Margaret was unsure if she had to take his hand or not. It was placed before her in an urgent jerk, his eyes imploring her to comply. The sand beneath their feet was hot around their ankles. The backdrop of dunes and a cloudless yet white-washed sky ceilinged their tiny forms. Mr. Fisher, with his secretary standing at his elbow with head bowed, was beginning to become impatient.
"The storm will be here any moment, Miss Dashwood!" he cried, forcefully taking her by the hand and pulling her towards his camel. The mangy beast looked placidly at them as they ran over to perch on its hump. Mr. Fisher dug his heels into its sides, but the camel continued to stare at the approaching sand cloud with curiosity.
"I should have worn my dance slippers!" Margaret shouted into Mr. Fisher's ear as the sand absorbed them in a gritty hiss of wind, knocking them flat into the ground and filling their mouths with crunchy granules. She wasn't sure, but the camel looked like it was dancing in the gusts of wind as if it were enjoying the brutal sting of the storm.
"I told you marrying an adventurer would get you into a scrape," Elinor observed with apparent glee into her sister's ear. The secretary was gone. Margaret could just make out her eldest sister's form in the blur the landscape had become. "And of all the times to not be wearing your bonnet!"
"But I have it…" Margaret told her, feeling atop her head only to find it bare. The sand on her scalp was making her head itch. "This isn't any fault of his, you know. 'Tis nature that brought this storm on us."
"Go ahead and think what you will, but if you are not home in time for your French lessons I shall tell our mother about your tree-climbing exploits," Elinor threatened her, suddenly procuring a book from the billows of sand and waving it in Margaret's face.
"But I haven't climbed a tree in three days! It's not fair!" Margaret cried, finding herself unable to cry in the dry climate. Her sister disappeared.
Once the storm settled down, Margaret found she was alone. Mr. Fisher had been buried under feet of sand, the camel had trotted up and over a dune, and she was wearing her dancing slippers once more. She could just make out a shimmery figure on the horizon. Margaret scrambled over the sand, hoping they'd have some water on their person, but she was gravely disappointed. The mirage-d face melted into Mr. Ivison's, smiling at her in a strange fashion. "You shouldn't think about me so much," he advised her.
She stopped walking towards him. "But—but I haven't been!"
"Why are you holding onto me so tightly then?" he asked softly, fingers reaching up to hold her close to him.
"I don't know," she replied, looking carefully at him. "What did you do with Mr. Fisher?"
"What else would I do but eat him." Mr. Ivison told her matter-of-factly. "He tasted like—."
Margaret opened her eyes. The portrait of her father rematerialized as she straightened her spine in a mouth-wide yawn that curled her down to her toes. The tiny clock on the mantelpiece was shadowed by the arrival of dusk, and the smell of supper was faint. Cook must have gone home already, and Mother was no doubt in bed due to a headache.
The day had been a boring one, having started with lessons in French, the near run-in with Mr. Ivison, and then weeding in the garden beside her mother. The two of them had relieved half of the vegetable patch of the dandelions before they felt ready to drop senseless with thirst and exhaustion. Margaret remembered coming in, laying down on the couch and then nothing. Somehow she had moved to the floor, arms tucked into her chest and hair twined around her neck. Margaret sat up and straightened her hair with sleep-weak fingers. She helped herself up off the floor by half-climbing up the couch's arm, and when she was standing she stumbled across the room and into the kitchen.
Cook's face turned up from the pot on the fire. "Have a lovely sleep, did you, Miss?"
"I'm not entirely sure," Margaret murmured, remembering her dream in a blurry, just-awakened fashion.
"I'm cookin' up some of the venison from Colonel Brandon's kitchen. His cook was kind enough to gift me a piece of it." The woman grinned appreciatively at the aroma arising from her brewing pot. "Why don't you sit yerself down, and I'll fetch you some cider, Miss?"
Margaret obeyed, slipping into a chair and waiting for Cook to come back. When the woman had served her the venison and cider, Margaret minced at it with her fork. "Ye don't like the food?"
"Oh, goodness, no!" exclaimed Margaret, taking a large serving onto her utensil and swallowing it nearly whole. She held back her grimace; it felt like she was eating thistles. "I fear I have no taste for anything right now. I apologize."
"I knew it had nothin' to do with my food," Cook mentioned. "You've got troubles, don't you?"
