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The maypole stood bright against the soft green of the common, its ribbons streaming in long bands of colour that caught and lifted with every turn of the girls who danced about it. Their laughter carried easily upon the mild spring air, light and unguarded, rising and falling in time with the music that a fiddler struck up nearby.
Mary watched them with a quiet, unstudied smile.
Marianne and Rebecca were among the circle, their steps not always perfectly in time, their ribbons crossing and tangling once or twice before being set right again with small bursts of laughter. Marianne moved with a determined earnestness, counting under her breath as though she might master the pattern through sheer effort. Rebecca, less concerned with precision, followed where she could and laughed when she failed, her delight undiminished by any misstep.
It stirred something warm and distant within Mary.
She remembered it well. The turning, the weaving, the careful attention required to pass beneath one ribbon and over another without disrupting the pattern entirely.
She had never quite managed it without fault.
There had always been a moment, some small misjudgement, where she faltered and must be guided back into place.
She remembered, too, the watchers. The awareness of them had never quite left her, had always lent a certain stiffness to her movements, a hesitation that made error all the more likely.
A faint breath of laughter escaped her at the thought.
There had been the year Jane was crowned May Queen. Mary recalled it only in fragments, soft and indistinct, as though viewed through a veil of sunlight. Jane had stood crowned in flowers, serene and radiant, as though the honour had been hers by quiet right. Everything about that day had seemed to fall naturally into place around her.
Lizzie’s year stood clearer in her mind. There had been more liveliness to it, more spirit. The crown had sat a touch askew before being righted with laughter, and Lizzie had worn it with a brightness that drew every eye without effort.
Kitty and Lydia’s turns she remembered most distinctly of all.
They had revelled in it. Every glance, every step, every turn had been performed with an awareness of being seen, of being admired. The ribbons had flown wider, the laughter louder, the triumph more openly claimed. There had been no uncertainty in them, no hesitation.
Mary had never been May Queen.
The thought came without weight. It passed through her easily, like the echo of something long settled and no longer of consequence.
Because none of it seemed to matter now.
Not when she sat where she did, upon the edge of the green, the hum of the gathering about her, the sunlight soft upon her shoulders, and Tom Hayward beside her.
The flower he had given her that morning rested still in her hair, its pale petals threaded with a ribbon that matched those streaming from the maypole. She had not seen him place it there - had only felt the brief, careful touch of his hand and heard his quiet, “There,” before he stepped back again with that same composed restraint he had worn so diligently of late.
Her fingers rose once now, lightly, to touch it.
It remained.
The banns had been read twice.
Even now, the thought carried a strange and wondrous quality, as though it belonged more to story than to her own life. She had sat and heard their names spoken aloud before the congregation, joined together in a manner so undeniable, that it left her almost breathless in the moment. Each time, she had felt the same quiet astonishment settle over her.
And there remained only one more.
Soon, they would be married.
She still could not quite believe it.
She sat close enough to him that their thighs pressed together, the contact slight and constant, a steady awareness that grounded her more surely than any thought might have done. It was improper, in the strictest sense, though easily overlooked by any who did not look too closely.
Mrs Gardiner, of course, looked closely.
Mary could feel it as surely as though her aunt’s gaze had taken physical form, resting warm and watchful between her shoulders. There was affection in it, and approval, and something gently vigilant that missed very little.
From the corner of her eye, Mary saw the faint curve of a smile upon Tom’s mouth.
His gaze remained fixed upon the maypole, upon the turning ribbons and laughing girls, with a steadiness that might have seemed wholly natural to any observer.
Mary knew better.
He felt it too.
The knowledge warmed her, even as it made her lower her own gaze slightly, lest her expression betray more than it ought beneath such careful observation.
They had not been permitted a single minute alone together since that day in the park.
Not one.
There had always been a presence, a voice, a step too near, a door left just slightly ajar.
Conversation had been allowed, encouraged even, though never without witness. Walks had been taken in company. Even the smallest exchanges had been subject to interruption at the most inopportune moments.
She supposed they had earned it.
They had been granted far too much freedom before.
Now she sat beside him, her hand folded neatly in her lap, her posture composed, her expression calm.
Her thigh pressed against his.
Her heart far less so.
She wished, with a sudden and surprising intensity, for a single moment alone with him.
Just a moment.
To speak freely. To look at him without restraint. To hear her name in his voice without the careful moderation that propriety now demanded of them both.
The dance drew to its close in a flurry of colour and breathless laughter, the ribbons at last woven tight about the maypole in a pattern more successful than it had any right to be. The girls stumbled out of their turns with flushed cheeks and bright eyes, their triumph far exceeding the neatness of the result.
