A Fickle Thing Called Love

Brooke stared at her husband. Her gaze was soft as she watched his face, flushed from fragile innocence, contort and relax from the coma of sleep. Occasionally his eyelids fluttered and she would catch a glimpse of the light that danced in his endearing emerald eyes.
He was so terribly beautiful.
And she was so terribly happy.
Now she could see it, the time they first met, gaily dancing, drinking punch, growing so close through ballads and waltzes.
He had not changed at all. Four years later and the male was still so gentle, so fragile, so kind. Careful not to wake him, Brooke took his hand in her own and stared at his slender fingers.
Fingers perfect for playing piano. She cherished these fingers; the fingers that would caress her when she sighed, hold her when she smiled, stroke the ivory keys of his beloved piano when he played. All this time he had been hers and she hadn't seen it.

One week earlier

"Aspen! Please put that away. The guests are coming at half-past and I don't want there to be a mess." Brooke quickly risked a glance at the fainting couch alongside the vanity, only to see scores of sheet music sprawled along the surface. "Please!" She repeated. Anticipation ate away at her trembling figure. Brooke brought a fastidious hand to her hair, once again glancing in the vanity mirror. A few dark strands had escaped from the lovely bun that Lindsay had fixed for her, and she irritably pulled them out in fear that her hair was not perfect. She could not show any foibles tonight. No weaknesses, no flaws, nothing.
At last her husband appeared, lips parted in a gentle smile. His winsome face was almost feverish, but Brooke gave his health no thought. She convinced herself that it was nothing.

"Do forgive me, darling. I was hoping to play tonight but I've not quite finished composing." His hand, slim and tenuous, reached for the papers and drew them close to his chest.

"I'm sure we won't need any music tonight." She turned and crossed her arms, studying him. "Have you forgotten? The gramophone arrived just the other day."

"No, of course not." The young man offered a sheepish smile, cheeks flushed. "I just thought perhaps the guests would enjoy..." He noted Brooke's fractious countenance and fell quiet of his idea. "It was just a silly thought, truly. I'll put the papers away." He, still wearing his shy smile, began to turn away until Brooke rested a gentle hand upon his shoulder.

"Do I look alright?" She murmured, trying to soften the blow that she had not meant to inflict upon him. The young man was so terribly frail as it was and she did not want to upset him. Aspen's sweet emerald eyes tenderly perused her figure, careful not to overlook anything that may have irritated her.

"No, you look beautiful. You're perfect." Aspen offered a kind, sweet smile, reaching up to passionately sweep a stray lock of hair from Brooke's forehead. Her skin was warm and they embraced, though only for a moment before she sprung away.

"We mustn't be late to greet our guests. Please put those away." She pecked his soft cheek before turning and exiting the room. Affection was rarely shared between them, now. Once the two were tender, lost in a dream of true love. But Brooke believed life was too busy for that now. She wished Aspen would not show so much affection towards her, for she did not enjoy it as she once had. She had grown, matured. She did not appreciate the same things now as she once did. He needed to understand that.

"Hello, Mrs. Fenn. The guests are bound to arrive at any moment, now." Simmons, pacing about the halls, stopped at sight of Brooke and bowed. The young woman paused, looking up to face the butler.

"They are, Simmons. And you are to be at the door to greet them."

"Of course, Mrs. Fenn." He dipped his head and hurried down the stairs. Brooke, letting out a contemptuous huff, gathered her skirts and headed after him. She gripped the banister tightly, knuckles white as she worried.
Would the guests be quite pleased with her hospitality? Yes, they were family, but it was of the utmost importance that they be content.
Her anxiety grew as she reached the base of the steps. She could hear the grand clock, standing tall and proud, ticking the seconds away. She inched into the main hall.
She could hear Aspen filing away his music, now. She went to find him, however someone turned on the gramophone and she could no longer hear anything but the music, the soft music, gently drowning out any other insignificant sound.
Brooke absentmindedly swayed, vaguely remembering the shy grip of Aspen's hand upon her waist, the way they would once twirl together, lost in oblivion, gaze locked. But then a pounding came upon the door and Simmons, idling by, quickly let the door open.
Brooke quickly wondered as to Aspen's whereabouts before hurrying forwards to greet the guests.