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Oh, what a mess, Enola thought, her back to Tewksbury and her eyes on the disaster before her.
Clutter and miscellaneous items were strewn throughout the crime scene that were their secret London lodgings. Regardless of the flat already having been an incessant mess beforehand, it was beyond cleanable now. It was a rather unfortunate situation.
She’d only wanted to find her casebook, after all. It extremely crucial for their—or rather Enola’s— dilemma at that moment: she’d wanted to prove a point to Tewksbury.
That point being it was, in fact, a casebook, and not a diary, and that there was no issue with him seeing it because the only incriminating information the pages held had nothing to do with her.
Yet, she’d scoured the entire room to no avail, and the casebook was still missing. Tewksbury had smugly convinced himself she’d hidden it somewhere so he wouldn’t see it. He truly was ridiculous—she’d known him since she was sixteen and has been in a romantic relationship with him since she was seventeen. As if she would truly be afraid of his seeing the hypothetical contents of some nonexistent stupid book when there was no question he was already intimately familiar with said hypothetical contents.
She regretted ever bringing it there in the first place.
Enola and Tewksbury had been meeting there for months, in their own scandalous way of sharing a secret apartment, meeting there secretly and spending days on end there until they’d each have to return to reality.
But Enola didn’t entirely mind her reality. In fact, she didn’t mind it at all. Her detective business had taken off in the past few years, and she was truly making a name for herself in a world where men’s names were most commonly the largest in the room.
Tewksbury was a prime example of that, as his position as a renowned and respected lord earned him a good deal of attention, however unwanted and therefore rendering him not quite so fond of his reality. He had explained to Enola, however, that privacy was a liberty he was willing to relinquish for the ability to change their country for the better. It was little to give up compared to the monumental changes he had been able to make.
“Enola.” Tewksbury said. His tone was odd, almost… pitchy? He cleared his throat immediately.
“Did you find it?” Enola asked, eyes brightening. He hadn’t spoken once the entire time she’d been dismantling the room brick by brick—unless she hadn’t heard him. She had been mumbling nonsense for the past fifteen minutes, so perhaps it was reasonable she hadn’t heard anything, having been a slave to her own thoughts.
She turned to look at him. He was no longer standing, with one knee in the ground. Her heart skipped a beat—or ten—but then she realized he held the casebook in his hand. No ring in sight. She let out a quiet exhale of relief, then laughed. His side of the room was immaculate, and Enola realized she’d been so focused on bulldozing her own side, she’d forgotten to even look that way.
Or perhaps it had nothing to do with destructing the eastern half of their shared quarters at all. Perhaps it had more to do with the fear of acknowledging the harmless figure that waited on the western half.
She scrambled across the bed between them to retrieve the book, sitting on her knees at the end of the mattress and looking down at him.
He cleared his throat before speaking, which caused her heart to stop—again.
She sincerely wished he would just stand up from the floor.
“It was under the bed,” he explained.
“Thank you,” Enola replied in a small voice, taking the little leather-bound journal from his hands—which were trembling in the slightest. She smirked. “Did you read it?”
“No!” Tewksbury said defensively, eyes wide and frantic. “No, no, of course not.”
Enola let out a strained laugh. It sounded more nervous than concerned. “Are you quite alright?”
“Yes.” Tewksbury answered affirmatively. “Completely.”
Enola’s brows furrowed in skepticism. “Are you lying to me?”
“Yes.” Tewksbury replied, sighing. “Completely.”
“Well, that wasn’t so difficult, was it?” Enola smiled welcomingly and patted the empty space next to her on the comforter. “Would you like to talk about it?”
“This topic may be better understood if I discuss it from down here.”
What on earth did he mean by that?
“Oh,” she replied quizzically. “Would you like me to… join you, then?”
He laughed lightly and shook his head, wiping his palms against the fabric of his pants. “And likewise better understood if you remain there.” Enola ceased to exist, stopped breathing—her soul left her body. She felt it—a peaceful, gentle death—among other things. Terrifying things like love and the warmth that encircled her heart, not only then, but almost every second she was with him; reasonable things like panic and the instinct—or rather desire—to run.
