Jayne felt the blush rising to her cheeks even before their eyes met, hoping fervently that it could be attributed to the heat of the day or even a symptom of middle age, much as she didn't want to admit that particular fact to herself. Hurriedly composing her features into what she hoped was a friendly smile, she returned his gaze, to be met, very much to her relief, by an encouraging grin.

​

Her new neighbour chose this very moment to engage Jayne in an endless stream of small talk, enquiring after her health as a prelude to a seemingly interminable account of her own recent stay in hospital, in which she was obliged for reasons of politeness to feign an interest. The lady bobbed her head around animatedly as she spoke, clearly delighted to have the opportunity to regale a fresh audience with a story replete with much gruesome surgical minutiae which might have been better left to the imagination. Jayne nodded politely, adding sympathetic noises in what she hoped were appropriate places, all the while wishing for a moment's peace and quiet in which she might formulate some idea as to what to say to the fair-haired man sitting on the opposite side of the church. Her heaven-sent pleas on entering the church had not gone unanswered, it would appear.

Happily for all, the Vicar strode to the front of the church, and with his arms spread wide, announced the commencement of the service. The chatter died away, only to be replaced by the rustling of old ladies searching through their handbags for handkerchiefs, glasses and mint imperials. Someone got up to deliver a long address, no doubt of deep and abiding interest, but for two people in the congregation his words floated in the air before dissolving into silence, completely unheard.

Clifford hardly knew what to think, and was still in a state of some disbelief as the minutes ticked by. He wished the afternoon away, feeling somewhat exasperated when yet another venerable historian approached the lectern with a sheaf of notes in his hand, yet more time to be endured before he was able at last to renew his acquaintance with the lady whose path had led her to this very place a little while ago. Unknown to herself, Jayne had been making a nightly appearance in his imagination in ways which might have surprised her ; some of these had been, well, more or less what one might expect a man on his own to muse on, and to his discomfiture, some of those dreamlike pictures drifted unbidden into his mind as the speaker droned on and on . . . lovely Jayne, lying in his bed quite naked, her soft peachy curves illuminated by flickering candlelight, the feel of her full breasts under his hands and his desire quite apparent . . 

The sound of a round of applause jolted him back from his reverie, putting him firmly back into the discomfort of the pew, and he shook his head in an effort to dispel the inviting images, as if he thought they might be written in the air above his head for all to see.

Outside on the vicarage lawn, Carol, the Vicar's wife, had laid out tables with snowy damask tablecloths unearthed from spinsters' never-needed bottom drawers, lovingly embroidered with hollyhocks and roses, and various helpers had brought out a mismatched assortment of dining chairs. The weather had remained charitably warm and rain-free as people made their way from the church to socialise and enjoy  a quintessentially English summer afternoon in the countryside. A pleasant hum of conversation soon floated over the garden, little knots of people chatting amicably over the rattle of teacups.

However, there were two people missing from this bucolic scene, for they were still deep in conversation in the church. Jayne and Clifford had hardly noticed the exodus of people in search of tea and cake, so engrossed were they in the novelty and pleasure of their renewed meeting.

"How is your book coming along?" asked Clifford.

Jayne was torn between admitting the truth, which was that she had done very little writing of late, being preoccupied with potential matters of the heart, or giving an equally untruthful but more equivocal answer.

"I seem to be afflicted with writers' block, I  don't know why" (a downright lie, and in a church of all places) she replied.

"How very frustrating for you - and for me too, because I'm very much looking forward to owning a signed first edition of it" 

Jayne smiled at his little joke, inwardly wondering whether her writings would ever see the light of day beyond a computer screen.

"Have you ever been to St. Mary's, near Actonford?, it's about twenty miles from here, quite difficult to find or so I'm told - apparently it's a hidden gem if ever there was one, in all senses of the phrase. Sadly the church is no longer in use, but it is still maintained, and has some lovely features, even a holy well."

"I've never been there, though I have read about it. I would love to go there one day"

And before he could reconsider his actions or stop to think, Clifford found himself inviting her to a journey there one day soon.

"That is, if you'd like to go, and your partner would not object, obviously I don't want to put you in an awkward situation. Have I said too much?"

Jayne could hardly frame her reply, such was her surprise.

"I don't have a partner, only my cat and she is sublimely indifferent to my comings and goings. Yes, I would love to go with you, I mean to say I would love to go there....with you..."

Her words trailed away, her nervous excitement at this unexpected turn of events robbing her of any form of communication save a wide beaming smile.

Realising the audacity of his invitation, which had come out of the blue as surprisingly to him as it was to her, he surveyed her features anxiously for any signs of misgivings, but to his relief saw only an expression of delight. Clifford leaned forward and gently patted her hand.

"I hope you don't think this is all too sudden. I must be completely honest with you, I have thought of you often since that day our paths crossed. And I hoped we might meet again, but had no clue as to how that might ever come about."

Jayne nodded, and replied simply and quietly.

"Me too"

And the moment hung in the air between them, just as it had done those weeks back, a bright fragile bubble full of possibilities shining in the shadows of the church. Smiling as only people who have a shared secret know how, they went out into the fresh summer air of the garden.

Carol, the vicar's ever busy wife bustled past them them, carrying another tray of cakes and fancies with which to replenish the tea tables.

"Do help yourselves, good people. And enjoy the afternoon!" she said, smiling broadly as she went by, but not before she had sensed the mutual attraction hovering around them like an aura.

Jayne and Clifford soon found themselves a bench beneath one of the willow trees, and now balancing teacups and plates of cake, resumed their conversation, punctuated with bursts of laughter.

