Author's note: I'm sorry this chapter has taken so so so long. It's the end of the semester and college is taking over everything. Hopefully, I should have more free time after exams!


Anne's spirits had not much improved upon waking. Indeed, she woke much earlier than she had expected, in spite of her late bed-time, to find herself faced with a glorious blue sky and a sun that insisted upon shining brilliantly, though Anne could not have been less appreciative. She turned over onto one side, and then onto the other, in an attempt to fall back asleep. But Anne had undressed alone last night, and had neglected to draw the curtains, that generally being the duty of her maid; and now the room was simply too bright, and she could not keep her eyes closed. At last, she threw back the bedclothes and rose without much enthusiasm.

The house was quiet. Lady Catherine was still ensconced in her chambers, and only the servants were awake and moving about below-stairs in preparation for the coming day. Drawing her dressing gown about her, Anne moved to the window and gazed out over the wide green lawns that stretched before the Royal Crescent. The day was indeed very fine; surely a good many visits would be paid among the fashionable to-day, so that every body could give every body else their own particular account of the ball. Anne could not think of any thing more tiresome, than discussing to death a ball that had taken place not twelve hours before, with all of the same people who had been present, and who had all spent the entire ball talking to one another anyway. "How silly we all are," Anne muttered disagreeably to herself. She had no doubt that her Ladyship would insist on their taking part in these discussions, so that she could hear every body else's news of the ball and, more importantly, share her own opinions. Anne sighed heavily, her eyes still on the sun-lit landscape below her.

Lady Catherine had insisted that Miss de Bourgh was not to leave the house in the early mornings, much less without an escort, but Anne felt suddenly as though she would suffocate if she did not escape, at least for a short time. She estimated that her maid would not come to wake her for at least an hour or two, and Mrs. Jenkinson would not dream of disturbing Anne before breakfast; and so she found herself dressing clumsily and wrapping her shawl about her shoulders as she made her way quietly out of her room and down the front staircase.

She met with no body as she slipped through the front door and into the morning air. Her feet directed themselves towards the same walking-park where she had taken such early morning exercise on a similar fine day, though she had then been far more contented with the world in general. But of course thoughts of that pleasant morning stirred up thoughts of Mr. Hart, and of his brother and sisters, who were quite the last people Anne wanted to think of at the moment. She swallowed hard and attempted to concentrate only on the agreeable experiences of the ball: the feel Colonel Fitzwilliam's arm beneath her hand as he escorted her to supper, the glow of the chandeliers and the glitter of the jewels on the women's throats and arms, the taste of the fine dishes that had been served at supper, the kind smile on Rosamond Hart's face when she met Anne on the terrace—

Rosamond Hart's kind smile was almost immediately replaced by the stricken look of her twin brother as he stood listening to Lady Catherine and her friends insult his family, and Anne's heart sank again. No matter how she tried, she could not manage to be pleased with the outcome of the evening. Very well, she thought to herself, if you are determined to be unhappy, you may as well try and decide what ought to be done; that, at least, may prove productive.

And yet it was a task easier set than met. Given their short acquaintance and relative positions in the world, Anne did not think a call or a note to the Harts entirely appropriate; after all, she must preserve some dignity. And what, indeed, would she say? She had said nothing injurious of the family; she had not lied to Mr. Hart about a broken foot, or whatever it was her Ladyship had claimed. She supposed she must depend upon meeting the Harts somewhere in Bath—the Pump-room, or perhaps Mostyn's book-shop—and must therefore prepare some sort of—explanation? Apology? Anne paused in her walk, frustrated, and looked back the way she had come. The Royal Crescent was a long way behind her. Anne turned about and began walking home again.

The only thing she truly understood was that she must indeed preserve the acquaintance. Despite having been without a friend for most of her life, Anne found the idea of losing the opportunity for friendship with the Hart family to be quite distressing. One or two of the other young ladies she had met in Bath were rather amiable, but overall she had found herself to have little, if anything, in common with them. And if her mother was truly serious about encouraging a particular friendship with the likes of Louisa Hammond—well. Anne should feel far easier knowing that she could at least discuss novels with the Hart sisters, when her more eminent acquaintances proved trying. However low-born Rosamond Hart was, at least she was likable.

But of course, in order to have such security, Anne must repair the damage that had surely been wrought at the Dalyrmples' ball. And that returned her to her first consideration, which had been, simply, how? Anne had never before felt herself to be in the wrong about any thing, and found the sensation entirely unsettling.

A thought struck her suddenly, and she raised her head to gaze about her as she walked. How simple it would be, if she were to meet Mr. Hart this morning as she had before, and have the opportunity to explain everything to him now—how simple, and yet how terrifying, for Anne found the thought of facing Mr. Hart a good deal more intimidating than the thought of facing his sister. She was not so certain that she could obtain Mr. Hart's forgiveness—she feared he might have something of a resentful temper. And yet it seemed she would not be obliged to take the risk, in any case, for none of the other people in the park were familiar to her; Mr. Hart was not there. Anne sighed, and continued towards the Royal Crescent.

The walk had at least allowed her some time to think, and had afforded some clarity. Anne knew what she ought to do, even if she was not entirely certain how to go about it. But the muddle of her thoughts had further clarified her own inexpertise in this area, and Anne realized quite suddenly that what she truly needed was sound advice.


Lady Catherine de Bourgh was the sort of woman who was only too pleased to bestow her advice upon others, whether those others happened to be willing or not; yet she was also the sort of woman who is not given to regretting her own behavior. Indeed, Anne was not certain that her mother had ever considered any offense she may have done any body to be worthy of her apologies or explanations, though her Ladyship frequently understood other people to be owing an apology to her for some slight or other. It was for this reason that Anne decided Mrs. Jenkinson instead must be her first advisor on this matter.

The opportunity arrived shortly after breakfast. While Lady Catherine was occupied in giving the days' orders to the staff, Anne seated herself in the drawing-room with a bit of needlework in which she had really no interest; Mrs. Jenkinson took up her faithful place by her young lady's side within moments, rising only to adjust the angle of the fire-screen to ensure Miss de Bourgh's comfort.

Anne puzzled for a moment over how to approach the issue; but she had never bothered much with subtlety, and elected to speak as plainly as possible. "Mrs Jenkinson," she began, "I should like to ask you a question."

