For an embarrassingly long beat, she's just bewildered by what seems like a complete non-sequitur. Then the earnestness sinks in, and her cheeks flush, and then she notes how purposeful it all sounds -- like lyrics missing a melody. Like something he's been planning for some time.
But the pieces are too slow to assemble themselves, and when he drops to one knee, it manages to shock her. She makes a strangled little sound, eyes widening as he pulls out a ring. Dear god, that's an emerald. She never would've presumed to wear one, but she knows what they bloody well look like, and he's just--just offering it to her.
He's actually proposing.
Maybe it shouldn't surprise her. The idea was out there, for all that it was a bit nebulous and undiscussed. It makes sense. They probably ought to, for purely practical reasons involving ownership of the cottage and Saoirse's guardianship. Unromantic reasons, but still compelling. Maybe part of her had just assumed that's how it would be, in the end: a sensible decision they settled on for sensible reasons. Because he wouldn't be bold enough to do what he's doing now. Because he's always been so careful not to overstep his bounds, even when she wished he would.
She never dared to wish for this. And for a heart-stopping moment, she imagines herself refusing. Not cruelly, but gently, because they're fine as they are, aren't they? Theirs is a happy and functional partnership, if not an official one. And it's a stupid distinction to make, when she knows losing him would break her heart regardless, but she has lost one husband already and the thought of losing another is almost enough to bring her to her knees on the walkway beside him.
But it's not just about her. It's about Thomas, who has lost more wives than she has husbands, but who has never had a real marriage. Not one intended to last, or built on honesty, or driven by anything more profound than economic necessity and a guilty, furtive sort of fondness. Not one like hers -- or the one she could give him.
And it's that realization that finally jolts her out of her slack-jawed stupor: that if he's ever to have a proper, normal marriage, it can only be with her, and that it would be selfish and pointless and stupid to deny him over a fear that just boils down to semantics.
"I--yes." She gives her head a brief shake to clear it, though it doesn't do much good. Somehow, she finds herself on her knees as well, reaching for him as if to confirm their collective solidity, her hands moving over his arms, shoulders, chest, not knowing where to land. "I will, I--of course I will."
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But the pieces are too slow to assemble themselves, and when he drops to one knee, it manages to shock her. She makes a strangled little sound, eyes widening as he pulls out a ring. Dear god, that's an emerald. She never would've presumed to wear one, but she knows what they bloody well look like, and he's just--just offering it to her.
He's actually proposing.
Maybe it shouldn't surprise her. The idea was out there, for all that it was a bit nebulous and undiscussed. It makes sense. They probably ought to, for purely practical reasons involving ownership of the cottage and Saoirse's guardianship. Unromantic reasons, but still compelling. Maybe part of her had just assumed that's how it would be, in the end: a sensible decision they settled on for sensible reasons. Because he wouldn't be bold enough to do what he's doing now. Because he's always been so careful not to overstep his bounds, even when she wished he would.
She never dared to wish for this. And for a heart-stopping moment, she imagines herself refusing. Not cruelly, but gently, because they're fine as they are, aren't they? Theirs is a happy and functional partnership, if not an official one. And it's a stupid distinction to make, when she knows losing him would break her heart regardless, but she has lost one husband already and the thought of losing another is almost enough to bring her to her knees on the walkway beside him.
But it's not just about her. It's about Thomas, who has lost more wives than she has husbands, but who has never had a real marriage. Not one intended to last, or built on honesty, or driven by anything more profound than economic necessity and a guilty, furtive sort of fondness. Not one like hers -- or the one she could give him.
And it's that realization that finally jolts her out of her slack-jawed stupor: that if he's ever to have a proper, normal marriage, it can only be with her, and that it would be selfish and pointless and stupid to deny him over a fear that just boils down to semantics.
"I--yes." She gives her head a brief shake to clear it, though it doesn't do much good. Somehow, she finds herself on her knees as well, reaching for him as if to confirm their collective solidity, her hands moving over his arms, shoulders, chest, not knowing where to land. "I will, I--of course I will."