It is cold- terribly, terribly cold- but it is not snowing. It is raining, as it has been for almost an hour now, and I look quite pathetic, I think, as I walk down the little dirt lane, which has now been turned to mud. Wanting to look nice when he finally sees me again, I am wearing a pretty, navy blue gown with a ribboned stomacher and lace trimmings on the sleeves. But now it is muddied around the hem and skirt and weeping rainwater. And my hair, that poor helpless Jamie tried to help me with this morning, is now quite a mess. Dark waves of it fall into my face, almost blinding me, and I know I must look like some pitiable, cast-out daughter of the gentry as I walk amongst the tiny cottages of this little town.

I hold a note in my hand, though the words are smeared now and quite useless. And I’m growing so afraid, worried both that he’ll be there and that he won’t be there at once, that I’ve started to tremble furiously. But perhaps it’s only because of the rain and the cold.

The first woman I met in town wrote me the note. I said his name to her and she said, “Oh you mean the copper then?” I hadn’t known that was his trade. He hadn’t mentioned it in his last letter. Then the woman rephrased herself and said, “Well of course I do mean the cooper’s apprentice of course.” James stood beside me. He tried to look very assured and knowing. “Well naturally,” he said, smiling, and I clutched at his arm as the woman wrote us some hasty directions to the cooper’s apprentice’s house.

Her words would have been hard to distinguish whether they were wet or not, but I try to follow them as best I can. Near the end, I grow worried. I trudge up the lane, my skirt dragging, and I don’t know where to go from here. The note won’t help me.

But then I see it. And immediately, I know that it is his. It could be no one else’s and yet, I don’t even quite know why.

It is very small, containing no more than two rooms, I am sure. The yard is kept very natural and wild, but there is a tidy little vegetable garden in the back, protected from rabbits by a tiny wooden fence. Ivy reaches down the walls of the cottage, covering it like a sort of green sheath, and drapes over the roof as well, where the thatching has grown rather sparse in places. Patches of shrubbery cloud themselves around the yard, colored green and yellow and pink. Wildflowers grow around the path leading to the door, quite untamed, and I immediately wish that I might tend to them. I wonder if I might someday. They aren’t very pretty, that is for sure, and neither is the cottage itself. I am sorry to tell you this but I do not wish you to get the wrong impression. It is not the perfect little English cottage a child might dream of. It is smaller, unkempt, reckless, simple. But it is his. That I know for sure.

I walk up the path slowly, pushing my hair behind my ears. My breath is coming quick now and I haven’t stopped trembling all this long while. Before I can hesitate, I let my hand knock several times, very swiftly, upon the front door. It is silent for a moment. I’m afraid he is out. But then I hear a little stumbling going on inside and growing very nervous, l turn my head to the side. There is a short, bearded man standing beside the house next door, wearing an old hat and placing dry logs in his canvas bag from beneath a wooden cover. I think he would be quite handsome without the beard. He stands and stares at me, seeing me for the first time, and I grow pale under his steady gaze.

Then he calls out, “Good day, miss,” tipping his hat. His voice has a tremor to it, and I think he knows who I am. I think that he is Harry.

But I cannot say a word because I can still hear the soft stumbling inside the house. I only smile, crookedly, and the man nods and goes into his house, still watching me anxiously all the while.

The noise inside the cottage is growing closer now. It is a sort of shuffling, almost thumping at times. It takes a moment for me to remember about his mangled leg, which is undoubtedly the cause of this strange noise. He still has his limp. And just hearing it, I know that I was right and that this house must be his. The rain seems to fall harder now. I could wilt under it, were I not afraid of dirtying my gown further.

And I can hear him just beyond the door now, unfastening some sort of lock. My heart rises up in my chest, stifling me as I try to take a steady breath. And then the door swings open and I lose myself completely.

It is Oliver. He is standing in front of me, just two or three feet away. His hair is still black and short, his eyes are still sooty gray, but the uniform I associated with him for so long has gone. He dresses very simply, like any other tradesman, and I think that he has just finished with his weekly bath because his hair is very neat and I can smell the sweet pine-scented soap. I do not think he was expecting a lady at his door because he wears no shoes, only stockings, and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. Staring at me, silently, swallowing me in, his face is completely blank and I don’t know what to think. He shows no emotion at first. He can’t. He is so very startled. But then, finally, he shifts a little. I bite my lip and my face is blank too, I think.

“My God, Elizabeth . . .” he says. That is all he says. Then he reaches forward and takes my bag, setting it beside his feet in the house, and he leans forward and puts his arms around me and says, “My, you’re wet. You’ve soaked straight through. Come here, come in. Are you warm enough? Would you like something to eat? If I’d known you were coming I would have prepared something, but it’s quite alright. A wonderful surprise . . . Jesus, even soaked in the rain you look lovely.”

“M-My letter didn’t come then?” I murmur then, stammering. It’s been so long since I last saw him. I can’t help but be nervous. “I swear I sent one. I didn’t want to startle you. I was going to wait for you to reply, but it would have taken so long and I . . .”

“It’s no matter, no matter at all, Elizabeth. I don’t care about the bloody letter. You’re here . . . You didn’t come all alone, did you? How did you find the money?”

“Jamie’s here too. We came together. He went to find a room for us at the tavern just down the way, but I . . .”

