(Evelyn's POV)
The morning light slipped softly through the lace curtains of Evelyn's small chamber, painting golden streaks across her bedspread. She lay still for a moment, her eyes half open, and the first image that drifted into her waking thoughts was of him, Jonathan Hargrave. She could still see the way he looked last night, seated across from her beneath the dim glow of the tavern lamps, his eyes gleaming with warmth and quiet confidence.
She had met many men before, but none had caught her heart so swiftly. From the very instant she carried his breakfast to his table that morning, she had been captivated. There had been something different about him, not merely his fine appearance or his gentlemanly manners, but the way he looked at her, as if truly seeing her for who she was.
His voice had a calm strength to it, his smile easy yet sincere, and when he called her "beauty" with that boyish nervousness, she had nearly laughed aloud. But instead, her heart fluttered.
Now, lying there in her modest bed, Evelyn smiled faintly to herself. "Foolish girl," she whispered under her breath. "You have only just met him." And yet, her heart refused to listen to reason.
When she and her friends had agreed to meet him later that day at the Assess Ground, she had thought it no more than a jest, a bit of amusement. They had all teased her that morning, giggling about her "handsome breakfast gentleman." But when he arrived, her breath had caught in her throat.
He was dressed immaculately, his dark coat pressed and his hair neatly combed. The sight of him standing there waiting, a single rose in his hand, made her heart tremble with delight. Her friends whispered among themselves, their glances sly and approving.
"He has the manners of a gentleman," said Clara, her dearest friend.
"And the eyes of one who hides deep thoughts," murmured Lydia.
Evelyn had simply smiled, her cheeks warm, pretending to pay them no mind.
But she had noticed everything about him, the confident way he stood, the shape of his shoulders beneath his coat, the faint trace of cologne that seemed to linger in the air each time he passed by her side. There was something comforting in his presence, something strong yet gentle.
At the Velvet Cellar, she could not help but be drawn to him again and again. His laughter was low and pleasing, and though he spoke softly, his words carried weight. He was not like the boastful men she had met before, the ones who sought to impress by tales of wealth and adventure. Jonathan spoke of his training, his work, his dreams of becoming a steward, and somehow that simplicity felt more honest, more endearing than anything else.
When he said to her, "Then perhaps I might take the place he lost," her heart nearly leapt from her chest. She had laughed it off, pretending calmness, but inside she was trembling. There had been a spark between them silent, unspoken, yet undeniable.
And later, when it was just the two of them left at the table, their friends having gone to dance or mingle, she had found herself lost in his gaze. Her hand had brushed his once by accident, and for that fleeting moment, she wanted to draw closer, to trace her fingers along his sleeve, to rest her head upon his shoulder. It frightened her, that sudden longing.
He looked at her then with that half-smile, his eyes burning with something she could not name. She thought, If I were bolder, I would kiss him. But she had not dared. They had only just met.
When the night ended and he offered to escort her home, she felt her heart swell once more. They walked together through the quiet streets, the gas lamps glowing faintly above, their steps in rhythm. He spoke little, but when he did, his voice carried warmth. She noticed how carefully he walked beside her, how he slowed his pace when the road turned uneven, and how he waited outside until she safely entered her home before leaving. That simple act touched her deeply.
Now, as she stood before her mirror, brushing out her hair, she smiled again at the memory. His scent lingered faintly in her mind, a mixture of rose oil and fresh linen. She loved men who smelled of refinement and care and Jonathan had both.
By the time she reached the café that morning, she was filled with a nervous excitement she could not hide. When he entered, the bell above the door chimed softly, and she turned instinctively. There he was again, that familiar, handsome face, his expression brightening the moment their eyes met.
He smiled and she felt her cheeks flush. He looked younger when he smiled, like a boy caught in the first light of spring. As she approached to take his order, he said softly, "Good morning, Evelyn." The way he spoke her name sent a warmth through her chest.
She could not help smiling back. "Good morning, Mr. Hargrave."
He laughed gently. "You may call me Jonathan, if you please."
Her heart skipped. "Then you must call me Evelyn," she replied.
It felt so natural, so effortless, as if they had known each other for far longer than a single day. As she walked away to fetch his meal, she found herself thinking, Perhaps he will become someone I look forward to seeing every morning.
And indeed, she already did.
(Jonathan's POV)
In the evening, Jonathan sat with his cousin Kendrick and their friends at the pub where they often gathered, a lively place called The Silver Pint. The scent of ale and tobacco filled the air, and laughter rose in waves as men and women chattered across the room.
Kendrick raised his glass. "To London, where hearts are won and lost before supper!" he declared, grinning broadly.
Jonathan chuckled, clinking his mug against his cousin's. "And to the men foolish enough to believe they are immune to its charms."
Clara, seated beside them, arched an eyebrow. "You, immune? Oh, Jonathan, you have changed. The boy from Hampstead has become a man of the city."
Jonathan smiled but said nothing. His mind was elsewhere, on Evelyn.
Kendrick leaned closer. "You have been smiling to yourself all evening. Do not tell me it is another love letter from your sweet Margaret?"
Jonathan hesitated, swirling the ale in his mug. "No, not Margaret."
Clara's eyes lit with mischief. "Then who?"
"A young lady I met at Brookside Lane," Jonathan said at last. "Her name is Evelyn."
Clara gasped softly, exchanging a knowing look with Kendrick. "Evelyn," she repeated with a teasing smile. "And what of her, Mr. Hargrave?"
Jonathan sighed, half-laughing. "She is unlike anyone I have met. There is a light in her eyes, and a way she carries herself, gentle, yet full of life. We dined together last evening with her friends. She is… captivating."
Kendrick laughed heartily. "Ah, it has happened, then! The London spell. Welcome, cousin, you are now one of us!"
Their friends burst into laughter, raising their glasses again. Jonathan tried to laugh along, but his thoughts drifted far from the noise around him.
He saw again the image of Evelyn at the Velvet Cellar, her laughter, the curve of her smile, the way her eyes sparkled when she spoke. When he handed her that rose, the brief brush of her fingers against his had sent a thrill through him he could not explain.
"I cannot stop thinking about her," he murmured quietly, almost to himself.
Clara leaned closer, lowering her voice. "And what of Margaret?"
Jonathan stared into his drink for a long moment before replying softly, "Margaret feels… distant now. I wrote to her, but my words felt hollow. I do not know what has happened to me."
Kendrick placed a hand on his shoulder. "What has happened is simple. You are alive, cousin. You have been buried under duty and guilt for too long. London has given you breath again."
Jonathan smiled faintly. "Perhaps you are right."
They continued their talk, but even as laughter filled the pub, his mind remained with Evelyn. He could still hear her laughter echoing in his memory, soft and melodic. The scent of roses lingered in his imagination and he remembered the way she looked up at him when he escorted her home grateful, shy and radiant beneath the lamp's glow.
When he finally left the pub that night, the streets of London seemed brighter than before. The carriages rattled, music band playing near the curbs and the bells of St. Andrew's tolled faintly in the distance. He walked with a smile, unaware that his friends watched from the window, grinning at his retreating figure.
Clara nudged Kendrick playfully. "He is lost to us now."
Kendrick laughed. "Not lost, my dear. Simply found."
As Jonathan made his way back toward Brookside Lane, his thoughts were consumed with only one thing, the hope of seeing Evelyn again. And though he did not yet know it, that hope would soon draw him deeper into a love that neither time nor reason could easily undo.