It was him. She could almost imagine her bonnet clutched in his hand, a smile upon his lips as he walked towards her. Their eyes met for a split second, and Margaret flicked hers away. He didn't even seem to notice her as he bowed over her mother's hand, murmuring his pleasure at meeting her and her daughters.

"Will you be staying at Delaford for long, Mr. Ivison?" Elinor asked him. Margaret blinked in surprise. She had been focused on looking away from the young man that she managed to miss his introduction. She snuck another glance at him.

"I am at his mercy, Mrs. Ferrars," he replied. "He may kick me out on the streets any day he chooses." Those who had gathered around to meet the new arrival laughed as he pulled a face in the direction of the Colonel.

Margaret observed the many admiring looks that the young women present were sending his way. It can't be his hair, Margaret said to herself, for it's quite atrocious. She had never seen such a shock of hair before; it seemed to draw light from the sun and store it just so it could shine brighter. Before Margaret allowed herself to admire it even one bit she turned quickly away to fetch herself another slice of pie.

She had always thought that climbing trees would lead her to peace, but this position she had put herself in was by no means comforting. She was worrying every second that he would recognize the ribbon ties or, worse yet, her. There was only one way to rid herself of the incriminating article.

She casually looked around her—she was nearly alone. And those close to her were thoroughly engrossed in their plates and with each other. "It's now or never, Margaret," she muttered, untying the ribbons as quickly as she could. Her fingers fumbled and her eyebrows rose in alarm as she heard someone bemoan the last bite of their dessert. They would soon be heading her way.

With her bonnet completely off she looked wildly about for somewhere to stash it for the time being—she would rescue it later. There! Beneath the branches of a potted tree it went. She sighed with relief. Now she could breathe easier.

She approached her family with her plate, biting into her own dessert. Mr. Ivison and Brandon were nowhere to be found. Elinor turned to see her youngest sister walking towards her. Her eyes went wide and she made a grab for her elbow. "Where is your bonnet, Margaret?" she nearly cried.

Margaret hadn't thought about it. "Well, you see…my head got warm so I took it off. And I put it in the carriage."

"I absolutely give up on trying to reform you," Elinor huffed.

"Good," Margaret replied perkily. She'd never have to where the blasted things again.


The luncheon dragged on for forty more minutes, and as it ended Edward sent for the carriage with a quick word to one of the servants. Nearly all of the guests were already gone, and Margaret's mother wished to reach home as quickly as possible. She had to get tea ready for the visit of an old school friend of hers who was to arrive in the hour. Just as Margaret put her arm out to be handed into the carriage she remembered she had left something behind.

"Where are you going Margaret?" cried Mrs. Dashwood as her daughter turned to leave. "We haven't any time to waste! Mrs. Filbee will be calling soon."

"But…I thought I left my bonnet here but it turns out I didn't," Margaret said. She avoided her sister's glare.

"If you aren't back in five minutes we are leaving without you." She nodded and ran to the potted tree. She reached beneath the leaves and her fingers met only cold dirt and a trunk. She scrabbled a little more in panic. Perhaps this is the wrong one, she thought. She went to the other pots and still there was no sign of her bonnet.

Margaret decided to leave it be for her family was sure to leave soon, and what was a bonnet to her? A bother—but oh the trouble she would given for it all! She strode towards the drive but was soon stopped by a figure stepping before her, blocking out the afternoon sun that shone in her eyes.

"Looking for this, Miss Dashwood?" Mr. Ivison asked innocently. There, hanging traitorously from his fingertips, was her bonnet.

"Yes, actually," she said, reaching for it only to have it snatched away.

"Are you sure?" he asked, shifting on his feet as he contemplated her face.

"Yes!" She reached for it once more, and her fingers met again with empty air. "Please, Mr. Ivison!" Was this some kind of joke to him? Margaret didn't find it funny at all—in fact it was quite painful to her.

"You see, I met a strange young lady earlier today with this exact same bonnet. I don't think this is yours—you aren't telling the truth."

"I wouldn't dare to lie."

"It is rather exquisite…." He ran his fingers over the embroidery that was coming loose from the sides.

"Hardly. It's shabby on the ends of the ribbons—see?" Margaret pointed it out. "And the straw is starting to unravel."

"Then why would you want it so badly?" Mr. Ivison narrowed his eyes in amusement as Margaret's mouth dropped in amazement. Was this really happening to her?

"Because it's mine!" she cried out, finally letting loose her frustration. She even stamped her foot. "How dare you be so insolent? We neither of us know each other and here you are playing with me so! Hand me my bonnet, or I shall get very angry."

"You would have gotten it sooner had you asked for it nicely."

"I did." Margaret folded her arms to her chest, nearly shaking. She had to keep them still or else she would soon have them around the young man, strangling him to death.

"If I recollect you only tried to take it from me by force," he said. He bowed deeply and put his hand out to give Margaret the bonnet. She snatched it and without another word she stomped away.

She reached the drive and saw nothing of Edward's carriage. She hoped that Marianne and her husband hadn't left, for if they had she would be walking home. She spotted her sister coming out of the house with a large basket slung over her arm. Margaret nearly ran to her.

"Might you drop me off at Barton Cottage, Marianne?" she asked breathlessly.

