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Ann lives alone. She’s lived alone since her sister got married and moved to Scotland, and before that she only had her, because their parents died one after the other before Ann was even twenty. Sure, she sees her cousins and aunts and their families here and there, and she has her servants, but—she’s alone. She’s been alone for a long, long time.
Having Miss Lister’s whole attention focused on her is like nothing she could have ever imagined. Ann has always admired her, ever since she met her for that brief period of time after her mother’s death, when they drank tea together and walked in the gardens. The memory of those two hours is something she treasures, but it still cannot compare with having her right there, sitting with her, speaking with her, touching her oh so softly, oh so gently—
It takes Ann by surprise, the first time Miss Lister puts her hand gingerly on top of Ann’s. Neither of them is wearing gloves, and skin contact is unexpected and almost startling. It sends a shiver down her spine, and all Ann can do is pray that her lapse in composure was not noticed.
Miss Lister comes to visit her one day, then another. Ann can’t stop thinking about their time together, their conversations. Cannot stop craving all the little touches the older woman keeps bestowing on her, conscious of every single one of them in a way that she is not sure is normal. But when has she been normal? She’s been treated as an invalid most of her life, as if made of spun glass that could break at the smallest touch; she knows what people say about her, about her mental state, her nerves, her shyness. Maybe this awareness, this craving for touch is just something else that’s part of her awkwardness, part of what makes her different. She can deal with it and she will, just as she’s dealt with everything else. She will endure it in silence.
And if she can’t help but melt onto Miss Lister’s arms when she embraces her for the first time, well, there is hardly anyone there to mock her for it.