Mrs. Jenkinson turned to her mistress with an expression of mingled pleasure and apprehension. Neither of the de Bourghs had ever before shown much interest in any thing Mrs. Jenkinson had to say.

"Suppose you were a young lady of rank," Anne went on, "and you had an acquaintance whom you found very agreeable, and whom you wished to call a friend; but suppose that before you had reached such a point in your relationship, you said or did something which offended this acquaintance—hurt them, in fact," she added, rather guiltily.

Mrs. Jenkinson looked scandalized. "Miss de Bourgh, I could not conceive of your being capable of hurting another person in any way; you are too gracious, too kind-hearted, and every body who meets you must think so."

"But suppose," Anne persisted, "that this offense was of an unintentional nature—perhaps that it was not an act you yourself had committed, but that some body connected with you had committed that you knew was wrong, and which you did not attempt to correct."

The good nurse looked quite perplexed, and Anne, with a sigh, attempted to simplify. "Disregard my last statement, and your assessment of my character," she ordered. "My question is this: if one has committed an error, however unintentional, that has hurt her relationship with some person, or persons, whom she finds very agreeable, how does she atone, so that they may be friends?"

"I suppose she must apologize," Mrs. Jenkinson said slowly. "But Miss de Bourgh, really—if this person, or persons, is the sort to be offended by some thing which you did not mean to do, then perhaps they are not at all worthy of your friendship. I must ask: is this person another member of the privileged classes, like yourself, or is she of unequal standing, and therefore undoubtedly jealous of the greater rewards which a titled lady like yourself must claim?"

Anne could hardly think any of the Harts to be jealous; indeed, they hardly seemed to notice her greater rank, or at least had never referred to it. But she could hardly mention this to Mrs. Jenkinson, who would of course consider the Harts thoroughly disrespectful, and instead said sharply, "Her rank is of no matter. I merely ask about the proper method of making an apology; I have never made one before, and am uncertain as to how it is done."

"If indeed you must apologize, Miss de Bourgh," Mrs. Jenkinson said heavily, sounding as though she would much rather Miss de Bourgh did not, "then I suppose you might explain yourself in a kindly-written note, which I am sure you are capable of, for you have such an elegant hand. Or, if you should prefer not to wait upon a response, or if you perceive the offense to have been grave indeed, you may pay a visit to the injured party, and give them your apologies in person, which should appease any reasonable lady or gentleman."

"You do not think such a thing undignified?"

"Hypothetically speaking, Miss de Bourgh, if the occasion warrants it, I suppose it would not be too improper. But I would beg you," Mrs. Jenkinson said earnestly, "you must not—abase yourself for the friendship of one who is not worthy of you." She paused for a moment, and then, with a very knowing look, went on, "Her Ladyship mentioned to me your assessment of Miss Hammond, which she seemed to think very uncharitable indeed; but really, Miss de Bourgh, if this is the injury which is worrying you, I must insist that you be easy on this point, though Miss Hammond is such a worthy connexion, and her grandmother is said to have been a Plantagenet. Neither Lady Catherine nor myself would ever think of mentioning the matter to the young lady in question. For indeed," she said, laughing, "young ladies of your class are for-ever speaking ill of one another, when they are in private; it is rather a mark of friendship! Though of course I daresay no body could ever speak ill of you, Miss de Bourgh," she added hurriedly.

Anne had indeed quite forgotten of her uncharitable description of Louisa Hammond, and flushed a little at the reminder; but she could not regret her words, nor think them untrue. If Mrs. Jenkinson preferred to think Miss Hammond the object of her hypothetical apology, so much the better, for it would save her the trouble of having to come up with some other lie.

They were interrupted at that point, as Lady Catherine swept through the door and took her accustomed seat at the top of the room. Anne was thus left with Mrs. Jenkinson's suggestions of writing a note or paying a call—both ideas she had considered herself, but dismissed as below her station. She supposed she would have no choice but to consult her mother.

They spent the morning receiving callers: Mrs. Godard and her daughter, Mrs. Dillingham and the twins, Lady Hargreve and an unexpectedly large party that included her daughter, her sister, her niece, and three or four cousins. As Anne had predicted, all any body wanted to discuss was the ball, specifically who had danced with whom and how many times, who had been seen with such and such a person, who had looked lovely and, more interestingly, who had looked positively ghastly.

"I could not approve of Mrs. Morgan's dress at all," Lady Hargreve said eagerly. "She is but a very young wife, it is true, and so recently married, but she still ought to know how to dress as a married woman—the neckline was positively shocking! I wonder if her husband was quite embarrassed."

"I am so very glad we did not dress alike," one of the Miss Dillinghams (Anne could never remember which was which) declared triumphantly. "It was charming when we were four, perhaps, but at seventeen it is ridiculous! Did you see the Miss Stewarts, Miss de Bourgh? They are twins as well, and nearly our same age, and they dressed to match! How silly—how very gauche! I wonder every body was not laughing at them!"

"I daresay there were some hearts broken last night," Mrs. Godard sighed happily. "Of course there was that business, which every body is talking about, with Miss Hammond and Lord Adlam; how she crowed about him! But he seemed quite taken with that other girl, that physician's daughter, of all people. And then of course there was some unpleasantness with Miss Barnes, who met with Mr. Coleman last night while she was dancing with Lord Perry's younger son—of course Miss Barnes and Mr. Coleman used to be engaged, you know, or had some sort of understanding—Mrs. Alexander swore to me that there was nearly a brawl, but of course she exaggerates every thing. Although I have heard that Mr. Coleman was quite passionately in love with Miss Barnes, and very jealous, and that he was sunk dreadfully low when she broke the engagement. Silly girl! He has ten thousand a year; but then I suppose she has her heart set on a title." (Lady Catherine, who had also had her heart set on a title, and had gotten one, looked very smug indeed at this last comment.)

After the Godards left, there was a brief space of time in which no body else arrived, and in which Mrs. Jenkinson was sent out of the room on some errand or other, and Anne found herself alone with Lady Catherine. They sat in silence for a moment before Anne, steeling herself, put her question to her mother.

"Your Ladyship," she began hesitantly, "there is some little matter, on which I would ask your guidance."

"Of course, Anne," Lady Catherine responded promptly. "I live to help others, as you know; I am widely understood to be an exceedingly helpful person, who can provide excellent advice on any occasion, to any body who needs it. Have you not very often heard Mr. Collins speak of my kind patronage? Do you think I would deny such a resource to my own daughter?"

