Margaret's fingers held a pencil loosely, tapping it upon the wood of the desk in front of her. She sighed heavily and turned her face from the window once more. She squared her shoulders and set back to work on conjugating the French verbs that Elinor handed to her half an hour ago. "I shall finish them," she whispered to herself resolutely…only to rest her chin upon her hand and gaze out the window again.
"Margaret!" cried Elinor. She entered the room with hands planted upon her hips. Her younger sister jerked her head up in surprise, a flush starting up on her cheeks in embarrassment.
"Yes?" Margaret asked with a faint look of guilt on her face.
"Do you never assert yourself? Haven't I told you that your education is most important?" Elinor demanded.
"Yes," said Margaret, "many times…many times."
"Then why do you never finish the work I put before you?" Elinor stepped to the desk and looked at the half-filled paper of her sister's. "I should dearly like to know."
"I am able to work, Sister, but on such a fine day as today I can hardly put my mind to anything."
"If I recall even a sunny day could not keep you from your atlas when you were younger. What has happened?"
"If that atlas had been longer I would not be bemoaning the waste of such a day as this. It is geography that I have a passion for, not French. Where shall I ever use it? When I go to pay the French king a visit tomorrow? I think not."
"And what good is geography to you? Wouldn't you consider it just as useless?"
Margaret grinned and pointed her finger at her sister. "Not quite, for when I marry it will be to a traveler. He will hop from continent to continent taking me to India and Brazil. I should like to see the Nile."
"You have as much a chance as marrying a traveler as you would marry a rajah from your India."
"That's not true," said Margaret, standing up. "Amelia Thompson caught herself such a man who took her to Egypt…to Rome…and so many other places. If she can do it, then I'm sure I have just a good a chance as she."
"There's a difference, though, and you fail to see it, Margaret. Amelia is from a wealthy family, and you are not."
Looking to make sure her sister was not lurking behind her with more French verbs, Margaret scurried down the hall with shoes in hand and a bonnet crammed onto her disarrayed hair. In the kitchen she packed herself a snack of pears and two slices of sweet bread—they went into the pocket of the apron that Margaret wore.
"Freedom," Margaret said aloud to herself. She scampered down the front lawn and disappeared into a copse of trees that hid her from view of the house. She continued to make her way away from the house, making the distance between it and her bigger and bigger.
She stopped before a tree with a thick sturdy trunk and intertwining branches. It was perfect. She threw her bonnet ribbons over her shoulder and with a determined set to her jaw she put her boot in the first groove she could find. She hoisted herself up, throwing her arms as wide as she could around the tree. Bark scratched at her cheek and palms, crumbling in places aged by years of rain and hot sun.
Margaret moved her foot up once more, only to catch the hem of dress. The inevitable sound of a tear reached her ears. "Drat." She had told Mother that she would no longer climb trees, due to the numerous rips on her gowns. She would have to sew this one herself. Margaret didn't know why tree-climbing was so frowned upon by her sisters. It was grand to sit on a far out branch and to spread one's arms as if reading oneself to fly. She wasn't too old for it.
Margaret grabbed the closest branch at hand and pulled herself onto it. She moved further out on it, dangling her legs and enjoying the space between her and the ground. She sighed, untying her bonnet and setting it beside her. The wind skittered across her face as she bit into a red-tinged pear. "Glorious," she breathed, watching the trees rustle against each other above her. "No more verbs for me today."
She sat in such a state, relishing the fresh air and foliage, for over an hour. Checking the position of the sun in the sky and the little watch in her pocket Margaret decided she would leave soon. Food was to be set outside for an afternoon luncheon at Sir John's, including, not only all varieties of sandwiches and punch, but neighbor's from all over. Elinor and Marianne and their husbands would be there so Margaret knew she was expected as well.
