Hey! This is just a drabble that I had to do for school. It probably isn't as polished as it could be, but whatever. :) I should warn you that this is probably sappy to an extreme, but yall might like it despite or for that factor.

Disclaimer:

Me: Can I own Jane Austen's genius, expertise, and stories?

Universe: No.

Me: weeps

My aunt closes the door as she leaves, effectively cutting off her own chatter. I allow myself a quiet sigh as I lay on my bed, the curtains drawn against the light. I feel guilty as relief fills my breast in the finally quiet room. I dearly love my aunt, but her…need for conversation exhausts me when I have these headaches. As I think of it, the pain pulses behind my eyes. It is awful, but not as bad as before. The pain is soothed, as I am, in the quiet. I close my eyes, letting them rest as I try to think about nothing. In the stillness, I suddenly encounter a different pain, somehow worse then the headache. In my heart.

Frank.

My eyes fly open and I gingerly get off my bed and start to feverishly pace, trying to offset this new and yet famili8ar pain, but to no avail. I see his laughing, handsome face behind my eyes as clearly as if he were standing before me. Frank. I think of the letter that I sent him, releasing him from our engagement. He had yet to reply. I never expected him to fully denounce me in this way. To not write, to not respond, not even to fulfill my request for the return of my letters…why didn't he write? Why didn't he come? I give a small, bitter laugh. Why should he write? Or come? And yet, I know I'd been secretly hoping for him to ride like mad into Highbury, sail up our stairs, and sweep me into his arms with words of devotion and love. 'Arise, my love, and come away….' He would whisper, just like he did during one of our secret rendezvous.

Foolishness! Why should you even imagine such a thing? He's made it very plain that he doesn't want you! And why do you pine for him like a schoolgirl, pray? He has treated you abominably. Laughing at you and harboring malicious stories about you with that…I stare at the rug, trying to think of something to label Miss Woodhouse without becoming vulgar. The rug was pretty but faded when I first remember it, and now it is faded almost into a ghost of a rug. Will that soon be me, I wonder? Faded and worn until I'm unrecognizable? I remember that party, both disastrous parties, the one with the stupid letter game and the one at Box Hill. I see again his officious, flirtatious attentions toward Miss Woodhouse, their laughing mouths and telling eyes. How could he do such a thing? We are engaged! Or, were engaged. Even if no one but ourselves knew it, we still knew. How? Why? I remember how he looked when I accepted his proposal; his joy, his laugh, his jubilant kiss. I see his cold face from recent times, angry and disappointed in me, in who I am. My eyes prick suddenly, and my hearts feels even heavier than before. I tiredly sit in a chair.

I suddenly see my reflection before me. I note the pale skin with purple circles under the eyes, those sad, tired eyes which look like caves without light. I look dreadfully ill; sick unto death. Would anyone hire a governess who looked ill and of a sickly constitution?

A governess. I turn from the mirror. How I loathe the word, and how much more I loathe the office it presents. And such is to be my fate. Foolish girl! How could it be otherwise? For a season I dreamed of happy release. To away from poverty and servitude by the side of the man I love, and who loved me! Never more to be anxious about my future or the future of my dear relations who love me so well! To be happy. But such is not for me. I accept this, I truly do. I must find a situation, and try to do credit to the education that the good Campbells gave me. I look at the letter I wrote, announcing my acceptance of the position that Mrs. Elton found for me. That I should have to be grateful to one of the people I dislike is a dreadful irony. Horrid woman! May she be blessed in her situation. And I, in mine. Far from home, from comfort, from friends and family.

From him.

Only when I feel damp on my hand do I realize that I am weeping.