Autumn arrived cloaked in gold, yet to Mary, the season felt colder than any she had known. At first, it was only small things, so delicate that another might not have noticed. Dale, who once answered her letters the very next day, began to take longer - three days, then five. When she caught his gaze across the drawing room, there was still warmth in his eyes, but it flickered like a candle fighting against the wind.
«Perhaps he is merely burdened,» Eleanor suggested one afternoon, when Mary, unable to hide her sorrow, confessed her worries. «Gentlemen have affairs of business, duties we cannot always comprehend. Do not torment yourself with fancies.»
Mary smiled faintly, but her heart whispered otherwise. For she knew Dale, knew the cadence of his silences as much as the rhythm of his words. And something - something unseen - was taking him away from her.
At the Harvest Ball, his absence was most keenly felt. They danced together, as always, yet his hand upon hers felt less like an anchor, more like a farewell. His smile was there, but faint, as though painted in watercolors soon to fade.
When the music ended, she dared to ask, «Are you unwell, Dale? You seem far from me tonight.»
He paused. For a moment, she thought he would confide in her, that he would lay bare whatever shadow haunted him. Instead, he gave a small, practiced smile.
«I am merely tired, Mary. Nothing more.»
But Mary knew. His voice trembled - not with fatigue, but with the weight of something unspoken.
The days that followed stretched like fragile glass. Their walks grew shorter, their letters less frequent. He still treated her with courtesy, still bowed, still kissed her hand - but the passion, the certainty, had thinned into something Mary could scarcely grasp.
One evening, as they strolled beneath the withering trees, she gathered her courage. «Dale,» she said softly, «have I offended you? If I have erred, I beg you - tell me. I cannot bear this distance.»
He stopped, his eyes closing as though her words wounded him. For an instant, she saw the truth break through - the ache, the love, the torment. His hand reached for hers but fell before it could touch.
«No, Mary,» he whispered. «You have done nothing. You are -» His voice faltered. He looked away, his jaw tightening. «You are everything.»
Then why, her heart cried, do you turn from me?
But she did not speak it aloud. The silence grew heavy between them, like snow that muffles the world.
That night, she lay awake, clutching his letters to her chest. She traced his handwriting with trembling fingers, searching for the man she loved in every loop and line. He was there - still there - but fading, as though the ink itself had begun to disappear.
Mary told herself it was only fear. Fear of love, fear of the future, fear of the ghosts of his past. If she loved him fiercely enough, she believed, her devotion would banish those shadows.
Yet, in the quiet corners of her heart, doubt had already begun to bloom.
And doubt, once sown, does not easily die.
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When Roses Fade, Memory Remains
Historical Fiction~ Based on real events ~ Mary and Dale's love bloomed like roses in the golden glow of a Victorian autumn - tender, passionate, and eternal. But when fear and shadows of the past force Dale to leave, Mary is left to wander through grand ballrooms an...
