Gwen was pinning on her hat, turning her head in the mirror. She looked back at Anna.

"Jane Eyre?"

"Yes," Anna smiled, rolling her eyes, speaking over her stuffy nose. "I know, I'm reading it yet again,"

"It's quite good," said Gwen, "But sad. I prefer Pride and Prejudice,"

Anna made a face. "I don't like Austin's dandy heroes," She sneezed into another handkerchief.

"You like them more manly, I suppose,"

"Yes, I do,"

"And mature. And," Gwen dragged out the word, "Mysteerious..."

Anna's face became hot, even without a fever.

"You don't need to talk about it," said Gwen, "And you know I would never say anything,"

"I know-"

"He's a good man," she said, "And I think you're a good match," Gwen sat on the edge of her bed, leaning encouragingly toward Anna. "Such a thing might be frowned upon still, but I believe we can have different futures, Anna,"

"So do I. But...I don't know enough..."

"You two don't have an understanding?"

"Not that kind,"

"Well, I'm sure it will happen. It's clear to me he's fond of you,"

"If that is enough," said Anna.

Gwen sat looking at her. "I think it will all come out well," she said. "If he's the right man that's most of the battle, isn't it?

"I suppose,"

"You don't want to talk about it any more,"

"I don't. But thank you,"

"I'll bring up a tray for you when I get back," Gwen stood, straightening her skirt. "You might be hungry by then. Get some sleep, Anna," Gwen gave her another smile as she went out.

"Have fun at the fair," said Anna, as the door closed.

Anna reclined for a while on her pillow with Charlotte Brontë's book lying open on her lap. She was deeply tired. This kind of love was exhausting. It was like being on a swing; when she was up she was overjoyed and it seemed to singe the edges of her mind with its intensity, and when she was down the darkness of the feeling seemed to drag her along a cold road at night. Altogether she had not rested properly in a while. Anna moved deeper into bed, pulling the covers up but still holding her book.

She closed her eyes. While her head spun and her throat was ravaged, there was some comfort in being sick just now. She wasn't able to sustain the level of emotion she'd been wrestling with for days - the doubt, the fear. Tension began to drain from her shoulders and her eyelids slipped down. A short dream took her.

She wandered high in the meadow over a ridge to find a moor spreading out before her grey and violet, cloudy and cold, with a blasting wind bending the heather. Anna turned to look behind her in the dream but now the meadow was gone and the moor was behind her, as if the landscape had rotated. She spun on her heel, back to her previous direction; she was surrounded by the bleak landscape and far away from home. She blinked into the buffeting wind, which was beginning to throw fine, stinging shards of rain and saw a distant break in the clouds. A storm was pounding in but the sun would follow close on. Anna had borne bad weather before and knew that no storm lasted forever. She lowered her head, pulled her coat tightly around herself and plunged ahead.

Anna woke coughing. She sat up, clearing her throat, and picked up her book again. It was calming because she loved the book and because her own troubles paled next to poor Jane's. Anna sank deeply into the story; Jane heard a voice calling her name and knew it was the one man she loved...

There was a knock on the hall door.

Anna climbed back into bed, dragging her tray onto her knees. She closed her eyes, inhaling the meadowsweet; even with her cold she could smell it, a bit. Where had he found it just now? How far had he gone to scout one of the last patches of meadowsweet still blooming?

The butter was still cold from the larder, the bread moist from being just sliced off the loaf and the soup was hot. His knowledge as a footman had not deserted him. He'd given her a glass of water as well as milk.

Anna stared at the flowers, but wasn't the tray or the flowers that gave her a new feeling of deep, warm quiet.

It was the look he had given her. It was clearer than any words could be. She had taken the tray from him and almost said it aloud, "Are you fond of me, then?" His reply was perfectly and eloquently stated when he had leveled his gaze at her. He felt the way she did. She knew it. If he had used words she might have harbored more doubt.

Something inside Anna released, as if a fist had unclenched and then icy fingers lifted, one by one. She was infused, flooded with warmth inside.

She wasn't afraid any more. He was the right man.

Her dream came back now, the cold blasting wind on the desolate moor. What if he had secrets, terrible ones? What if he pulled away from her again? What if he denied her?

For the right man, her mother had said, brave any storm.

And now she could.