Kismet

        People often told Abelle not to sit by the pond, nestled deep in the gardens. First of all, it was hidden by bushes and obscured their view of her. Secondly, there could be snakes, especially in the early summer. Thirdly, it was always a little pocket of humidity that tended to make her hair frizz and curl and ruined whatever look her mother had sculpted it into for the evening. Fourthly, she was a lady, and her objective at these parties was to be seen and fawned over, and people could not fawn over that which lingered near the pond.

        But Abelle loved the way the frogs and crickets sang, and the rippling sounds of water. She loved that she could hear when one of the koi fish splashed above the water to nip at the flies. Most of all, she loved that it obscured her from the constantly prying eyes, the constantly fawning populace that ‘only wanted to help.’

        Abelle didn’t need their help, thank you very much. She might be blind, but she’d long since memorized the layout of the Moreau Manor, and its gardens. In fact, she could tell the moment her slippers reached the slightest of inclines that she was approaching her pond, and exactly how many steps it took to get to her bench- no assistance needed.

        She knew sitting out here, tonight of all nights, would get her a decent earful from her mother. After all, the party she was skipping was celebrating her own engagement.

        She tipped her head up, enjoying the slightest of breezes that picked up. On it, she detected a hint of a gentleman’s cologne. She didn’t stir, even when his footsteps drew nearer and nearer, then stopped next to her bench. He didn’t say anything for a long while.

        She withheld her sigh, angling her head so her ears were pointed at him, not bothering to hide the frown he’d inspired. “Could I help you, sir?”

        “I was only thinking of the best way to approach without startling you,” he said. “My apologies. Might I join you?”

        “No need for apologies,” she said. She slid over, making some room for him on the bench and indicating to it. There was plenty of room for him to sit without touching her, so when his fingertips brushed hers she felt a swell of annoyance and folded her hands in her lap.

        “A beautiful night tonight,” he said. “I do love a bright, full moon night.”

        “Have you come to mock me, sir?” she asked, not bothering to hide her frown.

        “Of course not,” he said, sounding as though he was quite offended that she would ask. “I only meant to imply that I, too, have come to enjoy this night. I was hoping I might come to enjoy your company.”

        “Then I must disappoint you,” she said. “After all, it would be improper for me to enjoy the company of a man other than my betrothed on the night of my engagement ball.”

        “Ah,” he said, “So I was not mistaken. You are the famous Abelle Moreau.”

        “I am,” she replied. “Have you come seeking me out?”

        “I wouldn’t say that,” he replied, “Rather, I would call this meeting kismet. Are you familiar with the concept?”

        “I’m afraid not,” she replied.

        “Fate,” he replied. “A simple, unescapable destiny. You and I, here at this moment, drawn to the pond, to the song of the night, to the beauty of the moon’s glow.”

        “You keep mentioning the moon’s beauty, as if that means anything to me.”

        “Perhaps it doesn’t to you,” he said, with a smile that she could hear in his voice. “But it does to me. Shall I describe it to you?”

        She was quiet for a moment, as if mulling it over. After a long pause, she nodded. “…if you must.”

        “Hm. The night sky is a rich navy blue, bespeckled with glowing pinpricks in complicated patterns. The sky lightens as it wraps the moon in its loving embrace, turning the navy to cobalt blue. The moon has a ring around it tonight, which I hear means we may see rain in our near future.”

        She found herself surprisingly disappointed when he stopped. So rarely did anyone take the time to describe to her things that were a given in their world- they often used useless words like ‘pretty,’ ‘beautiful,’ or ‘ugly.’

        There was a bit of laughter in his voice when he asked, “Shall I go on?”

        She swallowed the lump in her throat. She was worried she might sound breathless when she responded, “Yes.”

        “Shall I tell you of your pond, then?” he asked. “A beautiful pool reflecting the night sky, though through the dark carpet of blue, I can see the fish circling. They are like specters in the deep, ghostly white with orange speckled scales, lurking shadows just beyond sight. There are lily pads on the south side of the pond, and on it, a frog. Hear him? He is quite fat, warty, green, with brown stripes and large, yellow eyes. I think he’s making eye contact with me.”

        A giggle rose in her throat, and she failed to stifle it. “Are you in a staring contest with a frog, sir?”

        “I just might be,” he said, not bothering to restrain the mirth in his voice. They lapsed into a peaceful silence.

        She didn’t usually find silence comfortable when she knew someone else was nearby. She could never be sure of the other person’s intentions, or emotions. With no vocal cues, no sound of stirring fabrics or shuffling feet, anything could be brewing in her companion’s mind. But strangely, with her quiet stranger, Abelle felt sure he was only enjoying the pond as she so often did herself.

        “So,” he replied. “What has driven you from your own party, might I ask?”

        Abelle much preferred his silence to that question.

        “Too many questions. Too much fussing,” Abelle replied. “Always with the fussing.”

