Chapter Text
There was a party, held by Philippe and Ysabeau. From what he overheard from some of the gossiping women, her mother was a slave and her father, her owner, took her in as his own when she died, legitimising her as his daughter.
Marcus couldn't understand how someone so kind and beautiful could come from such an awful circumstance. He knew exactly probably how her mother died - it was all too common in America - and instantly disliked her father for it.
Marcus thought she was the most stunning woman in the room. She was shyly keeping to herself in a corner, her curls were in a neat updo, and she was trying not to fiddle with the sleeves of her pink gown.
"Hello," Marcus gave her a kind smile "I saw you were alone, and well, I thought you may like someone to talk to."
Phoebe looked at him, alarmed. Very few approached her at these gatherings. "Um hello. Miss Phoebe Taylor" She politely introduced herself. He took her hand and kissed it lightly.
"Dr Marcus de Clermont," He sometimes still felt strange using his adoptive name. She flinched slightly as his cold lips made contact with her warm skin, "Apologies, I tend to run cold."
"Oh, I met your grandmother. She was very kind, offering me the use of your library," Phoebe said, referring to Ysabeau. The woman had been very kind to her, surprisingly.
"You enjoy reading?" He asked, trying to gauge her in conversation.
"Yes. It is one of my favourite pastimes." Phoebe replied, then blushed. She didn't want to bore him, rambling on and on about books but Marcus smiled at her, wanting to hear more.
They spoke all evening, sitting in a corner. He, of course, kept most things close to his chest and as did she, more out of shyness. But they felt comfortable around each other.
"You are terrible!" Phoebe whisper-laughed as he told her of one nobleman's sickness. He had a sexually transmitted disease that he was attempting to pass off as a tropical disease he picked up in the colonies.
"Well, I was born abroad and my family's French. Forgive me if I don't adhere to the usual English sensibilities," Marcus replied, smiling at her laughter. She had beautiful laughter.
"I would like to take you out for a walk, tomorrow if possible?" Marcus asked nervously before she was escorted out by her father. She smile brightly and agreed, and so did her father. He saw Ysabeau and Philippe smiling at him from the corner of his eye.
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Philippe approached him later that evening, when he was in his room, looking over a medical textbook, "You've found her."
Marcus furrowed his brow, confused at what his grandfather said.
"Your mate." Philippe smiled and Marcus laughed slightly.
"We've only just met."
"And yet, I bet you want to spend all your time with her. Protect her from the world." Marcus simply smiled at his omniscient grandfather. He truly knew everyone in this family better than they knew themselves.
"We'll see."
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The two courted. They did the proper things of going on chaperoned walks and picnics. But he would pull her closer to him sometimes and sneak love letters back and forth, expressing the raw feelings of love and desire they had for one another. They stole kisses in dark corners of balls and the library in the de Clermont home.
"That isn't true!" Phoebe laughed as he told her a story of the time his father met Hamilton. They were sat in the garden of his family's estate. He could see his grandmother keeping a watchful eye.
"Perhaps, but you have the most beautiful laugh." Marcus smiled. Her face warmed and he held her hands in his. Her brown eyes looked into his, her smile shy.
"Your pulse increased." He said, rubbing his thumb over her wrist.
"What is the diagnosis, Doctor Whitmore?" She asked.
"Marriage."
Two days after her 23rd birthday, she fell ill. Sickness had been spreading, which wasn't unusual. She caught it after helping her maid, who had fallen sick.
Marcus went to see her after a messenger rushed to the hospital to send for him. He hadn't ridden a horse so quickly before.
"Marcus..." She whispered, smiling faintly at him. He went over to her, wrapping her in his arms around her, ignoring her protests. He sat her in his lap, and the coolness of his hand on her forehead offered some relief to her fever.
She died as night fell. And Marcus held onto her as she slipped away, whispering comforting words to her on the life they could've had.
"I'm so sorry Marcus," Matthew said. He was still sitting in her room, long after her body had been taken away. In one hand, he was gripping her handkerchief. One she'd sown herself. It had her scent all over it.
"Is that what it is to be immortal?" Marcus asked his father "To lose the ones we love?" Matthew didn't know how to answer him. He didn't know how to answer him, how to tell him that this wouldn't be the first loss he'd feel. More the first of many.