"Certainly not, your Ladyship," Anne said patiently, "and that is why I seek your counsel now. I believe I have hurt some body, without meaning to, and it is an acquaintance I should very much like to preserve; now how shall I do so?"

"You have never hurt any body, Anne," Lady Catherine said scornfully. "I daresay you could not even if you meant to. You have not the necessary strong character; it is not your fault, of course, for your health has always obliged you to remain quite delicate in every way."

"But I think I have hurt some body, your Ladyship," Anne insisted. "Have you any advice on the subject of apologies, or explanations?"

"I have no taste for apologies. I think them foolish and unbecoming, and they always sound rather too much like pleading to my ears. If you have hurt some body without meaning to, then it is not your fault and you have done nothing wrong; and if this acquaintance of yours is offended, then they are a fool."

"Yet I still feel as though I ought to make some redress," Anne said, growing rather impatient, though of course she dared not show it. "After all, I do believe my acquaintance to have been quite mortified, which might make future meetings rather awkward."

"How ridiculous of them," Lady Catherine said briskly. "If they will insist on ending all communication with you because of their own embarrassment, which you had nothing to do with, then they are not worthy of your acquaintance. I have given you my answer, Anne; will you insist on asking me again?"

"I must, your Ladyship, for my question is really about how to apologize for something, rather than whether or not I ought. Have you any advice upon that point?"

Lady Catherine looked very irritated indeed, and said, "If it must be done, I maintain it ought to be done quickly, efficiently, without any sentimentality; not in a note, I daresay, for then it is too tempting to embellish, and for one's prose to grow quite flowery and unseemly. One must be quite practical in these matters, for it is indeed important to maintain one's better connexions, as a matter of course. Have your acquaintance visit you here, or," she shuddered slightly, "call on them, if you must, if their rank is greater than yours and they are therefore deserving of the greater courtesy. But, Anne, if this is a merely sentimental matter, I advise you to put it entirely out of your mind. Friends, especially intimate ones, are meant to be useful."

This was all Lady Catherine had to say on the subject. Anne thanked her for her kind attention and cast her mind about for some other person she could ask—someone, she thought, perhaps less biased in her own favor.

Yet she could not discount all of the advice she had received. The matter of rank aside, popular opinion seemed to be in favor of paying a call, for then she should not have to wait for a response, nor be disappointed if one did not come. Of course she could not deny that the idea seemed quite undignified to her, and Mrs. Jenkinson had described such a thing as "abasing herself"; but hadn't Mrs. Jenkinson also conceded that it would be quite suitable, if she perceived that the insult was grave enough? And—Anne swallowed hard as Robert Hart's horrified blush, Theodore Hart's narrowed eyes, swept into her mind—the insult did indeed seem to have been quite grave, even if it was intentional. She resolved to pose her question to one more person, and then, if the answer was the same, to pay a visit to the Harts to-morrow. After all, she would rather the matter be resolved soon.


Colonel Fitzwilliam had been invited to dine at the Royal Crescent that evening, and arrived in a very fine mood, full of animated conversation—which, Anne was glad to discover, did not focus solely on the events of the ball. He answered Lady Catherine's questions with due geniality: he had stayed only an hour later than the de Bourghs themselves, had danced only one more dance with Miss Finch again (Lady Catherine sniffed contemptuously), had met with several admirals and captains and lords and other gentlemen to whose surnames Lady Catherine listened quite contentedly, had spent only the slightest amount of time in the card-room, and had seen nothing scandalous. This account of the evening's proceedings completed, Colonel Fitzwilliam cheerfully began talking about other coming events in the city, the fine weather, the latest news from his family in London and Derbyshire, and other innocuous topics. These things were discussed with a certain determination, which convinced Anne that he, like she, had heard quite enough about the Dalyrmples' ball.

The party adjourned to the drawing-room after supper. In the absence of superior entertainment, Mrs. Jenkinson was banished to the pianoforte, and Lady Catherine spent the next several minutes criticizing her aloud, which Mrs. Jenkinson appeared to consider an honor. Taking a seat on the opposite side of the room, Anne motioned, as subtly as she knew how, for Colonel Fitzwilliam to follow her. He approached and sat at her side, his brows knit in an expression of worry.

"Are you well, cousin?" he asked kindly. "You looked rather anxious just now."

"I am very well," Anne replied, touched by his concern. "I only wished to speak to you privately for a moment, and I fear we would be unable to hear one another, between the music and my mother." She bit her lip as soon as the words were out, afraid she might have said something rather ill-advised, but Colonel Fitzwilliam merely chuckled.

"I fear you are right, cousin. Yet I do hope this need for privacy is not due to some unpleasantness of topic."

"Oh—no," Anne said uncertainly. "That is, it is not pleasant, but it is not—I mean—" She paused, collecting herself. "It is merely some small question, on which I have nearly made up my mind, but I desire another opinion before I am sure."

Colonel Fitzwilliam assured her that he would be happy to provide it, and Anne posed the question to him in the same vague terms to which she had posed it to her other advisors, mentioning no names or specifics. Her cousin considered for a moment before responding:

"I confess, Miss Anne, I could not imagine you ever hurting any body, intentionally or otherwise."

"That is just what Mrs. Jenkinson and Lady Catherine said," Anne told him with a small smile. "But you must imagine it, for I am afraid it has happened."

"Well, then, if it has happened—of course you must apologize, if you are truly serious about maintaining the acquaintance on amiable terms. If you fear the offense has been severe, I would recommend meeting with the other party, and as soon as ever it can be arranged, for there is nothing worse than allowing such a wound to fester, if you will pardon the vulgarity of such a phrase."

His choice of words was indeed unpleasant, but everything else was said with so much more real understanding that Anne felt exceedingly grateful to him. "You do not think," she ventured, "that a note might be perhaps more dignified?"

"More dignified it may be, but less thoughtful, for a note necessarily creates distance. Forgive me for asking, Miss Anne, but is this a person whom you wish to keep as a friend, or as a connexion?"

Lady Catherine had hardly allowed there to be any difference between the two; yet Anne immediately replied that she wished this person to be a friend.

"Then I daresay a note is the wrong choice, for it give the impression that you did not have the time or inclination to visit; if this is true, then by all means, write. Otherwise, I should think a visit to be more in the true spirit of friendship."

