To say that she was shocked could not begin to do justice to the emotions Margret was experiencing. It was indeed one of the feelings however, along with regret, anger, and downright bewilderment.
If Sir Merryweather was not the culprit, then who was?
If Sir Merryweather was not the perpetrator, then, what had he been talking about in his letter of apology?
If Sir Merryweather was not an absolutely revolting man, than what was he?
If Sir Merryweather is not any of these things, then why am I asking myself questions I cannot answer? Margret thought to herself.
"Is there anything I can do, Margret, dear? You look terribly pale. I don't think you're taking this very well."
She shook her head. "No, thank you, Mary. I don't think there's anything anyone can do. I feel quite at a loss for words or actions, or even competent thoughts. Perhaps I'd better lie down." She sank onto the couch, holding a pillow over her face.
Mary tapped her shoulder after a moment or two. "Margret, dear, you'll suffocate if you keep that thing where it is."
The muffled reply came that that was what she was trying to accomplish, and Mary, quite alarmed, removed the plush suicide weapon from her grasp.
"Mary, I'm acting like Marianne used to, aren't I?"
Her friend, having been informed of every aspect of the Dashwood family's eventful life several years ago, knew full well what she refered to, and agreed heartily. "If you're not careful, you'll end up meeting a handsome man who'll break your heart."
"I already have, but instead, I may have been the one who shattered any chance of civility between us. Perhaps not, for he may be as proud as I imagine him, and counts it as a mere injury done to him by a common, ignorant young woman who has no idea the power and fortune she has passed up."
"Whatever makes you feel better."
Margret groaned. "Never having to see Sir Merryweather again would make me feel tremendously better."
Mary tapped her chin. "It's possible that can be arranged, at least, temporarily. How would you like to spend the summer with me, at my father's estate in Havetsbury? We'll have a lovely time by the sea, and you can try to forget the madness that's going on here."
Margret's eyes brightened. "Can we go fishing?"
Mary blinked. "Fishing? Well, we'll have to be devious about it, and go somewhere no one can see us, but I suppose so— if you really want to."
"Oh, it sounds almost too good to be true! I'm sure mother will give me permission, after all, I am old enough to take care of myself, and going to the country for the summer is fashionable!"
"The sea, no less."
"Oh, dear, I'm so giddy with excitement, I almost started chattering away about what clothes I should pack, though summer is still far away."
"Oh, it's closer than you think. You see, father had been pestering me about inviting a friend for the summer for the longest time, so it might be best to leave as soon as possible."
"The sooner the better, though I'm afraid I'll have to stay in London at least a week longer for this to be a proper debut."
A knock on the doorframe alerted them to Mathilde, bearing an envelope. "Another letter for you, Miss Dashwood. My, my, two letters in one day, you are quite popular, you are, Miss!"
She left, and Margret opened the letter as casually as possible. She almost shrieked, however, when she saw the contents. "Of all the…! Mary, it's from the mystery writer! Look:
On a day, alack the day!
Love, whose month was ever May,
Spied a blossom passing fair,
Playing in the wanton air:
Through the velvet leaves the wind
All unseen, gan passage find;
That the lover, sick to death,
Wish'd himself the heaven's breath,
'Air,' quoth he, 'thy cheeks may blow;
Air, would I might triumph so!
But, alas! my hand hath sworn
Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn:
Vow, alack! for youth unmeet:
Youth, so apt to pluck a sweet.
Do not call it sin in me
That I am forsworn for thee
Thou for whom Jove would swear
Juno but an Ethiope were;
Turning mortal for thy love.'
It's Shakespeare! Love's Labour's Lost, I believe!"
"I suppose so, though I never was one for Shakespeare."
Margret ran to her trunk and produced the correct volume, flipping furiously through the pages. "Ah, hah! Just as I expected, it's from Act IV, Scene III! Whoever it is can't even compose their own poetry, so they go and steal from geniuses. I'm beginning to loathe this phantom even more than I did Sir Merryweather."
"That's lovely. So about coming to stay over the summer?"
ooOoo
The sea air improved Captain Margret's disposition incredibly, and the prospect of sea-fishing did even more. The wonderful days of lazy summer were spent in a leisurely fashion, with no particular plans and no set schedule to keep. Mary had wanted to try sea-bathing, and try they did, but despite the southern air, the water was quite chilling.
Not quite an appealing condition for bathing.
Nevertheless, their holiday was lovely and warm, and so were the people. Margret was in full bloom, as romping about the countryside was what she did best. Mary's cheeks took on an attractive pink hue, and the daily exercise agreed with her tremendously. If there had been any balls, I'm quite sure they would have been the perfect belles; the envy of many young ladies and the objects of affection for quite a few young gentlemen.
On one particularly beautiful day, as they were just coming in from picking wild flowers, a letter arrived addressed to Miss Dashwood. It was right on schedule with her fortnightly letters from Mrs. Dashwood, and indeed, Margret was anxious to open it. Her mother had mentioned a surprise in her last letter, and had hinted that she would reveal all in her next.
Mary rang for tea, and Margret tore into both the letter and a heavenly biscuit. She almost choked, however, when she read the contents of the much-awaited letter.
Mary patted her on the back. "Bad news from you mother?"