        “Is your betrothed not beating them away with a stick?” he asked.

        “I’ve no idea if my betrothed has even arrived yet,” she replied with a sigh. “He hadn’t when I left, as far as I know. His carriage was delayed. Something about a broken axle.”

        “Ah, broken axle. The oldest excuse in the book,” he said. “If axles and wheels were quite as flimsy as people would have us believe, we would never make it further than our front gates.”

        Abelle hummed. “Perhaps he is lying to evade his fate- or kismet, as you call it.”

        “And why would he want to do that?” the stranger asked.

        “Oh, I don’t know,” she said, voice heavy with the burden of sarcasm, “Perhaps because his family has sold him off to the least marriageable Moreau daughter?”

        “Least marriageable? I was under the impression all of the Moreau ladies were quite striking.”

        “Striking,” she repeated with a scoff. “And what man would want a wife who cannot see? Who cannot hope to attend the matters of the household?”

        “Who said you couldn’t?” he asked, surprising her.

        “I… am blind,” she replied. For a moment she wondered if her newfound friend was daft.

        “Well, of course I know that,” he said, with a scoff of his own. “But what does that stop you from doing, really?”

        “Well… I cannot hope to instruct maids to set up parties, for example. How ever would I know if they’re placing the porcelain correctly?” she paused, “And the finances. It is the lady of the house’s job to care for the expenses of the estate. How could I read the documents to know that everything is in order?”

        “I imagine you could have someone read the paper to you, or describe the place settings to you, as I have described our dearest friend, the frog.”

        “No husband wants a wife like me,” she said. “I assure you. My other sisters are long since married off, and yet here I am, dreadfully near the age of a spinster, only just now getting engaged.”

        “Well, you tell me,” he pressed, “How is this fellow of yours? What has he done to you that makes you feel so wary of his intentions?”

        “Nothing he’s done directly to me,” she replied. “Merely the things I’ve heard of him. Of his family.” She paused for a while, and when he did not interject, added softly, “In truth, I haven’t even met him yet.”

        He hummed, seemingly deep in the throes contemplation. Finally, he spoke. “Go on, then. What have they said?”

        “They say he is a notorious womanizer. They say his words sway the hearts of women like the wind sways the leaves in the trees. They say he is a keen hunter, but off so frequently that his brothers must oft take care of his affairs. When he is not hunting game animals, he is hunting girls.”

        “They certainly say a lot, don’t you think?” he replied. “Besides, from what I’ve heard, the Tribaleaux family makes their living on rifles. Does it not make sense for him to attend hunts? I’ve heard he’s a fair shot, at that.”

        “Yes, well,” she kicked the dirt in her discontent, “I’ve heard his eldest brother is better.” She paused when she received no response. “He is quite the eligible bachelor. I fail to see why he would settle for me.”

        “Perhaps you should return to the party and ask him yourself,” her strange friend suggested.

        She shook her head. “No. Not yet, at least.” There was another stretch of silence- shorter this time, as she was eager to break it. “You’ve pressed me, then. Tell me about yourself. Who are you, anyway?”

        “A poet,” he replied. “The youngest of my family. The pride of my mother and the bane of my father.”

        “A single man?” Abelle asked.

        “Not so. Betrothed myself,” he replied.

        “To whom?”

        “A woman most fair, with bright golden hair, and eyes that shine in the sun,” he said, his voice lilting and melodic as he recited the words.

        She tried to hide her delight, though she had to admit the words were pretty. “And how long have you known this woman?”

        “We met in the spring when she was just a small thing. When I saw her, my heart was undone.”

        “Is she with you tonight?” Abelle asked, smile fading. And edge of nervousness creeped into her heart as she asked, “Have I kept you from her?”

        “Not at all,” he replied, tone light and jovial. “No, my lady’s heart wavers, unsure what she favors, and I pray that one day she’ll be mine.”

        “Oh,” Abelle said, now quite serious, as if she may have struck a nerve.

        “But I do not fret, because I know one day yet, that our fates will be ever entwined.” There was a rustling of fabrics as he stood from the bench. “Yes, my lady most fair, is as ethereal as air, and perhaps has forgotten we’ve met. But I do believe in the fates the gods weave, and I hear that they call it kismet.”

        Abelle was speechless. Unsure what else to do, she clapped, “Prettier words were never spoken, Sir…”

        “Tribaleaux,” he replied. Very gently, he pulled her hands from her lap, folding them in his own and tugging for her to rise.

        She did so with no resistance, feeling the heat rising in her cheeks as she came to an embarrassing revelation.

        “Shall we return to our party, dearest?” he asked, the amusement alight in his tone. “Your mother sent me to fetch you.”

        Abelle suffered the feeling of instability only a moment before she allowed the mirth to creep back into her smile. To his surprise and delight, she slipped her arm into his and allowed him to escort her. “I suppose we shall.”

        Kismet, indeed.