He gave her a very gentle smile, which Anne hesitantly returned. She cast a glance at Lady Catherine, who had risen from her chair and was standing over Mrs. Jenkinson at the pianoforte, giving instructions very confidently indeed for one who had never learned to play. It seemed Anne and her cousin would have another moment, at least, to themselves; turning back to Colonel Fitzwilliam, Anne dared to ask,

"Will you promise not to think me very foolish indeed, if I confess that the prospect of paying a visit is rather—rather frightening to me?"

"Certainly not. It is only natural to feel apprehensive when meeting with some body whom you feel you have wronged. It is a feeling I have had to face more than once, to my great regret; yet imagine how relieved you will feel, when the apology is over and accepted (as I have no doubt yours will be), and you and your friend have returned to the enjoyable companionship that you formerly enjoyed. Believe me, Miss Anne, you will be glad when you have done it; it is only the anticipation that is, as you say, rather frightening. But, cousin, as the Bard wrote, 'If it were done when 'tis done, then t'were well it were done quickly.'"

"Are you two entirely in one another's confidence?" Lady Catherine demanded suddenly, having returned to her chair. "Colonel Fitzwilliam, come sit by me here; what are you and Anne talking of so seriously?"

"Nothing of consequence, your Ladyship," Colonel Fitzwilliam assured her jovially, doing as Lady Catherine had bidden him. "Did you not say there was some news from Kent, involving our good friends the Collinses?"

The news was that Mrs. Collins was expecting. Lady Catherine, of course, was less interested in Mrs. Collins and the baby than in all of the possible improvements that she herself might condescend to make to Hunsford Parsonage in preparation for the new addition, and all of the buying that must be done, which of course she, being a mother already, must oversee, for Mrs. Collins was sure to be entirely at a loss. "Mrs. Collins does not have quite the generous resources I did, of course," she admitted complacently, "but I am quite sure that if she mentions my name at any of the shops I have suggested, she will be treated very well indeed."

The evening continued in this fashion. Anne scarcely listened to a word her mother spoke, for she was considering Colonel Fitzwilliam's advice. She could not help thinking, despite her mother's claims that she lived to help others, that her cousin's counsel had been rather more helpful; out of the three parties asked, he had most seemed to understand Anne's dilemma and her wishes. And he had never once brought up the subject of rank! How variant were the attitudes and opinions within her own family, she mused. She wondered what Mr. Darcy would have said, if she had asked him—but then she did not think she would have had the courage to ask him.

She retired that evening feeling rather reassured, yet apprehensive; for there was no doubt in her mind now that she must call on the Harts to-morrow, and though she tried to do as Colonel Fitzwilliam had said, and think only of the relief that must follow her apology, she could not help the anxious knot in her stomach.


At breakfast the next morning, Anne announced her intention to visit a draper's shop in Widcombe. "I spoke with Lady Wilbraham at the ball, and she assured me it is the very finest in Bath," she declared, as enthusiastically as she could manage. "She made me promise to visit and then see if I did not agree with her; may I not take the carriage, your Ladyship?"

Her Ladyship was not entirely pleased with this resurgence of Anne's interest in wandering Bath, but Anne's reference to Lady Wilbraham (who was the daughter of an earl, and engaged to a viscount) was more appeasing to her, and she gave her permission without much resistance. The knot in Anne's stomach grew a bit tighter.

She and Mrs. Jenkinson set out for Widcombe shortly after breakfast, during the regular visiting-hours, for Anne insisted that she must visit the shop early before it became too crowded. The drive was rather shorter than she had remembered; Anne stopped the driver before he reached Hart House, on a street full of small shops. "I am sure it is just down there," Anne said to Mrs. Jenkinson. "I believe I can see the sign."

They walked a short distance in the direction Anne had indicated, which she believed was towards Hart House. Upon their passing a small café, Anne suggested that Mrs. Jenkinson wait for her as she had before; "For I think I shall take a very long time, and you have no pleasure in shopping," she said firmly.

Yet Mrs. Jenkinson would not be so easily persuaded. "This is an unfamiliar neighborhood to us, Miss de Bourgh, and I should not like for you to be lost; I would rather accompany you."

Anne frowned. "The shop is just there, I am sure of it, and I should very much like to be alone, for then I shall not feel hurried. I quite loathe feeling hurried; it makes me very anxious."

Mrs. Jenkinson quailed somewhat, but was not dissuaded. "I would be much more comfortable, Miss de Bourgh, if I could be certain you knew where you were going—not, of course, that I doubt your ability to navigate this neighborhood," she added quickly. "But I should very much like to be sure."

After some debate, they agreed that Mrs. Jenkinson would accompany Anne to the shop, see her safely inside, and then return to the café to wait and to enjoy her cup of chocolate. Anne was rather relieved at this short delay, and yet she was growing ever more anxious; she wished very much that this encounter could be done quickly. And, indeed, what if she arrived at Hart House only to find Miss Rosamond paying a call? Did the families of physicians keep the same hours as the gentry? Perhaps she had misjudged every thing. She was making every effort to appear entirely nonchalant, that Mrs. Jenkinson might not grow suspicious—for she might take Anne's anxiety as a sign that the young lady was ill or, worse yet, might understand her eagerness to be alone as an indication that she was here in Widcombe for a tryst with some gentleman—yet Anne felt as though her uneasiness must be clear to every body who passed her, and especially to her loyal nurse, who had spent most of every day with her for several years.

At last, they reached a likely-looking draper's shop, and Anne exclaimed her delight as they hurried inside. It was not quite the sort of place to which she might have been sent by Lady Wilbraham, or indeed any body who had been at the Dalyrmples' ball, but there were some pretty bolts of cotton and muslin, and a few fine silks. Anne made a show of browsing, and pretended to be very much taken with one or two prints that she found. "I declare this is indeed the best shop in Bath," she avowed. "And you see, Mrs. Jenkinson, I was not lost; I never was."

"Of course not, Miss de Bourgh," Mrs. Jenkinson said placidly. "I never had any doubts."

Anne passed her a few coins from her purse, and her companion moved towards the door, reminding her charge of the café's exact location and its name several times as she was prodded out the door. "You may take as long as you wish, Miss de Bourgh," Mrs. Jenkinson assured her, "but you did tell Lady Catherine that you would return the carriage by eleven, and that you would visit the Pump-room today; of course I am sure you have not forgotten."

