but I asked you if you would marry me, darling."

She blinked once. Twice. Thrice. "What?!" she burst out.

He cocked his head to the side and waited with an amused patience she found quite aggravating.

"I mean— I mean! That's the most—," she stammered. "That's not even possible!"

"Why not?" he asked.

She pulled back her hand and cradled it in her other as if it was injured. "You're a marquess, for starters."

"I remember." He nodded.

"Secondly, I am a nobody! You must know, surely; I didn't just materialize one day in the kitchens and I'm not originally from around here. I was raised in an orphanage in the slums of London. The only reason I can read and write and talk somewhat properly is because our headmaster was a learned gentleman. I have no family. I am not virtuous. And I am not a lady!"

She was breathing hard now, her chest heaving, and tears were picking at the corners of her eyes. "And lastly," she stifled a sob with a quiet hiccup, "you don't love me. You don't know me, and I don't know you. If you're infatuated with me, then I'm sorry, but I am a working woman with a job to do. I cannot afford to be swept up in the romantic fantasies of some lord who will in all likelihood tire of me eventually."

During her tirade he had stood and nonchalantly shook out his legs, shifting from one foot to the other until he settled so that he favored his right leg. It must've gone numb from her weight, and that idea somehow, absurdly, threatened to snap the last bit of control she had on her tears.

"You say you do not know me and yet you presume..." he trailed off, then suddenly shook his head and stiffened, his back going rigid. "You are right. What you say makes perfect sense."

He leaned toward her, casually taking the back of her head in his palm and kissed her forehead, the touch so lovely it was almost reverent. "Goodnight," he said before opening the door to her chamber and walking out in a blur. The door creaked on its hinges as it swung limply behind him.

Maria stood, shocked into stock stillness, unable to move for fear of losing her wits and running after him to beg for... she didn't know what. A long time passed before she could will herself to feebly climb into bed. Despite curling herself into a ball, her hands and feet were as cold as ice. Minutes or hours later, she did not know, her limbs warmed and she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

***

Garret sat in Evan's study, lazily balancing the crystal glass on its bottom edge. He applied pressure with one finger on the rim so that the glass turned on its axis, the weighted bottom causing it to spin quickly and crash to the tabletop. He set the glass to rights and reached for the decanter of liquor, grunting loudly when he saw it was empty.

Damn. He'd done it again. He barely felt drunk, only a little flush. The alcohol was having less and less of an effect on him, requiring him to drink ever increasing amounts of it.

He had spent most of the evening looking over Evan's compositions for the he-did-not-know-how-manyth time. They were flawless, of course. Evan had a natural talent with a seemingly constant flow of musical melody coming from him, but he had difficulties translating his ideas to paper as he'd never studied the craft. Garrett had taken Evan's scribbles and made them into playable compositions for an entire orchestra, adding a few vocal arrangements here and there to give the concerto some additional interest.

He knew this symphony would be a hit. It was good; very good. But, he hadn't expected Evan to suggest playing the pianoforte pieces himself. He and Garrett had been collaborating on and off since their time in University together, but Evan had never performed publicly before. He'd always preferred to be a ghost writer and wasn't in any way hungry for recognition or fame. His modesty had frankly befuddled and annoyed Garrett at first, who'd grown up in the competitive and cut-throat environment of a continental opera house and wasn't comfortable taking credit for Evan's work, but he'd eventually come to accept Evan's shyness as part of his genius. Garrett had realized some years back that his musical prowess was almost like a compulsion—like an itch he needed to scratch—and nobody wanted to be caught scratching between their arse in public.

So where did the sudden change in attitude come from? Was his long-time friend finally coming out of his chrysalis? Or had he reached a crisis point in his life, and was coping with it by making rash decisions? Garrett knew he was prone to those from time to time. 

With a long-suffering sigh, Garrett stood from the desk, leaving the bottle and glass behind as he left the room. The study was on the second floor next to the guest rooms, while the family apartments were on the third. Garrett looked up as he walked along the hallway, as if he could see straight through the ceiling and floorboards, and wondered at all of the empty rooms. He was not used to silent buildings. There were always noises at the theater or in the city: people walking, laughing, drinking, practicing or the rhythmic banging and moaning of sex. Here, in the dead of night, there was only the eerie silence of a county estate too big and too grand for its meager inhabitants. 

Garrett was cut from his revelry by the distant and muffled sound of a baby crying. He smiled ironically at himself as he walked down the grand staircase and approached the front doors. With the few members of staff all asleep, Garrett was able to slip out of the house unobserved. 

