Work Text:
A Gold Necklace
He has gifts for everyone from London: candy and toys for the four children eagerly crowding around him, new silk Sunday shawls for Aunt Jenifer and Mrs. Bessie, bolts of fabric for new clothing, a pocket watch for Mr. Lorne.
From the kitchen door, she watches as he gives everyone their presents: as the two little girls squeal and hug his legs while Rabbit and his brother eagerly show their father what Johnny has brought them; as Aunt Jenifer throws the new shawl around her shoulders and twirls, laughing happily; as Mrs. Bessie remarks that she'll look like Lavinia Lyte herself, walking into church wearing a silk shawl from London, and that Johnny should have gotten her something more sensible like copper cookware. But her smile reveals that she is secretly pleased.
Just then, Johnny catches her eye and glances out the door, then meets her eye again — a silent question, asking if she can slip out with him to the orchard. Her breath catches as she remembers slipping out to meet him there when they were younger, when she worked for the Lytes. The two of them would hide in the orchard and talk; once, she picked an apple and gave it to him as a gift. It was a silly, childish thing to do, but then again, neither of them had much experience in matters of love or flirting at the time.
(To be truthful, they still don't, but at least they are older and more mature, she supposes.)
She slips out unnoticed; the Lornes are too excited over their gifts to realize she has left them in the kitchen. Behind her, she hears him telling the others that he wants to go check on Goblin before dinner, which gives him an excuse to get away, too.
The orchard is vibrant green and a light breeze dances through the leaves; she doesn't have to wait but thirty seconds before he comes striding through the twisted apple trees, ducking beneath low branches to meet her. They are well out of sight of the house, hidden behind a particularly gnarled old tree, and it is blessedly quiet here.
His eyes are mischievous, completely at odds with the fine clothes he wears, though he at least shed the coat when he got home.
"I suppose you forgot all about me," she says archly, teasing him. "While you were in London meeting all of Merchant Lyte's important business acquaintances and buying gifts for everybody else."
"Of course I forgot about you. I didn't think of you once." He rolls his eyes. "Hold out your hand."
"Which hand?"
Her question is light, but they both sense the hidden meaning behind it and she sees the slight pink flush that tints his cheekbones before he replies, "Either, for this one."
The hint that he may have a second, more important gift lingers in the space between them, so she holds out her right hand instead of her left.
He turns it upward, his fingers sending tingles across her skin, and places a small black velveteen box in her palm. Trying to keep her hands steady, she cracks the box open. On a little black satin pillow within is a golden locket, glinting bright in the sunlight that filters through the leaves, polished to a mirrored shine with delicate, etched filigree and suspended from a dark blue ribbon.
Her eyes sting unexpectedly. She remembers, when as a child, she had told him her childish dreams of having three specific things: a gold necklace, a little sailboat, a gray pony and a basket cart.
"I would have gotten a pony cart," he says, breaking the awkward silence. "But Goblin would simply smash it to bits, so… I thought it rather pointless."
The absurdity of Goblin trying to pull a pony cart causes her to burst into soft laughter, and her tears finally fall at the same time.
"Wait — don't cry!" He sounds alarmed; a moment later, his hand cups her face gently and his thumb wipes the tear stains on her cheek. She can feel the rough scar against his palm and on his thumb, where the two were joined together for some time. Something about that scar rubbing rough against her makes her toes curl in unexpected pleasure, but she doesn't quite know exactly why. She leans into his hand and closes her eyes so she won't have to see his worried expression.
Still misreading her, he blurts, "If you dislike it so much, you can give it to Aunt Jenifer! I thought you would want it, but perhaps your tastes have changed —"
She shakes her head fiercely and grasps his hand, keeping it to her cheek. Barely audible, she whispers, "I love it."
I love you, she thinks desperately.
The tension eases out of his muscles and his fingers curl slightly. "Do you want me to put it on for you?"
She nods, not trusting her voice again, and turns around. His arms come over her shoulders to take the locket out of its box, his chest against her back, and her breath catches painfully. He's so close; she could simply turn and kiss him, but she can't seem to move. He pulls the fine ribbon behind her neck and beneath her hair, fastening the clasp. His fingers brush lightly against her skin with this action, and gooseflesh erupts down her arms.
"It's so beautiful," she finally manages, touching where it rests in the hollow of her throat. "Thank you so much. I can't believe you actually remembered…"
He is still pressed against her back, his arms and hands now encircling her body. "Of course I remembered. I'm sorry I couldn't afford a gold chain for it, too."
