When Billy left, so did the summer. I woke up on the morning of Mireille's wedding to feel a cool breeze from the open window sending shivers up and down my spine. I stepped out into the hallway barefoot, and for the first time in months did not hear the drone of the air conditioning. The season was changing, finally.

Memory is an interesting thing. I remember very clearly the morning Billy got back into a taxi and left Mansfield. I remember the way my hand clutched his jacket, the way his whiskers felt against my face, the rough sound of his voice. I remember how, in my anxiety, I clutched the new picture of Susie too tight and left a crumple in the bottom corner, and how my palms sweat when I tried to smooth it out. I remember the way Ned held me as the car drove away, and didn't say anything until I was ready to talk. I think I will remember that moment until the day I die, but I have almost no concrete memories of the weeks leading up to Mireille's wedding.

It had been hasty, this new announcement. The Bertram-Rushworth wedding didn't follow the usual time frame, with the Save the Dates coming this many months before the invitations. Mireille's couture gown had to be rushed, which was no small order, as did Julia's bridesmaid dress. Mireille only wanted one attendant.

I do remember that I sat in the back of the church, and that I wore a dress Mary bought for me to expand my workable wardrobe. I remember not being asked to join the family photo, and not minding. I remember Ned helping me sneak out of the grand ballroom to get a burger after the toasts were done. I remember hiding from the dancing. And I remember that Henry and Mary Crawford sat at a choice table normally reserved for family members-right up front near what the coordinator called The Lover's High Table, right where they could see every bit of Mireille Bertram-Crawford being desperately in love with her new husband.

Almost immediately after the wedding, everything changed. Julia went to Spain with friends, Mireille and Rush left for their honeymoon, Ned went to a writing retreat in Brooklyn he'd always wanted to do, and I was alone in Mansfield once again. The summer had been so full and seemed so long that I had forgotten what it usually meant to be at Mansfield. I had forgotten how long the days were, had forgotten how to find something to do that would keep me out of everyone's way. I had forgotten what silence felt like.

There was a three month stretch of life at Mansfield that seems like a dream now. I wandered from room to room in the main house, and then from main house to guest house, as if I were a phantom searching for my lost body. I read the spine of every book in the library, I revisited old hiding places that Ned had showed me when we were children, I counted the tiles on the floor of the foyer. I made myself scarce.

I don't know if my solitude was actually more severe this time than it had ever been before, or if, after the excitement of Ned being home a whole summer, of Billy coming to visit, of Tom actually talking to me, of having my own party and wearing my own dresses, I became the kind of person who craved company and conversation, such as it was for me. I was at war with myself; from old habit, I knew to hide whenever I heard anyone coming, but found hiding to be unbearable. I longed to see a face, and almost any face would do. I began to wish that I could take my bike and ride it somewhere, anywhere, somewhere where I could meet someone who didn't know me and who would talk to me about their day, about their problems, about anything. I probably could have done that. Fear kept me back. It didn't stop me from daydreaming, though, and daydream I did, with such severity that sometimes I would run into tables and chairs that I had not seen. I developed bruises on my legs and my arms, but that could not stop me from escaping. Not once I started.

There were two things that intervened on my loneliness. One was Mrs Bertram, and the other was Henry Crawford.

I first sat with Mrs Bertram alone on day in mid-October. The house had been silent for over a month now, so much so that I could swear I could hear the kitchen clock tick from my bedroom. I was walking down the hallway as quietly as I could, though I was certain Nola wasn't around to hear me make unwanted noise-I had seen her leave the house, had watched her get in the car from the second story hallway window. Silence had become my habit again, if it hadn't always been. I traced the hallway floorboards with my toe-there were twenty-nine long boards in this row from one end of the house to the other. Two more than the row to the left, and one more than the row to the right. I had done this routine often enough.

A dreamy voice from inside the sitting room startled me, "Fawn? Is that you?" I started, caught off guard, though I really shouldn't have been. I knew where Mrs Bertram spent most of her time. I hesitated, not moving. I wasn't sure whether she wanted me to come to her or if she wanted me to be quiet. Seconds ticked by-I could hear them through the floor.

