Vermilion

Chapter 4

Peter has gone again to hunt for their lunch. If she was to ask, he did not have to do it every day. It was all because he insisted to follow a certain meal pattern every day. She worried that Peter was exhausting himself to the limit, although he never seemed to be tired.

Pulling out a needle from the cloth, she heard a knock on the door. She set aside her sewing work and rose to her feet from her seat on the living room; it must be someone for Peter never knocked. He also told her, albeit not directly, that he detested the door.

Who could be that in the middle of the day? She had few people in mind but the time was considered to be their busiest part of the day. Grasping the handle bar with both hands, she pulled the door open with so much difficulty. After all, Peter might be right; the door was loathsome.

Surprise, nervousness, and fright pored over her when she found George on her doorstep. Of all the people, why him? She eschewed from going to town, though she had been dying to pay a visit to Agnes and Mrs. Haylock to know how the courtship going on, to avoid him. She knew how much she was appalled on him. The mere memory of their last encounter sent icy shudder down her spine. How she wished that the ground would open and swallow her so that she could be saved from his leering. She would be happier that way than to endure his presence.

"I give you good day, how can I be of help?"

Politeness. Politeness. Politeness.

"Can I come in?"

Tentatively, she stepped aside to let him pass. It was rude to keep a visitor standing outside bit if it was someone like George, she would have him that way. But why oh why she could not bring herself to be rough-mannered, she would not die from it but doing so seemed to be so hard. Maybe she was a craven.

"Your house is very well-kept," he observed as he sat on a chair and ran a look over the living room, "it surprised me that you're able to be this neat even you're sick."

Sick? What made him thought that she was ill?

As she took the seat opposite him, she wondered what brought him here. It's absurd if she had a debt unpaid. She couldn't possibly asked for a merchandize to be brought in. Perhaps a message from the older Mr. Becket. Then what could that be? Will he be ordering wines? But they were all brought to the town to her godfather. Please, let it be not about...

"I worried about you, you're all alone on this desolate place to fend for yourself and with no one to protect you..."

"I'm perfectly fine here, no one has to worry," she sputtered.

His lips thinned then continued. "Mary, I was thinkin'," he leaned forward and took her hand, "why don't you move out here...I mean, you can move in...with me."'

"George," she uttered. It was too forward and this was what she feared.

He squeezed her hand and brushed a kiss on it. "Mary, would you make me the happiest of man by being my wife?"

This was not happening. She abruptly drew her hand back and fought the urge to squirm. "I can't."

"Why?" Impatience treaded the word.

"I simply can't," she breathed. Her voice was shaking and she was losing all the excuses and reasons she conjured in the last few days on why she would not marry George Becket.

"Why Mary?" he asked.

Silence. She counted one to ten but that was useless. "Because..."