Lady Agnes and her family had been at the manor for a week. They had been very nice days, full of laughter floating down the halls, delicious meals prepared by their family cook, and even a trip into town one afternoon for some ribbons for the ball they were to hold at the end of their stay to announce the wedding.

John, however, had not participated in any of it. An unadulterated fear had taken hold of him, so much so that he could not find the strength to face Lady Agnes. She had been nothing but amiable toward him, and he on the other hand could not bring himself to be the same toward her. He had resolved that she would be much happier away from him and his bizarre behavior for the time being until he could figure out how he was going to speak with her once more.

One afternoon he was holed up in the library, hoping against all hope that everyone would just leave him alone. He could not process his thoughts if he was constantly being interrupted. He had to discern where this fear was coming from and put it to rest. He could not face Lady Agnes again until he had.

Images of her face continued to taunt him, and he felt both elated and ashamed. He spent many hours thinking of what little he knew of her and how much he liked what he did know. The longer he sat and wallowed in his own frustrations, the more he felt as if he was doing Lady Agnes a great disservice.

His mother had become very cross with him and had made her feelings about his behavior known after dinner the previous night.

“This young lady has traveled all of this way for you, John, and you are all but ignoring her.”

“I’m not ignoring her, Mother,” he had muttered under his breath, realizing how very false those words were.

“Then what would you say to your actions? Suddenly solitude has become your fancy?”

He knew she was right, and yet, he could not bring himself to answer to any of her accusations. Not without agreeing with her, and then admitting defeat, stripping himself of all of his dignity. There was a soft knock at the door as he slid yet another finished tome up on the shelf where it belonged.

“Come in,” he called, stepping down from the ladder.

Robert, John’s younger brother, stepped inside, closely followed by Beatrice.

“Hello, John,” Robert began. His auburn hair swept over his broad forehead, dusting his eyebrows, throwing his steady, narrow green eyes into shadow.

John straightened his collar before he moved to the next shelf, looking for the book he wanted to read next. “What can I do for you?” He asked, stepping back up on the ladder after he moved it securely into place.

“We are going to town again,” Beatrice continued for her brother. She glared at John. “Lady Agnes is coming with us. We were hoping that you might come along as well.”

“No,” John answered, almost as a habit, not even looking over his shoulder. “I have far too much to do here.”

“Oh, come off it,” Robert said rather sourly, all pretense of sympathy vanishing like mist on a sunny morning. “This ridiculous behavior has got to stop, John, and you know it.”

John felt his cheeks flush, so he hesitated before looking down over his shoulder at the pair of them. “What if I simply have no interest in going to town today? It is simply too cool to spend the day in the carriage.”

“First it is too hot, then it is too cold?” Beatrice asked, a hint of desperation in her voice. “John, we are worried about you. This is...this is so unlike you.” She took a hesitant step toward him. “Please, dear brother. What can we do to help you get over whatever all this is?”

John tapped the spine of the book he was looking at, even though his eyes were not focused on anything in particular. He did not respond. His sister was speaking the very words that he had been scolding himself with before they had walked in.

“A wonderful young lady is staying here, in case you had forgotten,” Robert added, the disdain plain in his voice. “She is planning to marry some buffoon who can’t seem to string two words together in her presence.”

John swallowed hard and pulled a random text from the shelf, opening it up to the middle and pretending he was looking for something. He knew there was nothing in there he needed. He simply wished to bury himself from his brother and sister’s view.

“What is the matter?” Robert asked, a little more gently. He wondered if Beatrice had flattened him with one of her terse looks. “Are you completely uninterested in the poor girl? Are you thinking of calling the wedding off, you detest her so much?”

The book in his hand slapped shut with a snap, and dust was thrust up into the air before him, causing his eyes to water.

His siblings did not say a word as he climbed down the ladder slowly, laid the book down to rest on the little table with the oil lamp beside him, and looked up at them.

“What would make you think that I detest her?”

Robert’s face hardened. “She thinks that, John!”

John blinked. “What?”

Beatrice looked pleadingly at her oldest brother. “He is not making that up. Lady Agnes thinks that you simply are not interested and are too polite to say so.”

“Or too much of a coward,” Robert added, the acid in his voice returning.