Carol watched them affectionately from across the platters of sandwiches. Cocking her head to one side, she said to no-one in particular,

"What a lovely couple they make."

Much later that same day, it was with an unaccustomed lightness of heart and a buoyant spirit that Clifford unlocked the door to his workshop, humming to himself as he did so. The setting sun illuminated the cluttered scene within, motes of dust floating weightlessly in the air around him, as he gazed out of the window at the gilded streaks of cloud on the horizon, and considered the serendipitous nature of the day's events. It had, he thought been such a long time since female company other than that of a purely platonic and friend-like nature had been part of his existence, and his meeting with Jayne had left him unsettled in the nicest possible way. And furthermore, some bold and unexpected spirit within him had invited her to a day out with him, to which - unless he was imagining it - she had agreed very readily indeed, even before the offer had quite left his lips, and he smiled to himself as he recalled both her eagerness, and his considerable relief at not being rejected.

Taking his phone from his pocket, he flicked through his contacts list, to the newest addition, acquired that very afternoon, and considered the wisdom of sending her a text message, thanking her for her company and perhaps wondering when she might be free......

As he pondered on what words to use, a last late beam of sunlight cast a ray of gold through the dusty window, falling upon a piece of carving that lay upon the bench, highlighting the sinuous contours of entwined pomegranates and roses, carved by an unknown hand upon the surface of the wood in centuries past. Before the light could disappear he quickly snapped the image with his phone, pleased by the juxtaposition of transient light upon ancient surface, and in a moment of unexpected romantic daring, he sent the picture to Jayne, along with the brief if unambiguous message

"Thinking of you x"

And with only the slightest of misgivings as to whether that should have been more than one "x" , or maybe none at all, he walked across the cobbled yard with something of a spring in his step.

Pausing by the overgrown bushes of lavender and rosemary to find his key, a loud and piercing jangle announced the arrival of a text message, and Clifford looked at his phone. A reply, and so quickly.

"Thinking of you also xxx"

And accompanying it, an image of medieval angels in stained glass, with wings feathered in sapphire and emerald.

"Oh my goodness! something might really be happening, at long last!" he thought to himself.  Usually the most cautious of men, and not given to romantic flights of fancy, he felt momentarily overwhelmed by emotion, and somewhat taken aback by it.

Until now, he had not thought of himself as anything other than reasonably content ; his work was fulfilling and gave him great satisfaction, his existence steady and relatively undisturbed by anything other than the usual everyday tribulations.

It was a matter of personal pride that he owned his own small house, forever in a state attributed to ongoing restoration, with an outbuilding he used as a workshop and a ramshackle and unattended garden. Occasionally he harboured a little jealousy towards those of his friends, married or with partners, whose lives seemed more desirable and complete ; but it was a feeling which dissipated quickly when he learnt of the somehow inevitable breakups and divorces.

To Clifford, the idea of a partner in his life had been as unrealistic as wishing for an expensive car, or an extravagant mansion, and just as unlikely to happen. However, that is not to say that he did not want it to happen, some day ; it was just that he relied on fate, rather than his own efforts, to bring it about.

And perhaps the stars and planets had, up till now, failed to fall into that unique alignment which would bring about just such an ocurrence.

Laughing quietly to himself at the foolishness of such an idea, he poured himself a glass of wine and stepped back out into the dusk of the garden, the stillness interrupted only by the distant hooting of an owl, and the fluttering of the wings of moths as they danced around the light from the kitchen window. He looked again at the text message, and wondered how to respond, although he found it hard to concentrate when the day's events kept running through his mind on an endless loop, the surprise of their unexpected meeting, the afternoon in the vicarage garden, and in a contrary way, their goodbye, when Jayne had taken hold of his hand and kissed him on the cheek.

To a casual observer, it looked innocuous enough, polite yet informal, a parting of friends ; but to Clifford it felt as if the earth had tilted slightly on its' axis, yet only he was aware of it. If only she had known the effect that her simple gesture had had on him, the unselfconscious movement of her hand with which she had brushed aside the hair from his cheek in order to kiss him, the softness of her lips, the flowery scent of her perfume. . . 

He looked up at the darkening sky, now deepening to indigo, an almost full moon shining over the night garden. Picking up his phone, he took a picture of the soft moonlight silvering the leaves of an apple tree, and sent it to Jayne, with the message :

"I would love to see you again, soon. When are you free? xx"

And draining his glass, he went back into the house, curiously feeling both emotionally exhilarated and physically weary.

As evening fell, Jayne wandered from room to room in a fruitless endeavour to distract herself from looking at her phone yet again. The house crackled with her restless energy, as she impatiently rearranged bookshelves which were already perfectly tidy, and placed the sofa cushions in neat symmetrical rows yet again. The tortoiseshell cat looked up nervously, whiskers a-twitch, unused to such a flurry of activity, and sensing the tension in the air - surely at this time of day she would have found her way onto Jayne's lap for a comfortable snooze? Ill at ease with the situation, she fled up the stairs to hide beneath the bed, and waited for the storm to pass.

Jayne fussed and fretted the minutes away.

"Well this is very silly of me. Here I am getting all flustered for no good reason, and after such a lovely day", she chided herself " I am behaving like a giddy young girl, even though I am an intelligent adult woman."

The heady rush of adrenaline that had carried her through the day, a day full of excitements and surprises and opportunities, had melted away, leaving her feeling restless and agitated over what might or might not happen next.

Her finger hovered over the Call button on her phone, then hovered away again in momentary indecision. It made her feel foolish, thinking how much easier it was to have a conversation face to face with someone than to have this modern technology currently proving to be such a barrier to communication. 