Applause followed, warm and generous.
Marianne bent double with laughter as Rebecca attempted a curtsy and nearly lost her balance entirely, the pair dissolving into helpless amusement amongst their friends that proved far more entertaining than the dance itself.
The crowning came soon after.
A girl somewhat older than the rest, tall and composed in a way that suggested she had long anticipated the honour, was led forward. Mary did not know her. She might have been from a neighbouring parish, or perhaps a relation visiting for the season. It mattered very little. The wreath of flowers was placed upon her head with due ceremony, and she received it with a grace that drew approving murmurs from those gathered.
The May Queen smiled, serene and radiant in her moment.
Mary watched, still faintly smiling, though her attention drifted easily.
The day itself seemed determined toward perfection. The sky stretched clear and pale above them, the sun warm without oppression, the air stirred gently with the promise of summer drawing nearer. The grass lay soft beneathfoot, the scent of blossom carried faintly upon every passing breeze.
The world felt alive.
Tom rose.
It was done with a care that might have escaped notice, his movement timed with the general stirring of the crowd as attention began to turn elsewhere. A group of boys, George among the youngest of them, had taken to arranging themselves upon a makeshift stage, bows in hand and caps askew, their purpose unmistakable.
Robin Hood.
A murmur of interest passed through the gathering, and bodies began to shift accordingly, drawn toward the promise of performance.
Tom did not look at her directly.
He did not need to.
His hand hovered just briefly at his side, close enough that she might have taken it, had she chosen.
She rose.
Somehow, without announcement or acknowledgment, they drifted apart from the others. A step here, another there, carried along the edge of the gathering until the press of bodies thinned, until the laughter and voices softened behind them, until the green gave way to the quieter shade of the copse beyond.
No one called after them.
No one seemed to notice.
Or if they did, they chose not to remark upon it.
The trees received them easily.
Light filtered through the leaves in shifting patterns, dappling the ground beneath with gold and shadow. The air grew cooler there, touched with the scent of earth and new growth, the hush of it a marked contrast to the cheerful noise that still carried faintly from the green beyond.
They stopped without quite deciding to do so.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Mary became aware of her own breath first, then of his, then of the quiet between them that seemed to hold something far greater than silence alone.
“It is fitting,” she said at last, her voice soft within the shelter of the trees, “that such a day should be marked with celebration.”
Tom glanced at her then, properly, the restraint of before easing in this small, hidden space.
“May Day has always carried a certain significance,” he said. “Long before ribbons and crowns.”
She inclined her head slightly. “Beltane,” she said, the word sitting a touch carefully upon her tongue. “The old festival.”
He smiled faintly. “You know of it.”
“A little,” she admitted. “I’ve read of bonfires, and that it marked of the turning of the year.”
“A celebration of life returning,” he added. “Of the earth waking again.” His gaze drifted briefly upward, toward the canopy of leaves above them, where sunlight broke through in soft, shifting fragments. “Everything beginning anew.”
Mary followed his gaze.
The branches stirred gently, the green of them fresh and bright, untouched by the wear of summer yet to come.
“The flowers bloom again,” she said quietly. “The fruit will come. The world restores itself, as though it had never known winter at all.”
“And we pretend it is a simple village dance,” he returned, a trace of amusement in his tone.
She smiled at that and reached, almost without thinking, and adjusted the flower at her hair where it had shifted, her fingers lingering there just a moment longer than necessary.
When she lowered her hand, she found his gaze still upon her.
He looked at her as though the world had narrowed to that single point, as though the noise and colour and movement of the day held no claim upon him at all.
“What is it?” she asked, though her voice carried a faint note of awareness, as though she already knew she might not escape the answer unmarked.
He smiled slowly, unguarded in a way she had come to recognise as rare and wholly sincere.
“I was thinking,” he said, his tone low enough that it did not carry beyond them, “that I have been most remiss.”
Mary’s brow lifted slightly. “In what respect?”
“In failing to recognise you properly,” he replied. “You ought to have been crowned today,” he went on, his gaze flicking briefly toward the green where they knew the May Queen still stood surrounded by her admirers, then returning to Mary with quiet certainty. “It is a grave oversight.”
Mary let out a soft breath that might almost have been a laugh. “I assure you, as I am much too old for the title, it is no such thing.”
“It is,” he said, with gentle insistence. “Though I shall forgive it, on one condition.”
She regarded him now with open curiosity, the faintest smile touching her lips. “And what condition is that?”
“That I may correct the matter myself.”
The words settled between them, light in tone, though something deeper rested beneath them still.
Mary held his gaze.
