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Bellamy doesn’t understand why Clarke has started wearing her hair differently.
He simply cannot fathom it. Clarke has had long, wavy hair all the years he has known her. When she was a child, she would wear it in plaits, as young girls do. And since her coming out, she has always worn it arranged up on her head in curls, as young ladies do. He’s not exactly an expert in ladies’ hairstyling, but he’s certain she’s always had much the same way of arranging it pinned up high.
But it’s definitely different tonight. He can’t stop puzzling over it as he leads her out in the dance. She has some of it tied in a low knot at the back of her neck, and more curls spilling around her face. He can’t decide what to make of it. Part of him thinks she looks like a slightly startled sheep - and yet, another part of him enjoys the way her hair falls over her forehead. It makes her look a little like she’s freshly ravished.
No. He shouldn’t be thinking such thoughts about his younger sister’s good friend. The Griffins would never allow him to be so informal and familiar around Clarke if they knew how badly he burns for her.
“Bellamy? Are you quite alright?” She asks him now.
He startles slightly, forces himself to meet her gaze. “Yes. Why?”
“You have been frowning at me very strangely these last ten minutes.”
“Yes. Sorry. I do beg your pardon. I was - ah - appreciating your new hairstyle.”
“You didn’t appear to be appreciating it. You appeared to be critiquing it.”
“Yes. Well. I suppose - it does look quite different. I’m sure it’s very fashionable.” He tries.
She looks mortified. He’s never seen her look quite so discomposed. In his experience, Clarke is usually a thoroughly unflappable young lady. But here she is, blushing a deep red and suddenly staring at his waistcoat buttons.
“You hate it.” She mutters, short and quiet.
“No! No, I don’t hate it. I have no very strong opinions about it at all. It is your hair.”
“Yes. Of course. You would never have any interest in my appearance.” She says, and for some reason he thinks she sounds sour.
He presses on. “You must arrange your hair as you see fit. If this is fashionable, and you like it, then I wish you well.”
“Thank you.” She says.
He can’t help but notice that she doesn’t sound grateful at all.
…….
Five days later, he is invited to a dinner party at Clarke’s family home along with his sister and his mother.
He always does love an invitation to Griffin Manor. The food is good, and the company better. Clarke is always her most talkative, sparkling self when she’s on her own territory, he finds. He hopes there will be none of that strange nervousness she seemed to be struggling with at the ball. And he’s very much hoping that he will sit next to her for the meal - somehow, the seating plan often does turn out that way at these events.
They arrive. They are shown into the drawing room where everyone is gathering in readiness for the meal.
He takes one look at Clarke’s dress and almost bursts out laughing.
Really - it is the most bizarre dress. It’s a strange concoction of pink, the colour almost too rich to be acceptable for a young unmarried lady like Clarke to wear at an evening event. It doesn’t really suit her skin tone, he thinks. It makes her blonde hair look too pale and her cheeks look too flushed. But most of all, he can’t get over the lace.
There’s so much of it. It’s everywhere. She looks a little like a meringue, honestly. Perhaps the cook has been experimenting with dressmaking.
He simply doesn’t understand why she’s dressed so strangely. Clarke usually favours simple, tasteful gowns - just as she usually favours simple, tasteful hairstyles. But today she has the startled sheep coiffure and a gown of clashing pink and meringue-style lace, and he’s frankly quite confused.
He’s still in love, of course. His feelings are not about to change over something as petty as a garish gown. But he really does wonder what strange, hellish mischief is afoot.
His sister, on the other hand, seems not to be confused at all.
“Clarke! That must be your new gown!” She cries, running towards her friend.
Bellamy follows in her wake. That’s because he’s a good brother, of course, not because he is desperate to speak to Clarke.
“It is! It arrived. Do you like it?” Clarke asks, twirling a little.
“So fashionable! So daring!” Octavia gushes.