Sighing crossly, she went upstairs to run herself a deep calming bath, surely half an hour luxuriating in bubbles and scented steam would help her shake off the tension? After all, it had been a tiring day, what with all the anticipation of the morning and the events of the afternoon, it was hardly surprising that she should feel this way.

Drawing the bedroom curtains, Jayne began to undress, carefully hanging up what she now thought of as her "lucky" purple dress, and shaking loose her hair from having been artfully arranged into a style she thought of as carefree and casual, whereas in truth it had taken her the best part of twenty minutes and a good many swear words to make it appear so. She looked at herself in the wardrobe mirror, the bedside lamp casting a rosy radiance onto her body, and as she surveyed her ample curves, she ran her hands lightly over the creamy smoothness of her breasts, imagining them to be Clifford's hands exploring her nakedness. . . for a moment she was tempted to carry on with her fantasy, then remembered her bath, and hurried to turn off the taps.

​

Downstairs, in the darkness, her phone had received a text message.

​

A loud metallic jangling from his alarm clock shattered the warm depths of sleep into which Clifford had finally slipped, and the room was bright with morning sunlight as he rubbed his eyes and attempted to adjust to the day. It had been a very late night, and after the evening's final message from Jayne, a picture of the starry night sky and an affectionate goodnight, he had sat up well into the small hours and beyond, unable to stop himself thinking about her. And eventually, as the clock ticked towards four a.m. , he had sent her a message, using the words of a long-dead Romantic poet to say something he found himself unable to put into his own words. The first notes of the dawn chorus had accompanied his footsteps up the steep narrow staircase to his bedroom under the eaves, where he had fallen into an exhausted dreamless sleep.

Still only half awake, he rubbed his eyes and allowed himself the indulgence of a momentary fantasy in which he was not the sole occupant of the bed, imagining the sensation of soft warm flesh next to him, and more . . . before his thoughts could take any physical effect, he threw off the duvet, dressed quickly and went downstairs to put the kettle on. He had an important lunchtime date, for which preparations could not begin too soon.

Meanwhile, Jayne had enjoyed a relatively peaceful night's sleep, tired out by the excitement of the evening, and awoke to the sound of her little cat purring contentedly from the foot of the bed. What an evening, she thought, following such a day, and a warm flush of pleasure spread over her still drowsy body as she remembered the curiously intense excitement of the text messages sent and received. She knew it would have been more practical just to make a phone call - but then where would be the thrill of anticipation, awaiting the arrival of a message? And, should it consist of but few words, the slightly dangerous frisson of reading between the lines, lending it new dimensions of meaning. . .

And the pictures, so carefully chosen, which may or may not say more than the actual message, and open to a multitude of interpretations. Jayne had received several pleasing images, from the very first one of the carving illuminated by the sun, followed by the apple tree shining silver in the moonlight. There had been others, a row of candles n a church window, a cabinet of curiosities displaying seashells and pieces of rock and crystal, and a piece of ancient embroidery with tudor roses outlined in tarnished gold thread. Clifford had selected each one with the greatest of care, knowing now a little of the kind of things she liked, and hoped they would  please her.

Jayne was both charmed and intrigued by the images, and had arranged them in her mind into a kind of imaginary tarot, spreading them out to consider their individual and collective meanings, rearranging them constantly in an attempt to uncover their significance. The messages that accompanied them were brief, if friendly, and she viewed it all as a fanciful and romantic game between them, not wanting it to come to an end.

She replied with pictures of her own for him to puzzle over, a stained glass window full of medieval angels, a bright butterfly with scarlet wings veined in black, a view over a placid sea like a sheet of silver, an orchard frothing with pink and white blossom, and finally the starry night with which she had eventually bid him goodnight.

She laid back on the pillows, and idly picked up her phone to look at the pictures once more. At 3.46, another text had arrived, un-noticed until now. There was no picture, simply what appeared to be a fragment of poetry.

"If you loved only what were worth your love,

Love were clear again, and wholly well for you."

She read and re-read the words with curiosity, turning them over in her mind, but discerning no other meaning than that which was obvious, she turned her thoughts to the day ahead.

They had arranged to meet up at lunchtime, at a small coffee shop in Weirford, a small country town several miles away, to spend a pleasant afternoon in conversation. Much as she was looking forward to it, which was to say, immensely, Jayne felt a little anxious regarding the journey there,  wanting to arrive neither too early or too late, or worst of all, suffering the humiliation of getting lost on the way. And equally importantly, she hoped it was an establishment with the very nicest of cakes on offer.

Such was the importance he attached to the day, that Clifford took particular care over his appearance to the extent of carefully ironing a newish shirt of a small paisley print, in shades of blue and green, and sprinkling himself liberally with the aftershave his mother had given him as a Christmas gift last year, in spite of the fact that at that time he sported a full beard. It was the thought that counted , or possibly it was a less than subtle hint, he mused. But today he was glad of his mother's apparent foresight, and a fragrant cloud of sandalwood replaced the usual clean soapy aroma, boosting his confidence somewhat as he locked the front door behind him.

He momentarily wondered whether it was expected of him to take along a small gift, and thinking it would be an appropriate gesture, looked around the garden for inspiration. Along the far wall there grew a wild tangle of sweet peas, tumbling chaotically from their canes in pinks, blues and lilac, untended yet somehow coming up each year, apparently thriving on neglect. Gathering up the best of the blooms, he arranged them as best he could into an untidy bunch, tying them with garden string and shaking the morning dew from their flimsy petals. Surveying his extempore handiwork with pride, he opened the van door and laid his impromptu bouquet gently on the seat.

