Page 43 of The Secret Diary of Anne de Bourgh

“I cannot fault her judgment.”

I looked up, but he was watching Luna turn about in search of the most comfortable arrangement. She stepped upon the work, kneaded it several times and finally settled, with her little white-marked ear just beneath my hand.

I began to stroke her, and she purred so loudly that Richard laughed again.

“It is very good to see you like this,” he said.

“Covered in cat?”

“Happy. And looking so well.”

I did not quite know what to say. He was gazing at me with such kindness that I found myself looking down at Luna, not wanting him to see the adoration I surely could not keep from my own face.

“I feel very well.”

“I can see that. You have more colour every time I look at you.”

I thought that he was looking better too. Some of the lines of pain which had been so marked about his eyes and mouth at Netherfield had eased. He still moved carefully, and I knew his leg troubled him, but just then he looked comfortable, with the sunlight falling across his sleeve and his cane lying beside the chair.

“You look better yourself,” I ventured.

“Do I?”

“Yes. You do not look as though everything hurts quite so much.”

His expression softened.

“No. Not everything.”

I was very glad to hear it.

We sat there for some time, talking of little things while Luna slept upon my lap. My sewing remained exactly as it had been when I brought it downstairs.

It was one of the happiest mornings I have ever spent, just being in his company. Richard is so easy to talk to! He never makes me feel silly or lacking in any way; if I have a question he always answers it completely without mocking me for not already knowing the answer, and sometimes he even admits that he does not know something himself, and suggests that we might ask someone who would know, or research the matter in the library. Every conversation with him is a pleasure, though I must constantly be on guard lest I become too easy in his company and blurt out sentiments he would find startling.

20 July

I have been rather ungrateful today.

Mr Byerly came with the Thurstons this afternoon, and was every bit as agreeable as he generally is. He asked after my rose, remembered something I had told him about Kitty’s drawings, and informed me that he had taken up Evelina again upon my recommendation.

All of this ought to have pleased me.

Unfortunately, he arrived just as Richard was telling me about a visit to Vienna. He had been describing the Prater, where people walked and drove beneath the trees, stopping to take refreshments or listen to music. I was particularly taken with the notion of sitting out of doors with coffee and something sweet, watching the carriages go by.

“Would you not find it dull after a little while?” he asked.

“Certainly not. I should want to see everybody’s gowns, and discover where they were going.”

“Then you would have enjoyed the company of a lady I met there. She could tell me the history of every carriage which passed us, though I began to suspect she invented some of it.”

I had just asked him what made him think so when Darcy brought Mr Byerly over to us.

“My cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam. Richard, Mr Hugh Byerly.”

Richard rose, offering his hand to shake and a friendly smile.

“Ah, I have heard a great deal of you from Darcy!”