For Myself Alone: A Jane Austen Inspired Novel by Shannon Winslow Page A

Bath is what sustains me.”
    “Poor Agnes,” I thought aloud, “I do pity you. Well, I shall write you a good, long letter tomorrow, I promise. By then I hope to have some news worth telling, some experience truly deserving of your envy.”
    After dinner, I began the delightful ritual of dressing for the ball. As I did so, I pictured the scene in my imagination and wondered who my dance partner would be. In answer, the face of the intriguing gentleman I had encountered earlier that day once again sprang unbidden to my mind. He had made quite an impression on me. One minute I fervently prayed that he would come to the ball and procure an introduction, and the next I reproached myself for allowing such an idle fancy to dominate my thoughts. I was not accustomed to this sort of emotional agitation.
    Mama, coming in to check on me, discovered me fully ready to go and impatiently pacing the length of my room.
    “My dear, how well you look,” she said. “That gown is so becoming. I am glad you chose it for tonight. Green has always been your best color. But why so anxious? It is not like you to become overexcited by the prospect of a ball.”
    “This is no ordinary ball, Mama. At a dance in Wallerton, one knows exactly what to expect – who will be there, how they will behave, what dances we will have and in what order they will be played. Tonight, everything is different – new people, a new place. Anything could happen.”
    “And you are hoping that something does, I suppose.”
    “What?”
    “I was once your age, you know, and it does not seem so long ago either. Believe it or not, I can still remember how nervous I felt before a ball. That was always the way with me, but I have never seen you like this before.”
    “I am sorry, Mama. I do not know what is wrong with me.”
    “No need to apologize; I rather like it. It makes me feel as if we have a little more in common. I never thought that I had much to teach you. Perhaps now, at this juncture, you may find that you need a mother’s advice after all.” Taking my hand, she continued, “I will never force a confidence from you, but I want you to know that you can come to me with your problems at any time. I have some knowledge and experience with affairs of the heart. I was quite admired in my day, and your father was not the first to notice me.”
    “Mama!”
    “Why so shocked, my dear? Did you never consider the possibility that your mother might know what it is like to be pursued by a man, or even more than one?”
    No, I had never given it an instant’s thought in the whole course of my existence.
    She went on. “I do not suppose that you have, any more than I did at your age. Well, nevertheless, it is true. So remember, you can talk to me about such things if and when you have the need.”
    I promised to bear it in mind.
    At length, my party arrived and Mr. Graham came to the door to collect me. The afternoon rain had left behind a pattern of puddles of various sizes, scattered at random like so many mushrooms sprung up across the forest floor. Lest my carefully arranged dancing clothes be spoilt at the very outset of the evening, I held my skirt and carefully picked my way to the carriage. Mrs. Graham and Susan waited therein. One glance at my friend’s face was sufficient to convince me that she felt the same exhilaration of spirits that I myself could hardly contain.
    The brief ride to our destination had no very soothing effect upon either of us, and we arrived with nerves still on edge. As Susan and I entered the crowded ballroom, arm in arm for mutual support, Mr. Graham had a word with the master of ceremonies. An august personage with a fitting appellation, Mr. King reigned over the dance, directing decorum and introductions as he saw fit. In his hands rested the power to dash or delight the hopes of all the young ladies in the room, including my friend and myself.
    We counted ourselves fortunate to find seats where we could view the large