Jayne looked out of the window at the clear blue skies, and felt a shiver of excitement. She felt so fortunate to have met Clifford, that she found it easy to forgive herself the deliberate way she had arranged it to happen "just so". He seemed to be someone who believed in fate and things happening because they were meant to, in some mysterious cosmic way, and there was no need for him to know any different. Sometimes even fate needs a little help, she thought to herself, and it is about time I was lucky in love.

Feeling rather pleased with herself, she went into the bedroom to change, followed by the little cat, who leapt into the bay window to soak up the sunshine.

Clifford felt rather like a rock in a fast flowing river, as he stood on the pavement outside the coffee shop trying to avoid the swathes of pedestrians milling past him, looking out anxiously for one familiar face. He was trying his hardest to look inconspicuous, which is not easy when you are clutching a bouquet like some forlorn and misplaced bridesmaid, and hoped his arriving early would indicate eagerness and good manners rather than desperation or bad planning. Glancing at his watch, and looking up and down the street,  a familiar figure caught his eye, waving from the opposite pavement.

Jayne crossed the road, a wide smile lighting up her features, her footsteps gathering pace as she ran up to him and flung her arms around him in a passionate embrace, turning quite a few heads as she did so.

"Hello! it's so lovely to see you!" she exclaimed "I hope you haven't been waiting long?"

Somewhat taken aback (but delighted) by the enthusiasm of her greeting, he hugged her back, feeling the heat of her body pressed against his, and was reluctant to release her.

"No, not at all!" he replied "You look so beautiful! Oh, and by the way, I've brought these for you." He held out the bouquet, pleased both at her exuberance and the fact that he no longer had to carry it.

"Oh my goodness, that's amazing, I love sweet peas! They are one of my special favourites . . thankyou so much!"

Jayne stood on tiptoes to plant a kiss on his cheek - for a split second she toyed with the idea of kissing him on the lips, but that might be going a little too far, considering it was the middle of the day, and in public too. She hoped there might be an opportunity later to redress the situation.

"You are more than welcome, my dear. Shall we go inside?"

And with that, Clifford opened the coffee shop door, and ushered her inside the fussy interior where they quickly found a table. Jayne looked around with a faint smile of amusement hovering at her lips ; no piece of vintage knick knackery, faux or otherwise, had been overlooked in the furnishings, from shabby chic dressers groaning with mismatched china cups and saucers, the reproduction vintage posters on the chintzily papered walls, to the inevitable bunting looped around the window frames. It was a pastiche of a yesteryear English teashop, of a kind that never really existed, created to appear comforting and homely. At least it will give us something to talk about, she mused, though in reality there was precious little chance of them running out of words.

As they chatted, Clifford found it hard to concentrate, especially when Jayne would lean forward and, in order to emphasise a point, would touch him lightly on the arm or hand, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The day was warm, and she wore a decollete sundress, which he had not failed to notice revealed a modest amount of bosom, and the same violet necklace she had worn to church, the pendant resting just above her cleavage.

"I very much like your necklace, the design is beautiful. Do you mind if I have a closer look?" he said, and, leaning forward, he gently lifted the intricately worked cabochon from where it lay, looking at it closely.

The tiniest of flowers petalled in violet and lavender covered the surface, each one subtly different from its' neighbour, the whole suffused with an iridescent lustre, and exquisitely detailed. He softly tilted it to catch the light, admiring as he did so the skill and delicacy with which it had been made.

The warmth of his fingers touching her skin sent a ripple of sensuality through Jayne's body, and as he studied the jewel, she studied his features with an equal concentration. Brown eyes and fair hair, an uncommon combination, she thought. His long hair fascinated her, falling over his shoulders in defiance of modern styles, and she stifled a sudden urge to run her hand over its' glossy surface.

Clifford looked up.

"How very beautiful. One of a kind, I imagine?"

"Yes I am" she replied

They both laughed, and then, realising he was still holding the pendant, he let it fall back to its' resting place on her breast. Quickly she took hold of his hand, not wanting to lose the physical connection between them, and looking deep into his eyes, said quietly,

"It's very warm in here. Shall we go and get some fresh air?"

"Of course, let's go. We could go and walk by the river, if you like?"

Having paid the waitress, they left behind the slightly claustrophobic world of cream teas and lace curtains, and stepped out onto the pavement, hand in hand.

Slipping down an alleyway between timbered houses leaning so close together that they almost obscured the sky, they made their way to an area of parkland through which the river ran. Small children ran about on the grass as their mothers chatted, while others at the water's edge threw bread for the ducks, older couples looking on indulgently.

Jayne and Clifford followed the path along the riverbank as it meandered its' way out of town and into wider and more open countryside, where willow trees drooped gracefully into the water. The childrens' voices were now hardly audible, and they paused to look over the river to the fields beyond, green meadows and fields of wheat in the distance. A minute passed in silence, until Clifford turned away from the view, and placing his arm around Jayne's shoulders, drew her towards him in a sensual and loving embrace.

Gently lifting up her chin, he bent down to kiss her, hoping she would not consider it untoward ; on the contrary, Jayne turned her face upwards like a flower to the sun, closing her eyes in bliss as their lips met. She curled her hand around his neck to pull him closer, never wanting the kiss to end. . . it was such a perfect moment, so often imagined and so long overdue.

Overhead the sun beat down, and the warm summer air was filled with the sounds of the river rippling by on its long journey to the sea. In the distance, a church bell was chiming, and the light behind her eyes burned a molten gold. She felt as weightless as a butterfly, unsteady on her feet as they eventually broke apart, and they stood blinking in the daylight's glare, surprised and delighted in equal measures.

