Jane Austen’s First Love by Syrie James Page B

I knew not which. Did he feel a similar emotion? I could not say; but during the brief interval in which he held me thus, as his dark eyes gazed down into mine, I imagined that they held a look of deep interest which matched my own.
    Releasing me, he said, “There. That was not so hard, was it?”
    “Not at all,” lied I, relieved that the exercise was completed, that I was safely on the ground, and that there was again some physical distance between us, so that I might regain some semblance of composure. It was ridiculous, a voice in my head cried, to swoon so over a total stranger, no matter
how
handsome he might be; but at the same time, another inner voice exulted over this unexpected meeting—for was it not exactly the sort of circumstance of which I had been dreaming for many years? These inner musings were instantly terminated when Cassandra, shaking her head, said:
    “Thank goodness Mamma was not here to see
that
.”
    Mr. Taylor now turned to her and Charles. “And how are
you
, miss? I trust you both have suffered nothing worse in this misadventure than a pair of muddy—” (glancing down at Cassandra’s shoes with mock alarm) “
very
muddy
—slippers?”
    “We are quite well, sir. Thank you for stopping to assist us.”
    “Yes! Thank you!” cried Charles, regarding our rescuer with undisguised gratitude, wonder, and veneration.
    Mr. Taylor only shrugged his shoulders. “It was my duty. You broke down on the road passing my family’s estate. I could not ride by and do nothing. It is just lucky it occurred today, while I happened to be at Bifrons—I am not living here at present, but with my cousins at Ileden, a few miles distant—and a fortnight ago, I would have been out of the country.”
    “From whence have you returned?” inquired Cassandra.
    “From Italy. My family is still abroad.” He paused then, and with a smile, removed his hat. “Forgive me, here we are chatting away without a proper introduction. It is very awkward—but I trust that the necessity of the case will plead my excuse—it seems we have no choice but to circumvent convention. This fellow here—” (waving his hat towards his companion) “is my cousin Thomas Watkinson Payler, Esquire.”
    Mr. Payler bowed, with a particular smile for my sister. “A pleasure to meet you,” said he quietly but elegantly.
    With a bow of his own, our rescuer added: “I am Edward Taylor.”
    I smiled to myself, for Edward was, and always had been, one of my favourite names.
    Cassandra curtseyed and introduced herself, myself, and my brother, and when all of us had paid our respects, I asked,
    “Do you have brothers, Mr. Taylor?”
    “Four of them.”
    “Are they all called Edward?”
    “What? Of course not.” His eyes narrowed as he studied me. “What a strange question; why do you ask?”
    I felt my cheeks redden. It was not only a strange question, but an impertinent one; what would he think of me? But having started down that road, I was obliged to continue. “The Bridgeses have five sons called Brook,” responded I with an impish, nervous shrug. “I thought it might be a tradition in this part of the country to name every son the same.”
    Taking in my teasing manner, he laughed—a look and sound so congenial, it lit up his whole face, removed all my discomfort, and made me laugh in response. “It is a
tradition
,
I believe, only where the Bridgeses are concerned. We have two Edwards in my family, my father and myself—and that is quite enough.”
    “We seem to run into Edwards everywhere we go,” remarked Charles. “We have a brother called Edward.”
    “Ah yes—so you do!” replied Edward Taylor. “I had the honour to make Mr. Austen’s acquaintance only last week—he was not in the country the last time I was here. He is lately engaged to Miss Elizabeth Bridges, is that not so?”
    “It is, sir.”
    “He mentioned that his family was to be visiting from Hampshire—and here you are.”
    All subjects suddenly