Archive of Our Own ^beta

Mattie was bored.

It had been a big production for her to come to this dance, the annual ball at Westpoint, and her father had spent more money than she wanted to think about to get her a dress appropriate for the occasion; it was gorgeous but the crinolines itched her legs in the heat of the ballroom and the way it sat down her arms rather than on her shoulders left her feeling exposed.

The evening had started off well enough, with flattering attention from a handful of young recruits, hardly distinguishable in their identical uniforms, but it took her no time at all to figure them out and after that, there was nothing for her. Most of them were borish, some of them were cruel and nearly all of them wanted things from her that she wasn’t interested in giving them. Not a one was viable for any conversation beyond the weather. It was astonishing how lonely she could feel when surrounded by the most people she had ever seen in one place.

That said, she was determined to stay until the end, so she took up residence by the table with the punch, which had quite plainly been spiked, she could smell it at arm’s length—she took a glass regardless—and resigned herself to wait it out. She stood there, watching the crowd without really seeing them, for a long while before a southern drawl pulled her out of her reverie.

“Now, a woman so lovely as yourself cannot possibly be affiliated with the distribution of punch.”

God, another one.

She looked up to see a strange, pale face looking back at her. Another uniform.

“Can’t I?”

“No, I deem it impossible, and neither can I believe that no one has requested your companionship on the dancefloor, therefore am I forced to deduce that you are the rare creature who attends a dance but has no interest in dancing.”

“Perhaps I have yet to find any hand worth taking.” This was a joke. She was not some highborne lady who could afford to have such incredible standards… and yet, it wasn’t untrue.

He got her intention, though, smiling. “Then I suppose I can do little but tip my hat to your unimpeachable insight into my fellows and leave you to your own devices.” He turned to go.

“Your fellows, but not you?” she called after him.

He turned back. “Oh, no, miss. I’m afraid we have precious little in common, in most regards.”

“Is that so?”

He shrugged. “I am wholly unique, amongst my classmates, for better or worse.”

“Anything separating you from them can only be for the better, I think.”

He laughed then, loud and unabashed, and a couple of heads turned in their direction. “That, at least, is something on which we can agree.” He took a cup of punch and held it up to her. “Cheers.”

She held up the almost-empty cup she had been drinking from. “Cheers.”

They both drank, her taking a sip and him draining his glass without ever taking his eyes off her.

“I must say,” he slammed his glass down on the table, “if making your acquaintance is the only benefit of this evening’s festivities, it will have been worth it.”

She laughed quietly, taking the final sip from her glass and putting it down beside his. “Would you like to dance, Mister…”

“Poe! E. A. Poe. And yes, but only because it’s you, Miss…”

“Landor. Mattie.”

“Ah, what a fool I make of myself! Initials! Foolish. Edgar. Of course, you must call me Edgar.”

He held out a gloved hand and she took it.

They did not dance long, hardly three songs, but the joint pressures of his one hand against hers and his other hand on her waist made her feel… she hardly knew how to describe it. As much as she enjoyed poetry, she had never had the gift for poetic thought. She liked it, this feeling she had in his arms, and that was enough.

“I am embarrassed to confess,” he said, leading her off the dance floor, “that I may not have the stamina to dance with you as long as I would like.”

She smiled, wrapping a hand around his arm to follow him. “While I enjoy dancing and, contrary to initial appearances, it was why I came here tonight, I don't mind saying that I find the conversation more stimulating yet.”

“A lucky night for both of us, then! For conversation such as I might have with you, I have boundless energy.”

“You have truly rescued my evening, Edgar, and my opinion of enlisted men for that matter.”

“Oh, you mustn’t let me sway you in that regard, we’re scoundrels to the last.”

She smiled, raising an eyebrow. “Even you, a man wholly unique among your classmates?”

His brow crinkled in mock concern. “Oh, surely, we had to have at least a single thing in common and that is it.”

She laughed quietly. “Well, that does create a problem.”

“Does it?”

“Mm. I had hoped that we might step outside, to walk about the grounds and speak where we may more easily be heard, but surely it would be ill-advised to so isolate myself in the company of a scoundrel.”

He turned to face her, his lips tight, his wide eyes thoughtful. “Humor aside, Miss Landor, if you wish to see the gardens or perhaps the conservatory, it would be my pleasure to escort you.”

She found herself beaming at him. “I would like that very much, and please, you must call me Mattie.”

His arm that was not already entangled with hers came up so that his gloved thumb could grace over the back of her hand, before he moved in the direction of the door with her in tow.

She found herself lost for things to say, so they walked in silence for several long minutes in the cool evening air, before building upon building gave way to carefully manicured hedges and tidily arranged groupings of flowers. She stopped, pulling away from him to bend down and smell a withering rose, humming contentedly before looking back up to him.

“Thank you for bringing me here. It’s beautiful.”

“Indeed, I often find the gardens make my literary mind restless with words.”

“You’re a writer? Of what sort?"

"Could it be other than poetry? I confess, I have been known to pen the occasional story, but poetry is my first and most profound love."

She grinned. "Now that I think of it, your name is halfway to ‘poem,’ I suppose you are obligated.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Yes, well… I am told I evidence a humble gift. And you?”

“I’m afraid not, though I delight in reading, especially poetry.”

