Two Loves

Chapter 4

ISAAC

I am glad that Cymbeline took hold of the conversation again. For her, talking means no effort, rather a pleasure. Ada, the Waterhouse-muse, and her banter for the rest of the evening, both unwilling to give up. They are in an excellent condition. And their argument gives me the opportunity to be silent and just admire Atticus.

Unlike my sister who seems to unlock her full talkative power around people she likes, I become quiet.

When a beautiful lad looks - or even talks to me - I cannot get a word out. My throat just becomes narrow and I freeze like a pillar of salt.

Being near Atticus is torture.

When she introduced us, Lady Fairfax made the conversation, but then left us to greet her husband that just arrived and listened to his badly mad-up excuses for where he spent the last nights. I pity her a lot - she is too kind to bear such a burden.

Also, her husband clearly has no influence on the way she dresses - Cymbelines theory is therefore refuted.

Unlike many other people, Atticus' charm does not wear off after the first minutes of talking. He has a pure laugh and this adorable manner to lower his eyelids in a form of boyish embarrassment when something flusters him.

How I would love to draw him.

He is quite like a Narcissus - so white and gold.

I really cannot see why he seems to like me. When we were introduced to each other, he gave me a cheeky smile that made me dizzy, and, carefully brushing my buttonaire with his fingers, said "How exciting it is to meet you, Mr Haywood. I see that we are... one of a kind."

I was nearly fainting at this point. Something he seems to enjoy, judging from his constant teasing.

Not only that his eyes were constantly lying on me. Once he leaned in so closely that our shoulders touched, then he is patting my arm again, then this, then that, as if it was the most normal thing. And he obviously did not give a damn about dear Lady Fairfax who was standing right next to us.

Besides, the good old lady was wrong. Atticus is not only 'quite musical', he is studying piano and violin at the School of Arts. Being the heir to all of his father's money, he would feel bad if he did not learn a profession, he told me with a shy laugh.

Music suits him - he is quite like the melody of a flute, so simply elegant.

He could have stopped talking to me - to me, not with me, since I could not get a full sentence out - at any point, I think when Cymbeline and I walk back to our Hansom at one in the morning. But he did not.

My cheeks are warming and I can feel that an idiotic grin is occupying my face.

He did not.

Cymbeline mutters something I do not understand as we climb into the cab. I just fling myself onto the seat facing her and lean my head against the wall.

I am drunk, I am tired and I am in love. Who could ask for more?

My sister snaps her fingers in front of my face. "Pygmalion! Hey!"

"Hmm?" I murmur absently.

"Did you even listen?" she asks indignantly.

I snuzzle my head back into the warm wool of my scarf.

"No, not really. Was it important?"

Her eyelids twitch. She sits back, crossing her legs and then says in a casual tone: "Oh no, not that really. I just thought that you perhaps should know that I invited Mr Montague to join us on Thursday."