There are moments when you feel as if your Memory is a thing carved in stone, something that will always be remembered. Grace Tenderstitch watched as Bennet stood and brushed the grass from his bottom and wondered what it would be like to have the familiarity with a man that would permit that kind of touch. The moment locked itself in her mind and awakened a kind of physical longing in Grace, filled her with a desire to have and hold, and to be had and held. It had been such a long time since she had this stirring sense that her face blushed red; "red as a beet" she could hear her Mother say. And so she did not hesitate when Bennet reached for her hand to help her to her feet, and did not hesitate to hang on to his hand when they walked back towards the picnic, her other hand holding the bunched fabric of her torn dress at her hip to cover herself.
Bennet seemed to feel it too, the melting sensation that blurs the awkward moments and rounds off the edges of beginning times. He had already had that feeling for Grace when he was assembling the Picnic Breakfast. He felt bigger inside himself and bolder, momentarily wondering at his effort.
"I am so sorry about your dress, Grace," Bennet offered.
Grace untangled her fingers reluctantly from those of Bennet's, and looped the dress about her waist tying it in a hitch against itself.
"I can fix it Bennet," she said. She sighed and took his hand again.