Anne replied that she had not forgotten; Mrs. Jenkinson thanked her very profusely for the coins, and for the chocolate which she was about to buy; then her eye was caught by some muslin, and she came in again to examine it more closely. This took several minutes, which to Anne seemed very long indeed. At length, growing impatient, Anne said (quietly, so the proprietor did not hear) that she thought the color rather plain, and the print rather unsightly, and insisted that she should never be seen in such a drab thing. These criticisms convinced Mrs. Jenkinson, who declared it the ugliest pattern she had ever seen and, repeating again the location and name of the café, Anne's promises to Lady Catherine, and her own gracious thanks for the money and for the chocolate, she at last left the draper's shop and made her way down the street again. If Mrs. Jenkinson suspected any underlying cause to Anne's hurry, she did not show it.

Anne waited until Mrs. Jenkinson had been gone for a minute or so, then dared to look out of the large shop window in time to see her nurse step into the café they had passed. She waited another minute for safety, then slipped outside and began walking.


She could not remember the exact location of Hart House, having travelled the route only once, and then by carriage; yet the street she was on seemed familiar, and she supposed it made sense for her to keep walking on it. However, the further she walked, the less familiar it seemed, until Anne was quite convinced that she ought to have made a turn several paces back, and reversed direction. She spied a cross-street that looked promising, and turned onto it; it was full of pleasant, comfortable houses that were rather like Hart House in appearance, although she was certain none of them were Hart House itself. There was another cross-street, and she turned again, but was not sure if she was correct in doing so. Perhaps she ought to return to the original street—if she turned left again, it should lead her back towards the shops. Or was she meant to turn right? Anne stopped, looking around her rather fearfully. Her anxiety over the imminent visit was entirely superseded now by her anxiety of feeling entirely lost, for it struck her then that she had no idea where she was, where Hart House was, or where Mrs. Jenkinson was.

It was very wrong of her, she realized belatedly, to be walking alone: foolish, and also improper, for it was past the early morning hour when a young lady's taking a solitary walk could be considered at all appropriate. She had not considered this breach of decorum when planning her visit to Hart House—accustomed as she was to the private and home-bound life she led at Rosings Park, she rarely had cause there to even consider stepping outside the bounds of propriety. Now she found herself wishing she had not so easily given Mrs. Jenkinson "the slip". What would any body passing by think of her? Anne adjusted her bonnet so her face was less visible; she hoped no word of this would ever reach Lady Catherine.

She kept walking, half-hoping that the street might take her up a steep hill, which would give her a view over all of Widcombe, but how would that help if she could not remember which street she needed, or even which house she was looking for? She wished she had brought a map, but of course it might have been quite useless, for she had never before attempted to read a map and was not entirely certain how one did so. There was a church; had they driven past a church before? Anne's visit to Hart House seemed so long ago that she could not imagine how she had expected she would remember its exact location; her plan had clearly been flawed from the beginning. She took a right turn, then a left, but nothing looked familiar. And so many of the houses looked just the same! How did any body ever find any thing in Widcombe?

The sound of footsteps behind her startled her, and Anne turned round to see a gentleman walking quickly down the street in her direction. She clutched her reticule tightly. Surely he would not attempt to rob her, for it was broad daylight, and this was Widcombe, not St. Giles (of which one heard such stories)—yet one could never be certain. But as she watched, the gentleman opened the gate of one of the houses and hurried inside, never noticing her.

Letting out a breath, Anne kept walking. She took a left, hoping it would lead her back towards the shops, but was disappointed. She turned around again, but could not find the street she had been on a moment ago. She made another left turn, hoping perhaps to move in a circle, but was disappointed again; for here was a small walking-park, where there had not been a walking-park before. Near tears, Anne entered the park and took a seat on one of the stone benches. With an utter disregard for appearance, brought on by exhaustion and desperation, Anne allowed her posture to sink and rested her head in her hands. How she loathed cities!

"Miss de Bourgh?"

Anne stiffened and sat upright, adjusting her bonnet. There before her stood Rosamond and Juliet Hart, with expressions of honest concern. Anne felt a tear slide down her cheek and immediately grew red, brushing it away crossly; she did not think it possible to be any more embarrassed, or any more grateful for a familiar face.

"Are you unwell, Miss de Bourgh?" Miss Rosamond asked, sitting down beside her and looking at her anxiously. "Forgive me, but you do not look at all well. Are you taken ill? Have you a fever?"

"I am not ill, Miss Hart," Anne said shakily. "I was—" The absurdity of the situation struck her, and she almost laughed. "I must confess, I was looking for you."

"For me?" Miss Rosamond stared at her. "Miss de Bourgh, you really look quite faint. Our house is just there; please come in and allow me to fetch you some water. Will you walk with us?"

Anne rose, and allowed each of the Hart sisters to take an arm. Hart House was, as Miss Rosamond had promised, very close; indeed, its back windows looked out over the little park. Anne supposed she must have been going in the correct direction all the while, but of course she would not have realized it.

None of them spoke. Now that she was lost no longer, Anne felt the guilty knot in her stomach return, and wondered whether Miss Rosamond had any desire to speak to her at all, or ever would again.

Hart House was as pleasant and comfortable as Anne remembered. This time she was directed into the sitting-room, adjacent to Dr. Hart's study and offering the same large windows with the same charming view of the street below. It still being fairly early, the sun was flooding into the room, casting an agreeable morning glow over every thing. Miss Rosamond deposited Anne on the settee, pulling off her own bonnet and spencer as she did so. Miss Juliet was dispatched to the kitchen for a cup of water—"Or would you prefer tea?" she asked earnestly; Anne, still feeling rather faint, chose tea.

"Should you prefer to be closer to the fire?" Miss Rosamond asked kindly. "Or are you too warm? I can move the screen if you like."

She sounded very much like Mrs. Jenkinson, but with the tone of a capable hostess rather than an ingratiating servant. Anne insisted that she was quite comfortable, and would be perfectly restored as soon as she had rested for a moment, and drunk some tea. She could not help remembering her last visit to Hart House, when Mrs. Jenkinson had been so outraged at the lack of courtesy prevalent in the household. And Anne, too, had been quite put out! Every thing seemed quite different now; she could not remember why she had been so angry in the first place.