John held up his hand to quiet the two of them. His heart felt as if it was both in his throat and at his feet at the same time. All of the anticipation and excitement he had been feeling about the coming wedding came plummeting to the ground around him. How was it that he was so dull? How could he have expected her to think anything else? Of course she would not simply think he was shy or childish. No, a grown woman would read the signs much more plainly.

“How do you know this?” he asked.

Robert pursed his lips, and looked at Beatrice.

Beatrice shared an anxious glance with Robert, and then looked at John. “She told me.”

“What?” he asked.

She held up her hands, hoping to steady her brother’s anger that must have been evident on his face. “She sort of told me in passing.”

“What exactly did she say?” John pressed, feeling the tightness in his chest growing more intense.

Beatrice sighed. “She didn’t exactly say it...”

John frowned and took a step toward her, opening his mouth to retort.

“She and I were sitting in the sunroom the other day, and she asked where you were. When I told her as nicely as I could that you had been feeling under the weather for the last few days,” she shot him a dark look, “You are quite welcome, by the way. Anyways, she just sort of looked at me with sad eyes and shook her head. She said, ‘That’s quite all right. I know that he has been avoiding me. Frankly I found him quite amiable when I first arrived. Perhaps my first impression was not suitable.’ And I went on to tell her how wonderful she was and how much of a prat that you are, John.”

John felt the sting of her words and forced himself not to recoil.

“Now, if you have any hope of maintaining a marriage that has not even begun, then you must undo what damage has been done,” she continued. Her face fell, and her eyes sunk to the floor. “She is quite a lovely young lady, brother. You are doing her a great disservice by treating her this way.”

John straightened his shoulders. “No, sister, you are quite right. I...” he sighed. “I apologize. I just...”

Robert and Beatrice studied him, waiting for him to continue.

“I cannot explain it, but something about her has me so...mesmerized. She is unlike any other woman that I have ever met. There is such joy in her and such gentleness.”

"And this is the reason that you avoid her?" Robert's anger returned, and he glared at his brother. "That is preposterous. How could any man keep that from a woman?"

He turned away from them and walked to the window, peering out into the gardens. The sky was open; not a cloud was visible. The trees fluttered ever so slightly in the breeze, and the river churned along happily below him.

“I am at a loss for what to say to her, for I have never been trained on how to speak to a woman like that.”

“You speak to her like any other, brother,” Beatrice replied, almost laughing with disbelief. “She is not some sort of bizarre creature that you make her out to be.”

“That is not what I meant,” he said. “Most women I have had the pleasure of knowing are all mystery and flirtation and even some deception. I know how to speak to them, I understand that. But Lady Agnes is so...”

“Genuine?” Robert finished for her.

John turned and looked at his brother, whose arms were crossed now. He shrugged, and John nodded.

“Yes,” John replied, his voice no louder than a whisper.

Robert sighed heavily and let his arms fall to his sides. “All right, I can forgive you for your idiocy, for I believe that you meant no harm.” He shook his head. “You really are taken with her, aren’t you?”

John felt his jaw tighten.

“I cannot explain it,” John repeated. “But you are right, I must be better. I must not allow my feelings to get the better of me.”

Beatrice seemed pleased, and Robert was no longer scowling.

“So, to town then?” John asked.

“You’re coming?” Beatrice asked, her happiness brightening the room.

“I do not have much time to make amends,” John said. “I might as well try now.”

He gathered up his books and returned them to the shelf, and then followed his sister and brother down to the foyer to meet the rest of the party going into town.

He looked around, hoping for a glance of the Lady Agnes, and yet, she was not there.

"Where is the Lady?" Robert asked before John had the chance to.

They heard footsteps on the stairs behind them and turned to see his mother and Lady Kensington descending the stairs. The grave looks on their faces made him uneasy.

"What is it, Mother?" he asked, feeling the color draining from his face.

She came to the landing, and sighed. "I'm sorry, children, but we must postpone our trip to town. Lady Agnes has fallen ill."

"What?" they all exclaimed, taking a step towards the women.

"What ever is the matter?" John asked, feeling more affronted than he perhaps had the right to. The thought made his heart constrict anxiously.

