Izzy here, with my fanfic, "Margaret's Tale," a crossover of Aubrey/Maturin and Sense and Sensibility, inspired partly by The Pairings That Ate Fandom, Georgian/Regency edition, which I am trying to write before the characters from Persuasion barge in. Will eventually contain a small amount of slash. O'Brian has his estate, and Austen is out of copyright(I think).

Margaret's Tale
By Izzy
Part 1:A bit of history

On the day she turned twenty-five, August 1, 1816, Margaret Dashwood began to believe she would never marry.

This was the ending of ten years of hopes on her part, since her second sister Marianne had married, and she had understood that before very long it would be her turn.

She admired both of her sisters considerably for their choices. Elinor's had been Edward Ferrars, and their romance, for one with so many conditions of the world against it, had been surprisingly ordinary and unremarkable, but he was a very amiable man, one who cared for glory no more then Elinor did, and while at 14, when she had seen her eldest sister to the alter, Margaret had not thought she could ever have a romance like that, she saw so reason why Elinor should not.

Both Marianne and their mother possessed a romantic imagination which Elinor lacked, though Margaret was certain it wasn't nearly as strong as hers, and Marianne's romantic history was one more along the lines of what Margaret would have liked for herself, though certainly not that particular history; there was one element in it that she could not stand the idea of herself indulging in. Marianne's heart had been broken at 17 by a scrub, and she had neglected her health so badly she had nearly died for love, and gratefully so. It was not that Margaret objected to dying for love, if it consisted of taking a bullet meant for the person one was dying for, or something similar. She might even countenance, in certain cases, the dying of grief because the person loved was dead. But to die because one had been rejected by such a villain as John Willoughby revealed himself to be by his method of destroying their connection alone, and Margaret was certain that by the time of her illness Marianne had known that he had gotten a young woman with child and abandoned her-it seemed to Margaret disgraceful and humiliating. Marianne had not cared how she looked to the world then; pride had meant nothing to her. But pride meant something to Margaret, at least she was certain it did.

But the fate Marianne had come to was one Margaret thought the finest fate for her to come to. She had recovered, and two years later, she had married Colonel Brandon, which to start was appropriate revenge against Willoughby, as it had been his ward, the unfortunate Eliza Williams, whom Willoughby had used so badly. Were Margaret ever to marry an older man, it would be one like Colonel Brandon, a man who had been abroad, and who had suffered a tragic past, as he had been in love with Miss Williams' even more unfortunate mother in his youth.

At 15 she had had the most intense fantasy of the man she would meet and fall in love with. He was usually young, with a rogue's looks. He had been everywhere in the world, and he thrilled her with tales of the Orient, and they would sound much more exotic then the dry army anecdotes that she had once eagerly listened to from Sir John Middleton, then tired of. He had an strange air of mystery about him, but one fateful day he would open himself to her and reveal his tragic secrets, because he would love her with a passion that could only be described as hot. After that fateful day, the engagement and wedding would be a matter of course.

But this was not always her fantasy. Occasionally when she fantasized about the man, he was not young, but somewhere in his thirties, as Colonel Brandon had been when he had met and married Marianne. Indeed, he was much like the Colonel, though usually a year or so younger, and more handsome, though he need not have been as handsome as the younger version of himself. The air of mystery was thicker, darker, and amoung the secrets he would reveal would be that of a tragic love. After meeting Miss Williams, Margaret had suspected Marianne had reminded Colonel Brandon of her mother, and Mrs. Dashwood had once told her daughter that Colonel Brandon had loved Marianne from the moment he had seen her. Whether that was true Margaret did not know, but often the man she dreamed of was likewise reminded of the girl he had loved once by Margaret, and while the younger man was only besotted with Margaret from the first moment of seeing her the majority of the time, the older man always was.

With this dream guiding her, Margaret had danced away 15 and 16 at the Middletons' residence, but at 17, when she had begun to grow more serious about finding a husband, she had bit by bit given it up. She had instead completed as much education as it was in her mother's power to give to her and debuted in London at 19 under the guidance of Lady Middleton, whom she did not at all like, but whom she had managed to please nonetheless by the attention she paid to her children, whom both Elinor and Marianne had dismissed at spoiled brats, which they were; Margaret's genuine affection for them was in spite of this. Lady Middleton might not have actually liked Margaret very much; she thought her sisters had been too much of an influence on her, and instilled such qualities that she did not like, such as a love of reading, but she had no objection to her strong enough to forfeit the advantages of being her chaperone.