"My father is not home, Miss de Bourgh, or I would ask him to examine you," Miss Rosamond said regretfully. "Should you like to wait for him? Or I can call Robert, if you like—he is studying medicine as well, you know."

"That isn't necessary," Anne assured her. "I promise you, I am well; but I was lost, just now, and I confess rather frightened, and I suppose I am merely—overcome."

"I am very sorry to hear it," Miss Rosamond said, taking a seat across from her. Miss Juliet entered with the tea, apologizing for the plain china; "For we weren't expecting any body to-day, and did not set out the good tea service," she explained. Miss Rosamond hushed her.

Anne supposed that she might have been offended, on her last visit, at the plain china, for it was indeed very plain; but at the moment she could only be grateful, and took a long draught of the tea, which was quite the right temperature and tasted better than any tea she had ever drunk before—though she supposed that might again be due to her current state of mind.

Setting the cup down, she regarded the anxious faces across from her, and felt again the urge to laugh. "How absurd this all is," she said, though she did not intend to say it aloud, and blushed again when she realized she had. "Excuse me; I only meant that I came all this way looking for Hart House, because I was hoping to call on you, Miss Hart; but I grew quite hopelessly lost."

"Well," Miss Rosamond smiled, "you are here now, Miss de Bourgh, so I suppose 'all's well that ends well'. I am very glad you have come, though I am sorry you lost your way. Widcombe can be rather disorienting to those who don't know it well."

"Indeed," Anne said softly. She was quite surprised at Miss Rosamond's amiability; had her brothers told her nothing of what had occurred at the ball? Had she been worrying over nothing? But not nothing, she reminded herself; even if Miss Rosamond had forgiven her already, she did not think she could be easy now, after hearing Colonel Fitzwilliam's advice, until she had made some explanation. And then there was the question of the Mr. Harts, who were surely offended even if their sister was not. Anne bit her lip unconsciously. Miss Rosamond noticed the gesture.

"Miss de Bourgh," she said carefully, "is every thing quite all right? Forgive me; you seem uneasy."

It was the best opening Anne could expect, but she did not know how appropriate it would be to address the matter in front of Miss Juliet. She cast a glance at the younger girl, who looked at her and then at her sister. Seemingly taking a cue from the latter, she stood, curtsied, and excused herself. Miss Rosamond regarded Anne expectantly. Anne swallowed hard and looked down at her hands, folded tightly in her lap.

"Miss Hart," she began, feeling thoroughly ill at ease, "I have come to speak to you about the Dalyrmples' ball, and some events which took place there, for which I feel I owe you an explanation."

She risked a glance at Miss Rosamond. The young lady was still watching her expectantly, yet Anne thought she saw a certain recognition in her eyes.

"I do not know whether your brother mentioned to you what he overheard; there were some ladies, with whom I was seated, who were discussing your family in a—a very spiteful manner." She paused. "Your brother Robert was standing quite close by, though I do not think they were aware of his presence—but this does not excuse their actions, or I suppose I ought to say their words. I suppose I have really come to apologize, for I believe I was the only person among them who is really acquainted with you or your family, and I did not defend you as I ought to have done."

She looked up again. Miss Rosamond's gaze was steady, but not punishing. "I believe they were primarily motivated by jealousy," she added apprehensively. "At least, Miss Hammond was, and I suppose her mother as well. But that is only my opinion."

There was a pause, and then Miss Rosamond said "Jealousy?" in a very incredulous tone.

"You were dancing with Lord Adlam," Anne explained hesitantly, uncertain whether the gossip of the ton ought to be shared with one who was not of their number. "Miss Hammond had told every body that he was very much in love with her, and she was quite displeased that he seemed so taken with you."

To her surprise, Miss Rosamond gave a little laugh. "He was only taken with me because I happened to ask him if he was a sportsman, and it was a topic on which he was most eager to communicate. I daresay he was quite disappointed when he discovered neither my father nor my brothers were particularly avid fox-hunters, and I therefore had nothing to contribute." She laughed again. "But I am very sorry for poor Miss Hammond, for it cannot be pleasant to think some body is in love with you, and then see him enjoying the company of some body else, especially when that person is so unequal to you in fortune and attractions!"

It was the first time Anne had ever heard Miss Rosamond make even an oblique reference to fortune, and she was not entirely certain of the proper reply. Miss Rosamond met her eyes again.

"I thank you for your explanation, Miss de Bourgh," she said calmly. "My brother did indeed mention the incident to me, and I will not say I was not hurt. I confess I had very little desire to remain any longer at the ball after that. But I do not hold you responsible, Miss de Bourgh, for the actions of your companions, for Robert did mention that you had said nothing unkind."

"I said nothing at all; I cannot help feeling as though I ought to have said something," Anne repeated guiltily. Miss Rosamond shook her head.

"I have no right to expect such a defense from you, Miss de Bourgh.—I should like to think we are on friendly terms, but we are not so intimately acquainted that I might expect you to defend my honor to your friends."

There was a long pause, before Miss Rosamond spoke again.

"It was not a wholly unexpected event, at any rate," she said slowly. "I knew we were not wanted there; of course I understood that Lady Dalyrmple intended the invitation as a courtesy more than any thing else. I suppose it was very foolish of me to wish to go—for I was the one who insisted, Miss de Bourgh. You must not think my brothers had any interest at all in attending; they were kindly humoring me. So I suppose it is truly my fault if Robert was upset by what he overheard, and if I in turn was hurt by his telling."

Anne had never before felt any desire to comfort any body, but Miss Rosamond's tone was so regretful that she felt quite uncomfortable, and cast about for something to say. Yet she could think of nothing but "I daresay Lady Dalyrmple meant her invitation to be accepted. It is not you who was in the wrong, Miss Hart."

Miss Rosamond gave her a disbelieving smile. "Neither was I in the right, then. How thoughtless of me, to expect us to fit in as though we were at a public assembly!" She took a breath. "I heard a rumor, Miss de Bourgh, that one of the ladies was wearing a gown which had cost upwards of eight hundred pounds. The gown I was wearing used to belong to my sister Helena, and I altered and embellished it a great deal in order to make it presentable."