Before I can say another word, Oliver presses his lips against my forehead and I immediately fall silent. My words have choked me. He pulls me closer against his chest, running his hands up and down my back, letting his mouth linger over my hair, my ears, my cheek.

“You’re here,” he says.

“Yes, I’m here.”

Heavens, the things we say in those great moments! As though the moment itself is so extraordinary, so awing, to try and explain it with words would be an insult. And so we can only state the obvious.

“You left Boston.”

“Yes.”

“You left your family.”

“Yes.”

“For me.”

My voice breaks. “Yes.”

“I never would have thought . . . might have dreamt . . .” His voice falls loose. And then he chuckles, looking up at the somber gray sky above us, littering us with great torrents of rain. “But heavens, why are we still outside?” he says. “You should be in by the fire. You wouldn’t want to come all this way just to catch pneumonia now, would you, Elizabeth?”

And then I’m in the cottage. And all I can think is- it is so very like him! It is cluttered, and yet clean. Busy, and yet calm. Light, and yet, in corners, very shadowed and dark. There is a wavering candle beside a chair that, naturally, sits before the fireplace. And upon a wooden board, that rests across the arms of the chair, there is the most lovely sight, so that I know this is Oliver’s cottage and no one else’s in the world. A game of solitaire, rather messy because he had to move it when he opened the door for me. It is this, I think, more than anything else, that lets me know I have done the right thing. For it can be no coincidence that I first met Oliver, he was playing solitaire, and now I come to him and he’s playing the same old game. It is no coincidence. It is right, it is natural. And I’m not scared anymore. I’m only so achingly happy, knowing that I am here with him.

And then I watch him. I watch him pour a steaming ribbon of tea into a cup for me, for once. I watch him smile and turn. I watch him brush the game of solitaire off the wooden board and place the cups there and cut two thick slices of bread for us. I think he apologizes for something- for not having more food, for not having any butter or jam for the bread, something- but I don’t quite hear him. I can’t hear anything really. It’s all a mad rush of words. A web that makes me smile back at him.

I watch him point to the basket beside the chair, where two letters sit. They are addressed to him in my own penmanship. He smiles again. I watch him. I watch him take a bite of the bread and then brush the crumbs from his shirt. I watch him come close to me again. I watch him take my hand and lift it to his mouth and kiss its back once, twice.

“You’re staying then?” he says.

“Yes.”

“And Mr. Nehring?”

“Yes, he wants to study at a university.”

“And you can stay with him until we marry?” he asks earnestly.

I nod.

So it’s true then. We’ll marry. I’ve been expecting it all along, but it isn’t true until he says it. Now I feel my cheeks grow flush and Oliver smiles again.

And I watch him, I watch him, I watch him, and the day grows dark. It is night now, but I don’t want to go yet. I just want to sit there with him until the rain stops and the sun comes up and Jamie comes to fetch me, for I know that he must be growing worried. That is the only reason I can think of to leave Oliver. Because I don’t want to worry James.

“Where is he now?” Oliver asks.

“James?”

He chuckles. “Yes, James. Where is he?”

“Finding a room at the inn. Getting settled in.”

“Does he know where you are?”

“Yes, of course.”

“But does he know how to get here?”

“I don’t think so.”

“We should go fetch him. He must be lonely.”

“Yes.” I smile. “Yes, I’d like that.”

Because my cloak is still quite wet, he gives me one of his jackets to wear over my sopping gown. An hour has passed but, like Oliver said, the rain has soaked me straight through. I know I must look quite delicate as I stand there, pale as cream and soft under his wool jacket. Before we go, he steps forward and takes me back into his arms again. And then he kisses me, long and slow and trembling. We fall still. I hug him closer, grasping at his chest as though I’m afraid he’s about to leave me again. I hear another soft chuckle.

“Is something wrong?” he whispers.

“No.”

“You’re going to choke me with that hold, Eliza.”

“I don’t want to go.”

“Well you don’t have to. You can stay as long as you like. Preferably, forever.”

He hugs me as tight as I’m hugging him and I flatten against his chest. He presses his mouth into my hair and I nestle my face into the little nook between his shoulder and neck. There is no strain between our hearts anymore. There is no thread, slipping its way between his flesh and mine. For we are together now as we both so wanted to be. As we ought to be.

As we’ve always been meant to be, it seems.

(A/N) Alright. That, my friends, is the end. Man, I can barely believe it! It took almost an entire year to finish this story. That seems so long to me and yet at the same time, I feel as if I’ve been writing it forever! I really hope you all enjoyed reading it! I’m so thankful to everyone just for reading it and taking the time to review and let me know how I’m doing. So thanks again!

And I really hope you’ll all come read my new story too. I’ve already got it all planned out (for the most part, anyway), and I’m very excited for it because it’s very, very different from anything I’ve done before. It’s going to have lots of mystery along with romance (of course) and even murder too! It takes place in 1912 France and it’s going to be called “The Aviary.” If you want to hear more about the actual plot, you can read a bit more on my author’s page. Hopefully, I’ll post the prologue pretty soon. Please do come check it out!

Well, I’d better get going. Again, it’s been a pleasure to entertain you for a bit and thanks so much for reading!

Merry Christmas!

-S. Renee