Hmm. Yes. Fashionable and daring. Bellamy can agree that both of those adjectives might be fitting.
“There is a good deal of lace here.” He offers, trying his hardest not to sound discouraging.
Apparently he fails. He watches Clarke’s face fall.
“And isn’t it lovely?” Octavia asks at once, turning to him, making it clear she is inviting him to make further comment. “Don’t you think it’s just so - so - a la mode? Don’t you find the lace alluring? I’m sure you think she looks beautiful.”
He frowns. He can’t help but feel that he’s missed something, here. Since when is his opinion on ladies’ fashion of any interest to anyone?
“I suppose it is not my favourite fashion.” He hedges carefully.
“But don’t you think Clarke looks beautiful?” Octavia asks pointedly.
Oh. Very well. Is he supposed to talk loudly about Clarke’s beauty? Is he perhaps being enlisted to help her catch the interest of some other gentleman within earshot?
He’s not sure he likes the sound of that.
“Clarke is a very beautiful woman regardless of her attire.” He says, as carefully level as he can manage. “I suppose this gown is a little… bold for my tastes but, indeed, it does make you stand out in the room.” He addresses that directly to Clarke, reads her face carefully for a reaction.
Nothing. Or - nothing good, at any rate. Nothing he can make sense of or which can help him understand why his sister is so determinedly soliciting his opinion.
He clears his throat, tries to change the subject.
“Are we to be seated together for dinner?” He asks Clarke outright.
“No. Not today. I will be opposite you.” She answers.
He probably lets his disappointment show too clearly on his face. He should probably try harder to look unperturbed. But the Griffins have a wide dining table, and there are a good many people here, and if she sits opposite, there is no guarantee they will be able to converse uninterrupted all night long. Really, by rights, she ought to give her attention to the gentlemen sitting next to her.
“So you will be able to appreciate the vision of Clarke in this fine gown all night!” His sister crows, as if that is some kind of triumph.
He doesn’t feel triumphant at all, in this moment. And Clarke certainly looks thoroughly defeated.
…….
The next new addition to Clarke’s wardrobe is more to his taste. The following week, she arrives at The Arbours to take tea with Octavia wearing a spencer he has never seen her wear before.
It’s bright orange, which is not in its favour. He understands that such colours are very fashionable in Town, but personally, he thinks it doesn’t suit her. No - the part he is interested in is her figure. It’s rather a snugly-fitted spencer, which somehow serves to emphasise her cleavage and frame her breasts. In fact, he could swear that the garment is supporting them, somehow, and thrusting them upwards towards his eyes.
Hmm. Or maybe that’s just his face dropping to stare upon them.
He needs to stop this. He needs to get a grip, needs to bring himself under better control. He cannot stand here in the hallway of his home and stare at Clarke’s breasts.
And there’s something else, too, which he doesn’t like. He’s noticed a disturbing tendency in himself, of late, to judge Clarke’s appearance and her clothing choices. Two weeks ago, he would never have dreamed of holding a harsh opinion about whether a garment or colour suited her. He would have judged that he should mind his own business, and that she should wear what she wants.
Why has he decided he has a right to think unkind thoughts about her startled-sheep hairstyle or her bright orange spencer? If he were a better man he would let her be. He loves her no matter what she wears - it shouldn’t matter to him.
That’s why he forces himself to tear his eyes away from her bosom at last.
“You’re here to see O?” He asks, although he already knows the answer.
“Yes. But it’s always lovely to bump into you as well.” She offers.
He grins. This is better. He can handle this, far better than he can handle strange questions about a gown.
“You, too. I was disappointed not to sit by you at dinner last week. It feels like an age since we have spoken for more than a few minutes.” He offers.
She raises her brow at him, fond but exasperated, he thinks. “We danced together scarcely ten days ago, sir. Did I make so little impression on your memory then?”
