Anathema's Web

Two

Is destiny a well-laid road to follow ordained by those Above, or is it designed and shaped by our own mortal hands down Below?

Few secrets remain safe in England. It was a barren wasteland that ate every dream and swallowed capital to regurgitate it back onto you, seeping into your skin until you became one. His homeland held no more options, but even if he succeeded here in America to find a wife, Froce knew he held no volition to abscond from the journey home. He belonged to the land and estate that gnawed on his bones, his name readily etched to the family mausoleum despite his tender age of twenty-eight.

The dreariness of such a prospect became the ghost upon his back, weighing on him with every decision here in the Boston autumn. Ladies aplenty and with drinks to forget the core covert commitment of his only duty on this earth, it would not be challenging to find a woman to marry.

He never thought he would find the solution within the small library of a friend of his aunt's.

Upon his quiet reading hour after the perilous journey to Boston, Froce hardly realized another guest manifested into the sequestered solitude he sought. The young lady sat herself near the bay window, a quiet mouse pursuing her own objective without disruption.

By the time Froce noticed her presence- for she made no sound nor introduction- she continued the painting of his aunt's friend, Mrs. Pollier with tremendous focus. Her back was towards him, leaving Froce in a precarious situation unknown if she was aware of his presence so tucked away in the corner of shelves and books.

Glancing from the pages, Froce was struck with a curious passion for not only her focused work but also her presence. Her long black hair was plaited loosely, tied too early as the rest tangled in cascaded down her back. Her blue dress was remarkably simple yet complimented her skin and figure, as much as Froce attempted to return his focus to his book.

His focus was all but lost, hearing the soft sounds of her brush against the canvas and the slowness of her concentrated breathing. It was hypnotic, a terrible prison of exuberance over a stranger that Froce stopped to ponder if he was dreaming, fallen asleep from the banal book in his hand.

Returning to his thoughts, Froce acknowledged the expectation of marriage diverged from love.

No, it was not the house that held the frightening visage of commitment- rather it was the vulnerable state that passion and companionship produced that Froce never had.

So it did not matter whom he chose- besides his commitment to finding a wife of means to support his end design for the estate. His heart would have no say in the matter. This commitment did not require affection, admiration, or even amour- all he needed was capital.

Yet what was he to do when love surfaced first?

Froce continued to watch this stranger paint, noticing every small gesture she made with even the marginal stroke of paint.

He felt it then- the smallest flicker of a flame entering his heart.

It had been many years since it was aflame, mostly distinguished quickly with disinterest or unlike souls, but it brought a small glimpse of hope to his future.

He could feel again...

That sense of small hope washed away quickly, the demands of his presence here outweighing the mere sentiment he had over a woman whose face he had not yet witnessed, let alone time to collect her name. The fear of vulnerability haunted him, for his purpose was destiny for hardship and failure, not passion. The two did not belong together, no matter how his heart ached to never be alone again.