After a pause, he sighs heavily and his body sags slightly. She can feel his exhaustion as his head rests against hers, bowed towards her shoulder.
"You don't have to do this," she whispers, her fingers twining around his forearm, relishing the wiry strength in the lean muscle. "You don't have to work with Lavinia —"
"I do." His voice is quiet. "I owe it to the Lornes and Rab. I owe it to you. It's my turn to take care of all of you, and this is the best way for me to do that."
She purses her lips, but decides not to argue. Instead, she asks, "You don't have to go back to London again, do you?"
"No. I told Lavinia that there is no reason for me to go there more than once a year, if even that much. She's handling all of the business interests in England — or rather, her husband is handling most of them. My job is to handle their interests here; thus, I need to be here. I know it was important for me to go this one time, to meet with some of Uncle Jonathan's business associates simply for formality's sake, but my dealings won't be directly with them in the future. She tried to argue that I should visit London more often, but I wouldn't let her have her way on this. I hated London. My home is Boston."
She twists in his arms and slides her hands up his waistcoat to his shoulders. Finally, she meets his eyes. He looks so tired, so different from the Johnny she knew when she was a child.
She traces his jaw with her fingertips and says quietly, "You're exhausted, John. Can you at least rest a few days before you return to work?"
He hasn't been at this sort of work long, and he has worked so hard for the past three months to learn the nuances of the trade world and the elite upper class, ever since the night Lavinia summoned him to the wharves and decided to bring him back into the Lyte family as a business partner.
He smiles just a fraction. "Maybe a day or two." Then, abruptly, he murmurs, "Can I kiss you?"
She feels a fluttering sensation in her chest; they haven't kissed since before he traveled across the Atlantic at Lavinia's insistence. She replies softly, "Whenever you wish. You don't need to ask."
He cups her face again, his thumb brushing beneath her lower lip, before he tilts her head just a bit and gently presses his mouth to hers. His lips are chapped and still have a hint of salt from the sea voyage; they taste like heaven. She leans into him and he deepens the kiss before he pulls away. She kisses his lower lip languidly, and then he kisses her fully again, his hand sliding back into her hair. She feels his tongue trace her lips and she opens her mouth unconsciously; the moment his tongue touches hers, she gasps and he instantly pulls away, startled by his own actions and the intense excitement she felt.
"Forgive me," he sputters. "I didn't mean —"
She shakes her head. “No! I — it just surprised me, that's all —"
"Yes, but —"
She reaches up and grabs him behind the neck to keep him from sliding further away. "Teach me."
For a moment, he stares at her in surprise. Then the surprise melts into a different expression, one she isn't certain how to decipher — wariness, perhaps? He does not suggest that he's never done this before. She has heard whispers that soldiers sought company from certain women while away from home; she doesn't ask if he did. It doesn't matter, she thinks, because that's in the past if he did. It was during the war, when he was far away.
After a moment, he leans back down and kisses her again. This time, their mouths are both slightly open when they meet and, before she quite realizes what is happening, he is devouring her. She hangs onto him desperately, feeling his tongue curling around hers as he moves from kiss to kiss, as she tries to keep up with him, as she clings to his solid frame. She feels like she is burning away as their mouths move together, as his hands grip her waist and then slide up her ribs just slightly, just below her breasts. She gasps again, realizing suddenly just where his hands are, and he instantly moves them back to her hips as she breathes his name in a desperate sort of whimper and closes her eyes.
"Mm?" His mouth is against her neck now, his tongue soothing over her pulse and down to the crook where her neck and shoulder meet, before he kisses her throat.
She clutches him, not daring to see if her legs will support her weight, because it feels as though she will collapse if he releases her. He's never ever kissed her like this — not even before he left for London, not even when he returned from the army. She feels slightly drunk, her head is spinning and she can't quite draw breath as his hands roam once more, smoothing over her dress and back up her torso. He avoids her breasts though, fingers just barely touching the lace around the square neckline of her gown before he cups her face and kisses her more gently, not as heated.
When he finally pulls away, he whispers, "We should stop."
"Stop?" She doesn't even care if she sounds innocent or naive; she doesn't want him to stop. She rather wishes he would touch her more.
His smile fades and she sees his eyes flare. "Because. It isn't proper."