Anne was confused by this sudden change of topic, and her face must have reflected it, for Miss Rosamond immediately went on: "It is a vulgar metaphor, but you must see my point. There is a difference, Miss de Bourgh, between my place, and the place of every body else who attended that ball, and it was thoroughly ridiculous of me to ever think that I belonged there."

She looked so completely vexed that Anne was quite at a loss. She had never before heard Miss Rosamond speak so openly; it was quite a far removal from her usual cheerful conversation. Indeed, it was the first time Anne could ever remember any body speaking to her with such candor, and in spite of her awkwardness, she could not help feeling a slight thrill.

Yet Miss Rosamond recovered herself within a moment, and looked at Anne again. "I am terribly sorry, Miss de Bourgh. I am sure I sounded very bitter just now, and you must believe that that is not at all the way I feel. Indeed, I seem to be for-ever telling you things about my life in which you can have no interest, and it is not at all proper. Shall we perhaps return to a pleasanter topic?"

"Please make yourself easy, Miss Hart," Anne said timidly. "I have come here to apologize to you, and you must not begin apologizing to me. Indeed," she confessed, blushing, "I am rather flattered that you trust me so well with your confidence, in spite of our short acquaintance." She paused, considering her words. "I believe your feelings are perfectly natural, for you must indeed be quite offended by the insults which your brother overheard and described to you, and you cannot be expected to feel entirely charitable towards the other guests with such unpleasant associations fresh in your mind."

It was Anne's first attempt at empathy, and she was not at all certain of her success. Yet Miss Rosamond looked very grateful, and said, "Thank you very much for your kind understanding; it is really quite a relief to me."

They sat in relatively comfortable silence for a moment. Anne sipped her tea, feeling quite proud of herself and, as her cousin had predicted, thankful indeed that the awkward moment of her apology had passed. She searched her mind for another subject on which to converse; yet Miss Rosamond, who had been looking as though she were thinking very hard about some thing, said quite unexpectedly,
"I suppose you will also wish to address the matter of my brother Theodore, and his asking you to dance."

Anne very nearly choked on her tea. Miss Rosamond, hurrying to her aid, grew very red, and begged Miss de Bourgh's pardon. "That was extremely impertinent of me; yet I thought 't'were well it were done quickly', for you cannot have been looking to that conversation any more than to the first, and surely you would rather have it over and done with."

Regaining her breath, Anne regarded her hostess with very wide eyes. "I had hoped Mr. Hart had not mentioned that incident to you," she said quietly.

"He did; though I suppose it was wrong of him to do so. Theo is not often angry," she said thoughtfully, "but when he is, he cannot keep his feelings to himself; he has always been very forthright."

A family trait, perhaps, Anne thought. Miss Rosamond continued.

"I am very sorry if I have made you uncomfortable, Miss de Bourgh. Pray do not feel pressed to explain yourself to me, for I have already made up my mind that you had no intention of slighting my brother, and that whatever reasons you had for your conduct were justifiable indeed."

"You are very kind, Miss Hart," Anne said nervously. "But I fear my reasons are not so very justifiable. My mother was—displeased with Mr. Hart's attention, and told him I could not dance because I was injured. Her interference rather surprised me, and I did not think to make any reply before Mr. Hart took his leave. And then—and then he saw me dancing with Colonel Fitzwilliam, and I fear he was quite cross," she finished, faltering. "I am very sorry to have insulted him."

"Your apology is accepted and appreciated," said a voice, but it was not Rosamond Hart's. The two ladies on the settee turned to see Mr. Hart standing at the doorway, looking—of all things—rather amused, still dressed in his riding coat. He bowed.

"Have you been eavesdropping?" Miss Rosamond asked incredulously. "How very ill-bred of you, Theo."

"Spare me your admonishments, Rose; did not you and Robert spend half your childhood spying on me and every body else in this house?" Mr. Hart came forward to take a seat in one of the large arm-chairs. "Miss de Bourgh, how pleasant it is to meet you so unexpectedly again."

He appeared sincere; yet outside of the convivial air of the ballroom, Anne found herself rather inexplicably shy, and could only manage a quiet "Mr. Hart," in greeting.

"Juliet and I met Miss de Bourgh in the park," Miss Rosamond explained. "She was on her way to visit us; was that not very kind of her?" Anne noted with some gratitude that Miss Rosamond neglected the detail of her having been lost and weeping when they came upon her.

"Very kind indeed," Mr. Hart replied.

The party fell silent for some moments. Anne could think of nothing to say, and took another sip of her tea. The Harts seemed quite comfortable, but Anne supposed that being brother and sister, they had no need to fill the silence all the time. At length, however, Mr. Hart spoke again.

"I do hope you enjoyed the rest of the ball, Miss de Bourgh."

"I did indeed."

"We left quite early, as I am sure Rosamond has already mentioned; did we happen to miss the unfolding of any great scandals, or otherwise historic events?"

Anne smiled, feeling her awkwardness dissipate slightly. "I am afraid not, Mr. Hart. Indeed I wish you had, for then I would have more to tell you; but as it was, the rest of the evening was rather dull."

"Dull! Miss de Bourgh, I daresay you are the only young lady in Bath who can attend an assembly at the Dalyrmples' and declare it dull. I am sure every other person there has some great scandal to report, even if it is only an imagined one. Are you sure you did not see any body fall violently in or out of love—were there no wedding-rings pitched at unworthy spouses?"

"Lord! Theo," Miss Rosamond cried, laughing, "what sorts of assemblies have you been attending?"

"I did hear," Anne ventured, "that a pair of twin sisters, the Miss Stewarts, decided to dress alike; and that another pair of twin sisters, the Miss Dillinghams, thought it quite ridiculous of them."

"That is rather ridiculous," Miss Rosamond said, wrinkling her nose. Mr. Hart laughed.

"My sister is thoroughly prejudiced against twins who dress to match," he told Anne, with the air of one imparting a great secret. "A very strange prejudice to hold, you will agree, Miss de Bourgh, for it is such a rare and relatively inoffensive occurrence; but there it is. She thinks it the most preposterous thing in the world, and has been known to abuse those persons for hours on end."

"Miss de Bourgh," Miss Rosamond exclaimed, "do you not agree that I, as a twin myself, and one who as a child was often forced to coordinate if not match with her twin brother, have every right to be as prejudiced as I wish?"

