As Weatherby Swann watched his daughter moving through the crowd, he
was struck again by how much she looked like her mother, in her wedding
finery and beaming with happiness. He was reminded of that bright summer
day in the garden, when he'd asked Sophia to marry him. There were all
sorts of showy flowers in the Caribbean, he thought with a touch of
nostalgia, but nothing like those English roses.
Weatherby was a prosaic man, not given to flights of fancy or romantic
notions (unlike his late wife, who'd shared Elizabeth's love of novels and
excitement), but on that day, it had seemed to him that the air around
Sophia shimmered with the strong scent of roses, giving her an ethereal
glow. He hadn't intended to propose; he'd meant to ask her father first -
everything aboveboard and proper, as it should be - but her lovely smile and
that dizzying smell had overwhelmed him, and, for once acting without a
thought of the consequences, he'd taken her hand and asked her to be his
"Yes," she had said, "Oh, yes!"
It all seemed so long ago, and so far away. Sophia had been dead all of
Elizabeth's life, and Weatherby could no longer recall if the resemblance he
saw was real or imagined, if Elizabeth truly looked like her mother, or if
his memories had been corrupted so that he saw Elizabeth's face in place of
Sophia's true guise.
He could no longer call to mind the fetching way she'd smiled at him, but
when he thought of the perfume that had hung heavily in the air that day, he
could still feel the way his heart had lurched at her words. "I can still
smell the roses," he said to himself, "Just like it was yesterday."
Comments (feedback) are the life-blood of the fanfic loop. Writers love to
hear from their readers, be it a simple "I read your story and liked (or didn't
like) it." or detailed constructive criticism (con crit). Hearing what you, the
reader, thinks about a story helps a writer improve and helps to assure that
future stories are ones you will want to read.