Thomas Rowlandson (1756–1827) and Augustus Charles Pugin (1762–1832) (after) John Bluck (fl. 1791–1819), Joseph Constantine Stadler (fl. 1780–1812), Thomas Sutherland (1785–1838), J. Hill, and Harraden (aquatint engravers)[1], Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
He had not had much in the way of wealth and worldly possessions when they had first met, but she had known, to the depths of her soul, that it was only a temporary state for him. She had always believed he would be a great success, and from what she had seen today and had heard since she arrived in Bath, her assessment had been correct. He was a success and would continue to be so.
Oh, to be a part of his life and cheer him on to further greatness as his wife! Her heart still cried for what had been lost. It ached with its desire to be the lady at his side. But how could she be? Why would a gentleman who had been so wronged ever wish to be tied to the very family who had threatened to deny him of his profession?
I selected this video to pair with a chapter of His Irreplaceable Belle, which publishes tomorrow, because that Touches of Austen story contains touches of Jane Austen’s Persuasion.
The late afternoon sun felt wonderful and warming as Fritz turned his face towards it. The brightness that filtered through his eyelids was restorative. It had always drawn him forward from his often deep ponderings with a cheerfulness that was unparalleled by anything else, save for the smile of a particular lady.
However, he was not sitting in the garden to think about Belle. He was here to clear his mind and turn it towards the task at hand – finding a wife who was not Belle.
He drew a deep breath and released it. But neither the freshness of the spring air nor the intensity of the sun could chase away the dark shadow of sadness that passed across his heart at the thought.
“Mr. Norman.”
Fritz straightened himself and opened his eyes. “Mrs. Blakesley.” He stood.
“Please call me Grace. I think we will be good enough friends for such familiarity.” Grace Blakesley took a seat on the bench next to where Fritz had been leaning backward and enjoying the sunshine. “My husband does not mind if you call me by my Christian name, do you, Walter?”
Walter Blakesley chuckled as he shook his head. Was there a happier man in all of Bath? Fritz was certain he had not seen one – not even Mr. Clayton and Mr. Shelton, who were each, without a doubt, happily and contentedly married and awaiting the arrival of a child, shone quite like Blakesley did. Joy effused every part of Blakesley’s person.
“You may call my wife whatever she wishes for you to call her.”
“I hate to disappoint your wife, but I may have to insist upon Mrs. Blakesley,” Fritz said. “I assume you will not be discharging me as your physician, Blakesley, will you be?”
Blakesley guffawed. “And give up the best physician in Bath? I think not!”
A rather grumbly part of Fritz’s mind wished that people would stop referring to him as the best physician.
“Then, I assume you will also call on me if Mrs. Blakesley should ever be in need of care?”
“Of course.” The answer was given without a moment’s pause.
“In that case, Mrs. Blakesley, I will have to insist upon calling you Mrs. Blakesley. It would be too improper for us to be on friendlier terms.”
Mrs. Blakesley scowled. “I do not see why it should be considered improper.”
“There are many strictures which might seem ridiculous and yet we must abide by them. I would not wish to be thought of as unprofessional or lacking in decorum in any fashion.”
Mrs. Blakesley’s eyes grew wide. “Oh, yes, right. I completely understand.” She paused to peek at her husband who had finally taken a seat next to her rather than standing and surveying their surroundings.
The man was incurably curious.
“Mrs. Blakesley is a lovely name,” his friend’s wife said happily. “I quite like it.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Blakesley said.
“As am I,” Fritz inserted before the two with him forgot he was there.
He was home. Never to leave again. He was exactly where he was meant to be. Here. With her. Until the frost fairies never returned to paint another windowpane in winter. Or perhaps even longer.
[from Frosted Windowpanes, A Touches of Austen Novelette]