As she bit into a slice of sweet bread she heard something. She cupped her hand to her ear to get a better listen and something akin to a whistle could be heard. Someone had to be coming nearby. Margaret went still at the thought of Elinor coming to hunt her blood with a French text in hand, ready to throw it at her head. Margaret swung her legs back up onto the branch and managed to knock her bonnet to the grass, ribbons fluttering cruelly behind it. There was no time to fetch the article…unless she jumped from the tree. The image of her coming home with blood all over her and a broken ankle did not sit well with her. She would just have to chance it—maybe no one would come near it.
The whistle became closer and more audible; it wove through the trees in a haunting melody. Margaret grew entranced by the sound and did not notice when a person walked underneath her branch until it was too late. There was a young man kneeling down to pick her bonnet up. She
clutched the tree in nervousness, hoping he would not look up. Please, please, begged Margaret silently. I will never climb another tree if he does not look up.
His red head twisted every which way but not up at her. Margaret sighed in relief as he began to walk away, still clutching her bonnet. She could explain it away easily enough. Thank heavens. She bit her tongue when she saw the man pause mid-step. He must have heard her! Margaret scooted closer to the center of the tree where the leaves could hide her better. A pear core dropped from her apron pocket and bounced mischievously to the ground. The young man looked up and caught sight of Margaret and his eyes widened.
"Is this yours?" he asked, coming forward to be almost directly underneath her. The shame of being caught in a tree was overwhelming her, and she could not find herself able to reply. "Miss?"
"That is mine," she finally managed to say. The man's eyebrow rose in curiosity and a grin played on his lips. He seemed to find the situation highly amusing. Drat him, said Margaret to herself.
"Would you like it back?" he asked. He held the bonnet towards her.
"If you would please leave it on the grass, Sir, then I'd be most appreciative." He set it where she directed…and he stayed put watching her in amusement. "You may leave now."
"But I must make sure you get off of the tree safely, Miss."
"I have no need for your assistance," she said primly.
"Then I shall leave you to your thoughts. Good day." He bowed and was off once more, whistling just as he had been doing earlier. Just before he disappeared Margaret could sudden laughter interrupting his whistling.
Margaret heaved a sigh of relief and as soon as he was completely out of sight she scrambled as quickly as she could down the tree. She stepped once more on her hem, and as a large rip formed Margaret lost her balance and tumbled the short distance back to the ground. "I'm in for it this time," she said worriedly to no one. She brushed off what she could of the mud on her rear, and she hurried back home.
Thankfully she was able to avoid Elinor who was in the parlor consulting with their mother on the price of sugar. Ever since Elinor had become mistress of her own home she had visited nearly every day to discuss housekeeping methods with their mother. They would sit for hours in the parlor with their heads together on the best way to economize with three yards less of fabric for re-upholstering a settee.
"Margaret!" Elinor called from down the stairs. "Are you ready yet?"
"Nearly!" replied Margaret. She looked wildly through her wardrobe and took a yellow dress off of its hook. She dragged it on and stuffed her ruined dress under the sheets on her bed, hoping that her mother would not discover it. After doing all the clasps that she could without any assistance, Margaret ran a comb through her hair and pulled it into a simple twist. She grabbed her bonnet and shoes suitable for a luncheon outside.
"Oh, Margaret, that color looks charming on you," her mother said. "But do you really want your hair so…so wild looking?"
"But it's not." Margaret went to the looking glass hanging in the parlor and she gasped. Her hair was climbing out of its twist. "It's a bit messy."
"A bit?" said Elinor. She came to Margaret's rescue and within a few minutes the damaged hair was in working order and was broaching on elegance.
"You've saved my hair, Elinor," Margaret said to her older sister as the rest of her dress was being clasped shut.
"Why can't you be like your other sisters, Margaret, and try to look your best? You may not like these outings to the Middleton's, but Sir John did bring us to Barton Cottage. We don't want to make a bad impression for him to our neighbor's," her mother said. "You ought to give yourself more time to get ready." She patted the cap on her head, and smiled hesitantly in the looking glass. It was as if she was wondering whether she should go out looking so old next to her younger daughters.
