In case some of you don't know, Agnes Wickfield is my favorite Dickensian character, and though fans usually like her the critics inevitably give her a raw deal. In this one-shot story, I wanted to show her thought process. Extreme thanks to Gina (a.k.a. Dickensian812) for doing all she could to steer me away from the dreaded Angst, and for helping me out with the title!

In Silence

I think I wished I had died that evening, by the fire.

I remember slitting the seal of the letter - how excited I was! A letter from Trotwood! - and unfolding the sturdy parchment to see his dear, familiar handwriting, scrawled four ways across the paper in the overflow of all he had to say. I had been so lonely without him; missed his bright presence as he bounded down the stairs each morning when he used to go to school; things were not the same without his airy humor, good nature, and foolish, earnest praise of me (I was very unused to such attention!), and in the old house, with only Papa for company and -

But I shall let that pass. The voices rising and falling downstairs that evening - one, swayed by a flood of alcohol, the other low and intruding, like an insect - may say enough for that part of my life.

It was dim in my sitting room, because dusk had fallen some hours past; only the fire tumbling about behind the grate provided any light by which I could read, and even this light was inferior. I was compelled to hold the letter - it seemed a sort of talisman, which immediately worked upon me to uplift my tired spirits - very close to the fire to read. Trotwood told me of his endeavors with such humor that I laughed till the tears ran down my face, and I had to hold the paper away from me so I didn't mar his words; he wrote of the difficulties he was having at his work (which I very much doubted, but he was very modest), of his visit to Mr. Traddles, who I recognized as the kindly gentleman from Mrs. Waterbrook's dinner party; he created a little biography of himself since last we saw each other and I had almost composed my entire reply in my thoughts, before reaching the last paragraph.

I recall how my heart quickened as I read this last portion of the letter; how my brain slowed and toiled at the simplest phrases; how my face turned red and hot and that I grew furious at the knowledge that it did; how I thought I must have misread it by that feeble firelight, and how I read it again for any signs that this was another Miss Shepard-attachment. And yet I had really known all along, as the words blurred before my eyes, that it was not, for Trotwood was not as foolish as he had been in describing other such times, but instead was very tender, very touching. "I shall take you to meet Dora!" he had written, putting many flourishes to her name and, I could see, spending a great deal of time in its presentation.

You may think it strange, or think me a liar, perhaps, when I say that, as I folded the letter, and held it in my hands upon my lap, and stared into the fire in my solitude, I had no anger towards the name of Dora (for in my state, it was only a word; I could not even make up a pretty face to accompany it). I envied her, certainly, but did not dislike her - how could I? The Dora in the letter had done nothing unnatural; she had admired, or even loved, perhaps, a gentleman who paid her what I knew was very sweet attention. She knew nothing of me and so did me no cruelty. On the contrary, I credited her for her boldness, and was unutterably angry at myself.

My thoughts came quickly, taunted and overwhelmed me. I knew very well that Trotwood regarded me as a sister. That had always been so. I believe I was very kind to him, in our childhood, in the old days he had first come to our house; I knew I had tried to show him how I loved him, though it was not in my reticent nature to do so and it was only the frail love of a child. I made a few signs of my feelings for him by helping him study, and so on, but he had always regarded them with great innocence. In time, I grew to realize my position as a sister, and I tried to embrace it, so that no difficulty could arise between us. If I could not love him as I liked - as I dreamed, when I was very much alone, and unobserved - I could love him as I could, which was better than a division between us, was it not?

So I thought. I hoped, perhaps, since ladies should be demure, that he might pay attention to the support I gave him, and value it, and somehow see me... So I urged him to tell me all, even what would hurt me most, for by that action I hoped to gain favor, and expected time enough to gather my own feelings. And now the time which I had believed to be so far in the distance had actually come, and I had failed him by the flush on my face, even though it was all in private, and he had not seen me. I had wronged the thought of him, somehow. You will laugh at me for saying so, but when you must depend on the memory or thought of someone, when they are absent, you may wrong them quite easily.

I recall laughing bitterly at myself, at I who prided myself on self-possession and common sense. And I thought, at the time, that my suppression of myself was some kind of strength, that I could have a private pleasure in knowing I'd kept my feelings hidden, that I could exult at this little power reserved to me, for I did not have as much control as I should have liked, in my house. But now I knew - I believe I had already known, it is no matter - that it was a sham that consumed me, that did not help but deceived and misguided those around me. My hesitation and reserve had caught me up forever in the balance between knowing what should be, and what could be, someday, if only I could speak -

But, as I held the letter, I knew that what could be was never to be. What I was to him, I had shaped myself to be, in my silence and my actions. Who else was to blame?

It is a bright day, so beautiful and perfect I think this must have been how the world looked in the first day of its existence. The shadows of my sitting room have long melted away, the fire died down, and instead there are real figures and a glorious sun to shine down for Trotwood, who creates a light of his own, in my eyes. I think I could relate all Trotwood did or said that day in minutest detail, for my eyes remained locked, on him, the entire service. On no one else.

"I am married, Agnes!" And he catches me in his arms - in front of Dora - and immediately pulls away, greatly abashed.

"Trotwood," this is my voice, which seems very distant, and strange to me, "I am glad!"

I am glad to see him in ecstasy, as he guides her away on his arm; glad that no longer shall I wonder where I stand, or what my responsibilities to him entail. For, mercifully, I think, my role has at last been decided. I shall be called Sister - I pray, a loving and devoted one! - for evermore!