Neither of them knew what to say, indeed if there was anything that needed to be said at that moment, instead a mutual realisation that their friendship had in those few seconds irrevocably changed into something much more meaningful. The world around them continued on its everyday path, but they felt transformed in some way they felt unable to define in words. It felt as if it had been a long time coming, this new and shimmering feeling, and neither Jayne nor Clifford felt equal to attempting to explain it.

They had both been disappointed in what they had at least believed was love, and maybe it had been, for a short while. But circumstances had proved otherwise, and they felt reluctant to associate their blossoming relationship with the shadows of past failures.

Jayne had, in fact, been married briefly some years before, but the marriage fell apart when it became apparent that it was impossible to live on hearts and flowers, except in fairy tales, and the divorce came as something of a relief to both partners. And there had been other, fleeting liasons since, but little of consequence, and she did not go out of her way to encourage such things to happen. She had worried that she might be too set in her ways, or possibly too selfish, to open herself up to the possibility of a serious relationship, but since she had met Clifford, she felt something of a sea-change in her emotions, and the dawning of a new optimism in her outlook.

To a reserved kind of man such as Clifford, Jayne's lively personality was a delightful novelty, and the fact that they both appeared to share many interests was surely only more proof of the kindly intervention of the hand of fate. Intelligent, and very attractive too, destiny must have held him in special favour to send such a nonpareil into his life ; perhaps the years he had spent in perfecting his craftsmanship had been rewarded in a way that only now seemed to make sense to him.

Had he not been such a skilled artisan, he would not have been given the task of restoring the Morville monument ; ergo he would not have been in the church when Jayne called in, and so it was more than obvious that everything up to this moment had already been written in the stars. As to where the heavenly bodies might next lead him, he could only hopefully imagine. 

As the afternoon wore on, they sat by the riverbank, talking quietly and watching the sunlight send glittering diamonds over the surface of the water.

"You might think this odd, but I feel sort of, well, spellbound. . . does that even make sense? said Jayne, as she took off her sandals and slipped her feet into the shallow water, feeling the slippery caress of water grasses along her toes.

Clifford looked at her, raising his eyebrows in slight bemusement.

"Well, you could call it that, I suppose. Everything does feel rather different than it did before...."

His voiced trailed off, unsure of what to say.

"Before the kiss? Or before we met?"

"Both. I'm not sure how to explain it, but whatever it is, it's a feeling that I want to stay with me. And I want you to stay with me too."

Jayne smiled at him fondly, and squeezed his hand to reassure him that she had no intentions of doing otherwise. Leaning forward, she brushed the curtain of hair from where it had fallen over his brow, and looked deep into his eyes.

"I'm not going anywhere"

It was a somewhat subdued Jayne who sat at her computer the next afternoon, after what had felt like an interminable morning at work, listlessly re-reading the little she had written towards her book, the project that not so long ago had been so enthusiastic about. At this rate, many of the places she had once been so keen to rescue (in print, at least) from oblivion, would have crumbled into dust or been consumed by damp, and she felt a keen disloyalty to the architectural heritage she formerly felt herself to be a champion of.

Somehow, the passion had dwindled, having been replaced by a newer and more compelling focus, which ate up all her concentration and energy.  She might as well admit it to herself, thought Jayne, that she was falling for Clifford with a rapidity that left her at once exhilarated and unsettled, and could no more gather her thoughts to continue her writing than she could gather up a handful of confetti once flung into the air.

It defied sense, after all they had met but three times now, even though she felt she'd known him for much longer. There was a sense of apartness about him, a singularity and quiet disregard for conformity that she found intensely appealing, quite apart from the physical attraction he held for her.

Jayne's previous interactions with the opposite sex had been so far in the past that she had largely forgotten what she thought of as the rules of engagement ; it had been apparent that even now, in the 21st century, the ways by which couples might begin to conduct a relationship were every bit as prescribed as any which might have been encountered by a character of Jane Austen's creation.

It had really all been too much trouble for her, given the assorted misfits she had wasted so much time and effort on, only to be disappointed one way or another., and she was kept busy with her part time position at the local library, and her fledgling book.

She wondered if they might go out for a meal, or, better yet, invite him over for supper? She would feel more confident and relaxed in familiar surroundings, and it would give them an opportunity to get to know each other better, away from public gaze ; it seemed like an excellent idea. With a slight sense of panic she wondered how the evening might progress, once supper was finished - after all, they could hardly gaze lovingly at each other over a table of dirty dishes - and the wine, which might of course be useful in lowering any inhibitions caused by over politeness, or nerves - might prove to be another problem. More than a glass or two, and he would be unable to drive home again - whether this might be by design or accident, who could say - and he would be obliged to spend the night there.

Jayne silently cursed herself for overthinking the possibilities of the evening. It was a singularly frustrating facet of her character, this micro analysis of every conceivable outcome to any given situation, even the most appealing, until sometimes, feeling just too daunted by the whole thing, she would give up, thereby denying her of many potential happinesses and opportunities.

However, there was too much at stake to be too disheartened by the array of  misgivings that were in danger of eating up her self confidence, and, clearing her mind from the mists of doubt, she addressed the situation with a renewed clarity and energy.

Clifford, she knew already, was a gentle and reasonable man, kindly and patient, and if, as was unlikely, something should go awry with their evening, well, it hardly mattered. And the matter of the wine, she realised, was nothing to worry about at all. It was an act of some dishonesty that she had considered it a problem, because the thought of waking up with him in the morning was deeply desirable to her. Feeling much more positive, Jayne glanced at the clock and got ready to go out, but not before messaging Clifford with an invite to supper tomorrow evening. 

