proposed marriage to Miss O’Reardon was the first cold day of winter. Greg’ry felt the chill on his face, the icy raindrops falling on his cheeks and eyelids. Miss did not bring Preston into the parlor because it was impossible to build a fire there; instead, she kept him in the warmer rooms in the house. That is, she did so until he began to speak to her in general terms of marriage, of love and devotion and eternity, and the air grew too thick for her to breathe, so she excused herself. The maid, she said, really ought to have brought in the tea by now. Caught up in his ardor, Preston would not allow his target to slip away so easily. So, as Miss flitted from room to room, calling for the maid, her lover pursued her, reaching out to capture her hand, dropping now and again to his knee only to spring up again and give chase. By the time she entered the blue parlor, Miss had grown so agitated that she sank briefly onto the settee to regain her bearings. “There you are,” said Preston, standing in the parlor doorway. He saw that Miss had stopped running now, and his shyness returned to him. He could not remember the words he had planned to say. She was looking away from him, her face turned to profile like a lovely and delicate cameo portrait. When he saw that she was staring at the unlit fireplace, he crossed and began to prod the dry logs with the poker. “It’s cold,” he said. “Allow me to light the fire.”
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“No!” she cried, and she was on her feet in an instant, grabbing both of Preston’s hands in her own. Their eyes met, and he saw in hers a spark of unnamable passion. It was this that sent him to his knee, still clutching her hands in his, and so flushed was she, pinned as she was, that she gave him the only answer available to her. When Preston had gone, Miss stood in the blue parlor, facing the fireplace. There were many things she longed to say, but how could she ever say them? How could the poor, trapped Greg’ry understand that it was possible for a woman to become trapped, as well? So, she asked whether he was cold, and when he answered that he was warm enough, she withdrew the book of stories and read to him, marveling at the way nothing seemed to have changed, neither the words on the paper nor the voice that spoke them, nor the hand that turned page after page, that shook from cold as it gripped the leather bindings. The cold rain continued to fall on Greg’ry’s face, and it turned him icy and blue as the parlor below. ~ The day of the wedding, Miss O’Reardon’s female friends gathered in the blue parlor to dress her. Greg’ry heard their conversation. Today, it was all gossip and giggles, and they fawned over Miss’s gown, and they told her of their weddings and wedding nights and of traditions she could not possibly forego.