Archive of Our Own (BETA rev. 2101)

Leaning over the railing of the ship, Edward contemplated the horizon. The wind, that just a short while ago had roared and fussed and kept them ashore, was now pleasantly gentle, barely ruffling Edward’s hair. The water was of the darkest blue, white peaks of foam cresting like chalk cliffs against the ship. He was facing away from the retreating shore, but in his mind, its whiteness was likened to it nonetheless.
It was odd, to be travelling at last. His return to England seemed far away and the intervening months alone on the Continent frightfully immediate. He wondered what his father thought of him now—whether he thought Edward could fend for himself or not. He was inclined to think he did, otherwise he would not have sent him, but a nagging doubt remained. He was almost convinced that his father wanted the matter settled soon because he feared discovery, and that he only deceived himself into thinking it was all in Edward’s best interest. It was, after all, the argument that had convinced him he should obey.

How odd his father was, thought Edward, suddenly wicked. Most gentlemen sent their sons to the Continent and said to them ‘Go, enjoy, and educate yourself, and come back a man’. Mr. Bennet, instead—with a strained smile, Edward lamented that he had not thought of it sooner, though he doubted he would have relented long enough to tell his father. There had been a distinct coldness between them, those last days; Edward barely maintaining a civil façade in front of the servants and neighbours.

His father had kept an understanding, pitying expression on his face since the evening Edward had agreed to his plans, and that infuriated him more. He acted as if Edward was sulking; as if he was humouring a child! Could anything be more insulting?

Edward pressed the whole palm of his hand onto his face, roughly rubbing his eyes in frustration. Taking a deep breath, he looked down into the dark water again.

Travelling across the sea was so amazing and new, Edward did not tire of contemplating his surroundings. It was a more than welcome distraction. He did not want to think more about his father.

The very fact of having water below and as far the eye could see all around was awe inspiring, humbling. He, though hating to be a coward, could not help wish he could have taken Darcy’s offered swimming lessons. But of course, he could not; Darcy’s shock would have been more than great.

His smirk this time was involuntary. It was then that a voice to his right startled him.

“It’s delightful out here, is it not?”

He recognized the girl from before; he had seen her boarding with a tradesman, who Edward supposed, due to their similar features, to be her father, and an older woman. She seemed agreeable enough, smiling up at him, but they had not been introduced, and Edward was at a loss how to behave. He smiled slightly and said, “Indeed,” before turning back to the sea.

He expected her to realize the inappropriateness of their situation, but she did not seem bothered in the least. On the contrary, she went to him and leaned by his side, imitating his previous position with both elbows on the railing. It looked very odd on a lady, but then, she was probably no older than fifteen, hardly more than a girl.

“I cannot convince Mrs. Eyre that it is nice out here. The motion of the boat does not agree with her in the least. I felt a little sick at first, but coming up here made me feel better again.”

Edward had been enjoying his solitude, quite a new experience for him, but a conversation appeared unavoidable now.

Observing her a little better, he thought that the girl was probably not out yet. He did not really know if that made matters worse or better. Turning to look at her once again, he smiled, bowed, and said, “I am afraid we have not been introduced. With your pardon, I am Edward Bennet.”

The girl then blushed profusely and stumbled through a, “Oh, I am sorry, I should not have talked to you like this,” before falling silent again.

Edward’s smile almost froze, but he forced himself to be agreeable. Indeed she should have not. He had occasion to lament she was not a boy—everything would have been straight forward easiness in that case—until he remembered he did not want to be interrupted. He had been managing very well on his own.

With nothing else to do, Edward kept his smile, and wishing the girl would just go away, bowed again, in what he hoped was a mixture of apology and goodbye. He could not turn around until she went, and she did not seemed inclined to do so. In fact, despite turning even redder, she did a hasty curtsey and spoke again.

“I am so sorry. That was very rude of me. I am Amelia Heart.”

That, she seemed to think, was enough of the niceties, and she turned to the sea again. When she spoke again, Edward held back a sigh and imitated her.

“I do love the sea. My father means for us to go to America one day soon, to oversee his business there. Mrs. Eyre is already dreading it, but I think I will love the trip.”

“I have never been at sea before, but as you say, I find it delightful.”

“Never? How strange! Why, I have been to Brighton a dozen times at least, and I’m not yet fifteen!”