Rain was falling steadily the next day as a small green van pulled up outside Jayne's house, an ordinary terraced cottage in an unremarkable street, and Clifford looked up hopefully, to see a lamp shining brightly in every window. Within its walls, Jayne prowled the rooms, checking and re-checking that everything looked exactly right for the special evening ahead. It was an old house, with uneven floors and crooked ceilings, having settled into itself over the years, originally a home to a millworker, his wife and numerous children, but now occupied only by Jayne and her cat. Given the smallness of its rooms, she would often try to imagine how life must have been, imagining the clattering of tiny clog-shod feet across the quarry tiled floor, and pinafores hung up to dry on the rack over the fireplace, which now held bunches of dried lavender and the occasional greeting card. The wide fireplace still held the original blackleaded cooking range, now only for show as central heating rendered the diminutive dwelling more than adequately cosy, and Jayne had placed the sweet peas in a silver vase on the mantelpiece, and their drowsy sugar almond scent filled the room.

She heard a vehicle come to a halt outside, and hurried up the narrow stairs to look down upon Clifford, illuminated in the yellow sodium of the streetlight, as he stepped up to the door.

With a final glance in the mirror, she came down stairs as quickly as she dared, and opened the door wide, smiling as she did so.

"Come in out of the rain! it's so lovely to see you again."

"And you too! You can't imagine how much I have been looking forward to this evening!" 

Stepping into the tiny hallway, he put down the bottle of wine he was carrying, and slipped his arm around her waist, and kissed her.

" Forgive me my lack of manners! But you look so beautiful, I couldn't stop myself. . . you really are amazing"

Jayne blushed at the compliment, secretly pleased that her efforts had not gone unnoticed, and took him by the hand as she led him into the living room. Looking around, he noticed with interest the beamed ceiling and walls slightly bowed with age, and the quaint decorative objects she had collected over the years ; nothing valuable or even rare, and some of them in far from perfect condition, but each with some special personal relevance and story to tell. The ambience of the room spoke volumes about the character of its owner, revealing sensibilities not unlike his own, and he immediately felt at home.

As Jayne went into the kitchen to fetch wineglasses, she pretended not to notice Clifford's lingering glance at her curvaceous figure, having chosen a dress which clung alluringly to her contours. She was already well aware that its plunging neckline, revealing an inviting expanse of creamy white bosom, had given him some pleasurable difficulties in remaining focused, and smiled to herself.

Meanwhile, Clifford found himself rambling on by way of conversation  about 19th century industrial housing and the philanthropy of mill owners, as some sort of ineffective distraction to the thoughts currently running through his mind, exciting images of what he hoped might happen later ; thoughts of Jayne melting into his embrace with a passion equal to his own, and the dress slipping from her shoulders to reveal her breasts, as inviting as ripe fruits, into which he would bury his face...

Reappearing from the kitchen, Jayne brandished a corkscrew.

"Will you do the honours with the wine?" she said, perhaps a little too brightly. 

Relieved at having something to do which would spare both of them  the awkwardness of his meandering monologue, not to mention a distraction from his growing physical response to his thoughts, Clifford opened the bottle of wine and poured them each a glass, the ruby liquid reflecting back the glimmers of candlelight.

"To us, and the evening which lies before us" he said, handing one of the glasses to Jayne.

"To us, and que sera sera" she replied, and took a gulp rather larger than necessary, hoping before long to feel the relaxing warmth of the wine soothing her slight jitteriness, little suspecting that in reality, Clifford found it a most attractive quality. He was a man to whom most things and situations appeared to be made up of apparent opposites making a balanced whole, darkness and light, rough and smooth, one not existing without the other in some measure, and giving an equilibrium to his life and work in which he found stability and purpose. Jayne's nervous energy corresponded well with his slight reserve and stoicism, and it pleased him a great deal to find such a pattern within their relationship, reminding him yet again of the long awaited intervention of fate.

"Supper will be ready in about 15 minutes" she said. "I do hope you are hungry"

A broad grin spread over his face.

"YesI am, very much so. I can't tell you how much I have been looking forward to this."

Smiling, Jayne hoped that everything would turn out alright with the meal she had so carefully planned, with as much worry and preparation as if it had been a dinner party for a dozen critics of fine dining, instead of an apparently simple supper for two.

If he had seen her that afternoon, she thought, as she returned from the library laden down with half a dozen weighty cookery books, with wet hair from the unexpected rain, and a glum expression from an exasperating morning at work, he might have had second thoughts about the evening to come.

Much as she thought of herself, quite correctly, as a sensible and independent modern woman, the preparations for later that day sent her into a tailspin of panic. She flicked through the books, rapidly assessing the recipes, then dismissing them as too elaborate, or conversely, too simple : although she was a perfectly good cook, living alone had not presented her with too many opportunities to practice her skills and imagination in the kitchen, and it took some little while before she came to a decision.

No matter then, that the afternoon's efforts used up most of her modest array of saucepans, or that there had to be a hasty and unplanned outing in search of missing ingredients, for by five o'clock the kitchen was calm once more, with only the ticking of the clock to break the silence.

As she lay in the bath, counting down the minutes and feeling pretty pleased with herself, Jayne ran through the menu yet again : pasta with chicken and porcini, in a sauce of cream, brandy and black pepper, a salad with watercress and pinenuts, and to finish a tart of halved apricots, melting into a base of moist frangipane, which filled the kitchen with the heady scent of almonds. She sighed with satisfaction, and reached for the towel.

Clifford and Jayne sat together on the sofa, watching the rain continue to send silver streams down the window pane.

"I've brought you a present" he said "I'm just going to fetch it from the van. Don't go away!"