"It isn't as though anyone can see us here to tell us if it's proper or not," she whispers, holding his hand to her cheek again, feeling the warmth of his fingers. She can feel the scar against her skin once more, and thinks it is all hers and no one else's.
He cuts her off. "One day. One day soon, I promise I won't stop. But we should return before Mr. Lorne comes out to find us. Mrs. Bessie probably has dinner ready."
She reluctantly peels his hand away from her cheek and she deliberately meets his eyes for a brief second before she turns her head and presses her mouth to the scar, flicking her tongue against it and tracing the length of it.
He swears under his breath and tries to pull his hand away; his expression turns as sour and annoyed as it could when he was a boy, and she almost laughs because suddenly he's Johnny again. It is nice to know, however, that she can make him feel as weak-kneed as she feels when he kisses her.
He notices that Cilla is oblivious to the way Mr. Lorne lingers after dinner, even though the man's two youngest are nearly falling asleep and the three older are getting bored. Aunt Jenifer, Cilla, and Mrs. Bessie have already put the left-over food in the pantry and cellar, and Aunt Jenifer is thanking Johnny again for remembering to bring their family such generous gifts from his trip to London when he didn't have to do anything of the sort at all.
But Mr. Lorne keeps glancing between Johnny and Cilla, and Johnny finally has enough of it.
"Mr. Lorne?" He tilts his head towards the door. "Do you have a moment before you return home?"
"Of course." Mr. Lorne looks relieved that Johnny is initiating this conversation.
Of course, Johnny isn't keen to have the conversation any more than he was before he left for London, but he schools his face into a resigned expression as he and Mr. Lorne head for the stables to make sure Goblin is safely inside for the evening.
As soon as they are out of earshot of the house, Johnny says, "I don't mind if Cilla returns to Salt Lane with your family for a while, now that I'm home from London again —"
"We offered." Mr. Lorne sighs heavily and leans on the pasture fence. "I told her that Jenifer would be happy to put her up. It's tight quarters there, but she's a great help with the children, and Jenifer loves having her around. But she said no, her place was here — that she promised Lavinia before the war that she would look after the estate with Bessie. I told her it was no longer her responsibility since you've returned from London and have taken rightful ownership of the property. I suggested she return to her mother's home for a short while, given the situation, but she looked downright unapproachable when I mentioned that, and I couldn't bear to upset her by suggesting it twice."
Johnny almost snorts with laughter, just managing not to. "She doesn't get on with her mother much, especially since the war. Her mother and sisters sided with the British, after all."
He has no idea what happened to Madge or Dorcas, or the men in the British Army they had fallen for. He knows Mrs. Lapham married Mr. Tweedie to keep the silver business in her family, but Cilla detests Mr. Tweedie and won't return to her childhood home for anything — not even the fact that she is in her early twenties and unmarried, nor the fact that she has chosen to live in a grand mansion with an also-unmarried man who was, incidentally, promised to her when they were children. It is highly improper, and he knows her mother would be livid if she found out, but all of that is immaterial. Of course, people will talk… and now that Johnny is home again, such talk will begin soon enough.
Mr. Lorne says as much. "It isn't right for her to stay here though. Not with it just being the two of you — and both unmarried —"
"Bessie is here," Johnny reminds him, though he doesn't quite meet Mr. Lorne's eye. Instead, he pretends to be scanning the pasture, even though he knows perfectly well Goblin is in the shade of a large oak tree, nibbling grass.
The frown is evident in Mr. Lorne's reply. "She sleeps in the servants' quarters, not in the house. That's a big difference —"
"Mr. Lorne, I assure you, I'm much too tired to think about anything as to what you're suggesting." He smiles wryly. "I just got back today, and come tomorrow, if I'm not at the counting houses or meeting with the Lytes' business interests, I'll be making repairs to this place and wondering what on earth I've gotten myself into and why I ever wanted this house to start with, and why I didn't just go find work with Paul. Besides, I am going to marry her. Soon. I promise."
"How soon?" the older man presses.
"It depends on when I get a chance alone with her to actually propose," Johnny snaps, the irritability finally coming through in his tone. It's nigh impossible to get a moment alone with Cilla, what with the Lornes and their children around. Not that he doesn't love them all, and he did want to see them today upon his return, but it makes having a private moment with the woman he loves quite difficult. He was lucky he snuck out with her to the orchard before dinner, and even then, their time was short.
