Shaking

My nephew is fine. He seems to be enjoying his turn at playing the invalid, and we’re all enjoying the unusual quiet around the house as a result of his containment.

Everyone reported that the dinner and evening party were fabulous. Wentworth has been described to me in glowing terms. He is charming, I’m told, very easy to talk to, no shyness, funny. Full of interesting stories. Handsome, of course. 

Mary gave me this intel:

Mary: he asked about you, Anne.

Me, heart stopped: really?

Mary: yes, nothing particular, just generally. He probably made a point of familiarizing himself with Father’s family tree before coming so he could be sure to pay proper respects to all of us. He is so thoughtful!”

Charles left a while ago for the Lodge. He and Wentworth arranged to go look at some trails in the woods today before we all head to town for a Remembrance Day ceremony. They thought it best to avoid the cottage because of my ill nephew (or is there something else at the cottage Wentworth is keen to avoid?).

. . . . . .

My hands are shaking.

The front door opened, just as I typed the text above, and it was Charles and Wentworth. Charles had forgotten his gloves so they stopped here on their way to the woods. I was in the living room with Mary and Wentworth walked in and time stopped while every feeling in the known universe rushed over me.

He said hello to Mary and glanced at me. Said something general and pleasing to Mary which I couldn't pay attention to because I was trying not to explode into a thousand pieces. And then he was gone and it was done - our first meeting was over. Mary talked at me for a while after that, but I don’t think I heard a word. I've been sitting at my laptop for twenty minutes trying to compose this, trying to calm myself. 

We stood in the same room - he saw me and I saw him! It’s absurd that after 8 years I should be this agitated. I need to go for a walk and clear my head. 

He is still as good looking as he ever was.