A Moonacre Fanfiction Dreadfully Sentimental
Dear diary,
Greetings! Maria Merryweather here.
Today Robin bought me a journal in which I am currently writing. He said that he was given a journal much like it and he wishes me to enjoy the same benefits he has reaped from it. He really is a very good friend; I'm growing to like him very much. In fact, we are going swimming tomorrow. I very well might bring my journal there; perhaps I'll write afterward. It is evening now, and I'm sitting on the window seat in my room, overlooking my beautiful Moonacre Valley. I can hear the bullfrogs croaking and the wind is whispering through the trees. What a splendid night this is!
Miss Heliotrope was in an exceedingly good mood today; likely because Digweed is going to take her to town tomorrow for lunch. This had a favorable effect on me, as I was granted a diminished amount of homework. That, in turn, relieved me of a little time, time which I am now using to write in this new journal. After all, Miss Heliotrope says I ought to work on my penmanship, and I suppose there is no better way to improve one's handwriting than to write. Don't you agree?
Really, when I ask questions, I'm not entirely sure to whom I'm talking, but then let us consider these inquiries to be rhetorical questions, and nothing else. For I am sure that I shall never let anyone get hold of this diary without my full permission, and I really do doubt that I ever shall give that permission.
You see, I believe most girls divulge their deepest secrets in their journals, and while I generally despise the idea of my being like most girls, I must admit that the temptation to record my feelings is very strong.
The trouble is, I'm not really sure how to say what I want to say. If I say it one way, I'll sound quite sappy and horribly sentimental. But I suppose this is a rather sappy issue. What do you think? But of course you cannot judge, since you do not know what this secret is. On the other hand, if I write the simplest explanation it may seem too coarse and unfeeling, and that it certainly is not. I have read many books, as Miss Heliotrope encourages me to, and in all the romantic books I have read (usually French novels, I think), the author seems to weave such a fascinating, eloquent love story. I am sure I cannot compete.
Ah, but now you know the nature of my secret! Yes, I will not deny it, but I certainly cannot bring myself to tell him. I think Loveday suspects, but she is only his sister, and so that really doesn't help me in any way, shape, or form.
Heavens! I didn't mean to say…um, well…yes. Yes, it is Robin.
I, Maria Merryweather, love Robin De Noir.
That was not at all the eloquent confession I meant to make. And I'm afraid that no one will ever know it but you, dear imaginary reader. For I certainly cannot tell him. How can I? He is too intimidating.
Yes, for those of you who know him, you may laugh. I know he is lacking in manners and that he can be mean and coarse and unrefined. He is incredibly selfish and self-absorbed, quite thoughtless, really. Robin tends to err on the side of scatterbrained oaf; he rarely thinks of the consequences his actions could cost him.
Having said all that, he is the sweetest, most endearing boy I have ever met. Perhaps it is our imperfections that make us so perfect for one another. He never fails to amaze me with his surprising gentleness and funny little quirks. I know I would sound like a raving lunatic (and a silly, sentimental goose) if I were to expound upon his many physical charms—oh those delicious, dark eyes!—so I shall not.
My goodness, I did not realize how late it is! I shall have to go to bed, otherwise I'm sure Miss Heliotrope will meander up here and catch me writing. And we all know if she catches me writing, she'll want to read it, and we can't have that, now can we? I shall close with this warning: Do not disclose the sentiments with which I have so trustingly placed in your safekeeping. If somehow word got to Robin he might be very angry, and I very well might die if I lose the friendship we now maintain. Grant me this, at least.
Au revoir!
Maria Merryweather
Dear diary,
Hello. I know you are not used to me holding this journal or scrawling within its leaves, but I must write this now. I'm afraid Maria will be angry with me, but according to the thoughts which she has expressed in the preceding entry, I am inclined to believe she will not be so irate when she hears what I have to say.
First of all, it was not my intention to take this notebook. I may be sly, but I am not deceitful, not when dealing with Maria. But since we both brought our journals when we went swimming this morning, I suppose we took the wrong one home. As I said before, I really am not dishonest. At least, I don't mean to be. But somehow when my eye fell upon her handwriting, I couldn't help but read. Perhaps that will be my downfall, perhaps it will be the best moment of my life. It all depends on how she receives what I have to say.
Maria, if you ever do read this, which I sincerely hope you do,
I love you.
I never would have dreamed of telling you; not before I read your entry, that is. You conceal your feelings so well! How was I to know of your feelings? I am most assuredly not angry with you, quite the contrary. I never have tried to be intimidating; in fact, I firmly hold fast to my belief that your penetrating gaze, pursed rosebud lips, and little but fierce stature are far more daunting than I.
Ah, how I wish you could read my mind, for I dearly want to tell you how much I adore you. But I cannot bring myself to say it. I am a coward. Perhaps when you read this, you will understand. Perhaps you will never read this. I do not know. But I hope and pray that you will understand my sentiments.
Forever yours,
Robin De Noir
Dear diary,
I can hardly write, my pen is shaking so.
He loves!
I don't know how he could think me to be daunting, but I shall soon put his fears at rest. To think, that all this time, while I was struggling so, all this time…
But I shan't dwell in the past, not while the future remains as rosy as it is at present! I go now to meet Robin in person, and I shall not leave him until we have come to an understanding. He calls himself a coward, which can only be a sure sign of a lion heart in my beloved Robin. Oh, how my heart is soaring with ecstasy! I can never imagine what would have happened without this dear journal. But thanks to Robin, I won't need to.
Your truly sentimental,
Maria Merryweather
A/N: Dear readers,
My time is up and I thank you for yours. The idea for this little story came to me as I was drifting off to sleep last evening, and I couldn't very well leave it be. I know it's rather sappy and a bit mawkish, but it sounded cute at the time. Bear with me. At any rate, I thank you once again, and remind you that reviews of any kind are [-greatly-] appreciated. Happy reading!
Your dreadfully sentimental,
Ponygirl7 ;)