Differences revealed

Ummm...just pieces of the story I'm trying to write..nothing finished

"You are different. You realize that, don't you Charlotte?" Jackson asked her one day. They, and half the neighborhood, had been invited to the Clarkes' picnic at out by their pond. Charlotte had never held his attention at a function like this. The Wickhams were there as well as the Palfreys and Georges, all families which possesed great beauties, and all paid more than their fair share of attentions to Jackson. It seemed though that Jane, Julianne and Fanny were gathered together underneath one of the of the Clarkes' great oak trees, no doubt exchanging gossip.

"Different? How do you mean?" she asked, almost afraid of the answer.

Jackson laughed and looked toward the group gathered under the oak tree. He shrugged and smiled. That smile broke Charlotte every time.

"Different. You know, you're not like them," he added gesturing to Jane, Julianne and Fanny. "I can talk to you. Really talk to you. I hope you won't think me forward when I say...I feel as though you were my own sister."

"Sister? Is that so?" she asked, her hopes dashed. Oh, why did he have to say that? she thought to herself. He just continued to smile. But if only he knew how her heart was breaking at his words. Only a sister?

She let out her breath and tried to gather her wits about her. Suddenly anger overtook her. How dare he? He flirted and played with her to no end. He trifled with her emotions and now he owned that all he felt for her was friendship? But this was Jackson. Her Jackson. She must leave before she said something she would regret.

"P-please excuse me, Mr. Grant. I-I feel..I must go," she stammered and walked away before he could offer up any protest.

She gathered up her skirts and maintained a swift trot, bent for the safe haven of the Clarkes' house. She could feel tears of frustration welling in her eyes and her pace quickened so that no one should see them break free. You must not cry here, she told herself sternly, not here among these catty girls who would love nothing more than to have something to talk about. Charlotte was now at the steps that led to their front door, wide open so that the spring breeze might make its way through the house. She kept her eyes down and climbed the stairs feeling that she was safe from the prying eyes of others. Just before she reached the open door she heard, "Charlotte? Charlotte, dear, are you all right?"

Charlotte's head jerked up in surprise at the sound of her name and was confronted with the concerned face of Mrs. Wickham.

"Oh! I'm quite well, Mrs. Wickham, truly. I-I just...um...excuse me." She rushed past Mrs. Wickham and into the parlor, softly closing the door behind her.

Charlotte's gaze traveled to the looking glass above the mantle of the fireplace and saw that tears were streaming down her face. She quickly dabbed at her wet cheeks with her handkerchief and tried to regain her composure.

She suddely grew angry with herself. How could she have convinced herself that she would have ever had a chance with someone such as Jackson Grant? She had allowed herself to fall victim to his charm and was now suffering the cruelest of punishments: wounded vanity.