Her fingers were still pressed gently against Mr. Lestrange’s arm, Poppy too distracted (or desperate maybe) to keep him close, to be sure he was not one of her vivid hallucinations. It was too good to be true almost, the perfect distraction to allow her to forget for a moment what it was that had been making her sneak out like this at the break of dawn. What it was she’d fled England from and could still not manage to escape… If a small nod bobbled her head up and down, it wasn’t because Poppy understood. Chaperones or not, the liberties afforded to gentlemen could not possibly stretch so far, could they? Even Anthony, with all his hopping from France and back, was sure to mention to his Mama when he was due in either place. Could Kristoffer’s relationship be so different— distant, cold— that he didn’t care to inform his family of his whereabouts? (Or worse, was he ashamed to be here, with her?) Either way, it wasn’t Poppy’s place to ask and she would not pry. The former seemed none of her business and the latter, well… she tried not to think about that facet of their relationship, ever.
As for the bit about running away, she felt a mischievous little grin tug at the corner of her lip— not enough for a real smile to bloom forth, but enough to hint at one. “Won’t you?” She asked, as if suddenly seized by the idea. What a fantastic plan. What an easy way out! “Running away really does seem like the best alternative but—” but one could not outrun grief. All playfulness faded. Poppy caught the remainder of that statement in her throat and let her gaze drift towards their shoes. It was a ridiculous notion. One she’d come to regret in the end.
At Kristoffer’s comment about letters, she looked back up, something twisting painfully in Poppy’s expression. Poppy knew that Mr. Lestrange was not one to write to, not like her other past suitors and certainly not like her family. She still wasn’t sure what had compelled her to reach out to begin with other than the fact that she’d missed him. She still missed him, even here and now. Kristoffer was the only person she felt could possibly understand… The only person she wanted to dissolve into tears in front of and finally let loose the beast inside her chest. He wasn’t the type to pat her awkwardly on the back and promise everything would be alright. Perhaps that was why, in the end, Poppy wanted him here so badly.
The feeling was welling in her chest, swelling to the size of one of those great rubber balloons that carried people fair distances. For one as small as Poppy then, the weight of it was crushing. She couldn’t help as the strangled pain twisted and curled into something both appreciative and devastated— grateful, so grateful, for his appearance, but also reminded now in full of the loss she’d suffered to bring him here. Tears began to pool at the corner of her eyes and Poppy abandoned all caution to the wind. She closed the space between them and buried her face in his shoulder, knowing full well she’d never have the same opportunity to indulge her grief once they moved on, once she was forced back under her mask of pretense. He smelled of sandalwood and warmth, and the fabric of his cloak was soft against her cheek. Poppy sucked in a short breath to keep from crying and pressed her small, cold nose against his neck. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. For writing to you, for collapsing like this, for not being able to keep it together. Maybe, even, for worrying you.
© Fox