“And how do you propose to do that?” she asked.
He did not look away.
“By naming you what you are,” he said. “My May Queen.”
The title rested there, seeming to carry more weight than any crown of flowers might have done.
Mary felt it at once.
It touched something within her that no memory of past years, no recollection of dances or ribbons or missed steps, had ever reached. It was not the public honour of it, nor the display, nor the admiration of a gathered crowd.
It was his.
Entirely.
She lowered her gaze for a moment, not in dismissal, but in quiet receipt of it, her fingers brushing once more, lightly, against the flower at her hair.
“I think,” she said softly, “that is a distinction granted far too easily.”
“On the contrary,” he returned, just as quietly, “it is granted with the greatest care.”
She looked back at him then.
“And next year?” she asked, a trace of lightness returning to her tone. “Shall you bestow the title again, or must I earn it anew?”
His smile deepened, touched now with something almost boyish beneath its composure.
“Next year,” he said, “you shall have the crown as well.”
Her breath caught faintly.
“I will see to it myself,” he continued. “Flowers enough to rival any in the parish. Ribbons, if you wish them. Though I think…” His gaze moved briefly to the bloom at her hair, then back again, “you require very little to improve upon what is already there.”
Mary felt the colour rise once more, though she did not look away.
“You are very certain,” she said.
“I am,” he answered.
Her smile faded slowly, as her gaze returned to him.
There was something different now in the way he looked at her. The distance that had been so firmly maintained these past weeks seemed, in this place, to falter.
They were alone.
Truly alone.
The realisation settled between them.
It had not happened since that day.
It would not happen again.
A matter of weeks remained before she would be his wife.
This was their only moment as they were now - betrothed, affianced, in love.
The space between them seemed suddenly very small.
He stepped closer.
Or perhaps she did.
Mary could not have said which.
Only that he was there, near enough that she felt the warmth of him before he touched her, near enough that the air between them altered, sharpened, became something charged and impossible to ignore.
“Mary,” he said, her name low and certain, as though he had held it back far too long.
She did not answer.
She did not need to.
He kissed her.
It carried the weight of every moment denied them, every glance curtailed, every word left unsaid beneath watchful eyes and careful distance. It found her with a certainty that left no room for hesitation, and she met it at once, rising into it as though she had been waiting for nothing else.
Her hands found him quickly, fingers pressing against his coat, then higher, then nearer still as she closed what little space remained between them.
She could have fallen into him.
She could have remained there, held within that moment, drawing it out beyond time itself.
The world beyond the trees faded to nothing.
There were voices, somewhere. Laughter. The faint rise and fall of the performance upon the green. It reached them only as a distant murmur, indistinct and unimportant.
There was only this.
Only him.
Tom was scarcely more composed.
He held her as though the act itself required effort, as though he must balance desire with care, though the distinction blurred with every passing second. His hand rose to her face, then stilled, then moved again with greater certainty, fingers curving gently along her cheek as he deepened the kiss in a way that drew breath from them both.
They broke apart only when they must.
Breath came quickly, unevenly.
For a moment, they remained close, foreheads resting together, eyes half-closed, as though neither trusted themselves to move too far away.
Mary felt the warmth of his breath against her lips.
Felt the faint tremor in it that matched her own.
She did not draw back.
Neither did he.
The pause lingered.
Then, as though drawn by something stronger than reason, stronger than restraint, they closed the distance once more.
The kiss returned, softer at first, then deeper again, as though they sought to reclaim what had been interrupted, to hold it fast before it slipped beyond their reach.
It might never have been enough.
The thought came to her that this closeness could be drawn out and drawn out again, and still she would not wish it to end.
Her fingers tightened faintly against him.
She felt the answering shift in him at once.
Tom’s hand, which had rested with care against her cheek, moved with greater certainty now, slipping just slightly into her hair, as though he had forgotten, or chosen to forget, the careful boundaries he had kept so faithfully before. His other arm drew her nearer still, closing what little space remained between them until there was nothing left of distance at all.
The world beyond the copse might have vanished entirely.
There was only the warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his breath, the quiet, instinctive way he adjusted to her as though he had always known how.
Mary leaned into it without thought.
She felt herself soften in his hold, the last remnants of composure slipping away beneath the simple, undeniable truth of being wanted, of being held as though she were something precious and fiercely kept.
His name rose to her lips, though it scarcely formed.
“Tom…”
She could have remained there.
She could have forgotten entirely the passage of time, the world beyond the trees, the careful order of things that would soon reclaim them.
A voice carried faintly through the leaves.
Laughter followed.
The world returned in fragments.