“No! Not at all. That was lovely. Only - you were a little quiet, that day. I rather had the impression there was something on your mind.” He muses, thinking back to that unexpected hairstyle and the even more unexpected conversation that accompanied it. “So - it feels like it has been some time since we have had one of our debates. I know you are here to take tea with my sister but - ah - as I’m not otherwise engaged at this precise moment - that is to say - if I were to join you…?” He trails off, somewhat flustered. He’s never tried to beg for time in Clarke’s company before now. Is this how uncomfortable she felt, when he unwittingly made those unsupportive comments about her recent fashion choices?
“I’d like that.” She says at once, nodding hard. “Yes. Certainly. That is to say - if you can bear to listen to us discussing lace and sleeves and the like…”
He laughs. “You don’t discuss lace and sleeves. I know full well you both prefer to discuss horses and books and painting and music.”
She frowns. “We have - ah - been discussing lace sometimes lately. I suppose perhaps you have noticed that I am trying to develop a more fashionable wardrobe.”
“Indeed. I suppose I wish you well with that project. But - you must know you look perfectly well without lace, too. I hope this is not because one of the other young people in the village has been unkind about your appearance?”
“No. Nothing like that.” She says shortly.
He waits. He waits for her to explain, if she wishes to, or else to carry the conversation on in some new direction.
But she never does. And he’s desperate for this not to be another strange, stilted conversation. He’s desperate to recapture their usual easy chatter.
He asks her about her watercolours. And to his relief, it works, and has her talking away at speed about the autumn scene she completed this morning, the richness of the reds and ochres.
Yes. This is better. Even behind the lace and curls, his wonderful Clarke endures.
…….
Three days later, he is out riding when he sees the strangest sight. Some yards away, a bird carcass bobs steadily along the top of a hedgerow.
No. That can’t be. That’s madness. He goes closer, strives for a better view.
Yes. That’s better. It’s a cluster of feathers, not an entire dead bird. And now, in fact, he can see that they are attached to some sort of hat.
He rounds the corner, wondering who on Earth is wandering the fields around Arkadia with half a dead fowl on their head.
It’s Clarke. Of course it is. With her sudden new passion for Town fashions, how could he have expected anything else?
He’s honestly becoming quite worried about her, now. Are the other young ladies teasing her and trying to provoke her into updating her wardrobe, perhaps? He sincerely hopes not. She’s at perfect liberty to wear whatever she likes, but the Clarke he knows doesn’t want to wear feathers on her head. The Clarke he knows has a simple bonnet - the same one she’s owned for years - and wraps a pretty ribbon around it, changing the colour of ribbon periodically if it starts to fade or gather dirt. It’s a blue ribbon at the minute, he seems to remember. A sort of pale blue which is a fine foil for her eyes.
Yes. Well. That’s not relevant. The point is, he doesn’t understand why she’s wearing a feathered hat.
But he’s delighted to see her all the same.
“Good morning!” He calls out to her, leaping eagerly from his horse.
“Bellamy! Hello! How are you today?”
“I’m well. All the better for seeing you.” He dares to admit. “And you?”
“Very well indeed. My new hat just arrived. A special order from Town, you know. Do you like it?”
No. Right. That’s it. That’s quite enough. He cannot keep quiet any longer. He’s a man used to speaking his mind and acting from the heart, and he simply doesn’t have the patience to entertain this charade for another second.
“No.” He says, simple and honest. “I’m sorry - I don’t like it at all. I suppose I cannot help but compare it to your usual bonnet, because I do think the blue ribbon you had on that when last I saw you suited you very nicely. But it doesn’t matter, does it? You must wear what you like. Wear whatever you damn well wish to wear. But if you are asking for my honest opinion, I must say I have had quite enough of lace and feathers and the like. I mean - you look beautiful all the same, of course. You’re Clarke. I believe I would find you beautiful if you dressed in sackcloth. So - if you truly like these fashions, then good for you. You have no need of anyone’s approval or opinion.” He concludes, forcing himself to stop there. He thinks he has probably thrown quite enough words at her already.
