A full and ripened autumn lay across Brackenwood, tingeing the town with shades of russet and gold. Days were crisp, evenings soft and cool, and nights held a sense of something lurking just beneath the surface—an unspoken tension that only Rosalind could feel.
For weeks, she had watched over from the sidelines as Alaric gave up increasing amounts of his time and energy to his fondness for Eleanor. Efforts to be cheerful, reminding herself that Alaric's love was an ephemeral thing, intellectual in nature rather than emotional, could not rid Rosalind of the building annoyance in her chest.
She had never spoken to Eleanor herself, not directly though they had passed each other several times in the market or at social gatherings. Rosalind had admired her from afar, envying the air of confidence she carried with her. Eleanor was not just beautiful - though she certainly was that-but she had a bearing that had an elegance to it, an ease in movements that turned heads. So more than once, Rosalind had seen Alaric struggle over his words in front of her, which was a phenomenon he hardly found himself struggling with in front of anyone else.
What was it about Eleanor that made her so irresistible? Rosalind wasn't blind to her faults, to those aspects of herself she knew lacked the boldness with which Eleanor seemed to be blessed. But surely, Alaric couldn't be smitten with Eleanor solely because she didn't fall at his feet like everyone else. Or was that the very reason?
It was on that particular day that Rosalind made her way through the town square, carrying her deep thoughts along with her. She had just stepped out of a visit to the bookshop, where Alaric spent his afternoons, hope against all reason to catch a glimpse of him. But it was the vision of Eleanor walking through the bookshelves with her usual self-assurance, gliding across pages as if everything around her was but incidental.
Rosalind had slipped away unnoticed, too sorely defeated to face Eleanor or try to draw her into conversation. She was sure of it-she'd only be a laughing stock compared to that one. Eleanor always seemed to have the upper hand somehow, effortlessly compelling attention without trying hardly at all. It wasn't just Alaric-everyone in Brackenwood was taking notice since she'd come to town a few months ago.
But in whatever sweet way Eleanor is charming, she remains apart, like an enigma. She does not often appear on occasions of socialities; she hardly spends time really noticing about them when she does appear, but someone could sense that her mind was elsewhere, probably a long distance from the narrow, provincial Brackenwood limits. The townspeople were all thrilled with this, and so was Alaric, who considered Eleanor as a puzzle to be solved, a mystery to be unraveled.
Still, Eleanor gave an impression of not really caring about the attention she brought onto herself. It seemed that Eleanor could be found on some plane apart from that in which such considerations might affect the townspeople, untouchable by ordinary human concerns. Even Alaric's wordy letters, full as they must be of gorgeous professions of love, seemed to have small influence over her.
The truth of the matter was that Eleanor had much more in mind than Alaric's expounding and speculations about philosophy or dreamy-eyed adoration. She was a doer rather than a talker, and as sweetly as she smiled her reception to Alaric's overtures in advance, Rosalind would not for a moment have credited one whit of an intention of giving him her heart.
---
That evening, she found herself to the riverside. The sun was going to set. Its light faded slowly on her side, slowly disappeared under the horizon. That river always made her calm. She comes here often where she can let her thoughts drift just like water, away from the hubbub of the town.
His voice brought her round from her reverie and she turned to see him approaching, a familiar parchment held in his hand.
"Rosalind!" he shouted delightedly, waving the letter a little in his excitement. "I've just written another one to Eleanor, and I do think this might be it! Brilliant, truly it is. I have woven in elements of Petrarch, Ovid, and, of course, Euphues. I dare say even she won't be able to resist itself
Rosalind's heart went down. She smiled brightly. "Of course it must be. incredible, Alaric."
He sat beside her on the grassy bank, unmindful of the tightness in her voice. "Would you like to hear it?"
She hesitated not to indulge herself in another rigmarole of flowery metaphors about Eleanor's beauty, grace, or intelligence. But she didn't get a chance to decline before Alaric started.
"Dearest Eleanor," he read, his voice taking on a dramatic tone, "In your presence, time itself seems to falter, as though the very universe hesitated to breathe lest it disturb the perfection of your form. To me you are like the stars to the sailor—a guiding light in the great ocean of thought. To look upon you is to confront the sublime, to grasp at the divine—"
Rosalind cringed at the exaggerated flattery, but Alaric went on, speaking in an endless flow of florid adoration.
"*And so, I find myself in awe, not merely of your beauty, but of your mind, which shines above any celestial thing, lighting the road to wisdom and truth. How might the lowliest philomath – the humblest student of knowledge – hope to catch the light that is Eleanor?*"
He paused, grinning at her, awaiting accolades.
Rosalind nodded politely, but her chest felt like lead. "It's. eloquent, Alaric," she said.
"You don't think it's too much?" he asked suddenly uncertain. "I worry perhaps that I've gone a bit overboard."
Rosalind took a deep breath, choosing words carefully. "It's not that it's too much. it's just that—Alaric, have you ever thought to speak to Eleanor plain? Not all the. poetry?"
Alaric furrowed his brow, as if that idea had never crossed his mind. "Plainly? But what beauty lies in that? Eleanor is too beautiful for such mundane speeches. She deserves all the grand declamations!"
Rosalind looked away, her lip gnawing at her lower pout. She longed to tell him that Eleanor may not care for his grand declarations. She longed to tell him he wasted his days chasing someone who did not see him like he saw her. But the words would not come from her mouth. Instead, she smiled faintly.
"Perhaps you're right," she said quietly. "Perhaps Eleanor will appreciate the poetry.".
But she knew in her heart that Eleanor was a doer of things and not mere talk. And to her, though the letters from Alaric sounded gorgeous, nothing would ever suffice as much as Eleanor.
---
Alaric, unaware of what was going on inside Rosalind's head, stood up and brushed grass off his trousers. "Well, I must get this delivered at once!" he declared, his voice full of excitement. "Wish me luck!"
She watched him disappear, her heart feeling heavy with all the unspoken sentiments and emotions. After sitting by the river for hours afterwards, listening to soft murmurs of water flowing into the valley like a lace fabric stitched together by Nature's careful threads.
She'd waited so long for Alaric-to be seen by someone who would, truly see her, not as a friend or confidante, but as one who could love him this deep and this hard and maybe more than anybody else ever had. Still, month after month, it was almost as if he never would turn that way again.
When the night deepened and the first star appeared, Rosalind made up her mind to do something. She could wait no more for Alaric to wake up to himself. She had to do it for herself.
If Eleanor's forwardness and outspoken nature were enough to win Alaric's heart, perhaps it was high time for Rosalind to make a few small steps in that same direction, too.