These sensations amplified further when he reached down to the floor, knee and foot still locked in place on the limestone floor, and returned—standing noticeably straighter than before—and revealed a small flower. His fingers traveled over the stem and, despite the shaking, nimbly twisted it into an “O” shape…
To make a ring.
In an effort to suppress a gasp, Enola sat there with her mouth partly hanging open like a complete oaf, her eyes agog to match.
Enola recognized the flower in place of a diamond as sweet alyssum. She scoured her mind for its meaning in the Language of Flowers booklet her mother had gifted her, but she failed to recall it.
“Worth beyond beauty,” Tewksbury said, as if he was every missing fragment in her brain, every piece of clarity in the blurriest depths of her mind. Perhaps she looked confused, because he spoke again, “is what it means. Though you likely already knew that.”
No, Enola thought. I didn’t.
What she did know was that he was holding a ring—or flower—down on one knee, and he was wearing likely the most endearing expression Enola had ever seen on a person’s face. His lips were parted, his brows lifted slightly as if he had just been asked a question. The question.
Perhaps it would’ve been better for both of their sakes if Enola had beaten him to it.
Or if he’d never brought them to this at all.
“Whether or not you already knew its meaning, it’s something universally understood—and just as clear as that meaning is, that’s how clearly my feelings for you reflect it.” He paused, exhaling shakily, which allowed Enola—or perhaps him—a moment to process. Then he continued, “You are worth more than all beauty in the world to me. In a way I struggle to explain, you have found a place in my heart that I didn’t expect to exist... and it’s completely yours.
“All my love is yours for the rest of my days. All I ask is if you’ll give me yours in the same way… and perhaps, Enola Eudoria Holmes, will you take I, Earnest Augustus of the House of Tewksbury, to be your husband?”
Husband. Tewksbury.
Earnest Augustus.
She very nearly laughed at that last bit, but she was quite preoccupied being shocked out of her mind.
What a welcome demon and uninvited angel of a sentence—filled to the brim with unwise desires and overzealous affection.
Enola’s deliberation of everything in that moment demonstrated exactly why she wasn’t deserving of any such things—the first thought being, “No,” and the next few being along the lines of “This is a bad idea.”
She couldn’t marry him. She was a detective, not anyone’s wife. She didn’t plan on being a wife, not to mention a marchioness. If she married him, her life and career would be entirely uprooted. No more taking up cases or chasing leads, no more returning to her lodgings at the most ungodly hour of the night possible. She’d be expected to stay home, host, carry children, remain idle. The rest of her life would be decided for her.
Perhaps in all marriages, the ability to be relied upon to act in the other’s place when he or she cannot make a decision for themselves was a good thing. But he was a wealthy, renowned man: an ancestral landowner, a marquess, and an influential reformer in the House of Lords—and titles came with expectations. Enola had seen him at some of his worst moments, his back breaking under the weight of those burdens. Did she really wish to carry that too? Not saying that she wouldn’t take the pressure from him in a second if he asked her to, but rather that she wouldn’t want to take a whole new burden upon herself: Lady Tewksbury, Marchioness of Basilwether, wife of a lord. Her. A wife, and everything in between. It would be too much for the both of them to carry, and everything would inevitably fall apart.
Yet still, with those overwhelming fears marring her mind, they couldn’t smother the spirit within Enola that told her to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him. She almost did—then “almost” revealed itself in her eyes, then reflected in Tewksbury’s, along with a glassy rejection veiling everything else she would’ve otherwise been able to decipher.
Defeated, he spoke. “If you have any concerns, I promise you that I don’t have any expectation or standard set for you as my wife. I would never hurt you, or pressure you, or try to tame you. I have no interest in a… a possession. And I have no intention of making you one, or allowing anyone else to do so.” He breathed a shaky exhale at the end, waiting for her reply. She examined the way the light hit his earnest eyes, admiring all their chocolate desperation and golden promises, lined with woe-dampened charcoal lashes. She recalled that, when she was contemplating being a wife, she failed to acknowledge she would be Tewksbury’s wife.