Edward looked at his hands on the railing while she spoke, amused but trying to think of a way to end the conversation without offending her. He wondered what Darcy would say, but could not imagine it.

“How pleasing for you,” he observed, trying to keep a serious tone and failing miserably, “that you love the sea so very much, then.”

“Oh, very,” and there was not a trace of irony to be found in her tone, “though Mrs. Eyre says that it is no way to raise a lady, always coming and going, never settling down.”

“Well, it is said that travel is a great educator. Myself, I am sent to the Continent for that very same reason.”

“My father says that as well, but Mrs. Eyre, though she does not say anything to him, disagrees.” And then her tone took a decidedly didactic turn, and Edward guessed she was imitating her governess. “Not all things that are adequate for gentlemen are so for ladies.”

“And you, what do you think?” In his curiosity, Edward could almost forget that he should be annoyed at her presence.

“Oh, I surely do not know,” she said, breezily, “and it just as surely does not matter. I will accompany my father whether Mrs. Eyre is right or not. And she will come, too.”

“That is sad for Mrs. Eyre, if she hates travelling so very much.”

The girl bristled. “Well, she is being paid for her troubles.”

Edward could not help frowning, and looked away to hide it. He had to remind himself that she was just a child.

“Indeed, I did not mean anything by it.” Looking around for something to distract her with, he said, “the dozen times to Brighton aside, do you know the Continent? I could surely use some advice.”

Her eyes brightened. “Oh, no, this is my first time coming to the Continent as well! But I have read The Italian, and I cannot wait to go there.” In her mounting excitement, the rapidity of her words made almost impossible to discern her meaning. “Oh, papa said that we cannot go yet, and that France is even prettier. I am sure he says it to placate me, and I think the French must be very uncivilised. I am quite terrified of finding Napoleon, even though I heard that he was not very intimidating in person. Would you not be? Papa said that I should be very happy we can enter France now, but I do so want to go to Naples, and he said that perhaps after his business is concluded, if I am very good and if Mrs. Eyre does not have to go even once to ask him to convince me to learn my lesson, he would take me. But Mrs. Eyre is so odious, and I am sure she would go to him only to spite me, and make the trip shorter.”

With a sudden inkling about the reason for Naples’ attraction*, Edward looked away to hide the widening of his smile. “Is she so terrible? Would she make a good Marquesa?”

“Oh no, she is nothing like that. She is so very serious all the time.”

“I see, she sounds positively unromantic.”

The girl seemed not to notice his tone. “And Italy is so mysterious, and I so long to meet real Italian people.”

Edward had then to bite his lip to avoid the laughter he felt bubbling up.

“Indeed, though the real Italy is perhaps not half as mysterious as Mrs. Radcliffe’s. Should I feel offended on behalf of our old England, seeing that you have discounted all the English noblemen in your mind and are clearly hoping you would meet a Vivaldi?”

She went as red as her short cloak and protested; to keep peace, Edward eventually relented and accepted that she was looking for no such a thing.

Nonetheless, it was too easy to tease her. “Anyway, I do not think it would be a good idea to extract advice from such a dreadful tale; I think it would prejudice oneself against the place excessively, do you not agree? It could make one terribly afraid of visiting the Monasteries, for example, and only think of the picturesque sights one would miss!”

Embracing the change of topic, and quite possibly thinking he was in earnest, the girl said, “Mrs. Eyre is making me read many travel guides…” but before she could pass along the indubitable priceless knowledge contained therein, she was interrupted by the same lady she had just named.

“Amelia!” was the disturbed cry that stopped their conversation and made them turn.

And then, “Miss Heart! I was so worried; I could not find you anywhere!”

“I was here all this time,” said her pupil, recklessly. “Enjoying the fresh air.”

Edward could not help cringing a little. Regardless of his lack of responsibility over the current situation, it did not look good at all. The older woman almost managed to look fierce, despite looking pale and almost greenish, and Edward felt chastised, just imagining what she must be thinking of him.

“I cannot see what there is to enjoy, with this awful wind incessantly rocking the floor and mussing up everything; just look at your hair! And you know you should not have stood here, ‘enjoying the fresh air’ or at least not alone.”

Mrs. Eyre, even as she spoke, was not looking at Amelia’s hair, but at Edward, eyeing him up and down, as if he was a calf ready for slaughtering, or perhaps a wolf coming to slaughter her calf. Neither of the comparisons that occurred to him appealed in the slightest.