Margaret made her way to Edward's carriage that waited outside. Elinor shared a secret smile with her husband as he handed her into the contraption. Margaret wondered if she would ever find anyone as fine as her brother-in-law to marry. He was such a gentleman. It was her turn to be handed in, and she earned an appraising look from Edward.
"You are looking pretty today, Margaret," he said.
"With my sunburned nose? I don't believe you," laughed Margaret.
"Especially your nose." Margaret giggled.
"If you had worn your bonnet on your little outing this morning then you wouldn't be complaining, Margaret," Elinor scolded.
"But it was so lovely in the tree—." Margaret snapped her mouth shut. She'd made her secret known.
"How many times must I tell you not to—," began Elinor, her eyes flashing at the lack of propriety her sister had sometimes.
"Elinor, dear, let's not talk of this now. We're to arrive at Sir John's in a few minutes. We'll want to be in the best of moods there, or else Mrs. Jennings will find out what all the to-do is about," Edward said. He placed a calming hand on his wife's arm. She settled back in her seat as the carriage started forward and glared once more at her sister. Margaret looked out the window, frowning. Elinor is hardly my mother, she complained in her head.
They arrived at Barton Park shortly after and were shown into the parlor where a maid was ready to take what wraps they did not need. After that they were lead to the back of the house where tables were set up laden with delicious cold meats and bowls of punch. Margaret stole a slice of apple pie and nibbled on it as her family wandered over to Sir John. He stood before a punch bowl and was helping himself to a drink.
"Ah! So wonderful to see you, Mrs. Dashwood. And you daughters! How lovely they look this fine afternoon. Miss Dashwood, I see you've a sun-touched face. Sitting in the sun again, were you?" said Sir John. He slurped up some punch and smacked his lips afterwards, sighing at how delicious it was.
"I could not help myself, Sir John," Margaret admitted. Elinor muttered about proper young ladies who actually wore their bonnets.
"Might I pour you some punch, Mrs. Dashwood?" he asked.
Margaret's mother looked startled. She'd been distracted by the cakes set out next to the punch. "Please do, Sir John. I would like that." She held her hands out in expectation and took the cup offered her. She took a tray of cake as well and led Margaret and Elinor to some lawn chairs set out in the shade.
"Where is Marianne?" asked Elinor, looking up from the plate that she and Edward were sharing.
Mrs. Jennings, who happened to be nearby, answered. "I was told they are bringing someone from London—some stuffy old fart who's related to Brandon." Margaret choked on her cucumber sandwich, and Elinor looked properly shocked. Mrs. Jennings was often frank with them, no matter how ill-mannered it made her seem.
"And this old fart? Who is he?" Margaret asked, earning herself a jab in the ribs by Elinor.
"I don't rightly know. I think your Marianne said he had something to do with law. I'll get it out of her whenever she decides to arrive," replied Mrs. Jennings. She winked at Margaret and went to greet the other guests as they arrived. Her laughter rang out suddenly and Mrs. Dashwood winced.
"I pray you will not turn out like our Mrs. Jennings, Mama," Elinor said. Edward snorted as he laughed at his wife's comment.
"I think you shall be safe, Mrs. Dashwood," he said.
"I am glad you think so, Edward," she replied. "I would not like to make such a spectacle of myself…though she does seem to enjoy herself."
"Ah, there's your sister," Sir John said. He pointed in the direction of the house, and he went off to meet them.
"Who's that with them?" wondered Elinor. She snuck a glance at Margaret. "He's hardly an old fart." Margaret giggled, wondering why Elinor was suddenly being so good-natured. Margaret looked more closely at the man that stood beside Colonel Brandon and his pretty wife.
Elinor was right—he didn't look old at all. In fact he was quite young. From what she could see of him he seemed rather well-off, with nicely tailored clothing and a clean-shaven face. His hair was red—his hair was red. He suddenly looked uncomfortably familiar, and Margaret's hand unconsciously drifted to her bonnet. She hadn't bothered changing switching hers, because she'd been in such a rush. She fervently hoped this "old fart" wasn't who she thought he was.