He walked meanderingly through the dewy grass, the subtle sounds of wildlife calming his agitated nerves. Every time the fresh nighttime air filled his lungs, his head became a little clearer, although his skin still felt flush from the alcohol racing through his blood. He came upon the pavilion on the far side of the small pond and climbed the three short steps up onto the terrace, the old wood creaking from his weight. He stared out over the water, the moon reflecting over the still surface, giving light and shadows to the foliage encircling the pond. 

It was then that he heard a small sniffle from behind him, and he turned toward the noise. Laura was sitting in her night rail and robe on the wooden bench that lined the inner wall of the pavilion, her head in her hands. 

"Na Mäuschen, what's wrong?" he asked, sauntering over to her with his hands in his pockets. He sat down on the bench next to here and immediately slouched against the wall.

She looked at him and scrubbed indelicately at her red and swollen eyes with the back of her hand. The blue of her irises was piercing in the moonlight, and Garrett had to swallow from the sight.

"Oh, it's you..." she trailed, sounding disappointed. 

"My apologies," he deadpanned.

She shook her head. "Nevermind. I did not know you were planning to visit. Why are you here?"

He shrugged. "Can't a man take a nighttime stroll through the countryside?"

She gave his non-answer the withering look it deserved, and proceeded to ignore him, fumbling in the pocket of her robe for something. 

Garrett patted at his waistcoat and cursed under his breath at feeling the ball in his breast pocket. He'd used his one handkerchief just that afternoon to blow his nose. He could not, would not, offer a dirty and used snotball to Laura, even if her eyes were in a desperate need of one.

"Oh fiddlesticks!" Laura raged as she frustratedly tore her hands from her pockets. She wiped at her eyes again with her fingers, smearing the tears over her cheeks. Moonlight glistened off of the wet, salty streaks, causing her porcelain cheeks to shine. He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees and looked once more out over the pond, giving her what little privacy he could.

"Look at me... I'm pathetic! A lady such as myself is supposed to have it all together, but I'm a wretch, an absolute mess!" 

"What happened?" he asked calmly. A gust of wind blew crosswise over the pond. The tall grass rustled and swayed in the gale.

"Nothing!" she nearly shouted. "And that is what is so terribly vexing. Ever since sending out the invitations for the house party, there has been this little ball of nerves growing in my chest, getting tighter and tighter. I am so nervous it makes me sick!"

Garrett knew stage fright when he saw it, and in Laura's case it did not surprise him. She'd grown up practically motherless and her older sister was even more introverted than her older brother. Anne—often referred to as Winifred or Freddie as she preferred the more masculine second name— was not a very conventional woman. She was beautiful to be sure, dazzling in a dress, but she had a habit of wearing men's clothes and reading philosophical texts. Two dispositions that, along with three disastrous years searching for a husband among society in London, had led her to retire to her husband's house in Oxford with her lady's companion, Bethany Jennings, soon after her wedding. Garrett was glad Winifred was out of Evan's hair, but he could understand it must be difficult for a young woman such as Laura to be without female relatives to help guide her in her own coming out this season.

"Does Evan know?" he asked finally.

"He knows a little, but not the full extent of my nerves, I think. What could he do anyway? He has his hands full with his own work. I don't want to run to him every time I'm nervous, crying like a little girl, begging him to fix this for me. He can't fix this for me. And I don't want to cry!" she shouted with a sob, her skits rustled as he heard her stomp her foot. "I just need to stop being such a coward. If I can't do this, then what good am I?" She said with such hostility, the words were nearly spat out.

He was silent for a long time. Her violent sobs soon calmed into helpless little whimpers, muffled once more by her hands. "I'm so sorry. You must think me pathetic."

"No. Normal really."

"What?" she asked, dazed.

He leaned back again and crossed his arms to keep himself from touching her. He still did not look at her. "I mean... you're nervous. Who wouldn't be in your position? I've seen dozens upon dozens of first time performers get the spooks for shows they've practiced privately hundreds of times. It gets easier." He shrugged. "But performing is an entirely different skill from playing— one you've gotta learn. It doesn't come naturally to most."

He looked at her then and saw her staring at him, her mouth open and her eyes wide. 

He shrugged again, uncomfortable, and pulled at the cravat around his neck. "Here," he said, handing it to her. "Wipe your eyes and go back to the house. All will be better in the morning."