She did not ask where. She just nodded.
He led her through a small orchard behind the inn, the path winding between flowering trees whose petals fluttered in the breeze like confetti from some unseen celebration. The moonlight filtered through the branches, bathing everything in silver.
They stopped beside a narrow stream. A fallen log served as a makeshift bench, and Johnathan sat first, gently tugging her down beside him.
For a long while, neither of them spoke.
The quiet was not heavy. It was comfortable. Like the kind shared between old friends or lovers who did not need words to feel understood.
Frances leaned forward, elbows on her knees, staring down at the moon’s reflection rippling on the water.
“I almost forgot what this felt like,” she murmured.
“What?” he asked softly.
“Stillness. Safety. Something that is not running.”
He nodded. “Me too.”
She searched his gaze. There was something unguarded in his expression. No mask. No jest. Just the man—no title, no scandal, no shadow of Cranford hanging over them.
“You could go back,” she said suddenly. “To London. Alone. Leave me here. They would forgive you in time.”
Johnathan’s brow furrowed. “Is that what you want?”
“No,” she said. “But it is what might make your life easier.”
He reached for her hand. “Frances. The easy life never suited me. I spent a decade trying to build a persona I thought would keep me safe. Untouchable. Alone. But I was miserable. And it was only when you burst through my door that I realized what I had given up.”
She swallowed hard.
“You make me want to be someone worth standing beside,” he said. “Not just because I have rescued you or because of a childhood promise. But because when you look at me, you see something good. And I want to believe that’s true.”
Frances turned fully toward him, heart thrumming. “It is.”
He leaned in slowly, as if asking permission without speaking.
She met him halfway.
This kiss was different from the others. It was not born of danger or desperation. It was slow, reverent—like the sealing of something they had not dared name until now.
When they parted, she rested her forehead against his.
“I am scared,” she admitted.
“So am I.”
“But I trust you.” Her lips curved into a ghost of a smile.
His arms tightened around her. “Then let us face our fear together.”
They stayed like that for a long time, the scent of blooming apple blossoms in the air, the wind rustling through grass, the stars above blinking down like quiet sentinels.
Eventually, they rose, fingers laced.
They did not need the music anymore.
They danced again—just the two of them—beneath the branches and the stars. No steps to remember. No audience to perform for.
