Anne takes her place alongside others and focuses her eyes on the stage, waiting for the performance. A deep exhale leaves her mouth. Under the box she felt safe, it created a roof where at last, relatively, she couldn't be seen. However used to attracting stares she was, she discovered they appeared to be even more hurtful in such places as the theatre. The nerve of her, thinking she can look good in a dress like this, in a place like this. Doesn't she know where she belongs?their faces say. In the slowly dying out applause she hears the back door open and feels somebody stand right next to her. Out of the corner of her eye she can just make out the silhouette.
Carlyle.
She cannot figure this out. Why? Why are you here, next to me?Why were you looking at me like that after meeting the Queen? Why did you join the circus? Why do you always look like you want to tell me something, yet you never do? She clenches her jaw. Questions cause trouble. Mr. Phillip Carlyle is not her mystery to be solved.
The curtain goes up and Jenny Lind sings.
I'm trying to hold my breath,
She can hear her heartbeat thumping loudly, echoing around the theatre walls and she would bet her life he can hear it too.
Let it stay this way,
Can't let this moment end
She wants to look at him, to read his mind, to know what all this is about. No white man behavior fits to the puzzle that is Phillip Carlyle and she can't find herself in it. A dangerous, risky thought creeps into her head: Maybe he isn't like the rest of them. Maybe she is wrong about him.
Take my hand,
Will you share this with me?
She feels a gentle brush against her fingertips and her heart flies into her throat. The touch is so delicate yet in no way accidental.
No, no, no.
She inhales deeply, trying to get hold of her thoughts, which at this point are in utter chaos. Before she knows, she opens out her palm and, letting him in, their fingers entwine in a strong, firm grip. And she's never felt more powerful. The straight stone-like expression she's learned to carry most of her life fades and gives way to a strange mixture of strength and pride, peace and safety, yet an odd tingly sensation in her stomach she often finds herself feeling only around him.
Sooner than she'd think, something seems off. An elderly couple eyes them in disgust, their looks switching from her face to his. Her muscles grow tense, but she tries to ignore it, this time she won't give into this, this time she won't care, as if nothing and nobody can disconnect the bond of their hands and Jenny Lind's voice.
And he pulls away.
Her eyes flicker and she wants to laugh at her own foolishness. She swallows hard, holding back the tears.
So there are no exceptions. Mr. Phillip Carlyle is too fragile for this, for their piercing eyes, too afraid to even look at her. His jaw is clenched as he stares ahead.
But Anne has decided. She will never again let her guard down around this Carlyle. He, who lifted all her hopes up high, will not see her vulnerable, will not see her tears.
The indifference in their looks. The glances hidden behind handheld fans. She looks at Carlyle and understands.
He isn't like them. He is them.
There are no exceptions.