“It is called a deck, not ‘floor’,” said Amelia.

“Do not sulk, dear, and come along, a deck is not a suitable place for a lady.” And she hurried the girl away, leaving Edward open-mouthed, wondering if anyone had ever been as rude to him before.

They arrived at Calais in short order, and Edward found that the people he encountered there were very similar to those in London. Calais, or at least the places in Calais where he had been directed to, was teeming with Englishmen. He avoided the Hotel d’Angleterre purposely, but found that the Silver Lion was as full of his countrymen as all other reputable inns; he did not find their presence distasteful enough, however, to drive him to lodge in a more uncomfortable place.

Nevertheless, he was anxious to leave his country behind. He longed to forget what he was doing in the Continent, to forget he was Edward, that he was not Edward, that he was English.

The result was that he avoided the common room as much as possible, only dining there and leaving immediately afterwards. He practiced his French with the lowly shopkeepers and common people on the street. He suspected they overpriced his purchases and laughed at his accent, but they were refreshingly French and the sights were quite lovely.

In Paris, his activities made it unavoidable that he cross paths with English gentlemen, and he finally gave up on his reluctance because he did want to continue his training at the Académie d'Armes. He discovered that his countrymen, while they were more outspoken with women, while they got drunk more often, while they were louder at inns and more reckless with their horses, did not become especially interested in other English gentlemen themselves. ‘Who would have thought it,’ Edward mused, ‘I am not unique after all.’

And so it happened that, some weeks into his stay, when he had grown accustomed to his anonymity, someone approached him.

He was resting against the wall of the Académie, having just endured a particularly tiring bout with his instructor. He had his forehead against the dark panelled wood, his breath slowly returning to its normal cadence, and he did not hear the words at first. Turning around, Edward had a vague impression that his instructor was repeating himself.

“Monsieur Bennet, can I trouble you for a moment? La Comtesse showed some interest in me introducing you to her.”

Edward looked up, astonished, and stopped drying the sweat on his forehead; he wondered if he had understood correctly, but his French was not bad enough to consider it for too long. What was that about? He had no interest in being introduced to anyone. So far he had managed to enjoy his time quite well on his own. For a normally gregarious person, he found that solitude, even if tended to make him dwell on the unfairness of his life, agreed with him. His doubt must have showed, because the instructor seemed scandalized; or perhaps that had been his reaction to the situation all along, and Edward had only just noticed.

He was considering how to phrase a polite rejection, and wondering whether that was possible, when the man spoke again. “Monsieur Bennet, la Comtesse is waiting. You must not worry about your appearance, she has seen much worse.”

Several answers sprang to his mind at this, but Edward realized they would be neither polite nor advisable, not in the least because he was not quite sure of how to phrase them in French. And then, why not meet la Comtesse?

Decided, he looked around towards the site the man had been motioning to. He did not quite know what he had expected, but whatever that was, la Comtesse was not it. Tall, taller than him, and slim, she wore a dress that fell somewhere between being too revealing and almost modest enough. And she was beautiful. And older—older than Darcy, that is. He did not know when he had begun to measure things by their relationship to Darcy, but there it was.

She was looking at him, and though she was too far away to tell for certain, he felt that she was raising a brow in arch questioning.

“Of course, I am sorry for the delay; introduce me.” He considered asking whether she had mentioned why she wanted the introduction, but thought perhaps that would be impolite, or unpolished, or something like that; and he doubted she had told the man.

They walked together to where she stood, and up close, Edward began to regret his decision; she had the sharpest eyes, he could already see that making the acquaintance was a very bad idea.

“Comtesse of Bonnezac, I present you Monsieur Edward Bennet, of Longbourn, Hertfordshire.” The man butchered the county’s pronunciation, of course, and Edward could not help flinching.

He had never felt quite so ungainly and clumsy as then, when trying to bow graciously over the lady’s hand. He could only feel grateful for the gloves, which hid the fact his hands were sweating.

At another nod from her, the man bowed and retired. Hating the silence that was sure to swallow them and trying to be brisk without being impolite, Edward met the lady’s gaze and said, “Can I ask, my lady, why you asked for the introduction?”