“Do you have a favorite?”

“You mustn’t judge me, I know it’s popular, but I love Byron.”

“Not at all! Byron is a personal favorite of mine, as well. And if I may be so bold as to say, I think Byron suits you. She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climbs and starry skies; and all that’s best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes,” he paused for a moment, eyes focused somewhere in the distance. “It sounds like you.”

She laughed, turning away from him and running her fingers across the top of a hedge. “I don’t think that was written about a girl like me.”

“On the contrary, I have a hard time imagining it was anything but a prophecy, written about you specifically, and on this very evening.”

She turned back toward him and a brief silence passed between them as they watched each other in the moonlight. His was an unusual face, but not a bad one; he had sharp cheekbones, bright eyes which animated when he spoke, and slightly-crooked teeth which peaked out when he smiled. The longer she looked, she actually found herself somewhat enchanted by his features. Eventually, feeling flush though the evening air was growing colder by the minute, she smiled and turned away from him again. “Will you tell me one of your poems?”

“Oh, no, none of them suit the moment so well as Byron.”

“It doesn’t have to suit the moment, I am just interested to hear how you assemble words.”

“Ah, but it must! Perhaps I shall craft something new.”

“What, on the spot?”

“Of course. The lady demands a poem and I am loathe to quote something on which dust has already settled in a moment when inspiration is so lush.”

She smiled at him, crossing her arms across her chest. “Go on, then.”

He took a deep breath, pulling off his gloves and bringing a hand to his mouth, tapping at his lips. “Would you have it rhyme?”

“Oh, it must,” she laughed.

“Of course. Let’s see…” He took another, slower breath, then began.
“Thou wouldst be loved? — then let thy heart
From its present pathway part not! 
Being everything which now thou art, 
Be nothing which thou art not. 
So with the world thy gentle ways, 
Thy grace, thy more than beauty, 
Shall be an endless theme of praise, 
And love — a simple duty.”

She blinked at him, her arms falling to her sides. “You… you just wrote that?”

“The meter is shaky in the beginning. If I've disappointed you, give me the night, I can surely do better.”

“No, it’s… I mean, you did rhyme not with not, but… is it about me?”

“Art not with part not, in actuality. But, miss, I would need to be more than simply a scoundrel to recite such a poem to you with another woman in my mind.”

“Please don’t tease at me, but I’m about to say something unduly romantic.”

“I am too given to romance, myself, to tease you for such a vulnerability.”

She smiled. “I was just thinking… I feel… it sounds strange, but I feel as though meeting you tonight has changed the course of my life in some way.”

He smiled back. “You do have the soul of a poet, after all. And while it may be argued that every person one meets has some effect on the course of his life, in this instance… I am compelled to agree that our meeting feels somehow more destined than the usual crossing of paths.”

She took his hand again, now gloveless, thrilling at the heat of his skin against fingers she hadn’t even realized were cold, and looked up to again meet his intense gaze.

“Would it be indecorous to ask if I could see you again?” she asked.

“I don’t care if it is, you may. And should I add that, for all my virtues, which I do believe are many, it is not lost on me that you could easily find the company of a handsomer man.”

She sighed. “I don’t know. I like your face.”

“Oh, as do I, though in my case it’s out of necessity. It is often called to my attention, though, that my features are…” he gestured at nothing with his free hand, “strange.”

She let her hand that wasn’t occupied with his stray up to softly trace the line of his cheek. “I believe it was Lord Verulam who said ‘there is no excellent beauty that hath not some strangeness in the proportion.’ I find I have to agree with him.”

“It’s a good quotation,” he conceded. 

“At the very least, I far prefer to look on you than the other cadets.”

He smiled. “Even Ballinger? I saw the two of you talking.”

“He can’t be so spectacular, I don’t remember which he was.”

“Handsome if brutish blond fellow.”

She laughed. “Brutish tells me as much as blond. That bully is the one you’re threatened by? You are a wholly different caliber of man than he, Edgar.”

“Well, now I must see you again.”

“So, name the date.”

“Saturday.”

“I shall make myself available.”

He beamed at her and she held his warm hand a little tighter.

The bells of the clocktower began to strike eleven and she looked up to it, frowning. “The dance was to end at eleven, wasn’t it?”

“It was, though we are no longer in the dance, so I don't believe such a deadline can be enforced.”

She laughed. “No, but if I'm too much later, my father will worry. I should go.”

“Would you allow me to walk you home?” He offered his arm, but she didn’t let go of his hand, instead just pulling him in the direction of the path, and he followed her. Again, they walked in silence, though this time she simply didn’t feel any need to speak. It was a long while, maybe half an hour, before they came to the clearing with the cottage. He walked her all the way to the door before she turned to face him, still holding his hand.

“Saturday,” she said, hardly able to hear herself over the rushing of the nearby stream—or perhaps it was her heart.

“How will I sleep for waiting?” he answered, seriously.

She smiled and he smiled back, pale in the light leaking out from the window.

“I’m so glad to have met you, Edgar.”

“The pleasure was entirely mine, Mattie.”

On an impulse, she leaned forward and kissed the corner of his mouth quickly, softly, barely having time to appreciate his warm skin before stepping away from him. With wide eyes, he let her go as she pulled open the door and stepped inside.