"As if! "she laughed

"One minute and all will be revealed"

And with that, he leaned forward to kiss her, before springing up to go outside.

During his brief absence, Jayne remembered the disastrous dinner dates she'd endured in the past, where a bunch of supermarket flowers (sometimes with the price label still attatched, as if to draw attention to the apparent generosity of the gift) had been proffered as some kind of exchange for the possibility of sexual favours later in the evening, and felt a shiver of revulsion at the memory. It had not taken more than a couple such encounters for her to decide that it was hardly worth the effort, for presumably all the decent and goodhearted men had been snapped up by now, leaving only the base opportunists and those beyond all redemption, philandering husbands being the very bottom of the pile.

But she felt different with Clifford, for he had a warmth and an openness to his character, in his company she felt appreciated and even beautiful, and above all, he asked nothing of her which she was not already eager to give him. She felt blessed.

Clifford closed the front door behind him, shutting out the summer evening's rain, and smiled almost shyly as he held out to her a small flattish package, wrapped none too neatly in brown paper.

"Apologies for the less than ideal presentation, but it's something I thought you might like. . . it's not new, not at all, but I thought that might be preferable to you. . open it, please"

Her curiosity piqued, Jayne tore open the wrapping as he watched.

Inside there lay a piece of stained glass, looking dark and unremarkable in the subdued light, so she went into the brightness of the kitchen to examine it more closely, holding it up to the light.

The colours in the glass panel came alive in her hand ; sapphire, gold and azure gleaming as brightly as on the day that they had been so carefully pieced together with lead over 150 years ago, and Jayne was mesmerised, turning the glass this way and that to reveal the depths of light and shadow within the colours.

"It is early Victorian glass from a disused church, the windows were removed for safe keeping, but were sold when the church itself was redeveloped into a dwelling . . . I was able to acquire one of them,  and this was left over from  refitting it elsewhere. I hope you like it." said Clifford.

Jayne was only half listening, intently studying the image before her, the painted glass depicting a butterfly with gold and saffron wings resting on a curled green frond of fern, all surrounded by a jewelled border of mosaic-like fragments like a portrait.

She looked from the glass to Clifford, and feeling tears prickling her eyes, quickly looked away again, feeling a warm flush of emotion reddening her cheeks. She felt momentarily overwhelmed by both the perfect suitability of his small gift, and the kind consideration which lay behind its selection, but before she could even thank him, he wrapped his arms around her in a warm and heartfelt embrace, softly smoothing his hand over her hair, and leaving her to mumble her gratitude into his shoulder.

"Thankyou so much, it's so lovely" she said, eventually, when she had discreetly untangled herself from his hair, now only a little damp with the one or two teardrops she hadn't quite managed to blink back.

"And I have an idea where this could go, it would be just perfect. Perhaps I'll show you later, after we have eaten"

Clifford thought he might have seen a seductive twinkle in her eye as she spoke, and hoped it was more than just wishful thinking on his part.

He tried his best to convince himself that it was simply going to be a pleasant evening with someone he already considered a loved one, whether she was aware of it or otherwise, but deep inside he knew his heart had overruled any misgivings he might have had, and he was not so much falling in love as already well and truly fallen. The rapidity with which Jayne had turned his world upside down both astonished and delighted him, and he had surrendered himself to the unexpected rush of emotion like a skydiver in freefall. 

Supper turned out to be a leisurely affair, seated at the small table under the window , where the rain continued to beat against the panes. Across the room,, the little cat had taken advantage of their mutual absorption to seat herself in the rocking chair, from where she fixed her orange unblinking gaze upon Clifford, sensing a rival for her mistress's affections.

The hours ticked by as they ate, and talked, and drank more wine, until Clifford remembered what she had promised earlier.

"And where is it you are planning to put the glass panel? you said you would tell me after supper . . ."

"Oh yes!" she replied, and, rising from the table, she took his hand and led him to the stairs, carefully picking up the piece of glass along the way.

His heartbeat quickened, and for a moment, Clifford was sure he could hear the very sound of his blood coursing through his veins like a river rushing towards a waterfall. Such an apparently bold development to the evening had left him nonplussed, not to mention unsure of how to react. He glanced at her, and she read the uncertainty in his features.

"Come with me, I want to show you something" she said, motioning upwards with a wave of her hand, towards where an open door shone light upon the steep narrow stairs.

Jayne's bedroom was suffused with a rosy pink glow from the bedside lamp, the walls a plain ivory cream colour. It contained very little by way of furnishings, there being apart from the bed only a wardrobe and a fussy Victorian dressing table, overburdened with mirrored panels and arched shelving and spiky finials, until it resembled more a miniature gothic cathedral than a useable piece of furniture.

Leading him to the far corner of the room, she paused in front of a small, rustically boarded door and lifted the latch with a soft click.

"And now more stairs, so please be careful!"

They  ascended to a small attic room, tucked beneath the eaves of the house, with a steeply pitched roof, and one small dormer window. So small were its dimensions that Clifford could stand fully upright in only the centre of the room, if it could even be called that.

"it was I think, a bedroom for children, or perhaps a maidservant, as it had a seperate staircase to the kitchen, very steep . . the door in the bedroom originally opened onto a kind of landing, the wall of which was taken down to enlarge the room. I love this space, it has an atmosphere all its own, I can't really explain it. . ."

Jayne's voice trailed off as she looked around at the rough plaster walls and the single bare light bulb narrowly missing Clifford's head ; there had been plans to turn it into some kind of study, or even a guest bedroom, even though it could contain very little apart from the smallest of beds, and luckily its inaccessibility had prevented her from using it as a store room.