At this time Margaret was no great beauty when it came to her features, though they were fair enough and in full bloom. Her appeal lay instead in her grace, though this was not the normal elegance that is normally searched for and praised, and in fact Lady Middleton had hoped would develop with maturity, but instead a bordering on boisterous, almost wild way of moving that suited her feisty nature very well and gave her a strong air of innocence. Her manners were not nearly as good as Lady Middleton would have liked, but Sir John had commented early on that Margaret would attract a certain type of man who would not be looking for the typical qualities young ladies displayed to attract men, but who would also be less likely to care about Margaret's lack of dowry. He was convinced such romantic men existed in all ranks of society, and she hoped they would find one with a large amount of wealth and social connection. She was confident if a good enough man could only be found, and his attraction to Margaret was indeed as inevitable as Sir John said it was, or indeed if it merely happened by good fortune, Margaret's willingness to marry him would also be inevitable, for it did not occur to her that a penniless young woman might not care how much money a suitor had.

As it happened, however, Lady Middleton was not the only one that hoped for the chaperone's benefit of Margaret marrying well. Mrs. Lucy Ferrars had, from the time her brother-in-law's marriage to Elinor had given her the right to call Margaret a relation, been calculating Margaret's use to herself, and had been planning to write to Mrs. Dashwood suggesting she invite her daughter to stay with her and her husband when she made the horrifying discovery that Lady Middleton had snatched the girl from under her nose. She was exceedingly angry, but knew she could introduce Margaret to a number of people Lady Middleton did not know, some of which were of higher rank then anyone Lady Middleton could introduce Margaret to, and she had used this advantage to claim as much of Margaret as she could. A bitter rivalry had developed between the two women, which Margaret at first had attempted to remain detached from.

But Margaret had always harboured a very strong dislike for Edward's sister-in-law, who had once been engaged to Edward himself, and used him, and Margaret suspected Elinor, very badly. When her view of Lady Middleton as the far lesser of two evils had prompted Margaret to act, she had shortly made it very clear to Lucy Ferrars that she preferred Lady Middleton's company, and Lucy, who was rightly convinced that Margaret did not like Lady Middleton, so there was no question of her behavior being anything but a rejection of Lucy herself, had developed the strongest resentment

Sir John Middleton had been right in believing Margaret attracted a certain kind of man, and early in her twentieth year, she had managed, over the space of seven days, to attract two young men of fierce hearts and fiercer tempers, one a lieutenant in the Royal Navy, the second a lieutenant in the army. Perhaps if only one of them had happened to see her, she would have happily agreed to marry him, but when first one then the other approached, and Margaret had been strongly drawn to both of them, she had not known what to do. She had, much to Lady Middleton's disapproval, allowed both their attentions, believing that in a short while she would develop a preference for one of them. But instead to her complete confusion and dismay, she found herself falling for both, until she was terrified to encourage either one further due to her feelings for the other.

But by then it was too late; each knew the other had gained some success on his ground, and with the traditional mutual jealousies of the army and the navy, soon an insult was given, and answered with a challenge, and Margaret and Lady Middleton had been accosted by the army lieutenant one evening with the news that he had met the navy lieutenant over pistols and killed him. Margaret, in a mix of grief, guilt, and horror, had willingly echoed Lady Middleton's request that he not attempt any contact with either of them in the future, and on seeing her so stricken, he had become convinced that she had in fact been in love with the other man, and gone away in despair. But his heart, though perhaps it could have known constancy to a welcoming woman, could not stay true in the face of too long-lasting a rejection, and a year later he married another woman.

In the end, noone else had believed Margaret very attached to either, but that she had acted as she had partly out of foolishness and partly to defy Lady Middleton. Lady Middleton believed Margaret's sisters to have had a hand in it, while Margaret's family believed Lady Middleton had driven Margaret to it with her own behavior, and as neither saw any need to address the other on the subject, noone saw any reason to alter their opinions. Margaret, ashamed of the weakness of her heart the affair had revealed to her, did not attempt to alter them either.