His mother looked up at him. "It is nothing serious, but the poor girl is uncomfortable. A cold, we believe. And it appeared to come out of nowhere. She was feeling faint and chilled, and so we took her to her room and discovered that she was warm with fever."

John felt his heart sink. The chance he had to be able to make amends with her was gone now.

"What can I do?" he asked, approaching Lady Kensington.

Lady Kensington looked down at her hands which were clasped in front of herself. "There is not much to do, frankly. She just needs to rest, and hopefully in a few days, she will be back to normal."

John could hear the coldness in her voice. Had he upset Lady Kensington as well? How could he not, if she was paying any attention at all to how her daughter was feeling? It would make sense if she didn't want him near her with how he had been treating her.

His mother apologized to the others who had wanted to go into town, but John was gazing at the polished stone floor beneath his feet.

It didn't matter how he had acted up to this point; he still had the chance to make things right before her family reconsidered their decision. He may have been acting like a complete nuisance to them all, like a dog with its tail between its legs, but he could fix it.

"Lady Kensington," he said, turning to her once more, cutting his mother off in mid-sentence. They all looked at him, startled. "My apologies," he added hastily. "I would like to do all I can to ensure that my bride to be is well taken care of. It will be my job very soon, after all."

Lady Kensington studied his face as if looking for a hint of truth in his words. He hoped that it was plain on his face. Her face was blank, her eyes narrowed.

"Thank you, Lord Bridgewater, but you have done all that you can for now. Your concern will mean much to her."

With that, she excused herself from the room.

He watched her walk out of the room, and he felt a pressure on his arm. He looked down to see his mother squeezing just above his elbow.

"I am not sure what you are thinking, dear son, but you will do best to tread carefully from now on."

"Mother, I -"

She shook her head. "I do not know what you have been thinking for this last week..."

Robert made a noise of disgust from across the room, and John shot him a nasty look.

His mother glared at the two of them and then looked up into John's face once more. "If you are going to try and get to know Lady Agnes, then I suggest you do so in a way that will be received well."

"How do I do that?" he asked. He could not tell if she was furious with him, or simply pitied him. He also was uncertain which he would prefer she was.

"You must be patient and find a chance to speak with her. Explain to her what has been on your mind." She looked at him straight in the eye. "You must be genuine, my son. Let her know that you are there for her."

"Mother, you are acting as if she is far more ill than she is," Robert added, crossing his arms.

She sighed. "I must go inform your father that we are not going today. Perhaps we can enjoy some tea out on the terrace before the heat of the day leaves us. It is quite cooler than I had expected."

He looked at Beatrice and Robert with a meaningful look. Both turned and looked away. Everyone else dispersed, and before he had the chance to return to the study for another afternoon of mindless reading, Jane approached him.

"If you wish to do something for the lass, then bring her something warm to drink. Think of it as a peace offering of sorts."

John looked at her hard. “But her mother must certainly be up there with her right now."

She smirked. "Certainly she won't be up there the entire night..." and with a wink, she turned and walked slowly from the room without another word.

Perhaps he had gone slightly insane, but he waited until well after it was dark before he made any sort of move toward seeing Lady Agnes. He had spent much of the afternoon pacing back and forth in front of her door, explaining his presence away by saying that he was simply on his way downstairs, or to the study, or to ask his father a question. He knew that others were not as simple as he hoped they were, but none of them asked any further questions.

He hoped that they would take his strange behavior for concern for Lady Agnes, because deep down at its core, that was what it was.

It was nearing midnight when he heard her door open from across the hall in his sister's room. Jane was sitting on her bed reading a book, and John was sitting, arms crossed, in a chair right beside the door. He scrambled to his feet and peered out into the hall as quietly as he could.

He noticed Lady Kensington closing the door behind her softly, waiting for a moment, listening at the door, and then walked down the hall toward the guest wing where she and her husband were sleeping.

"Is she alone finally?" Jane asked from the bed.

John looked over his shoulder at her. "She is."

Jane closed the book and laid it on her side table. "Good. Now, go to the kitchen and get her a hot cup of tea."

"At this hour?" he asked. "What if she doesn't want it?"

Jane rolled her eyes and got to her feet. She crossed over to where he stood and peered out into the hall around him.