Mr. Lorne nods, sighs, and heads for the gate to call Goblin in. "Just remember, a pregnant woman can start showing by three months or so, and —"
Heat floods through Johnny at the implication and he says hastily, "I just said, I promise I won't do anything untoward — and I would never —"
"You say that now. But before you left for London, I also told you that when one is in love, sometimes one forgets to be gallant. You get swept up in the emotions and things just… happen. Then, too, there are a few people around who know that I moved back to Salt Lane with my family, and that Cilla is still living here. They'll eventually put two and two together, Johnny. Best the two of you go ahead and marry as soon as possible to avoid gossip. Cilla's reputation will be damaged more than yours, otherwise."
"I know that too," he says through gritted teeth. Mr. Lorne is only trying to help, only looking out for Cilla, but it is frustrating just the same.
"I'm not trying to rush you. I just don't want to see her hurt." Mr. Lorne gives him a small, sad smile. "It's been a long seven years, John. She's waited patiently for you and she won't even return to her birth family because of you. The locket was a lovely gesture —"
"I have her a second gift," he clarifies with a scowl. "I purchased a posey ring in London."
"You've come such a long way since you were young," Mr. Lorne murmurs, clapping him on the shoulder before unlatching the gate. "Nothing at all like the hot-headed, out-on-his-luck boy I hired to deliver papers all those years ago."
"No, I suspect not." Johnny finally laughs. "I hear Rab in the back of my mind sometimes, reminding me not to act a certain way. It's both a blessing and a curse." As Goblin canters up to the gate, he adds more soberly, "I do miss him. Rab."
"As do we all." Mr. Lorne sighs, grasps the bridle, and leads Goblin into the stables for the night.
The Lorne family has long since returned to their home for the night, but Cilla remains on the front steps, gazing at the stars. Without the children running through the house, it is quiet and a bit lonely, but she doesn't mind. Sometimes, it feels nice to be alone with only the breeze and the sounds of the night.
"He could have given you a ring instead of a locket."
Mrs. Bessie's voice jars her from her relaxed state and she straightens and turns to see the woman standing in the front doorway, looking unreadable.
She smiles, attempting to disarm the cook. "It's because I always wanted a gold necklace," she explains, her fingers sliding over the locket at her throat. "I never really said what kind of necklace. He was only trying to make one of my childhood dreams come true. I'll cherish it forever because of that."
"Still." Mrs. Bessie heaves a sigh. "A ring would suit you better and keep all of Boston from gossiping about the two of you in the coming weeks. Do you want me to sleep in the room next to yours tonight?"
Cilla frowns. "You don't trust him."
The older woman barks out a laugh. "He's a good man, Priscilla, but he's still a man. A man in love with you, no less. A handsome man, and one of means, now. An eligible bachelor. Like I said. People will talk, if they aren't already talking. That's why Mr. Lorne wanted you to move in with his family for a while — to protect your virtue and reputation until you can be wed."
"I suspect it won't be long," Cilla says stubbornly, stepping back inside the house. "He just has to make up his mind to do it, that's all."
"I've half a mind to lock you in your room and sleep outside the door."
"I'd rather you sleep in your own bed. Good night, Mrs. Bessie."
She doesn't look behind her as she mounts the grand staircase to Lavinia's old rooms, which she has been using since the war. It felt strange at first, sleeping in a large room that had belonged to her mistress, but now they feel more like her own chambers. As soon as she is inside, she sits at the vanity and gazes at her reflection in the looking glass. She touches the golden locket, watching as it winks in the flickering light of the candle, before she slowly moves her hands beneath her hair to unfasten the clasp on the ribbon.
Holding the locket in her hands, she gently traces the etched filigree and turns it over. To her surprise, there is an inscription on the smooth back. She didn't look at the back of the locket when Johnny gave it to her earlier.
To Priscilla
Love John
1782
She smiles softly. The inscription, she thinks, is the very reason she didn't move into the little house on Salt Lane with the Lornes, or return to her mother's cottage where Mr. Tweedie would breathe down her neck constantly. Because she will marry Johnny and she knows he is thinking of it, too.
She pops the locket open, suddenly curious if there is anything inside of it. He couldn't possibly have afforded a miniature portrait to go within, but perhaps a lock of hair —
But no. A tiny scrap of parchment is wedged inside, and Cilla gently removes it. How was she so daft earlier as not to open it in the first place, when he gave it to her? Or even look at the back? What must he think of her for not inspecting it more closely?
