A girl was sitting by a tree in the orchard. Her chair was white, as was her long dress. She was holding a canvas on her lap and some charcoal between her fingers.
She was looking at the tree tops and the clouds. She almost mechanically started drawing several lines on the paper.
Her lips were frowning in concentration.
The green light of summer glided over her small feet. There were several sheets of paper at her feet. They were all drawings of the sky and tree tops. She had placed them in two stacks.
She swung her legs to and fro as the light breeze moved her dress.
'No, I need…a smoother line,' she mumbled and started smudging a line she had just drawn.
She arched her back which had been aching from her uncomfortable position.
Her small fingers were tinged with grey and black.
'Margaret!'
She flinched slightly as she heard the name, but continued drawing. A small line appeared above her eyebrow.
She stared at the leaves at the top. She thought they had eyes, eyes that touched the sky.
Right there, they looked blue. There were blue leaves.
She had to remember that in the evening. She would paint them blue.
'Margaret!'
The voice was getting louder. It could be clearly heard. It was her sister's voice.
A hand shook her shoulder.
'Margaret! I have been calling you for half an hour!'
Margaret looked into Marianne's bright, rosy face. Her eyes glistened with light.
The pink in her cheeks turned to a satin shade of white. Margaret looked at it with keenness.
It had always been a delight to watch the colours change in her sister's complexion.
'Are you still drawing? It's past twelve,' she said panting.
Margaret nodded and showed her the papers and the drawing she was currently making.
'They all look wonderful, Margaret,' Marianne confirmed, smiling.
'I think this one is your best yet,' she said pointing at the drawing in her lap.
'Oh, no it's my worst, see I ignored this small shadow here,' Margaret corrected her, frowning.
'Oh, it's better without a shadow. It looks charming. You ought to take it to our sister this afternoon. She would love to hang this one in the bedroom.'
'We are going to see Elinor?' Margaret asked.
'Of course! Have you forgotten? Elinor insisted we dine at her house. It's always pleasanter in her dining room, isn't it? Ours is so very big!'
Margaret nodded and looked at her drawing again.
'I won't give her this one, I will choose something better.'
'Whatever you deem to bring to her, she will adore it,' Marianne assured her. 'Best to get inside the house for now and get dressed.'
Margaret climbed up to her room on the second floor, carrying her papers and her charcoal.
She gently opened the door to her room. The smell of paints welcomed her in.
All across the room there were canvasses on which stood several paintings, some only sketches, some in water-colours, some unfinished, some which had been finished so well they still looked unfinished. On the walls there hung several other paintings, mostly portraits and landscapes. Behind her dressing table there were several still-life paintings. And then under her bed, her favourite, a painting of a broken vase that was strewn all over the garden grass.
Her desk was filled with all sorts of crayons, books and newspapers. She almost hit her foot with a couple of stones next to the dressing table.
They served as paper-weights. A pair of scissors lay on her bed precariously.
She pushed it away before sitting down.
She looked out the window carelessly and yawned. If she wasn't outside, painting, then there was no reason for her to be awake.
She put her head on her pillow and fell into a soft slumber.
'Welcome, my dears, come in!' Elinor said, hugging the two sisters as they entered the parlour, followed by a humble maid and Colonel Brandon.
Edward was already in the drawing room, stirring the fire.
Margaret hugged her sister back, holding her tightly by the waist. She looked at the walls. They were adorned with her paintings, one by one, arranged by shape and size. The small ones in a corner, the large ones in the centre. She looked away like she always did. To her, they all seemed terrible, one worse than the other. And displayed like that, it reminded her of a meat market.
'Have you brought a new painting for me?' Elinor asked gently.
'It's not finished yet, I will bring it to you in a few days,' Margaret confessed. She had yet to finish the blue leaves.
'Oh, there is no rush.'
No, there never was a rush for Margaret. No one asked for her paintings to be done right away. No one needed them like air. Except for her.
They sat down for tea in the drawing room. Edward and Elinor described to them the trip they had taken to London.
'Little Mary fell in love with it, she wouldn't want to leave,' Elinor said laughing and holding a child on her lap.
Their daughter, Mary Ferrars, was four years old. She was a delightful creature, always full of life, never sad. Her parents tended greatly to her happiness so she never had a reason to frown.
'We went to the opera and Mary fell asleep of course, but we enjoyed it immensely. I was half in tears by the time it ended; those heavenly voices lifted anyone from their seats.'
Mary Ferrars nodded gravely. She always did when her parents said something that involved her.
'I want dresses like them,' the little girl said. 'The dresses were golden.'
'No, Mary it was just the paint, it was not real gold,' Marianne told Mary, smiling.
Margaret bit her lip as she looked down. The floor was covered with two soft brown rugs.
She sank her small black shoes in them.
'It might have been real gold,' Margaret mumbled.
But no one really heard her because they were already discussing something else.
'The Colonel was away for a whole month! I had no idea what to do with myself. Margaret and I entertained each other as best as we could, but I must confess it was rather dull. We had some visits from our neighbours but they didn't exactly raise our spirits.'
'We should have a dance soon,' Elinor mentioned. 'I think the Ton in town might be available soon. Everyone would be partial to it. Then it wouldn't be dull anymore.'
Margaret thought about the last dance. It had been in winter. Thomas Carrow had danced with her and Richard Davis too, but neither of them ever called back on her. They had both seemed genuinely interested in her. And yet they hadn't talked to her afterwards.
She didn't want them to stay with her for too long, but it would have been nice to call on her.
She mentioned this to Marianne on the way home with the carriage.
'Oh, but don't you remember? Thomas did call on you! He called twice! And you went for a walk in the garden, but you always sent him away. You said you had things on your mind.'
Margaret denied it firmly. She had never done that. She would have remembered a visit from Thomas.
'Indeed, I saw him with my very eyes! He went away because he thought you didn't like him. He said you didn't look at him very much. And he got bored watching you draw.'
Margaret frowned upset. How could she have forgotten that? She supposed many things had happened. But nothing so big that she would have forgotten a visit.
As soon as she reached home and she was in her room, however, she forgot about the affair either way and thought no more of it.
She began to finish her morning paintings. She sat down and coloured the leaves at the top blue, a very dark shade of blue.
She propped one leg under her chin, staring at the leaves.
Margaret smiled.