Margaret sat up from her slump. "It's not like I did anything wrong, you see. I was only paying him back for stealing my bonnet. It was only fair that he got what he deserved."
"Who're we talkin' about here?" the older woman asked, setting herself down and taking Margaret's portion of food. She smacked down some venison and potatoes with a gulp of cider.
"Mr. Ivison, of course," was the reply.
"Ah, the young man who was holdin' your drawers that one time." Cook winked slyly.
There was the expected blushing. "He claims it was a prank and therefore equal to his taking of my bonnet. Would you agree?"
"Of course, Miss—a tit for tat. It's only fair that he asks for forgiveness on both sides o' the quarrel."
Margaret shook her head. "But we really aren't quibbling."
"Then what're you doin', Miss? Flirtin'?" There was that wicked wink again.
"Indeed we are not! I would have you know that Mr. Ivison and I are mere acquaintances and—and we do not flirt!"
"I am sorry for rilin' you, Miss, but you did ask my advice and there you have it. Settle this and get yourself married before you kill each other." The cook grinned at Margaret's consternated expression. The girl took a swig of the cider before leaving without saying another word.
"I don't see why you are so angry about it, Madge," Diana remarked as they strolled down the street the next morning.
"I must admit that I cared very little about it until after the fact. Sure, his teasing was annoying but I believe I enjoyed it. Now, looking back, I am irked that it even happened," Margaret replied, swinging her reticule at her side. "He is a mere boy, and I will only apologize to a man."
"What I want to know is what he was going to ask you before you so rudely—pardon me—interrupted him," Lydia said, biting into the chocolate biscuit she'd just purchased from the pastry shop they'd visited.
"Clearly it had nothing to do with the truce he was proposing," Diana agreed.
Margaret faked a yawn. "All this talk of Mr. Ivison is boring me, ladies. I think I'll lay down for a nap."
Lydia, easily led off subject, clapped her hands. "You would never guess what Mr. Fisher did to me in my dream last night."
"He kissed you until you fainted," Diana hazarded in a guess.
"He fainted after you kissed him," Margaret countered, grinning.
Lydia vehemently shook her head. "Neither."
"Well goodness me, this is new! Tell us everything," Margaret eagerly demanded.
"He proposed!" Lydia shrieked, eyes flush with happiness, but then her face dimmed its brightness and her brow wrinkled with confusion. "But I refused him and he proceeded to serenade me. I laughed at him and upturned a bowl of soup over his head, and then he started to cry."
"That's so sad," whispered Diana, grabbing her friend's arm in a gesture of comfort.
"Why would you refuse his offer?" Margaret wondered aloud. "Is there any meaning in it all?"
"I don't think so, my love," Diana replied, turning to Lydia, "for you would never do such a thing to Mr. Fisher."
They entered the center of town where a sprawling park meandered by means of paths for the inhabitants of the area to see and be seen. A high-perch phaeton was flying down one of the larger paths with the giggling driver's laughter trailing in its wake. Lydia's lip turned up in a sneer as she observed her arch-nemesis. "She could die riding break-neck like that through town."
"Good morning," a soft whisper emanated towards them. They turned around to find Annis, the scarcer of their friends, standing nearby.
"Where have you been?" Diana cried, running to greet the quiet girl with a kiss on the cheek.
"I've been sick with a head-cold these few days," Annis replied. "I am sorry to have worried you, but I meant not offense by refusing to accept your calls when you three came by."
"You look like death visited and left something behind," Margaret observed, taking in the girl's wane appearance and haunted eyes. She greeted her with her own cheek-kiss and was met with soft laughter.
"The things you say, Madge," Diana said, rolling her eyes. "You can be so tactless sometimes."
"Sometimes? I'm not reaching my quota then." Lydia giggled.
"What are you girls planning for the day?" Annis asked them as they began to walk once more.
"We visited the patisserie already and have yet to stop in at the tea shop," Diana informed her. "Did you wish to drop in to the bookstore?"
"Truth be told, I am sick of novels these days. That's all I've been doing—sleeping and reading, eating and reading. Reading! I've had enough of it and am ready for a grand adventure!" Annis proclaimed. Her speech was interrupted with a rattling cough. "No mountains, though, for I fear I am not quite healed yet."
"We could visit Mrs. Jennings," Margaret told them. "She's been complaining we haven't been to see her for quite some time."
"No matter our feelings upon the woman, it is our duty to call upon her," Diana decided for them all. "How good of you to remind us of our obligations, Madge."