He dares to look up. She’s frowning at him, hard, as if he is a scene she cannot quite capture, a view she cannot paint perfectly.
“You think I would be beautiful dressed in sackcloth?” She asks quietly.
“I think you would be most beautiful dressed in nothing.”
Damn it. Damn it all to hell. Why did he say that? His mother is always telling him that his impulsive nature will get him in trouble, one of these days.
Why oh why did he never heed her advice to learn some temperance?
Clarke doesn’t appear horrified or scandalised, though. Quite the opposite - she’s wearing a strange look in her eyes and laughing lightly.
“Clarke?”
“Sorry. Hang on a moment.” She stumbles through the words around her laughter. “Just a moment. I have more to say. But first -” A loud chuckle. “First, I need to remove this hideous hat.”
She’s laughing harder than ever as she detaches the hat from her head and throws it unceremoniously to the ground.
It flies further than she thought it would. That’s the impression he gets, as he watches her eyes follow the path of its flight. The awful thing rotates on itself as it goes, like a kind of confused discus.
It lands in a cowpat some yards away.
“It flies better than I thought it would. Must be all those feathers.” She says, still chuckling.
That breaks him. That has him laughing, too, as his eyes flit between her amused face and her soiled hat in turn.
At last, he gathers himself and asks the question. “So - excuse me, Clarke - but if you hate that hat so very much, why were you wearing it?”
“Because it’s fashionable. Because I was attempting to be ladylike and attractive and all such things. I found myself in conversation with Miss MacIntyre last month. And she said that, in her estimation, Mr Green had come through and proposed to her because she had improved her wardrobe and started wearing more lace. So then - I suppose I thought that perhaps the same thing would work for me. That perhaps if I freshened my fashion choices you might notice me at last. And Octavia said she would help me - she promised to start some conversations with you about my new gowns and the like. But - perhaps - if you already think that I am beautiful, I rather hope this has been a waste of everyone’s time.”
“Yes.” He agrees mildly. “A waste of some poor fowl’s feathers, too. You were truly hoping to catch my interest?”
She nods, eyes lowered, suddenly flushing that discomposed flush he’s seen only once before.
Well, then. This is an unexpectedly perfect morning.
“Jolly good. Excellent. Well then, Clarke. How’s this for interest - will you marry me?”
She looks up at him, eyes wide. “You truly mean it?”
“Of course I do! I have been in your thrall for years. You truly never realised?”
She shakes her head, silent, smiling broadly.
“You thought that I needed some encouragement to notice your feminine charms? Some lace and a low-cut spencer?” He reiterates, disbelieving.
She laughs. “The spencer was Octavia’s suggestion.”
Well. Now then. He certainly doesn’t know what to make of that. He’s not sure how he feels about his sister passing Clarke that suggestion. Has Octavia been onto him all along?
Yes. Probably. He doesn’t think his interest in Clarke has ever been subtle, even if the lady herself has missed it.
“So? What about it? I - ah - I did ask you a question.” He points out, a little apprehensive. Is there some reason she hasn’t given him a clear answer yet?
“You did. And - and I would be delighted to marry you. On one condition - no lace. And I can go back to tying my hair up in a more practical style. And -”
“That’s two conditions.” He points out mildly. “But yes, of course, you must wear what you like. It’s not a choice for me to make, is it? I love you. I want you to be happy - in our marriage, and in your own skin. Dress as you please.”
She throws herself at him. Not a kiss, not a first, tentative touch of lips against lips. Rather this is a firm, confident hug, as she wraps her arms around him and buries her face in his chest. That feels more fitting, somehow. They have the rest of their lives to learn their way around the physical intimacies which will come with marriage. But here and now, today, as they seal their engagement, he thinks a hug founded on friendship and closeness suits them far better.
“I love you. I love you.” She chants against his coat.
He whispers the words back to her and holds on tight.