Seventeen years, ten months, two weeks, three days...
Each moment is agony.
Every second of every day, George Beaumont is reminded of his young wife's untimely death. With every glimpse of that painting up on that mantle, with every glimpse of his...
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A/N: This chapter is more fluff and cuteness than anything else XD But you'll miss it when you see the next one... XI. Through the Ice kicks off the main plot. Long time coming, folks!
Winter of 1870
The healing process had been slow thus far, but it had done much help.
At present, Anne holds a cup of hot cider in one hand, her other holding onto Raymond's arm as they walk through town, a smile on both their faces. Their cheeks and noses are red from the cold, but Anne uses this to her advantage and snuggles closer to him.
He chuckles.
"Stop that. You're attracting attention. One moment you are at home, recovering, and the next, you're snuggling a man who isn't your husband without a chaperone. Are you so eager to get back onto the front pages? I had to punch that nosy journalist one time at the Whitby's ball, remember?"
"Mother, stop it," says Anne jokingly. It hadn't been her on the front pages that week, but him. "Our business is not the business of society. Besides, we are engaged to be engaged. Not betrothed for marriage, but betrothed to a betrothal. They can all shove brooms up their arses, for all I care."
Anne's voice was carefree, perhaps a bit too carefree. Her loudness begins to attract attention.
"Quiet. Remember, we are only doing this to not suffocate. We weren't supposed to go further than the lake! We're downtown already, for the love of God!" Raymond whispered angrily as Anne rolled her eyes and sipped her cider. He is like her mother indeed.
"Don't fret so much. My dressmaker is just around the corner. We can visit her, you can let me take some measurements for my winter dresses, then we can go home. Our parents will be none the wiser."
Raymond scoffs. "For someone who isn't supposed to be talking, you are awfully mouthy."
Again, another eye roll.
"You don't mind me being mouthy when we're-" her retort is cut short.
"Quiet."
Anne sticks her tongue out at him and proceeds to finish all of her cider. And then she takes his. Raymond sighs exasperatedly, but he supposes that he really can't ask for much more. Anne is all right and acting like her usual self.
"But you love me even I'm bratty and mouthy and annoying, don't you?" She bats her eyelashes at him and his heart stutters. She bumps playfully against him and he cannot help but flush pink all the way to the ears.
"I love you even if you are talkative and infuriating," he says, rather exasperatedly, turning his head away. And then she begins to laugh, and he follows.
"We sound like a pompous old couple! You should join a theatre production, Ray. Everyone is always looking out for the next handsome smooth-talker. Your tickets will sell out like pot roasts during Christmas."