But Lucy had known little and cared less about the actual reasons for Margaret's behavior. She instead used it to spread malicious gossip about Margaret, so while Lady Middleton had hoped Margaret's young age might make her marriage prospects last longer, they were instead cut short, and a year after the disaster, she had despaired of ever marrying Margaret off well.

Still Margaret had gone to London for three more years. But at 24 she had found herself with a mother whose health was starting to fail, and she insisted on staying at home to care for her.

She began to contemplate her life as it lay before her, living with her mother trying to give her proper care when between the two of them they had only 400 pounds a year. She soon began to understand that with two married sisters, and Lady Middleton placated by the Margaret's continuing affection for her children, her life would be that of an Aunt, and as Elinor and Edward had no children she soon determined to become as devoted as she could to the Brandons' two daughters. And so when an outbreak of disease in Delaford claimed them both, Margaret's grief was next to only that of their parents.

This grief was noted by the new parson in Barton, a man about 30 years of age named George Templeton. He met with her often in the hopes of preventing any spiritual damage an excess of feeling might cause, but instead found himself falling in love, for while Margaret's bloom had by then faded and her strong spirit had been much weighed down by her situation in life, she was still attractive, if to a very different man then the two she had drawn to her in London. He made up his mind to woo and win her, and proved successful, as her years had brought her to appreciate a simple, straightforward, noble-hearted man, and at the age of 27, she was overcome with both relief and joy to be engaged.

George Templeton and Edward Ferrars shortly became good friends, and early in the September of 1818, a month before the wedding was to take place, George paid a visit to the Ferrars in Delaford, though Margaret did not accompany him, as her mother had taken a turn for the worse and needed constant care. She had already insisted that Mrs. Dashwood live with them after the marriage, but Mrs. Dashwood only told her daughter not to worry herself too much over her poor old mother. "I shall die happy when you are married," she said to Margaret.

The visit went by happily, and concluded with all three of them spending an evening with the Brandons, who had newly regained a level of domestic felicity that they had lost with the death of their children. Marianne even expressed the hope of having another child soon, "Though I don't know who would take care of me during the confinement, with the physician within reasonable distance having died so recently." The next morning, Elinor agreed to ride with George to Barton to see her sister and mother.

They were more then half-way to Barton when an unexpectedly heavy rainstorm hit, and the accidently pairing of an inexperienced driver and an usually intemperate horse resulted in a loss of control that caused the coach to topple onto its side and be dragged on its side for a number of meters before the driver was able to stop it. When he went to check on his passengers, he found George dead. Elinor survived long enough to be carried the rest of the way to Barton before dying in her mother's living room.

Margaret's first thought was that if her mother found this out in her current state of health, she would almost certainly die of the grief. On her own she arranged for the body to be carried back to Delaford to be buried in the churchyard there, and for George's body to be retrieved and buried at Barton, and she begged those that conducted the funeral to be as quiet as possible, so that her mother would not suspect anything amiss. She herself attended neither funeral; she was unable to leave her mother's side even for the length of George's, let alone the journey to Elinor's.

Often she thought of a letter she had read by the ancient Roman Pliny the Younger, writing about a woman who concealed the death of their son from her sick husband. "Then when her tears, having been restrained so long, would have overcome her and burst forth, she would take leave of her husband, then give in to her grief, then return with her eyes dried and her face composed to satisfaction, as though she had left her childless state at her husband's door." It was not as bad for Margaret, as while the woman in question had had to describe to her husband how the child was getting better, Elinor's visit was intended as a surprise so the lack of her need not be explained, and with George having planned to handle almost all the remaining business of the wedding it was easy to invent troubles to keep him away, until Mrs. Dashwood apologized for making what should be an exquisite time for Margaret so unromantic. But on the other hand, she dared not cry anywhere near the cottage where her mother might overhear her, so when she could be sure her mother could be left to sleep attended by only the maid she would walk out a safe distance and lament whole-heartedly for her sister and lover.