The kiss slowed, softened, though it did not end at once. It lingered, reluctant in its parting, as though neither of them wished to be the one to draw it fully to a close.
When at last they separated, it was only by degrees.
A breath.
Another.
His forehead rested once more against hers, his hand still curved gently at the side of her face, as though he had not yet remembered to let her go.
Mary did not move.
She did not trust herself to.
For a moment, neither spoke.
The quiet between them felt fuller than any words might have been.
“We ought…” he began, though the words did not carry conviction.
“Yes,” she said, though she made no motion to step away.
Another pause followed.
His breath brushed her lips again.
It would have been so easy.
Far too easy.
A faint, almost disbelieving breath of laughter escaped him then, low and soft and touched with something she felt echo within herself.
“This is a dangerous place,” he murmured.
Mary’s lips curved, just slightly.
“Yes,” she agreed.
Her gaze lifted to his, steady despite the warmth that lingered in her cheeks, despite the way her breath still refused to settle entirely.
“I believe it is.”
The sounds from beyond the copse grew clearer now.
One last breath shared between them, then, slowly, with visible effort, he drew back.
The space between them returned.
Mary felt the absence of him at once.
They emerged from the copse as though they had never truly left it.
The light met them first, softer now, touched faintly with the mellow gold of late afternoon. The sounds followed close behind; laughter, applause, the exaggerated declarations of outlaws and sheriffs drifting across the green in uneven bursts. The world resumed its place around them with an ease that felt almost improbable.
Mary walked beside him with measured composure, her steps steady despite the lingering awareness that seemed to live in every part of her. She kept her gaze forward, her expression calm, though a warmth remained at her cheeks that the breeze did little to dispel.
Tom matched her pace.
There was a deliberateness to it, a quiet effort in the way he carried himself, as though each movement had been considered and set carefully in place. His hands remained at his sides, his posture easy enough to satisfy any observer, though something of that earlier restraint had altered. It sat differently upon him now, less rigid, less guarded.
They rejoined the gathering without remark.
No one called attention to their absence.
A few glanced their way, then returned their focus to the performance unfolding upon the makeshift stage, where Robin Hood himself now stood in bold defiance of authority, his bow drawn with dramatic flourish.
It might have passed entirely unnoticed.
It did not.
Mrs Gardiner saw them at once.
Mary felt it before she looked; that same attentive awareness, warm and perceptive, settling lightly upon her. When she lifted her gaze, she found her aunt already watching, her expression composed, though there was something unmistakably understanding in it now.
It passed between them in an instant.
Mary lowered her eyes, a faint colour rising further to her cheeks despite herself.
Her aunt said nothing.
She only smiled.
It was a small thing, that smile, gently contained and entirely deliberate. Then, with equal care, she turned her attention back toward the stage, her gaze fixed with a degree of interest that might have seemed excessive to any who knew her well.
It was kindness.
Mary felt it keenly.
They took their places once more upon the edge of the green.
There was space enough between them at first, proper and unremarkable. The grass lay soft beneath them, the air mild, the performance drawing a ripple of laughter from those gathered as one of the players stumbled through his lines with earnest enthusiasm.
Mary watched for a moment.
She saw very little of it.
The awareness of him returned at once, quiet and constant, settling into her as naturally as breath. It lingered in the warmth at her side, in the faint shift of air when he moved, in the simple, undeniable fact of his nearness.
She did not think.
She allowed herself, just slightly, to lean.
Her shoulder brushed his.
Then, with a softness that might have passed for absent comfort to any casual observer, she let her head rest against him.
It was a small movement.
Entirely unremarkable.
It changed everything.
Tom froze, only for a fraction of a moment.
Then he adjusted, just enough to accommodate her, his shoulder settling more firmly beneath her weight as though he had been waiting for it.
He did not move away.
He did not speak.
His gaze remained upon the performance before them.
It could not have been more firmly misplaced.
Because every line of him had shifted.
The careful composure he had maintained loosened, softened, gave way beneath the quiet intimacy of the gesture.
He looked at her.
He tried not to.
He failed.
His eyes moved, drawn as though by instinct, and there she was, resting easily against him, her expression softened, her attention fixed somewhere ahead, though he doubted she saw much more than he did.
His Mary.
The thought came without restraint.
His Mary.
He felt it in the quiet weight of her against his shoulder, in the faint brush of her hair where it lay near his cheek, in the simple, steady trust of the gesture itself.
Something in his expression gave way entirely.
He could not have concealed it if he tried.
The affection there, the quiet, unguarded love that had once been held so tightly in check, now rested plainly upon his features, softened only by the warmth of it.
He watched her.
And in that moment, he cared very little for who might see.