Anne was forced to concede Miss Rosamond's point; from there, the conversation proceeded quite pleasantly onto other topics. Neither Mr. Hart nor his sister was particularly interested discussing the ball any further, Anne was pleased to find, and they spent a very enjoyable half-hour before Anne realized with a start that Mrs. Jenkinson had been waiting for her far too long already, and might have grown suspicious.

Some concern at this realization must have been apparent to her hosts, for Miss Rosamond asked her rather worriedly if everything was well.

"Oh, yes," Anne said regretfully. "I fear I must leave you, Miss Hart, for my companion is waiting for me, and has been this hour at least." She paused and bit her lip, remembering that she had no idea how to return to the café where Mrs. Jenkinson sat.

"You do not mean to say you walked here alone?" Mr. Hart asked, astonished. "I confess I was surprised not to see your carriage outside, Miss de Bourgh, but I had not thought you came all this way unaccompanied."

Anne blushed. Miss Rosamond, apparently remembering herself the cause of Anne's earlier distress, said gently, "May we escort you to your friend, Miss de Bourgh? I myself have some business in the high street, and I daresay Robert and Juliet would not be adverse to visiting one or two of the shops there."

Gratefully, Anne accepted Miss Rosamond's offer; Mr. Hart declared that he himself would not refuse a walk, and rose as well to accompany them. Mr. Robert and Miss Juliet were summoned, and before long the entire party set out from Hart House.

The walk was not a long one, and Anne found it much more agreeable in the present company. There was at first some coldness in Mr. Robert's manner towards her, but after a moment Miss Rosamond pulled him aside and said something to him in a low voice, and Anne was pleased to note that he was rather more amiable after that. The Harts were more than happy to point out certain sites of note as they passed: a park where they had spent many pleasant hours, a bakery that offered some of the finest tea-cakes in Bath, a few bookshops that Miss Juliet assured Anne were "almost as good as Mostyn's", and so on. Anne was rather embarrassed to discover that Hart House was not at all far from the high street, when one followed the straightforward route with which the Harts were well acquainted. What had taken her nearly twenty minutes when alone, took the entire company less than half of that, and after only a few minutes of pleasant conversation they turned on to the street where Anne had separated from Mrs. Jenkinson.

Anne bid her companions farewell before they reached the café, certain that her nurse would not approve at all of her entering that business with these particular acquaintances in tow. She thanked the young ladies again for their kind assistance in the park, and declared her hope that they might all meet again sometime soon, which was returned very politely before the Harts all made their separate curtsies and bows and, almost as one, turned to take their final leave. Yet Anne, struck by a sudden fear, gripped of Miss Rosamond's arm quite before she knew what she was doing, and pulled her back for a moment.

"Miss Hart," she whispered urgently, "you're certain—quite certain that both of your brothers have forgiven me?"

Miss Rosamond afforded her acquaintance a very sweet smile. "None of us are prone to holding grudges, Miss de Bourgh," she reassured her. "Pray do not be uneasy. I promise, you are as welcome now as ever at Hart House."

With that, she gave a final curtsy, a final smile, and followed her brothers and sister.


Anne entered the café apprehensively, quite certain that Mrs. Jenkinson would be highly suspicious of her late arrival. Indeed, her worries were not unfounded, for Mrs. Jenkinson rose almost immediately upon seeing her, a look of the strongest relief upon her features.

"Miss de Bourgh," she exclaimed, taking her mistress' hand as if overcome, and letting go of it almost as quickly. "I was most uneasy—are you well? I went to the draper's shop again, and you were not within; the shopkeeper said you had left quite soon after our separation, but did not know which way you had gone. You have not been robbed?" Her eyes flew to Anne's reticule, still intact.

"Robbed?" Anne repeated, incredulous and (though she knew it was wrong of her) rather amused. "I have not been robbed; I did not see any thing worth purchasing in that shop, so I continued to another. I was not aware you required information on all of my movements," she added frostily.

"I am sure I do not, madam, but I was truly quite concerned," Mrs. Jenkinson replied, curtsying, but her eyes narrowed. They continued outside, where Mrs. Jenkinson assisted her into the waiting carriage, and sat in silence for some moments as the coachman urged the horses into action.

"Miss de Bourgh," Mrs. Jenkinson said after a moment, "Did you find nothing worth purchasing in the second shop you went to?"
"I did not," Anne answered, gazing out the window. She thought she caught a glimpse of the Harts through one of the shop-windows.

"And so you continued to another?"

"I did," was Anne's reply, though she was affording only half her attention to the conversation.

"And found nothing there, either?"

"Mrs. Jenkinson," Anne said sharply, turning to her companion, "may I ask why you insist on all of these questions?"

"I merely find it peculiar, madam," Mrs. Jenkinson said slowly, lowering her eyes, "that you could have spent more than an hour in the shops, and returned with no packages; for I have seen you make several purchases within the first quarter-hour of shopping on other days. Though I am sure you have a perfectly logical explanation, Miss de Bourgh," she finished unctuously.

Anne's heart sank. She had not thought to make any purchases, in order to give her story the appearance of truth, though she supposed now that it would have been the clever thing to do. Truly, Anne thought ruefully, she should make a terrible criminal—she had not at all the type of brain suited to furtive operations. Drawing herself up, she prepared to utilize her most forbidding tone:

"If you must know, Mrs. Jenkinson," she snapped, "nothing at all caught my eye to-day, which is precisely why I spent so long in the shops, for I was unwilling to admit defeat. I am looking for a new tea-service, and had hoped to find one to-day, but was disappointed. Does that satisfy you? And," she went on, giving her companion no time to reply, "I would suggest you consider who I am, and whose daughter I am, before you make any vulgar insinuations; I am hardly the sort of young lady who keeps trysts, if that is what you are thinking."

Mrs. Jenkinson, looking cowed, hurried to assure her mistress that that was not at all what she had been thinking, and that her questions had been motivated purely by impertinent curiosity. Anne, satisfied, fell back against the cushions of the carriage-seat, and returned her gaze to the passing city outside the window.

She would have done well to be more cautious, for Mrs. Jenkinson was hardly as convinced or as contrite as she appeared. Yet Anne's mind, unsuited as it was to secrecy, was similarly unsuited to suspicion, and for the moment she sat in relative peace—to be disrupted only on her homecoming, by Lady Catherine, who had been promised that the carriage would be returned by eleven, and would be furious when it was not returned until nearly half-past.