Her smile, that until that moment had been more a hint than anything, widened. “Very impatient, the English, I see.” Her French was clearer than the instructor’s.
“I have never heard it said so, but I do have it on good authority we do not have any subtlety at all.”

“Are you accusing the French of being too oblique?”

“I would never… at least not while in France.”

She laughed, the sound lilting and pleasing, but did not respond.

“I will own,” said Edward, “to impatience being one of my personal attributes, if you would consent to gratify it.”

“Well, when you ask so nicely, how can I not? I was looking for a sparring partner, and you were the only one available.”

If Edward thought her disingenuous, it was quickly confirmed. They were ridiculously mismatched; she was by far the more skilled fencer.

She moved with an almost feline grace, compensating for his errors, making it more of a dance than a fight. The dress appeared not to hinder her at all, though Edward wondered how that could be.

At the end of the encounter, he could still not imagine the real reason for her requesting it. She thanked him for his time, expressed the desire of repeating the experience, took leave of him quite nicely, and showed no other intentions at all.

In walking to his rooms he convinced himself that he had been mistaken. Perhaps the lady had simply wanted someone to spar with. Perhaps she did not mind tutoring someone if it meant that her time was well occupied.

The third time they met at the Académie, and she asked him to spar with her, he started to feel suspicious again. It could be mere chance that they found themselves there together, but he knew that she asked for him even when there were people with her level of ability free at the time. What her ulterior motives could be was still a mystery, of course. It would not do to suspect something very untoward—perhaps she was curious about England.

He did enjoy her company. She could be wickedly impertinent, and knew many of the regulars; she beat many of them. And so he managed to avoid inquiring after her intentions until a month after their first encounter, when she extended her card to him and expressed the desire he would call on her.

He was leaning against the wall, winded after an especially spirited match that she had, as usual, won. He looked up at her, raising a brow, and asked, “My lady wants to spar with me at her house, then?” He knew it was not so, but wanted to force her to admit it aloud.

“Of course not; the Count wants to meet you,” she said, not a hair out of place, nothing in her tone except polite interest.

He frowned and looked away; he really did not know what to make of her. And of course, when the time came a couple of days later, he went.

The Count was not at home, and though he was half expecting, half dreading it, he could not help but ask, “Should I come back another day?”

“He is attending to some matters in his county; he will not be back this month at the least. Stay, I have called for refreshments,” she said. He could not guess her mood—he hated that listening French, he hardly recognized anything but the most obvious of tones.
He did not ask why the Count had asked to meet him and gone away when he was expected. It could very well be that he had been forced to leave by circumstances beyond his control, or that the Countess had invented his desire in the first place. Neither answer would change the situation he was in, in any case.

She did not appear to mind the situation, and Edward wondered if he was not braving waters he would not be able to manage unscathed; or at least, undiscovered. He decided to leave it to her to direct the conversation, and waited for her to begin. There was a long silence, and when the maid came in to lay the food, he took advantage of the Comtesse’s distraction to get up and go to the window. As always, this reminded him of someone else, but he had no time to dwell on it. The maid went away and she finally spoke.

“Are you angry with me? Is this too awkward for you?”

“Angry?” He turned as he said it, and he did not try to hide the surprise in his voice. It had not occurred to him to be angry; awkward—now, that was another matter altogether. He realized suddenly that he had not felt angry in a while; he had not thought of his dilemma or his father in days.

She laughed softly again. He wondered why her laughter never felt insulting, although she was forever laughing at him. There was something in her manner…

“Not angry, then, I see,”—she did not move her eyes from him and he had to force himself to not deviate his gaze to the wall behind her—“but awkward. Why awkward, Mr. Bennet? We are friends, are we not?”

He could count his friends with one hand and still have fingers to hold a cup of tea. “I see you have not heard; more than lack of finesse, awkwardness is an English staple. Almost a national pastime, really.”

“You are avoiding my questions. I thought the English were direct.”

“I will be direct if you will be, as well. Did the Count really want to meet me?”

“I could be angry myself, now, Mr. Bennet; I do not lie.” She made a pause then, and said, “But I would be lying by omission if I would not say now that his absence does not bother me in the least. Will you tell me why it bothers you?”

