Sarah had taken to wearing her mother’s ring, a relic from a tumultuous past etched vividly in her memory. The image of her mother casting the ring to the ground still lingered, a haunting spectacle replaying in Sarah’s mind.
The echoes of her impassioned cries to her father, bemoaning a loveless existence and an insatiable yearning for fulfillment, reverberated in her ears. The instinct to shield her ears, a habit formed in childhood, persisted. Even in the sanctuary of their home, a war waged within its walls.
As Sarah entered the shop, the doorbell’s chime signaled her arrival, met by the disdainful glares of her coworkers. What now?
She endeavored to ignore their reproachful expressions, proceeding to her sewing station. A gasp escaped her lips at the sight of a bouquet of crimson roses resting on her workspace. She needed no tag to discern the sender. The sour mood among her fellow seamstresses now made sense.
“I thought you were wedded blissfully,” remarked Rosaline, trailing behind Sarah with Valeria and Gwendolyn in tow, “yet, entertaining suitors? Is one not enough for you?”
Sarah closed her eyes, exhaling deeply, restraining herself from uttering words that might jeopardize her employment.
Facing them, she responded calmly, “I’ll say this once more. I won’t entertain Mr. St. Claire’s courtship, for I am entirely content in my marriage.”
Sarah handed the bouquet to Rosaline, saying, “If you fancy these, they’re yours. I have an abundance of roses at home.”
Returning her focus to her work, Sarah allowed her coworkers to chatter, knowing gossip was their forte. As long as she could retain her position, the rest was inconsequential.
The day lingered on, marked by a sluggish pace. Sarah, the last to leave, endured added burdens and challenges, courtesy of her coworkers’ resentment towards the flowers. She accepted the toil without protest, avoiding escalation of the issue. The night had fallen, late but dry, with the distant hum of a train signaling departure.
Upon securing the store, the distinct sound of approaching footsteps roused Sarah’s attention. Swiftly turning, she confronted the source — none other than her persistent suitor, Mr. Reginald St. Claire.
Surprised, she had assumed he would cease his advances after encountering Henry at her residence.
“Hey, Sarah,” he greeted with an unabashed grin. “How was work?”
“I’ve told you before, Mr. St. Claire,” Sarah asserted, “I have a husband and a child.”
St. Claire, momentarily taken aback, erupted into laughter. Sarah’s narrowed gaze questioned the amusement. What could be humorous about her sincere statement? Could he have discerned it as a ruse?
“Sarah, sweetheart,” he addressed casually, earning an involuntary cringe from her. She had never granted him the liberty of using her name in conversation. “Please, I know that’s just an act.”
Sarah felt a chill down her spine. How did he see through her? Suppressing panic, she steeled herself. Perhaps he was merely testing her resolve; she wouldn’t yield.
“What do you mean, act?” Sarah demanded, her eyes piercing.
“An act,” St. Claire emphasized, grinning confidently. “That man wasn’t truly your husband, was he? I can’t imagine you’d settle for someone as plain and dull-looking as him.”
Sarah scoffed, suppressing the urge to defend Henry’s honor openly. “How dare you call him plain and dull-looking?” He’s more handsome than you could ever aspire to be!
Despite the unspoken retort, she maintained composure, unwilling to provoke the man further.
“Come on, Sarah, drop the act,” he insisted with misplaced confidence. “I know you’re trying to make me jealous, and it worked. Can you stop now?”
Sarah, flabbergasted, blinked in disbelief. Was he genuinely serious?
“I’m not trying to make you jealous, Mr. St. Claire,” Sarah retorted firmly, frustration audible in her voice. “He is my husband, and we are married. What part of that eludes you?”
St. Claire’s confident grin gradually faded. It appeared he had realized his mistake.
“Furthermore,” Sarah continued, her tone sharpening, “we would appreciate it if you ceased loitering near our home. It’s causing concern for my husband.”
She fixed him with a serious glare. “Believe me, you don’t want to test his patience. I’ve witnessed his wrath before, and you certainly don’t want to provoke him. Courting a married woman has consequences, and you’d be wise not to tempt fate.”
With that, she walked away, leaving behind a stunned St. Claire. Sarah took satisfaction in seeing a hint of fear in his eyes; unintentional as it was, it seemed he needed a reality check. Courting a woman with a husband was a perilous game, and he appeared to grasp that fact.
“I’m home,” Sarah announced softly, though the inhabitants of her dwelling were undoubtedly resigned to their beds by now.
She carefully removed her coat and shoes, making an effort not to make even the slightest noise and disturb their slumber.
“It’s late.”
Sarah’s shoulders jerked as she heard a voice. She then spotted Henry sitting in the living room, seemingly engrossed in one of her Viscardian language books.
She thought he had already retired for the night. Why was he up so late? Could her Viscardian Self Help Language Learning book truly be so intriguing that he would stay up this late reading it?
Sarah’s eyes widened as she considered the most likely explanation.
“Were you waiting for me?”
Henry was taken aback by Sarah’s perceptiveness, his head snapping to her in surprise against his will.
“You are?!” Sarah pressed, finding it hard to believe.
Henry avoided her gaze, ostensibly still immersed in the book, although Sarah doubted he was actually reading it right now. “I was learning some Viscardian words to convince people that I’m from that country. I was so immersed that I haven’t noticed the time.”
Sarah just smiled gently and nodded her head. She would accept that answer even if she wasn’t entirely convinced by it. His actions clearly contradicted what he was saying anyway. It felt comforting that he had actually waited for her to come home even though, he doesn’t have to. “Okay, then.”