"Fawn? Come in, love."

I tiptoed into the room, trying not to look at the huge roses in the carpet, trying not to look directly at Mrs Bertram. She was reclined on a plush sofa, her head resting against a pillow, her little dog snoozing in her lap. A quick glance down at the side table showed me that she had brought her pills with her. I glanced quickly up at her face, to see her eyes closed and her mouth almost smiling. She was probably either just waking up from a nap or on her way to one.

She reached out a sleepy hand and patted at the chair next to her. "Come here, Fawn. Sit with me." I sat. A minute passed. She opened her eyes. "How are you, my lovely?"

She had never used words like that, of endearment. Not to me, anyway. I watched her fight to keep her eyes open as she waited for my response. A cloud of confusion passed over her, and then her misty eyes cleared, "Are you lonely with everyone gone?"

I nodded.

"So am I. It was a very busy summer, wasn't it? Not what we're used to having."

I shook my head.

"Are you finding things to occupy your time? Are you bored being here all alone?"

I hesitated, wondering which question to answer. I settled on a nod again.

"Poor baby. Still, it was good Ned was here for so long. I don't think he likes staying here for months on end, but he was so patient with us. With me, especially." She reached out a hand to me, and I took it, not knowing what else to do. Had he really not liked being here this whole summer? Why hadn't he said anything?

"Well, if you're bored, Fawn, you can always come and keep me company. It gets so lonely here without my children all around me. Not that you'd know anything about having children, but they bring joy to every mother's heart. Gathers them around her..." She was drifting off now, her words slurring with sleepiness, but she opened her eyes to look at me, and I fought to give her a smile before she closed them again and started to snore.

She clearly had no idea what she'd said to me.

I spent almost every day in Mrs Bertram's sitting room after that. Most of the time she was asleep or trying her hand at crochet or embroidery, but being in the same room with another person who didn't demand much of me was soothing. With Mrs Bertram napping by my side, I found I could read better, for longer, and I began finishing books in days, not weeks. I wondered what Ned would think, if he could see what I'd finally managed to read by myself. I wondered what Nola would say, if she caught me being idle.

Henry Crawford interrupted my quiet companionship with Mrs Bertram every Saturday at precisely four o'clock. He usually came with something in his hand-a bouquet of wildflowers, a book, a bottle of wine for Mr Bertram, some chocolate truffles. He always came with a smile on his face.

The first day he showed up unannounced, just as Mrs Bertram was fighting her way to wakefulness again. It was a slow process, and she was often upset by even the slightest noise in the hour or so following her afternoon nap. I tried to finish the chapter of the book I was reading-a book called Jane Eyre-but fear of making a noise that would disturb Mrs Bertram had me hesitating to turn my page.

The knock on the doorframe made me jump out of my skin. I whirled to see Henry, one hand on the door frame, one hand holding a bunch of irises, a warm, gentle grin hitching up his mouth. I saw again, for one second, the man Mireille and Julia had been so obsessed with. No one had ever smiled at me exactly like that. Maybe no one had ever smiled at anyone exactly like that.

"Miss Fawn-" he started, but I threw my hands up to stop him talking, making shushing noises, glancing at Mrs Bertram's prostrate form on the couch as I got up and walked over to where Henry stood. He watched me approach him, his eyebrows raised in amusement. When I reached him at the doorway, he sketched a sarcastic half-bow to me.

"Miss Price," he whispered. I watched him as he watched me, clearly expecting some kind of response in kind. I wondered briefly if I should bow back, but instead I whispered back, "w-w-what are you d-doing here?" My voice was rusty from misuse.

"Came to visit you, Miss Price," he kept his face neutral, but I sensed he was on the verge of laughing. "Is that allowed?"

"Fawn?" Mrs Bertram's voice, high and tremulous as a child's, called from the couch. "Fawn, are you there?"