She appeared sincere, but the last had been said with a playful smile, and Edward feared that his tolerance for being laughed at was very close to disappearing. She was acting as if he was a child, and he failed at repressing the annoyance in his tone. “I would thank you, my lady, if you were not…”—he stopped, bit his lip in thought and then, frustrated at her widening smile, said at last in English, knowing she would not understand him—“so bloody facetious about it.” Returning to French, he added, “You know perfectly well why.”

“That sounded quite bad!” she said, delighted. “You will have to teach me what it means and how to pronounce it!”

Edward could not help laughing himself; she was incorrigible. “I will do no such a thing. I am awkward because…” He decided to say it, what was there to lose? “In England, I would have never been invited by a married lady to call on her.”

“Ah, that,” she said, her smile not leaving her face for a second. “Do not worry, Bennet, you are too young for me. And I have yet to cuckold the Count with any man. See? I can be direct. I… should have been more straightforward before now, I know. You remind me of someone I used to know.”

“Someone?”

“A friend; a good English friend.”

“Ah, it is the nationality then? You must be reminded of him at the Académie all the time.”

She bit her lower lip and looked away. “It is not simply that. She could have been your sister, if not in looks, then in personality.”

Edward coloured. “I suppose I should feel it an insult to my masculinity.”

She let out a short laugh at that. “I certainly hope not! You would not be you if you did! Particular personalities… are not really confined to the sexes, do not think so?”

“I certainly hope not,” he echoed her and turned again to the window, not knowing if he should feel relieved or not.

“Monsieur Bennet, will you let all this food go to waste? What is it on the street that is so interesting?”

He moved to the chair, smiling, remembering himself asking a similar question.

“You have never told me of any friends, Mr. Bennet, and I have told you about one already.”

“So, I have to tell you they exist? I have… perhaps one friend.”

“Only one friend in the entire world?” she asked, sounding surprised.

Edward shrugged. “If we are not counting family. I do not call all of my acquaintances my friends.”

“Oh, now I see why I do not rate as one. You must comprehend a great deal into it. And the ‘perhaps’ was due to… what?”

“I would say that a more thorough mutual knowledge should be achieved. The perhaps is due to…”

“To…?”

“Perhaps I do not want to share to what the ‘perhaps’ is due to,” answered Edward finally, trying to smile and failing.

“I do not know everything about you, that is true, but I do think I know you would not have said it in the first place if you did not want to explain it.” She appeared serious, looking at him intently.

“We have… ‘quarrelled’ is perhaps the wrong term. Not that. I do not know exactly how to describe it. Circumstances are changed beyond repair. I am not really sure what we are now.” She stayed silent, and Edward felt obliged to tell more. Perhaps he did want to talk about it. “I cannot explain in detail, but… circumstances in my life changed who I could be, and I think… I think he does not like who I am after all. Perhaps we did not know each other enough.”

“All that ‘knowing each other’ you speak of… I do not think it is all that necessary; disagreements… they exist even between people who know each other thoroughly.”

Edward looked away. She truly did not know what he was speaking of, but of course, that was not her fault. It was his for thinking anyone else would be able to help without knowing anything about the situation.

After he did not speak for a while, she said, in a softer tone, “Are you sure you are not friends anymore? Disagreements… are just that. Perhaps your friend feels the same way you do.”

“I am not explaining myself properly. It is not exactly a disagreement.”

“But have you spoken with your friend about it? Perhaps… perhaps you can find some common ground.”

Her kindness nearly undid him and he could only turn away for a moment to recover his composure. “Perhaps we can… but I am being a terrible guest. And anyone’s problems make a depressing subject of conversation.”

She smiled again. “You have yet to tell me anything about England. Are your ladies so very different from me?”

He looked at her. “You can not imagine how much.”

“Is that true? How so? How do I compare?” He knew she probably had known plenty of English people before and that she was agreeing to be distracted and distract him from a painful subject, but he could find only gratefulness in himself.

“English ladies would never speak politics, never fence, and never invite young English gentlemen to call, but we have already covered that.”

“And young French gentlemen? Are they allowed to invite them, the poor dears?” she asked playfully, and he laughed and answered her even though she probably knew it already.

“Of course not. Not any gentleman at all, no matter his nationality.”

“That is sad,” she said, her eyes twinkling, “I do not think I would enjoy being an English lady very much.”

Edward felt himself sobering at the thought and could not cover his bitterness. “Nor I.”