"Honestly, brother, it's a wonder that you have been able to woo any woman at all." She crossed her arms across her chest. "You are bringing her something thoughtful to show her that you are thinking of her and trying to help. She will not care what it is. That isn't the point."

"Right," he said.

"Now go, before you interrupt her sleep," Jane said and gave him a gentle push out the door.

He made his way down to the kitchen in the dark, and when he reached it lit a small candle stashed on a shelf in the corner. Thankfully, he had spent much of his childhood watching the cook down in this cool, dark place that he was able to locate a kettle, a teacup, and some fresh tea. He was glad that some coals still burned in the fireplace, so he nestled the kettle down in the coals.

It only took a short while for the kettle to pour steam into the air, and he laid it on one of the silver trays that had been used for tea time that afternoon. He debated about bringing two tea cups, not wanting to seem presumptuous, but did add some extra sugar and some fresh cream in a small goblet. He had no idea how she liked her tea. And if he was not careful, perhaps he never would.

Just before he left the room, he snatched a few cakes from the plate sitting on the table near the door, leftover from dinner that night. He had no idea if she had eaten, but perhaps she would enjoy something sweet before she went to sleep; he always did.

He made his way back through the house with the lit candle, hoping against all hope not to run into any one with a tray full of food and tea. He was glad when he reached her door without seeing anyone else.

He gently wrapped his knuckles on the door, and he heard her soft, sweet voice carry through the still, quiet night.

"Who is it?"

He leaned closer to the door, and said as quietly as he could, "It’s Bridgewater… er…John. I have brought you some hot tea and cakes. Would...would you care for any?"

He heard movement behind the door, and shortly after, the door knob turned, and the door slowly slid open.

He was greeted with the sight of a very tired, very pale Lady Agnes, her cheekbones sharp in the shadow thrown on her face by the dim candle.

She pulled her bed jacket more tightly around her shoulders and peered up at him from underneath a simple linen bonnet.

And then, to his surprise, she smiled at him.

"How very thoughtful," she said, in a very low, tired voice. "You did not have to go to such lengths, my lord. My mother told me that you sent your regards, and that brought me great joy already."

John smiled, in spite of himself. He felt the knot that had been lodged in his chest loosen, and he felt he could breathe slightly easier as he stepped into her room.

His mother had insisted that she sleep in Beatrice's room, which overlooked the river and the rose garden, as it was one of the nicest views in the manor. They had gone to no small length to ensure her every comfort with a wash basin that was warmed every morning on the table beside the window, as well as a shelf full of all of the latest books for women on fashion and fairy tales. The bed was made with a fresh set of quilts they had recently purchased, intending to give them to her and her family as a gift before they left, and the fireplace in the corner was never without hearty logs and burning coals.

She stood beside her bed, watching him as he brought the tray inside and set it down on the long, low vanity area beside the bed. The steam was still trickling out of the spout of the tea kettle.

"Please, sit down," he said, gesturing to the bench in front of her bed. "It will do you no good to spend your strength. I shall make you a cup."

"Thank you," she replied and made her way to the bench.

He also knew that seating her by the fire was the best thing for her and her sickness in the first place.

As he poured the tea into a dainty golden edged cup, he forced himself to have another go at conversation with her. For some reason, being in her presence again had caused his mind to move far too quickly, and he could not decide on anything to say to her.

He was unsure if she was upset with him. She had given no sign that she was, but he knew that women were often the very greatest at concealing what they truly thought; living with three sisters and his mother taught him that.

"So your mother informed us that you have come down with a cold," he said, and then felt foolish for saying it. Why would he have come all of this way, in the dead of night, with hot tea if she was not, indeed, ill?

But she was gracious with her gracious as she watched him. "It appears so. Mother thinks it was the trip back from town on Monday... Perhaps there was too much of a chill near the water's edge where we..." she drifted off. "Oh, I'm sorry. I had forgotten that you were not there with us."

He swallowed, her tiny tea cup clutched in his long, wide fingers.

"Would you like some sugar in your tea?" he asked, hoping to avoid any more time amidst the strange, uncomfortable silence that had fallen.

"Yes, please," she said, a smile still on her face, though he had noticed that it had faltered slightly.