She unfolds a tiny note with four words.
Will you marry me?
He knows he promised her that he wouldn't work for a couple of days, exhausted as he is, but he still feels he must at least unpack his trunk and put away his things before he goes to bed. His uncle's chambers feel as strange as they did when he first returned home, as though he is intruding upon someone else's life, even though the man will never return here and the house is Johnny's, now.
He removes the buckled shoes and hose gratefully, strips out of the fine waistcoat, removes the cravat, and tugs his tunic out of his breeches. Then he begins to put things away in their proper places until the trunk is empty and closed again. Wearily, he sinks into an armchair and leans his head back. He is not certain if the life he has chosen is the right path. Maybe it would have been better to go to work for Paul and just live in a small cottage somewhere down some alley, like the Lornes, without much worry.
There is a sudden, urgent knock at his door and he jerks back to himself. Stumbling to the door, he flings it open to find Cilla standing on the other side.
Mr. Lorne's talk floods his brain. What on earth is she doing outside his door? Surely she knows how improper it is —!
But then he realizes: she isn't wearing the locket.
Instead, she's clutching in her hand. Her eyes are beautifully expressive, dark blue in the dim light, and he feels his breath catch.
He asks in a voice of forced politeness, "Is something wrong?"
"Yes. I mean, no — nothing is wrong!" She flushes. "I meant, yes. To your question. Yes." Her eyes blaze.
It suddenly occurs to him that she finally opened the locket, and he gives her a cocky smile. "Took you long enough, Cilla."
Pink stains her cheekbones. "You didn't tell me to open it, Johnny."
He laughs. "Because that would have ruined the surprise, wouldn't it?"
Without warning, she steps over the threshold, grips his shirt, and pulls him to her. He follows her without thinking, leaning down to kiss her across the mouth, feeling the heat lick his gut as it always does when he kisses her. Her hands are small but firm and demanding, pulling at his shirt and sliding behind his neck, under his ponytail, and he realizes quite abruptly what she's doing.
Grasping her wrists and stepping back, putting space between them, gasping for air, he stammers, "Wait — we can't. It's not proper —"
"Since when do you care what's proper?"
It's not a teasing question, as much of their usual banter is. It's a serious question, with a hint of hurt in it, that maybe he doesn't really want her.
He swallows. "Cilla, it's not like that. You know I want you. So much I can barely breathe when I look at you. But people will talk, and you're a woman. Your reputation! You're already living in a house with me, and I don't want anyone to say anything bad of you —!"
"We'll marry within a week, so it won't matter," she breathes, stepping up to him again. "I'm tired of waiting."
He is too, he thinks. He's waited so damned long already. There were so many nights, lying on the ground with his gear during the war, that he wondered if he would survive to return to her. Or if she would marry before he could get home, or if he would die before he could tell her how he felt. What if she met someone else? It would be better to die if she did — he remembers thinking that, while lying in the freezing snow. Maybe it doesn't matter anymore. They both want to marry.
"I should at least ask your ma —"
"I think we're past that, John. We were promised to each other a long time ago."
"That promise became null and void when I was kicked out of your grandfather's house."
"I left that house, too. I left it as good as you did, and I have no intention of ever returning. Where you go now, so shall I. That's how I always wanted it to be."
He has one last worry. "Mrs. Bessie —"
"Is asleep in her room in the servants' quarters." Her lips press gently to his throat, her tongue laves against the hollow and his knees nearly go out from under him. "Enough, John. We both want this."
"You don't even know what you're asking," he reminds her softly, running his hands down her arms.
Cilla bites her lip and gazes up at him. "Then teach me."
It is two hours later that he finally shows her the posey ring, though he has to fish it out of his breeches' pocket, which are on the floor with the rest of their clothes.
She gazes fondly at the inscription: In thy breast my heart doth rest.
"I love it," she whispers. "What does yours say?"
He is propped up on one elbow, and he shows her the ring he purchased for himself. He could barely afford both on top of all the other gifts, but these are the most important of the gifts he got in London, and his allowance from the Lytes is quite generous, considering.
She looks confused as she twists it around in her fingertips. "It's blank…"
"It is. We'll take it to a jeweler tomorrow before we see a pastor. You can have them inscribe what you'd like mine to say."
She thinks a minute, then twists and gently kisses above his heart. "My heart is thine," she whispers.
Johnny smiles, cups her jaw, and kisses her. "I like that."