Her isolation weighed hopelessly on her, but she could not trust Sir John Middleton or his mother-in-law to keep the secret and did not want Lady Middleton's company, so while all three called briefly to pay their respects, she begged them to stay away until her mother was recovered, saying she feared their being there would make her mother suspicious that something was wrong. On the same excuse she turned away all visitors from Delaford, with a promise to write as soon as they could come.

But as October approached, Mrs. Dashwood began to anticipate her daughter's wedding, and hope recovered her enough that Margaret felt it safe to break the news to her.

The knowledge of her eldest daughter being dead and the all the hopes of her youngest being so cruelly dashed could not help but hurt her condition, but the next day she demanded to see Marianne, and Margaret wrote for her to come. Marianne arrived with both her husband and Edward, and the three of them insisted on taking over Mrs. Dashwood's care. "We have each of us lost only one person to leave us desolate, but you have lost two." Marianne told her. "And even if our losses were equal to yours, you have already done too much."

Thankfully Mrs. Dashwood's relapse was a brief one. When she was strong enough to leave her bed in the first week of October, the Middletons and Mrs. Jennings called again, and despite the cottage being crowded Edward and the Brandons lingered, until Colonel Brandon discovered he had business that required him to go to London, and it could not be put off very long.

His first thought was to go to London alone, and leave his wife with her mother and sister. But when he suggested this to her, she refused to let him go alone. "I may be giving into fears," she said, "but so soon after losing my sister I don't want to let you out of my sight, especially not by way of a carriage. It is bad enough that my mother and I are always apart and she in such ill health. And do you think I can do without you now? I miss too much during the best of times, and now, with such a misery as I must feel..." she was unable to go on for her distress, for while she had shed countless tears for her sister she had not yet run out of them, and for some time she merely lay in her husband's arms crying.

When she had calmed somewhat she continued, "Though I do admit it is not only my mother whom I am loath to leave. Edward holding his misery in the way he does I have no idea how he is. And we cannot take him with us, of course, because I absolutely will not leave Margaret alone here again. Now that she no longer has to hold her misery in for her mother's sake it pours forth from her, and if left alone with only poor mama, she might do herself harm."

"Perhaps we should take her to London with us." he suggested.

She laughed bitterly and said, "I would so gladly, but I do not think she would ever consent to go. She does not even visit Delaford very often anymore."

Mrs. Dashwood happened to overhear this conversation, and she immediately approached her daughter and son-in-law with her opinion that they should take both Edward and Margaret to London with them. "But that would leave you completely alone!" was Marianne's instant protest.

"I will have the servants to take care of me," said Mrs. Dashwood, "and I am quite all right. I think I will be for quite some time now. Meanwhile Margaret must get out of this cottage. She has been too selfless for too long. And Edward confessed to me that he doesn't want to go back to his parish yet. He speaks of the memories it contains being too painful. But he has memories of here as well, even if he didn't mention them for my sake. He and Elinor have spent almost no time in London together; it is safe for him to go there. And if Margaret will not go she must be persuaded to. If Edward is willing to help persuade her, surely she cannot hold out against all four of us?"

Some more words persuaded the Brandons that Mrs. Dashwood would be just fine on her own for several months if need be, and after getting Edward to agree to come to London, the four of them set upon Margaret, who, stunned by how determined they were, was forced to give in. Still she worried constantly about her mother's welfare, to the point where, when the Brandons insisted she was going with them in their carriage, Edward agreed to stay at Barton for another week after their departure, to lessen the time when she would be alone.

It was still early in October, almost a month after Elinor and George's deaths, when the Brandons and Margaret set off. Sir John Middleton and Mrs. Jennings both showed up to see them off, and Mrs. Dashwood, despite the concern to her health, insisted on coming out to kiss her daughters before they got into the carriage.

"Don't worry about me," her mother told her as she kissed Margaret. "I cannot die now, for I told you I can die happy when you are married, and that is still true."

"Then I fear you may have to live forever," was her daughter's response. "At any rate you know what damage has been done; I cannot expect to find a husband in London, especially not as I am now."