Henry's eyes widened in momentary alarm as he took in the reality of the situation. Maybe he had never seen Mrs Bertram high before.

I left Henry at the door and went over to Mrs Bertram, kneeling down so we were face-to-face, and taking her hands in mine.

"Fawn? Is that you?" Like this, sleepy-eyed and needy, I couldn't be afraid of her.

"It's me. I'm here."

"Who's with you?" She struggled to open her eyes. It took her a long time. Was this was Ned saw every day when he was here? Was that why he didn't like to be home for too long?

Why had he never told me how bad his mother's addiction was?

"It's-" I started, but Henry was next to me, speaking to Mrs Bertram in a quiet, soothing voice. "It's Henry Crawford, Mrs Bertram. I just came to bring you these flowers, but I'm sorry if I came at a bad time."

"Not...a bad time...Just under the weather…" she shook her head slowly.

"Should I come back another time? Another day, perhaps?" He could have been talking to anyone, to his hostess at a dinner party, to the mailman. His voice and his face no longer betrayed any surprise at the situation. I began to wonder if I had actually seen his alarm in the first place.

"Fawn...walk our guest to the door, would you? Tell him I'll be on form next week."

I touched Henry's elbow and drew him to the door. He laid down his flowers on a side table and followed me, his arms swinging at his sides, completely at his ease. I tried not to let our closeness bother me. The ghost of his elbow burned into my palm.

"I meant what I said earlier, Fawn," he said quietly, as if he were talking about the weather. I sent a glance over my shoulder, catching his eye before turning around. I couldn't wait to get him out of the house. Being near him confused me.

"When I said I came to visit you?" He went on, as if I had asked him to clarify. "I meant it. I mean, the flowers were for both you and Mrs Bertram, but I wanted to see you, really." He put a hand on my arm, stopping my progress.

"I've been thinking a lot about this summer. And I know I'm usually only a foot or so away," he gestured vaguely to the Grant's house, "but I missed your company. Wanted to see how you were."

I blinked at him, confused and skeptical. He grinned, chuckling. "Laying it on too thick? Sorry. Just been thinking about you a lot recently, is all."

Nothing he was saying was making it any better. I didn't know how to respond, didn't know what I could say, or should say. Had I done anything to make him think that I wanted him to say these things to me?

I had craved company. I still craved company. Despite the fact that I didn't trust him, and despite the fact that whenever I saw him I still saw his hand caressing Mireille's face, heard his voice saying life isn't fair, felt his hand on the small of my back, I was still happy to see his face. Happy that he was near me, and talking, and talking to me.

A part of me recoiled in disgust. I was in love with Ned, and no matter how hopeless that love was, no matter how doomed, it made me sick to realize that I was attracted to this other man. Especially since I didn't know if I was attracted to him, or to the fact that he was a person in the same room as me who seemed to care what I thought.

I looked away from him, and started toward the kitchen. He put his hand out to stop me. "Can I come and see you again? Your aunt said next week. I'd like to think you'll be here when I come back."

I watched him, an irrational anger rising in me. I remembered another time, when another man wouldn't let me go. I remembered Henry's hand, leaving a red ring around my wrist.

I don't know what I was going to say-I don't know if I knew what I wanted to say then, either. I opened my mouth, and the kitchen door blew open, and there was Aunt Nola, peeling off her gloves. Her expression as she took in the scene-Henry standing close to me, his hand on my arm, my lips parted-can only be described as bitter.

"Fawn." I stepped back from Henry as if I'd burned. I'd heard that tone before.

"Henry. I didn't realize you were visiting today." Her tone warmed audibly when she spoke to him. He glanced at me, and I averted my gaze. Aunt Nola went on, "Fawn has a lot of chores to do for us. Has to earn her keep. Sorry to interrupt, but I can't imagine it was that interesting, as far as conversations go."

With my eyes on my feet, I couldn't see Henry's face. All I know is that there was a moment's pause, and then Henry said, "Fawn was just walking me to the door. I'll be out of her hair in just a moment."

