Miss Bertram did indeed look happy, her eyes were sparkling with pleasure, and she was speaking with great animation, for Julia and her partner, Mr. Crawford, were close to her; they were all in a cluster together. How she had looked before, Fanny could not recollect, for she had been dancing with Edmund herself, and had not thought about her.

Mrs. Norris continued, “It is quite delightful, ma’am, to see young people so properly happy, so well suited, and so much the thing! I cannot but think of dear Sir Thomas’s delight. And what do you say, ma’am, to the chance of another match? Mr. Rushworth has set a good example, and such things are very catching.”

Mrs. Rushworth, who saw nothing but her son, was quite at a loss.

“The couple above, ma’am. Do you see no symptoms there?”

“Oh dear! Miss Julia and Mr. Crawford. Yes, indeed, a very pretty match. What is his property?”

“Four thousand a year.”

“Very well. Those who have not more must be satisfied with what they have. Four thousand a year is a pretty estate, and he seems a very genteel, steady young man, so I hope Miss Julia will be very happy.”

“It is not a settled thing, ma’am, yet. We only speak of it among friends. But I have very little doubt it will be. He is growing extremely particular in his attentions.”

Fanny could listen no further. Listening and wondering were all suspended for a time, for Mr. Bertram was in the room again. And though feeling it would be a great honour to be asked by him, she thought it must happen.

However, before Mr. Bertram had moved an iota in her direction, out of nowhere, came forth the dark elegant gentleman with raven hair and a sallow handsome face. Lord Eastwind stood before her, and with a small perfectly executed bow, said:

“May I have this dance, Miss Price?”

Fanny felt a hot distant wind blow, envelop her in a dry merciless ancient embrace—or was it all in her mind? She would have loved nothing better than, in that moment, to refuse him, perchance even to run, but there was no excuse. And thus she rose and complied, giving herself over into his gloved hands.

A butterfly touch of his deft large hand landed over her smaller own. And there was an instant of shock, a tingle along the fingers. They spoke nothing, Fanny waiting for him to utter some platitude so that she could respond in kind, but he remained silent. She never raised her gaze to meet his own, merely observed the lapels of his fine coat. She moved through the steps of the dance, feeling herself grow wooden and stiff with unspeakable tension, with terror, and, for one split instant of breath, a kind of wonder.