ππππ πΈπππΎππ (thornback) wrote in sanditon,
There was a time, not many months ago, that Anne Elliot had thought her self too old to ever blush again. Coloring in the presence of a man was a much younger woman's prerogativeβor so she had thought. These past weeks she had watched both Musgrove sisters blush enough in the captain's presenceβor even in mere conversation about the captainβto feel it must be a more exerting pursuit than she remembered.
She had no looking-glass on hand to know her own complexion in that moment, but eight years on she still remembered the sensation. She remembered, too, like it was yesterday, how Frederick Wentworth's arm had once felt. She had always quietly marveled at how much more muscular than her own it was... and now, after so many years at sea, it seemed to have hardened beyond that of any other man of her acquaintance.
But from such reflections she must endeavor to spare herself, or risk turning crimson entirely.
His hesitant inquiry after her shoe drew a wan, rueful smile from Anne. His manners were so fine, so unequal to anyone else's, that she couldn't help the dangerous surge of fondness his question inspired, though she remained outwardly composed. This was certainly a situation they would have shared a laugh over, once upon a time. "I'm afraid it is my own fault. I took a wrong step while I was out walking earlier in the field and fell. It was down an animal's burrow, I think." She decided not to mention she had been a part of the walking party, although it was likely the captain already knew. "But I met with someone who helped me out of it all right. It is a strange way to form a new acquaintance, to be sure. But the shoe was lost, quite beyond my power of retrieving it."
Anne wondered all at once if she had said too much. It was quite a lot of words to give what to her was the purest distillation of events. "And what of your day, Captain? I am afraid I interrupted you on your errand. Were you to see the Harvilles?"