Aunt Nola gave what I'm sure she meant to be a charming laugh. "It's never any trouble to have you here. I'll let you go, then." She brushed past me, her arm bumping mine. It was only when I couldn't hear her feet on the stairs anymore that I brought myself to move. I grabbed Henry's arm and practically dragged him to the door.

He stopped before I flung him through it. "Old dragon. Don't listen to her."

I looked at him in alarm, then collected myself. He laughed, but his smile didn't make it to his eyes. "It can't be that bad. She's a ridiculous old woman."

I was going to be in so much trouble. I was going to be in the most trouble.

Henry pushed open the door, then turned to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. "Hey. You'll be fine. There's literally nothing she can do to you. Not without the Bertrams throwing her to the wolves. Remember that. She's just boarding here now."

He leaned in and brushed a kiss across my right cheekbone, then was out the door like a shot. I stood frozen for a moment, confused now beyond anything I'd felt before. But I knew that the longer I stayed down in the kitchen, the more I was prolonging the inevitable. Nola always got mad when I made her wait.

The walk from the kitchen to my room was like a death march. It had been a long time since I'd felt I was under Nola's power. Mr Bertram's presence and Ned's company had made me untouchable for a whole summer, and having Mireille and Julia around had made Aunt Nola more agreeable on the whole. I'd gone a long time without an episode. I'd gotten spoiled, left my precious belongings out in plain sight. I wondered which one she was going to choose. I wondered what she would do to it.

The door to my room was open. As I stepped into the doorway, I saw the remnants of my pink ballgown, the dress Mary had helped me pick out, floating to the ground. Nola had taken her shearing scissors and was methodically cutting random shapes out of the skirt. Bits of tulle collected at her feet.

Whenever she destroyed a treasure of mine, Aunt Nola's face was always perfectly calm. I don't think she had ever actually raised her voice to me in anger. She had certainly never hit me. But when I was a child and Aunt Nola decided I had misbehaved, I would find her in my room, ripping a picture Ned had drawn me, or burning the book I'd brought from home, the one Uncle Liam had given me for Christmas, or snapping all my sea shells. I learned not to have prized possessions. I learned to hide the ones I couldn't bear to get rid of the ones I couldn't bear to destroy on my own.

I had grown complacent. I'd thought that I was safe in this house, in this room. I thought Ned could protect me from anything. Even when he wasn't here.

"Fawn," Aunt Nola sounded exhausted and disappointed, "what makes you think that you can host visitors in this house? Is this your house, Fawn?"

I watched her slice a crescent moon of pink fabric into a handful of asteroids, thinking for the first time how petty she seemed. It didn't stop my heart beating in terror.

"Fawn, you know how I feel about being ignored. I asked you a question. Is this your house?"

I shook my head. Tried to remember everything Dr Grant had ever told me. No one in the world is better than you. No one in the world is better than you. Not even her. No one. No one in the world.

"Do you think it's polite to invite people to a house that doesn't belong to you?"

I shook my head. No chance of my voice making an appearance.

"Did you think it would be fun for Henry Crawford to see Mrs Bertram like that? Did you think that it would be appropriate?"

I shook my head. Twice.

"That's the problem, Fawn," she said, and her voice, if it had been anyone else, if I hadn't known better, might have sounded regretful, "you aren't capable of much deep thinking. Leave that to other people." She took the skirt in two hands and pulled on a cut so the skirt tore down the middle with a large ripping sound.

"Make yourself useful. Earn your keep. Don't throw yourself on people like Henry. Though I have to say, it does remind me a lot of your mother, the way you salivate over the men in this household. She could never control herself, either."

She smiled at me. It was a smile full of deep amusement, of anger, and of cool triumph.

I hated it when she smiled at me like that. Not because I hated whenever she looked at me, though that was true. I hated it when she smiled at me like that, because it was the only time she looked like my mother.

My mother had terrified me, too.