Margret got a hold of her coughing spasms. "It's not even from my mother. That dreadful mystery writer has found us! What I can't understand is how they knew I was here! We told plenty of people of course, but never the exact location. Good gracious, I can't believe the absolute nerve of this person; the tripe in here would make the devil blush!"
"Let me see."
Thou art lovely as the golden sun,
For none can compare to thee,
In the shadow of thy radiant beams of beauty.
Thy lips are red as roses waiting to be plucked,
And thy hair is like a chestnut waterfall, sparkling in the light.
"Well, it's not as bad as you made it out to be. At least it's original. Though, I must agree that they're getting bolder."
"Oh, why can't they just leave me alone?"
Despite her dampened spirits, Margret was still excited by their excursion that very afternoon. They were to begin a short walking tour of the surrounding countryside, rest the night at a small inn, and return to the estate the following day by a different route.
Their pace was easy-going, and they pointed out to each other various estates and houses, and made up stories about who lived there. Their tales were far-fetched and full of magical beings, such as the fae, ogres, centaurs, and other mythological creatures. At one particularly grand estate, Margret delighted in laying out the owners in full spread. "Oh, that one's owned by a dreadful vampire count, who preys on young maidens on walking tours. It is said that he hides behind that very tree up yonder, and springs out at them to suck their blood and make them his brides. He has at least several dozen wives at once, but some of them die before a fortnight!"
Mary shivered. "Margret, you are quite a story-teller; you had me frightened out of my wits for a moment, before I remembered it was only a story. But how could you put us in it? I certainly don't want to become a vampire bride, even if it's only in fiction."
Margret laughed. "Nor do I, but I didn't really put us in. All I said was, 'Maidens on walking tours'. That doesn't necessarily mean us."
"It is us and you know it. Come on then, spit it out. You're just dying to make us the heroines of your story."
"Well, one day two very fair young maidens happened to be on a walking tour, and they were quite enjoying themselves, when, suddenly, a huge black figure sprang out at them from behind the tree, fangs flashing and cloak billowing! The maidens did not even bat an eye! They snatched his cloak, and with a mighty lunge, pushed him into the river! And as everyone knows, vampires are ver—."
She was cut off when Mary gasped as a black figure did indeed move from behind the tree. It was not a vampire count, however.
It was a Sir Merryweather—though, considering the fright he gave Margret, it might as well have been a specter.
"Sir Merryweather! What are you doing here?"
It was Mary who spoke, for Margret had lost her tongue, and was searching for it fruitlessly.
He was both surprised and confused. "This—I live here. This is my family's estate."
"Oh, dear," was all Margret said.
"What are you doing here?"
"My father owns an estate not far from here, where we're staying for the summer. We were just on a walking tour." Mary glanced at Margret, but, after getting over the initial shock, she was quite composed.
Sir Merryweather cleared his throat. "Well, if you don't have anywhere to stay the night, I offer my own guest bedrooms to your usage. They are quite spacious and very comfortable, I assure you."
Margret gave a slight curtsy. "Thank you, but, no. We have already arranged for lodgings, and besides, I hardly think that two young ladies who are alone could stay at a mansion owned by a single man." She added, with a bit of dignity, "It would not be proper."
"Oh, yes, of course," Sir Merryweather stumbled over his words. "Forgive me for attempting to be hospitable."
Mary bid him a hasty farewell, and was tugging on Margret's arm, when her friend stopped her. "It's alright, Mary. You go on ahead, and I'll catch up in a moment." Her friend shrugged and continued on the path, glancing back several times at the two.
Sir Merryweather commented, "Miss Yancey looks lovely."
"Yes, she does. Sir Merryweather, I'm quite hesitant to ask, but I must know—."
She was cut off for the second instance that day, this time by Mary's screams. Both she and Sir Merryweather raced towards the sounds. They found her clinging to a rock ledge a little ways below the bank of the river, where the waters had descended, leaving a large precipice high above them. Captain Margret instantly lay flat on her stomach and reached down to Mary, but her arms were not long enough, and she could not reach her friend. Sir Merryweather, who, until that moment, had been watching in shock, hauled her up and gently pushed her aside. He himself resumed her position, with more success than she had had. Mary grasped his hands and used them to help her climb up the face of the bank. When she reached the top, she scrambled away from the edge as fast as she could.
Margret was instantly by her side. "Mary, are you alright?"
She nodded. "I think so. Just a bit bruised and battered, though it's my own foolish fault, I suppose. I wasn't looking where I was walking and slipped right off the side."
Margret laughed shakily. "No more river banks for you today." She remembered Sir Merryweather, and stood to meet him eye to eye. "Thank you, sir. I do not know where we would have been without you."
"Well, er, no thanks needed." He was not used to being heroic, and it was a new and strange feeling to be thanked by the very girl he admired. He quite liked it.
She turned to Mary and took her arm. "I'm afraid we must be going, now. Thank you again, Sir Arthur."
There it was again! A feeling of elation went through him as she thanked him, which was increased when she used his more familiar title. If this was what being a hero was like, he decided he would have to save peoples' lives more often.
They parted, and the young ladies made it to the inn by evening, and back to Mary's father's estate the next day. They did not speak of the accident to anyone.