He was glad to note that she did not appear to perceive the sudden turn of his humour. She laughed. “A French lady, that is another matter altogether, do you not think? I find being a French lady very enjoyable.”

“I imagine it must be,” answered Edward, politely.

“You imagine it! I think not… I find being female very superior, despite all that talk of women being the weaker sex, but as a man, you cannot imagine it, I know. No man has ever believed me on this; I do not think even one of them would chose to be a woman if they could.”

Edward almost laughed. Indeed, they would not! He could only say, “I find it not at all strange.”

“Indeed, that is why women are women and men are men, do you not think? It would be very sad not to be happy with your lot in life.”

He vacillated, and then forced a smile to ask, “And let us suppose, for a moment… What would you say to someone who was not happy with their lot in life?”

La Comtesse turned suddenly serious, a speculative look in her face. “Well, I know people like that, of course, who does not? I suppose, I would advice them to find a way to be happy. Not very useful, I know.” She looked at him with eyes that seemed to read his very soul and finally she added, “There is no answer to that. It depends on the particulars. I married the Count, for example, who does not mind me having friends. Love tends to make people happy, do you not think?”

He did not quite know how to answer that and mumbled something he hoped was polite. He was a little shocked, that was part of it. Another part, though, seemed to be finding the thought expressed immensely fascinating.

There was a little silence and the Comtesse seemed to be waiting for him to say something. The words were out of his mouth without seeming to pass by his brain. “Why do you find being a female so superior?”

She gave a short little laugh, as if she had not expected to be asked that. “Many reasons, of course. My answer would be perhaps that I am a woman, and I am myself? That is quite obvious.”

She looked at him then, under half lowered eyelids, as if evaluating something. Edward kept his silence. “It is not a matter of female or male being superior to the other.”

Edward looked away. “Of course not.”

“But you do not see what I mean—I do not say that happiness is being content with our lot. Or at least not if we say ‘lot’ to mean ‘how nature or God have made us.’ It is finding a way to be—happily—who we are.”

At his silence, she continued, “I do not want to lecture. I will say only one more thing: no one else can make us happy but ourselves.”

At his look, she rushed into saying, “What nonsense you make me say, Bennet! No person is the same; but I do think…”

She smoothed her skirts, deep in thought.

He took his leave soon after that, and though he continued to spar with the Countess sporadically in the Académie until he left Paris, he did not call on her again.

It took him almost a week to gather courage to write to Darcy, and when he did, he dared not re-read the letter before sealing it, lest he regretted sending it altogether.

Darcy,

What can I tell you that you have not experienced already on your own Tour? I imagine you did what every proper English gentleman must. I confess that I have been very remiss in that myself. I have spent my time at the Académie de Paris, and I do think that perhaps I can chance the possibility of beating you now.

I _have_ improved my French, though that was perhaps to be expected. Writing in English now feels strangely foreign.

If I were now in front of you, I imagine you would be glaring at me, waiting for me to stop babbling. We both know what I should write about. Only, I wish I knew the words—I am sure you know them already, and it would be mighty fine of you to tell me.

I feel in a limbo between my past and nowhere. Is that not lyrical? I will start quoting the poets to you soon.

I wish I knew what to do. I feel trapped. I feel like a coward by obeying my father, but how can I not? I could hate him for what he is making me do; I partially do already. As his heir I would never have left his side, as his daughter I cannot but stay and obey. I hate that most of all, even if I am sure he has not even considered that point. Perhaps _because_ he has not even considered it.

And I feel the whole weight of your disapproval, as well. There is no way to avoid it now. Whatever I do, whatever decision I make, circumstances have changed too much for us to be friends as we were before.

A friend—and yes, I think that despite how little I know her, she is one—told me I should explain myself to you. I do not think it will help—it will not change anything, for example—but it cannot hurt. I know it probably will not help to change how you feel about my circumstances.

I want you to understand that I truly did not have any choice. I used to feel that if a choice had been presented to me, I would have chosen to be Edward, but I am beginning to doubt it. I have found that it is useless to think how I could have been, and try only to imagine what I could become now.

And I have realized I truly do not know. What does it mean to be a lady? Or more to the point, what does it mean to be a woman? How can I be one if I do not know? Is it truly that different from being a gentleman? Most people would say: yes. But is it true? Is it so different from what I already am? How can I know without trying it? Can I afford not to, and lose everything I care about? Is it weak of me to want it all? My former life _and_ the one I would achieve by changing?

