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Swiftly, he wipes his sweaty palms on the back of his trousers and takes another deep breath. Her eyes are fixed on her silver shoe as she adjusts the little strap across her ankle and for a little longer he admires his girlfriend looking flawless in the bright red dress, making use of these last few moments before she’d spot him in the distance.
The ring feels heavy in the pocket of his jacket and once more he wonders whether it’s the right time, the right place. He’d never wonder if she’s the right woman because he knows she is. She has been ever since he saw her sitting on the floor of the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge all those years ago, her eyes fixed on the painting of The Hon. Mrs Nathaniel Curzon and her fingers smudged from shading the dress.
A tingle runs down his spine as she finally straightens up, her shoe fixed after a short struggle with the thin strap, her posture that of a woman who knows the advantages of the dress she’s wearing. Her grey eyes wander around the stone patio of the Spanish manor house as the warm evening sun bathes it all in a welcoming amber light. When she’s finally reached his end of the terrace he can literally feel her eyes on him and her beautiful face lights up with the warmest of smiles.
Encouraged by the love apparent in her face, he ascends the last two steps before crossing the open plane. The copper stones under his feet radiate with the warmth of the passing day and the whitewashed house still visible in his peripheral view makes him squint. He doesn’t want to squint. He wants to see her in all her glory, wants to remember the way she looks until the very day he dies.
“Tom, hey…you look wonderful,” she smiles, brighter, warmer, and his knees grow weak under him although he manages to remain upright at least for now.
“Elizabeth, you look…wow, I mean…you look stunning,” he stutters, blushing at his weak attempt to compliment her as he fails to find the appropriate words. Stunning does not nearly convey what he truly wants to express but maybe she can read it from his clear, blue eyes, from the smile on his face, from the sheen of sweat on his palms as he gently takes her hands in his own.
For a moment, the young woman averts her gaze, once more looking at her silver shoes, the ones she had picked especially for this day and this dress and this man. The blood pumps through her veins quicker than ever as he lifts her chin with the tip of his finger, staring straight into her soul.
“I don’t think I can wait any longer,” he breathes, biting his lip nervously, before slowly sinking down onto one knee. Elizabeth gasps, quietly, her hand flying up to cover her mouth, not quite believing what she sees.
“Darling,…I love you. I have ever since we first met and I always will. I don’t want to spend another day, another hour or minute without you in my life. Elizabeth,…will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”