Loving, gentle, silly, sincere, wonderful Tewksbury. The love of her life, her dearest friend, her kindred spirit. She didn’t believe him to be a liar when he promised not to hold her back. She trusted him completely. It was society she feared. Enola was afraid that she wouldn’t be allowed to be herself, that she would be forced into a role she couldn’t fill. What if she was forced into a world of unhappiness, one she wouldn’t be able to shield herself from because she would be someone’s wife.
“I see now,” Tewksbury said when she continued to remain silent. “Your hesitation tells me this was a mistake.“ He paused, taking a shaking inhale of air. “I should go,” he said as he moved to stand, inserting the flower into his pocket.
“No!” Enola cried just then, yanking him by his shoulders back down to his former position.
Bewildered, Tewksbury asked, “‘No’ to my proposal, as an answer? Or—”
“I mean, ‘no,’ please don’t take it back,” she breathed, voice pouring emotion, her hands still gripping his shoulders. When he said nothing, and she said nothing, Enola decided to finally express her perspective.
“I wasn’t brought up to be anyone’s wife,” she explained, her voice a whisper so it wouldn’t crack. “I don’t think I can be that person for you.” Tewksbury swallowed hard, but he allowed her to continue. “It doesn’t mean that I don’t love you, or that I don’t want you in my life. You have been the most wonderful and supportive companion I could ever ask for. What I fear is that perhaps, down the line, you’ll realize I’m not a suitable wife and it was a mistake marrying me, and I’ll regret agreeing to this and we’ll both be bitter and unhappy.” Her eyes grew misty as she admitted, voice quavering, “Tewksbury, I’m happy with you as is. I don’t want to ruin what we have.”
“We won’t ruin anything,” he protested plaintively, “I honestly cannot imagine a marriage with you being anything of the sort. How can you?”
“Because I’m terrified!” Enola exclaimed, releasing his shoulders and moving her hands to wrap protectively around her torso.
“Of what?” he asked in a low voice, moving onto both knees to sit closer to her. He reached out, cradling her elbows in his hands. “Me? A life with me?”
“No!” she responded in offense, shaking her head. “Of course not.”
“Then what is it?” Tewksbury begged, eyes fluttering between hers, searching for the answers her mouth wouldn’t deliver him.
Moments that felt like centuries passed. Then she released her torso and took his hands in hers before saying, “I know you understand how I feel. But I can’t help imagining everything going wrong—because what you’re asking of me is such a profound departure from what has always felt right,” she finished, gesturing between them.
“Perhaps what I’m asking will be right,” he coaxed, “Perhaps it will be even better than what we have now. I’m willing to take that chance, Enola, because I love you and I see a future with you.” He squeezed her hands. “Am I wrong to believe that you see one with me, and to ask if you’re willing to spend it together?”
Instead of thinking of a response, she thought of how long they’d known each other. She thought of the nincompoop she’d met on the train that fateful summer day on her search for her mother, on his escape from a life he feared. She’d thought he was completely ridiculous, and inevitably become entirely smitten with him. His quiet strength and determination, his love, no matter how constant, always giving her enough space to breathe.
As if acknowledging and savoring that very space, Enola breathed in deeply, letting oxygen fill her belly, her shoulders rising and then falling with decision. The movement gave way to a new emotion to replace the anxiety she’d just been wracked with. Perhaps not totally replace, more so hamper, but regardless, she could no longer feel all of her fears. Instead, her chest felt warm, her face flushed. Her eyes glazed over with rebellious tears and she broke into a brilliant grin.
“Alright,” she exhaled with a sniffle. Tewksbury’s brows raised, his smile-threatened lips held back with an obvious fear that his proposal would not end with his makeshift ring on Enola’s finger.
“Yes.” He let out a soft, relieved laugh, and Enola decided it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever heard and would replay it over and over in her mind for the rest of her life.