I know I should not speak to you about this, but I had already resigned myself to not having a family of my own. I did not think it a heavy prize for the life I was leading. Now… things have changed in a way I cannot define. There are only questions and no one to answer them for me. I do not expect you will answer them for me.

I feel I am leaving the decision up to someone else by obeying my father; you have said that you think women need guidance. Is it right, then, to leave that decision to him? I wish you were here to tell me what you think, my friend. I do not think I need guidance as much as I need friendship.

You were kindness itself the last time we met, I could not have hoped for a better friend, but I cannot help fearing you have reconsidered. I had given you very little and had inconvenienced you plenty, it is a wonder you still considered me a friend then, and it would be a miracle if you do so now.

I have two possibilities in front of me, and both are terrifying. What is my future as Edward? Can I exist as someone else? I feel like I should perhaps flip a coin and decide my life on its result.

I wonder how God decides who becomes male or female. I wonder what He would make of this situation.

I am tired of this limbo I am living in, and I realize, perhaps for the first time, that life as Edward was a kind of limbo as well, or it would have become one after Jane married and went away. I have said this before: though I know not what I am going to do, I have the feeling I know already what I, perhaps, _ought_ to do.

I close this letter, my friend, hoping to find you and your family well, and that this confused missive does not trouble your peace. I truly cannot order my thoughts clearer than this. I feel that perhaps I should not have written it, but, on the other hand, I know I still owe you a more complete apology, or perhaps a more complete explanation. And I do apologize for deceiving you. God bless you,
E. Bennet

His travels finally culminated in Naples. The best, he decided, remembering the girl in the boat to Calais, left for the end. And the fact that it was a seaport, in which he could easily buy passage for Edward Bennet for France and for another person for England, was decidedly an advantage.

Italy was warm in every sense, and as he had decided to avoid genteel society, he found himself visiting small towns and talking with fishermen and workmen. He found them charming and their life refreshingly simple. They were amiable and pointed out places for him to visit; charming views and excavation sites. They seemed used to dealing with the English.

Despite his life being a succession of wonderful discoveries, Edward felt lonelier than ever. Constant travel threw his lack of a permanent companion into sharp relief. He caught himself time and again turning to speak with someone that was not there. Though he did own to missing a companion, he would not go as far as admitting he always looked for the same person.

He pulled himself together again by reminding himself that whatever future there was, all depended on his actions and the decision he was to make.

Strangely, he felt no sadness in the upcoming changes. ‘Changes are welcome’, he thought. ‘Life as it is now surely cannot go on forever.’

During his last week in Naples he escaped the city and lived in a retired villa that hung crookedly over the beach. He wanted to be as alone as he felt, and order his thoughts, and he had long wished to try sea bathing in a fashion that soon would not be allowed to him anymore.

He reached the beach by climbing down some twenty feet, the steep drop surrounding one of the most enchanting places he had ever seen.

He divested himself of his boots immediately upon the moment he reached ground level. The sand, warmed by the morning sun, gave in a little, covering his toes.

The water looked inviting and he seemed alone in the whole world; looking around for a place to leave his clothes seemed the natural next step. Against the wall of rock would do, he decided; if the waves came up, it would be the last place they would touch.

He could not help vacillating before shedding his trousers; he had never done so outside. He tried to reassure himself, to tell himself that he was completely isolated, that no one came here. That he was as safe as if he were inside his rooms. He was sure he would hear anyone approaching long before they could see him.

The water was shockingly cold at first against the hot day, raising the hair on his arms. He made it deeper one step at a time, until the water reached the middle of his chest, and then stopped. He still did not know how to swim, after all.

“I could teach you how,” Darcy had said and Edward had laughed nervously and excused himself. The thought warmed him now all over again, and he contemplated the water as if it was challenging him. He noted then, detachedly, that his blush travelled, as Miss Bingley’s had, down below the commonly exposed skin.

And suddenly the sight of his bare body, clearly visible under the clear water drove all other thoughts out of his head.

Here he was. Here she was. He knew this body in an abstract sense, and at the same time, he knew he did not. He had never really though about it, tried not to, except for a time some years back, when he could only resentfully tighten the wrap over his traitorously growing breasts as if the pain could erase them.

Her breasts. Skin met trembling skin, and it was real.