"Lucy Ferrars." Her mother's face hardened as she said the name, in a way it rarely did. "I do not like to wish ill on people, but I cannot say I would not be satisfied to see her as penniless a widow as I am, but without the happiness I am still lucky enough to possess. Yes, we still possess it, Margaret. We have lost Elinor, true, but I still have two beautiful daughters, and you a sister and two men more brothers to you then your real brother. Do not despair, Margaret. One never knows what may collide into your path."

But it was very hard for Margaret not to feel despair, on the long road to London with nothing to distract her. In the first days after losing Elinor and George, despair had entered her life for the first time. She had been able to ward it off in the disappointments of her early twenties simply by living day to day, and she had decided then that the best weapon against misery was industry, and misery and industry had waged war within her until her tasks had been taken out of her hands, and she had had nothing to do but be miserable. She had given in to the pleas of her mother, sister, and two brother-in-laws, but remaining privately convinced she would in fact remain happier at home, reading and caring for her mother.

When she had been younger, she had thoughts the delights of London could make her forget any trouble, but by the end of her search for a husband, the miseries she had experienced at the hands of fashionable society had prevented her from taking any pleasure in anything the town had to offer. She understood it likely their visit would last into the new year, and she anticipated nothing in the coming months but joyless social rituals in between hours of boredom where she had nothing to do put ponder her dismal future, taunted by her surroundings.

This seemed more likely her fate for the stay in London when on the third afternoon the carriage passed through the countryside just outside London, and Margaret wondered just where in these fields, eight years ago, a navy lieutenant had met his death because of her.

This thought sank her into such a myriad of thoughts, that she did not pay attention to the swift clip-clip-clopping of a second carriage, or the angry yell of their driver, until she heard a scream and the felt the impact of something heavy hitting their carriage. Her first thought was that she was going to die the same way her sister had, her second on how surprisingly indifferent she was to this, but then the carriage settled still upright, and she heard a loud rattling, a harsh voice yell, "Sophie, jump!" a scream, three thumps, the sound of rustling grass, a fourth thump, and a crash.

Their carriage had stopped, and Colonel Brandon got out. Marianne stepped out to join him and Margaret inched towards the door, spotting the second carriage on its side, while a small man dressed in black with an ugly wig and a severe expression appeared to be examining a driver's leg.

"No damage," she heard Colonel Brandon say. "My dear sir, madam, I apologize."

"No need, that was not your fault. This is not the first time in the past few years I have found myself with a reckless driver." The man in black spared his driver another glare before saying to someone out of Margaret's line of sight, "Thankfully we have no broken bones."

Margaret poked her head directly out, and the man's gaze fell on her as she stepped lightly out of the carriage, stumbled, and quickly regained her footing. A memory popped into her mind: Lucy commenting how prettily she stumbled, making the veiled suggestion that Margaret had taught herself to do it to attract men, and she suddenly willed herself not to blush.

It took another second for her to realize the man was probably looking at her because he was observing that she, like the other two, was dressed in black. A third second and she had observed that he and his two companions were dressed in black as well. They consisted of a woman and a grizzled old man whom Margaret assumed to be a servant.

"Do you happen to be mourning anyone?" Marianne then asked.

The woman replied, "My husband." Margaret noted she seemed much older then either herself or Marianne, though younger then Colonel Brandon. The man might have been the same age, but between his sallow face and wig it was difficult to tell. "And you?" she then asked.

"Their sister. I am Colonel Brandon. This is my wife and her sister, Miss Dashwood." He bowed, the other man did the same. "Dr. Maturin at your service, and the lady is Mrs. Aubrey. Now, may I beg for your aid? My carriage is broken and the driver has sprained his ankle."

"You must ride with us," said Marianne. "There is room if we all squeeze ourselves and your manservant sits with the driver."

There was room, but barely, with Dr. Maturin sitting in the front with Colonel Brandon and his injured driver, and the three ladies in the back, Margaret pressed up against the side.

The carriage started moving again, and Colonel Brandon asked, "What is your destination in London?"

Mrs. Aubrey answered. "The Grapes, an inn on the western side of the Savoy. May we invite you all there to dine with us? I believe the hour is approaching four."


To Be Continued...