Between Homes

Rain began pattering against the windowpane—a sudden shower, the kind that always made Portsmouth feel impossibly far away. Fanny imagined her mother's chapped hands kneading dough in their cramped kitchen, the way her father would grumble about damp firewood. Her throat tightened. Here, at least, the fires burned steadily.

Edmund's letter shifted as she breathed, the edge of the paper catching on her skirt. He'd written of visiting the Parsonage soon. Fanny pictured him laughing with Mary Crawford by the fire, their heads bent close over some book, and a hot, unfamiliar ache spread beneath her ribs. It wasn't jealousy. (It was.)

Aunt Norris sniffed, adjusting her shawl. "Such idle hands. You ought to be practicing your embroidery—Sir Thomas expects better." The rain thickened into a downpour, blurring the garden outside. Fanny pressed her lips together. She'd finished three handkerchiefs last week, each stitch perfect. But praise, like sunshine, rarely reached her corner of the house.

The grandfather clock in the hall chimed eleven. Somewhere above, Julia shrieked with laughter—Maria's doing, no doubt. Fanny exhaled slowly, smoothing Edmund's letter against her lap. His words had been kind. Always kind. Too kind to mention how long it had been since he'd last visited her.

A floorboard creaked outside the door—someone lingering. Fanny's pulse jumped. But it was only Betsey, the scullery maid, scurrying past with an armful of linens. The scent of lavender soap trailed after her, oddly comforting. Fanny tucked the letter into her pocket, where it settled like a secret.

From the kitchen yard, the clang of a copper pot made her flinch. Portsmouth had been loud too, but differently—fishmongers shouting prices, her brothers scrapping over crusts of bread. Here, the noises were polished, contained. Even chaos had manners. She traced the embroidered edge of her sleeve, counting stitches to steady herself.

Edmund's handwriting had been slightly smudged at the corner—ink splatter? A teacup set down too hastily? Fanny bit the inside of her cheek. Imagining him distracted was worse than imagining him deliberate. The rain hissed against the window, and she caught her own reflection superimposed over the streaming glass: pale, watchful, a ghost between worlds.