"Must we visit that vulgar woman?" Lydia complained in spite of the looks her friends gave her. "I wish we didn't have to visit every wealthy person in these parts, for not all of them are genteel."
"My mother would heartily agree with your sentiments if she heard them, Lydia," Margaret said. "No matter the winkling and uncomfortable questions, I still like her."
"You would," Annis commented, smiling. "Shall I procure us a carriage? I came down in Father's in the hopes that I would run into you all."
After sending a boy to fetch her driver and carriage, Annis and the girls waited outside of the millinery, where they gazed appreciatively at the newest trimmings on display. Margaret and Lydia guiltily kept away, hoping the owner of the shop wouldn't see them lurking outside of her business. Their last visit had been anything but pleasant. Lydia still held a grudge. "I can't believe she would throw us out!"
"We did knock over her stands and cause disruption to her customers," Margaret reminded her.
Lydia sniffed and turned her nose up. "Still. I shall never step in this shop again. In fact, I'm sure Mr. Goddard would appreciate my patronage at his establishment."
"He is a touch more expensive than here," Margaret said, "but his bonnets are of better quality."
"You could say they're the closest hats can be to being Parisian." They both nodded.
"Have you ever seen the likes of those flowers?" Diana asked Annis before they were approached by the carriage on the street.
"They are very vivid, to be sure, but they are too exotic for my taste," Annis replied before stepping into her father's open carriage. The others piled in after her and sat back into the cushioned seats. Annis gestured elegantly with her hand and the driver set the horses forward. Margaret felt a stab of envy in her chest as she observed the easy manner of the wealthiest of her friends. Annis, rich as she was, felt no need to seek marriage. She often said it would come to her if it was what was meant to be. If not, then she'd still have a comfortable life with her inheritance and family.
As they passed down the street, they approached a group of young men. Mr. Fisher was among them and as he spotted the carriage he tipped his hat in their direction. "Good morning, Lady Humphrey!" he called out.
Annis, the lady in question, nodded in his direction but said naught else. Lydia, observing the spectacle, quietly seethed in the confines of her wide bonnet. The young woman knew Annis did not seek out the heart of her Adonis, but seeing him genuflect in another's direction made her heart squeeze painfully. She tried dearly not to resent her friend, but it was very difficult. She turned her anger to the she-creature that was Mr. Fisher's shadow these days; now there was something worth being embittered about!
Sir John met them at the door before his butler could even scurry to answer. "What a lovely surprise, ladies!" he cried as he showed them in with a large grin. "My mother will be very pleased to receive you. She's quite popular today."
"Are we here at a bad time?" Diana asked him, looking worried, as she took in the number of carriages already at the estate.
"We could come back later," Annis suggested.
Sir John would not have it. "You will be a welcome addition—I am sure of it!" He herded them into the parlor room that was serving as the day's visiting center. The girls walked into the room behind the man, and all Margaret had to do was see a shock of red hair and before she wished herself out of there. How unfortunate that it had been her idea to call upon Barton Park!
"Is Lady Middleton not in today?" Margaret asked, hoping to stall.
"She's out calling on people herself," Sir John replied, coming to a stop before his mother-in-law. "I have brought you some more visitors, Mother."
"Well if it isn't Miss Dashwood and her gaggle of her friends!" Mrs. Jennings exclaimed, taking the hands of each girl and kissing them on their cheeks. "What a pleasant day it is for stopping by, for the sun is out and the lemonade's been made and there are men aplenty."
Mr. Ivison, his back to the room, was standing with a few gentlemen who were talking about the latest boxing match between Lord Farriday and Mr. Applewood. Upon hearing Mrs. Jennings, he could not help but look behind him. He saw Margaret and her friends sit down near the hostess who was serving them some lemonade. The room was indeed full of people, and Mr. Ivison wondered if there was a reason for it.
Margaret was keenly away of the gentleman's stare, and she studiously ignored it as she sipped her lemonade. "We cannot stay for long," Annis informed their hostess, "for I must return my father's carriage in a half hour."
"That's plenty of time for you, Lady Humphrey," Mrs. Jennings assured her. "I heard you were unwell. You must be feeling much better now, despite your pale face and tired eyes." Lydia's mouth twitched at the observation, and Diana averted her eyes.
Annis smiled good-naturedly. "I am improving in health day by day, Mrs. Jennings. It is so kind of you to inquire after me."