"Did they leave you again?" Marianne asked.

"Do you even need to ask?"

"No. And yes, you may come with us. Hurry before Mrs. Jenning's catches us," her sister whispered, grabbing her arm and pulling her from the front step. "I've been trying to leave but she keeps at me like some insect."

"Miss Dashwood!"

"Yes, Mrs. Jennings?" Margaret asked, turning around with a smile.

"I thought since I gave your Marianne a basket of leftovers that you would like one for you and your mother."

"It is fine, Mrs. Jennings. We do not want for food."

The old lady's eyes widened, and she laughed suddenly. "I am not implying that you do! I just don't have anything to do with all this food." You could eat it like you usually do. Margaret's hand flew to her mouth as the words almost formed on her lips.

"You'd be delighted to then? I can see you're excited about it. Let me fetch you one." With that Mrs. Jennings sent word to a servant that was idling nearby. The basket came within a minute, and the two girls were shuffled off to Brandon's elegant open carriage.

"We'll be seeing you later in the week, Miss Margaret?" asked Sir John. He took her basket and held it for her as she was handed into the carriage. She chanced a glance sideways and nearly ripped her hand out of the person's that held it. Mr. Ivison stood there, helping her in as if nothing had happened earlier—but it had and Margaret wasn't about to forget it. She lowered her eyes at him as she settled herself down onto the seat. He slid in next to her, leaning out to take her basket from Sir John.

Mr. Ivison brushed her hands away as she went to get it from him. "I'll hold it for you, Miss Dashwood," he said.

"It's fine really—," she began, taking hold of the basket by the handle.

"Margaret, let him hold it," Marianne said. "It's a bit heavy and will wrinkle your dress."

"Fine," she acquiesced reluctantly. She could imagine the satisfied smile on Mr. Ivison's face as he won the battle. She had completely forgotten that he was Marianne's guest. If she'd remembered then she would just have walked home.

"That was quite delicious, wasn't it, Mariane?" Brandon asked his wife genially. She smiled up at him.

"Not as delicious as what we are to have for dinner," she replied.

"And what might that be, Mrs. Brandon?" Mr. Ivison asked.

"Roast pheasant and baked eggs."

"Sounds like something my mother would make."

"Oh really?" Margaret asked aloud. Marianne looked at her suspiciously.

"Yes, Miss Dashwood. She's one to always use her hands. She even does some of her own gardening."

"We do all of our own," she muttered, earning herself a kick in the foot by Marianne.

Once the dreadful ride home was at an end Marianne got out with her sister. As they approached the cottage she turned upon her younger sister. "What is wrong with you, Margaret?"

"Nothing," Margaret replied. She was not in the mood to be lectured.

"I want to know. You've been quite boorish to Mr. Ivison."

Margaret muttered her answer. "What did you say?" Marianne asked.

"He stole my bonnet." The memory of it all stole upon her cheeks crimsonly. Perhaps she was overdoing it now, but he'd overdone it back at Barton Park.

"He what?" laughed Marianne.

"It's not funny, Marianne."

"Why would a gentleman steal a bonnet? Better yet, what would he even want with such a thing?"

"Exactly what I was wondering myself as he teased me. He was terrible!"

"Hush now or the whole world will hear you!"

"He deserves to hear how abominable he acted. His manners are severely lacking."

"And yours aren't?"

"No."

"If you call walking about bare-headed during a luncheon at Sir John's mannerly, then forgive me for wearing mine. I didn't know."

"I had my reasons."

"Ah, yes…he stole it right from your head."

Margaret hesitated. "No…he took it from under a potted tree."

"And what was it doing there?"

"Hiding from him." Saying it made it sound sillier than it really was. By the time Margaret told her sister about the situation that had lead to her taunting by Mr. Ivison her shoulders were shaking with laughter.

"Please don't laugh, Marianne. They'll hear you." Leaning from behind her sister Margaret was able to make out the carriage on the road. She could just make out the brilliant hue of Mr. Ivison's hair. "I hope you will reprimand him."

"He's not my son—nor is he near enough to be so. Besides, I don't think he was doing it just to irk you. It's his way of flirting, I think."

"I do not flirt, Marianne, if that's what you are insinuating. It's foolish. Why can't people just be straight about their feelings with people? It'd make the whole world so much less complicated."

"So you'd rather have Mr. Ivison declare his attraction to you right now?"

"I would not. He's the exception—besides, he is not attracted to me."

Marianne rose her eyebrows slightly. "I ought to get back to the carriage. They shall wonder where I've gone to. Tell Mama I will call upon her later in the week."

"I shall," Margaret said. Her head was beginning to ache. She would go lie down on her bead with a cold cloth to her head once she got inside.

"Oh, and tell Mama that I will be having a small dinner sometime soon."

"Alright. Go before they send a search party after you." Marianne went to the carriage and it rattled away to Delaford.

Margaret wearily climbed the stairs to her room. Just as she was settled on her bed Mrs. Filbee arrived. She could hear her and her mother chatting away downstairs. That and the quiet murmur of the wind through the attic above her room set her sleep. She dreamed of Egypt once again, riding over dune after dune with a camel beneath her and a large, floppy bonnet upon her head.