While Anne looked on in confusion, the gentleman continued without any real interruption, apparently not intimidated by indecisiveness.
~~~
Elizabeth wondered at the contradictions of her life. Was she brave or cowardly, wise or foolish? She had, in her own humble opinion, weathered the loss of her sight rather well. Her first year of railing against fate—her tilting at windmills—had mostly passed under cover of darkness in her own bed, hidden even from Jane. Daylight hours belonged to strength and character. She took the slights she could hear, though the speaker whispered yards away, with the aplomb necessary to ensure she was no burden to her family or her own self-respect. She took the silliness of her sisters, the indolence of her father, the shrillness of her mother, and her fears of becoming a blind, penniless spinster of fifty, and the worries about her elder sister, out in society for six years without a suitor. She took it all in stride. Night was for crying; day was for resilience.
Elizabeth had built a layer of armour any stone would be proud of and any knight of old would not disdain; yet she had fled a single unkind remark from a woman she despised, who had no connection at all to the Bennets. She had gone so far as to run four thousand miles into another life to escape. Why? Why run? Why not let the gentlemen of Netherfield—who had done her no real harm—apologise? Was she a coward, a wise woman, both, neither? Or was she running from something far worse and more insidious than fear? Was she running from hope?
~~~
Anne’s unexpected gentleman chuckled.
“My pardon, my lady. I am George Read of Cleveland, Ohio, at your service. If you insist, I will scour the room for someone who knows someone you know; or if you prefer, I will accost some matron we can both pretend to know. For myself, I prefer to dance with you and worry about formalities later, if at all. Nobody will know we have not met, nor care if they did.”
Anne was perplexed, but decided it was the American way, and she could treat it as another oddity of this journey. After Lizzy climbed to a ship’s crow’s nest wearing trousers, what was a little self-introduction? As the man said, who would ever know?
She answered self-consciously, uncertain whether she wished Lizzy were there or not. Lizzy would not have been the least intimidated by a self-introduction. Had she not done so with Darcy? On the other hand, Anne was heir to a great estate; talking to a man should not kill her, nor be beyond her abilities. The matron with whom she had arrived had left for refreshment an hour earlier, so Anne was quite alone, though in the middle of a dance hall.
Anne decided to follow the stranger’s lead. “That sounds like a lot of trouble, sir, so let us dispense with it. I am Miss Anne de Bourgh of Rosings in Kent.”
She gave a little curtsey. “Where exactly is Ohio, sir?”
~~~
Mr Bingley looked different than Jane remembered. A shadow lay over his countenance, a tinge of sadness, perhaps related to their recent history. On the other hand, if they were in the sun—metaphorically at least—he would cast a stronger shadow than before. The lightness of his countenance had been replaced with solidity. He stood straighter, smiled a touch less, showed less emotion. Perhaps he had traded serenity for strength, youth for wisdom, disappointment for hope. She wasnot displeased; not in the least. His humour could be restored with the correct inducements.
With those observations in mind, Jane Bennet did what she did best—gave Mr Bingley a smile. It was time to get on with this task.
“Mr Bingley, we both know why we are here, but may I violate the usual order of things by speaking first?”
She expected the utmost cordiality, and perhaps a self-deprecating smile, but was quite surprised to hear him laugh aloud before composing himself.
“Of course, Miss Bennet. You may speak first any time you like—”
She nodded, but he was not quite finished.
“—for the rest of your life.”
Now she could not decide whether to be charmed or vexed, so she continued her plan, or what was left of it. “Is there any point in telling you that you are in no way honour bound to me?”
~~~
Mr Read laughed at Anne’s question, and replied in the same vein, “Where exactly is Kent?”
Anne had no idea why that question and answer was funny, but it was, so she laughed a bit just like she might with Lizzy, but never before in company. “I asked first.”
Mr Read chuckled. “Around five hundred miles west, Miss de Bourgh.”
“Kent is around three thousand five hundred miles east.”
With that the man broke into a true laugh, showing the good humour that her cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam had once displayed, but which had been diminished since he had spent time on the continent. Mr Read even slapped his knee in his mirth, which would have given Lady Catherine an apoplexy, but Anne quite enjoyed.
~~~
Elizabeth’s muddled and confusing thoughts ran around and around in her head as she enjoyed the supreme quietude of the evening, in her own company, in her own parlour, until she was not at all certain if she was enjoying her reflections or going mad. Perhaps she was not as enamoured of silence as she supposed.
Mayhap the distraction of the thoughts, or the enjoyment of the solitude, caused her to be careless. Regardless of the cause, she failed to notice a step stool that was exactly where it had always been, exactly where it belonged, and exactly where she had evaded it a hundred times. Either way, when she stumbled over it, panic seized her, followed by a brief moment of expectation for the fall that would happen in another second or so—a fall she assumed would be every bit as bad as the hundreds she had experienced since she lost her sight but not her stubbornness.
Elizabeth was completely and thoroughly unprepared for the sharp flash of pain that came when her head hit a piece of furniture she did not even know was present, because she never came to that corner of the room. Her last thought before she succumbed to unconsciousness was one of screaming pain mixed with perplexity, for the sound of her head hitting the object was not what she had expected—not what she expected at all—not in the least.