Clifford's gaze followed the lines of the wooden beams, his craftsman's appraising eye noting the rough contours of the wood where they had been finished with speed rather than care, knowing they would hardly be seen in the attic of the finished dwelling. Running a practiced hand over the walls, he could feel the indents left by the edge of a workman's trowel as he smoothed the plaster into place almost two hundred years ago.

"What an astonishing place, and even better for having been left more or less untouched" he said, looking closely at the small window which still contained its original glazing of uneven crown glass, offering a slightly distorted view of the street beneath.

Jayne took the panel of stained glass, its detailing all but invisible in the weak light, and placed it carefully in the window, leaning it against the glass, switching off the light as she did so. A pale silvery moonlight was now the only illumination, and all was silent for a moment or two.

She turned towards Clifford, looking full into his face now also washed over with the glow of the moon, and to her he resembled a pale and beautiful medieval alabaster carving.

"When the sun rises, this is the first part of the house to receive its light, directly through this window. If we are blessed with a proper sunrise tomorrow, we will be able to see the colours as they were meant to be, lit by the sun."

Clifford noted her use of that particular pronoun, and hoped it was not a wine-induced slip of the tongue.

As if she could read his mind, Jayne slipped her arms around his neck to draw him closer, breathing in the scent of patchouli oil.

"Yes, I do mean "we" . . . will you stay?"

And nodding assent, he replied with three words of his own.

"I love you."

​

It was still dark when Jayne first began to stir, her slumbers disturbed by the very first notes of birdsong. She reached out an exploratory hand, smoothing it over the covers as she tried to remember the last few hours - but she was alone in the bed, and felt a wave of uncertainty.

Turning on the light, there was no sign of Clifford, and her heart experienced a sinking feeling, wondering what on earth could have happened ; the last thing she could remember was falling asleep, drifting into a deep and dreamless sleep as she lay cocooned in the warmth of his arms. She remembered they had laid down on the bed together, feeling a delicious sense of security and being in a hazy dreamlike state, as if she were enfolded in softest marshmallow - but what of now? 

The tortoiseshell cat bounded up the stairs and leaped onto the bed, purring and loudly demanding attention, and as Jayne absent-mindedly ruffled her fur, she couldn't help feeling rather annoyed with herself.

This is all my doing, she thought crossly ; if I had not had that last glass of wine (which had seemed like a good idea at the time), I would not have fallen asleep, and the evening might have taken a different direction. He must have gone home. And a silent tear of self pity slowly rolled down her cheek.

Just then a noise from downstairs distracted her thoughts, and, slipping on her dressing gown, she hurried down the stairs to investigate, the little cat running swiftly ahead and almost tripping her over. The living room was still in darkness, but from the kitchen came sounds of activity, and she cautiously pushed open the door.

"Good morning, sleepyhead!" said Clifford, as he poured boiling water into two china mugs, and the aroma of coffee permeated the kitchen.

"And if I remember rightly, one sugar and not much milk?"

Jayne nodded weakly as she took the mug from him, feeling a huge sense of relief, and chiding herself for her presumptions. The warmth revived her a little, and she smiled at him, already up and active while she felt like nothing more than returning to bed, only perhaps not by herself.

"You were so very tired last night. . . after you had shown me the attic, we laid on the bed for a little while . . just cuddling. . and you fell asleep. You looked so peaceful lying there that I didn't want to disturb you, so I put the duvet over you and went downstairs."

Jayne blushed with embarrassment as she listened to his words.

"Do you remember what we had planned for this morning?"

"Oh yes! the sunrise!" she replied.

"The sun will rise at five minutes past six, and the forecast is for clear skies" he said.

Glancing at the kitchen clock, now showing 5.45 am, he took hold of her hand, and led her through the living room, indicating the sofa as he did so.

"And it's really not too uncomfortable to serve as a bed, even though I had to share it for part of the night" he chuckled, stroking the little cat's back as she weaved around their legs.

"You slept on the sofa?" asked Jayne, incredulously.

"Of course" he replied, suddenly serious. "I would not be so ill mannered as to presume you wanted me to share your bed. It would have been the worst kind of misconduct on my part. And although we have not been together very long, I'd like to think that it could happen at some point."

"Some point very soon" broke in Jayne, before she could stop herself.

He smiled, and embraced her, feeling the warmth of her body beneath the flimsy silk of her dressing gown, and for the briefest of moments he entertained the thought of taking her at her word there and then. But, ever cautious, he banished the idea before it could take root in his mind.

"I couldn't agree more. As for now, let's go up to the attic and watch the sun rise."

By now the sky had changed from velvety black to a deep midnight blue, as the horizon began to imperceptibly lighten with the first silver and gold streaks of sunrise, and they made their way, hand in hand, to the tiny attic room. To Jayne's surprise, Clifford had already placed a tealight within a glass jar in one corner, and there was laid out on the floor an old fashioned feather-filled eiderdown of the kind she had not seen or used for many years.

"I brought it in from the van, for us to sit on ; don't worry, it is quite clean." he said.

Jayne plumped up the quilt as best she could, and sat down in the faint square of light cast by the window, looking up at the rapidly lightening sky, the last stars now receding, and the moon a pale and ghostly silhouette. Clifford knelt beside her, wrapping his arms around her tightly, kissing her neck as the dressing gown slipped from her shoulders. With a gentle gesture, he lifted her chin and bent down to kiss her, his hair falling down like a soft curtain as he ran his hands over her body, delighting in the soft voluptuousness of her curves and the passion of her response.

And so one thing led to another, and the sun rose entirely unobserved that morning.