"We women must stick together, must we not?" the older lady laughed. "Speaking of large gatherings, we haven't had an Assembly in weeks. We ought to throw one together."
"Oh yes!" Lydia chimed in. "I do love to dance."
"And with whom I can guess," Mrs. Jennings said, winking. "Starts with an F, eh?"
Seeing the girl's blush, the woman nodded. "I am good at winkling things out of people, and I will have the name out of you yet. I've done it before, haven't I, Madge?"
Margaret nodded impishly in the direction of her uncomfortable friend. "Elinor can attest to your skills easily enough."
Having passed the time merrily and in astonishment at the hostess's jokes, the ladies made their farewells without having conversed much with the other visitors. "Shall we take you home first, Margaret?" Annis asked as they walked out of the door and onto the cobbled drive.
"I shall walk, if you don't mind," Margaret replied.
"It would be no trouble," Annis told her as she stepped up into the contraption.
Margaret shook her head. "It's much too out of your way. I will see you in church next, Annis."
Once the carriage was gone, she started down the road and was not half a footstep gone before she heard someone call her name. She looked back to find that Mr. Ivison was exiting the house. He waved at her and she waited for him to reach her. "I thank you for being patient with me, Miss Dashwood," he said as he reached her side. She immediately started walking, every now and then glancing at his swinging left hand as it appeared in her side vision.
"Did you wish to say something to me, Mr. Ivison?" she finally asked him. They approached a curve in the road.
"I was wondering if you had thought upon the, uh, terms I offered," he said, rubbing his neck and looking casually up at the trees towering over them.
"I did think, but not for very long," Margaret informed him. "I do not intend to accept any of your terms."
"Why can't we both just forget about everything? Watch that branch there," he warned her. "We could wipe the slate clean—start afresh."
"Thank you," she said, side-stepping the tree limb. "But what would wiping entail? Admittance on each party's side of wrong doing? Reparations?"
Mr. Ivison snorted. "The only injured party is mine. You broke my fishing pole, and you still are in possession of your ratty bonnet. What more can you ask for?"
"You ought to buy me a new bonnet," she demanded, smiling. "All would be forgiven then." She swatted at an errant branch that reached for her face.
"And the pole?" he carefully asked.
"Replaced."
He thought for but a moment. Would she want flowers on the brim? What color ribbon would bring the color of her eyes out more? "Done." He held out his hand, but Margaret looked dubiously at it.
"Will you promise to never steal my bonnet again?"
"I cannot make any promises," he told her. "They are so tempting."
"Then you'll have to purchase one for me that you know you would not take back from me."
"Do you have any preferences in mind?"
Margaret felt shy all of the sudden as he regarded her. "Whatever you think will suit," she stuttered. She meant to stride forward, but a large portion of the road ahead was muddied and puddle-d over.
"Damned rain," Mr. Ivison muttered.
Margaret twisted her reticule with her fingers. "We'll walk around then." She attempted to navigate the edge of the road, but her foot slipped into the mud and she cried out in dismay. "I should not have borrowed Elinor's shoes!" She went to the grass and wiped her foot into the clovers.
"I have a suggestion to make, Miss Dashwood," Mr. Ivison announced, approaching her. "I could go to fetch a carriage from Barton Park, as we are not too far gone from them, or I could just carry you across. I'm wearing my riding boots anyway."
Startled, the young lady looked up at him. She nodded. He walked over and, as Margaret kept her eyes on his face, he bent over, one hand around her waist and another taking her behind the knees. With one easy heft, Mr. Ivison was carrying her. As he started to walk her hands flew up to grasp his neck. He was so warm.
"Don't squirm too much—wouldn't want to drop you," he laughed.
Margaret swallowed uneasily. "If you drop me, you are replacing Elinor's shoes and my bonnet."
"Isn't one enough for you?" he exclaimed, stepping over the last of the puddles. He let go of her knees, and she placed her feet on the dry road carefully.
"Thank you, Mr. Ivison," she replied. He was taller than she first thought him to be, and there was a flock of freckles on his cheeks.
"Why are you holding onto me so tightly?" he asked softly, fingers reaching up to hold her close to him.
"I don't know," she replied, surprised to find she hadn't quite let go of him. She carefully looked at him. "What did you do with Mr. Fisher?" Immediately she dropped her hold of him to clasp her hands to her mouth in shock. Had she really just said that?