She felt it like a slap when he hit the gravel, and he hit the gravel hard. Her heart ached for him; as proud as she knew him to be, sprawled out as he was and probably in pain. He somehow managed an even and dignified tone when he informed the Earl that he was perfectly all right.

She hurried to him when the family and the Count walked inside. It surprised her a bit when no one else came to his aide. She helped him up and brushed him off, selfishly letting her grip slide from his sleeved forearm to hold his hand. She held it onger than she should have. Her ears burned.

"Don't feel sorry for me," he told her with strained stoicism. Then he was gone, limping back towards the servants entrance.

She didn't know what she expected, but his words cut her sharply and to the quick. She was stood alone on the gravel for a few moments, feeling as though she might cry in frustration. That wasn't her intent. She didn't feel sorry for him. She squared her shoulders with a sigh and once again became Anna, the head house-maid. Turning towards the servants' courtyard, she reviewed her mental checklist of the day's chores.

Still, it lingered with her as she fluffed pillows, tidied up fallen flower petals, and laid out evening clothes for the young ladies.

How could he think that? It wasn't pity she felt when she thought about John Bates.

She admired him. She empathized with his sufferings, to be sure, but she didn't see his injury as pitiful or pitiable. He made the most of what he was given in life and she found him intelligent, determined, quietly articulate, kind, and capable. She certainly did not feel sorry for him. It bothered her that he confused her concern with pity. It bothered her more than she would care to admit.