“Yes?” he asked with glimmering eyes, letting both of his knees touch the ground to bring himself closer to her. His chest touched her knees and the knuckles of his hands—which were still holding Enola’s—rested on her lap. “You’re sure? You truly will?” Suddenly, his expression no longer matched the one that had expelled the laugh Enola had heard moments ago, and his brows creased with concern and doubt. “I doubt I ever could compel you to do anything you didn’t want to, but my goal was not to convince you to marry me, rather suggest it with accompaniment of sentiments I feel I don’t say enough, but all as a demonstration rather than some persuasive argument, and demonstration or otherwise I meant every word and I could only hope that you know that and—“
Entirely tired of watching him spiral, Enola bent to bring her face to his and kissed him, her hair spilling over her shoulders as she neared him. It was gentle and momentary, merely a suggestion of a kiss. When she pulled away, she smiled. His eyes were still closed and his mouth was slowly morphing into a smile.
He always did that when she kissed him, all shocked and proud, as if it were rare and unlikely for her to even give him the time of day.
Enola didn’t move away, taking his face in her hands and stroking his cheeks with her thumbs as she waited for him to look at her. His eyes opened slowly, fluttering deliriously, like awaking from a long but interrupted sleep. Gazing at her, his eyes filled with love and reverence in the form of water. She wanted to steal the liquid, if only to remember the way he was looking at her in that moment.
“So, you will? Not only because I asked you to?” His voice sounded raw and raspy now.
Enola rolled her eyes, endeared. “Of course I will, you nincompoop.” She laughed as tears finally streaked her face. “I’d love nothing more. Nothing in the world.” He beamed, tears streaming down his cheeks now, too.
He picked up her right hand by accident, laughed again in elated embarrassment, and finally took her left hand in his after she offered it.
He wiped his face with his sleeve. “May I?” he asked. Enola nodded excitedly. He slipped the ring on her finger. Somehow, even though he’d only made it minutes prior, it fit Enola’s finger perfectly, as if the ring had been molded to its shape all along.
“It’s only temporary. This was a bit spontaneous. You can pick—“
“I love it,” Enola interjected. She pressed a series of chaste kisses to his cheekbone, if only to remember its shape and feeling against her lips. “And I love you.” She brought his face closer before resting her forehead against his. “And I can’t wait to be your wife.”
Tewksbury was the one to close the distance this time, pressing his lips to hers gently, like a question or request permission. They parted, then he leaned in again, more assuredly. He reached out, gingerly wrapping his arms around Enola’s waist as he guided her down to his level so that they both knelt on the floor. She returned the gesture a little too eagerly, giggling as he yelped against her mouth when she tackled him to the ground.
They lay there tangled for a moment in that way, Tewksbury helpless except to grin goofily against Enola’s lips like a nincompoop. Finally, she sat up, bringing him with her by his hands. She touched his face and stared at the handsome, disheveled sight of him for a moment, his hair going off in a series of directions and his ears and tips of his cheekbones flushed pink. She wanted to remember him, just this way.
Although it was a bittersweet thought, Enola considered that, even if everything went horribly wrong, she would always know that this was the Tewksbury she had decided to marry, and she could never regret that.
Against his face he covered Enola’s hand with his own and turned his head to kiss her palm. Then she wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her sniffling nose in the fabric of his shirt collar. Tewksbury returned the gesture, pressing his lips to her shoulder a few times.
“I love you,” he mumbled against her neck. “And I can’t wait to be your husband.”
Enola leaned away slightly to look at him. “I can’t wait for you to be my husband, either,” she grinned flirtatiously.
“And you my wife,” he added.
Enola winked. “Ditto.” He chastely kissed her nose before holding her once more, allowing her torso to mold into his chest.
They stayed like that for what felt like forever, the dust in the gentle breeze dancing around them in the warm yellow light of that half-wrecked, secret London flat. They were safe for a while, hidden gems from the world within those rooms. Enola and Tewksbury both knew they risked losing the special sanctity they’d shared there on their own for so long, and marriage could end that for them—but not without bringing forth a new world of possibilities.
At that, Enola sighed in Tewksbury’s arms conclusively. She was blessed, to love the perfect man forever and not have to give her identity up.
At least she hoped.