"How much?"

"Just one small spoonful, thank you."

He obliged.

"And milk?" he asked, mixing the spoon inside the cup.

"No, thank you. I am quite fond of my tea and the simple flavor that it has."

He carried the small cup to her and handed it to her. "Here you are," he said.

As she reached for the small cup with her small hands, her fingers grazed his, and the touch was enough to make his heart jump wildly inside of his chest. He was grateful that the color in the room was warm and low, so she would not see the flush in his cheeks.

He took a seat in the chair at the desk beside the window, a little ways away from her. The moon was bright and hung high in the sky, blue and cool, a stark difference from the warm glow of the fire inside the room.

He watched as she sipped her tea, the steam coiling gently in the air around her nose as she inhaled the scent of it. She was quite pretty, he realized, the amber light of the fireplace weaving golden strands into her coal black hair, which was loosely hanging in a braid over her shoulder. She certainly did not look ill, sitting there as she did, her eyes focused on the flames flickering in the fireplace.

For quite a long time, the only sound was the cracking and snapping of the flames and the dull thud of his heart pounding in his ears.

Yet the longer they sat in silence, the harder he found it to open his mouth and break it. He recited several different conversation starters in his mind, but none of them seemed efficient, nor clever, nor amiable. He wished to ask how she felt, and yet, he felt as if he was intruding by keeping her awake and wondered if he should leave. But then, what would the point have been to come all the way up here with the tea in the first place?

"The is lovely," she said, very quietly, some time later. She still stared into the fire, the empty cup clutched in her hands.

He immediately got to his feet, thankful, oh so thankful, that she had broken the wicked silence. "Would you care for another cup?"

She shook her head slowly, though she did not meet his eye. "Oh, that is very kind of you to offer, my lord, but I think I should try and get some sleep." She laughed lightly. "I might not sleep at all if I had any more."

"Right," he replied, feeling foolish and aimless, looking back and forth from her to the tea tray. "Perhaps something to eat? Have you had anything at all since breakfast?"

She did turn to look at him now, and there was a bit of distance in her blue eyes. "I did, yes. My mother brought me some warm broth just before I changed into my night clothes." She shifted herself toward him a little more, to give him more of her attention. "But please, feel free to leave them. Perhaps I shall be in want of something if my appetite returns in the morning."

He felt his jaw clench, and he nodded his head. He cleared his throat.

"Yes. I should allow you to rest. I apologize for my rudeness, I simply wished to..." he trailed off, feeling both hopeless and desperate to leave all at once.

"It was very considerate," she said, and he knew she meant it. "Thank you for all of it."

He took a step toward the door. He longed to stay there with her, to ensure that she was going to get well. Of course he knew that she would get well, but he felt as if he had made so many mistakes in this relationship that the only way he knew how to fix them would be to stay at her side and never leave it from now on, but that was ridiculous, and he needed to be sensible.

He opened the door ever so slightly. She had not left the bench in front of the fireplace.

"I do hope you are well tomorrow," he said, only loud enough for her to hear. "Lady Agnes."

And before she had the chance to reply, for he was not sure he wished to hear her words if they were to disappoint him, he walked into the hall and closed the door behind him.

He leaned against the wall beside her door, his chest rising and falling steadily. He closed his eyes, wishing with every fiber in his being that the entire encounter had gone differently. He should have been dashing, caring, and romantic. He could have put some more wood in the fire for her to ensure she was warm enough, or he could have brought her a blanket to sit with while she enjoyed her tea. He could have asked after her health more than he had and been more intentional. But he did not, and now it was too late.

He hoped, as he made his way down the long, lonely corridors to his own room, that perhaps the gesture alone was enough for her to see how he felt.

But her lack of interaction was perhaps what concerned him the most. For she was not afraid of conversation, even if she was the one making most of it.

He scolded himself, reminding himself that she was ill and perhaps very tired. It was possible even that the time he had chosen to visit her was entirely wrong in the first place. He was not sure.

As he lay down to sleep that evening, he wondered, not for the first time, if he had damaged his reputation so far beyond repair that she would never take him for a husband, and all of his affection toward her would never be known.

He did not fall asleep until the first grey light of dawn had begun to shine through the trees outside his window.