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Chapter Fourteen

June 24, 1913

To say I was merely scolded is an understatement. Both Mama and Papa came rushing to my room the second Carson announced that I had returned. Anna had just arrived and was about to help me out of my muddy dress, when the two of them burst in, their eyes wide and only growing wider as they took in the sight of me.

Papa closed his eyes and began rubbing his temples, all the while shaking his head and muttering my name under his breath. Mama immediately launched into a tirade about making her sick with worry, as well as ruining a perfectly good dress that was "hopeless beyond repair". I couldn't care less about the dress, although I confess it was one of my more comfortable ones. It was very difficult, but I chose to keep my mouth shut and not say anything while the two of them criticized; I've long since learned I can get through them faster if I allow them the opportunity to get the wind out. Naturally Papa did what I knew he would do; "for this very reason, I told you should have had Branson drive you," he groaned, shaking his head like a disappointed tutor lecturing his pupil. I only muttered "Yes, Papa," with the hopes that he would soon stop.

And finally, they did. It took Mrs. Hughes' interruption, asking if they wished to delay dinner, which finally brought an end to our scene. Thank you, Mrs. Hughes. Mama and Papa both sighed wearily, before turning to leave, telling me to be quick and hurry so as not to delay anyone further.

Anna had a knowing glint in her eye; I believe she's suspected Gwen and me all along, but thankfully, as Gwen said, Anna's like a sister to her and can be trusted not to give anything away.

Wish my sisters were like that.

Mary insists that she's uninterested in Cousin Matthew (to quote Shakespeare, "the lady doth protest too much"), which has only spurred Edith into setting her claws on him, although if truth be told, I believe it's only to rub the issue into Mary's face, versus feeling any genuine affection for him. They have been getting much worse, this "reckless hearts, screaming harpies" game that they play.

On Friday, we're having a special dinner guest: Sir Anthony Strallan. I know very little about him other than the fact that he's wealthy, the same age as Papa, and that Mama is hoping that both he and Mary will form an attachment. I sadly have the feeling that Mama is getting her hopes up for nothing.

Despite the patronizing lectures and being compared to my elder sisters when I "lack decorum", I am grateful I'm not the eldest, at the very least for this reason. To have my entire future depend upon whom I marry! It's absurd! A woman is more than just a pawn to be played in this silly game of title and fortune. I can tell its grating on Mary as well, for it seems that at every dinner, Mama makes some hint at a possible suitor.

What about the sharing of like minds and ideals? What about common interests and mutual respect? I don't think I could ever marry a man whom I didn't respect, and who I didn't feel respected me. I'm not saying we have to agree on everything, but at the very least to acknowledge my voice and opinions…

Such men are rare, it seems.

Poor Mary. I can't even begin to imagine what it must be like in her shoes; I'm so grateful I don't have to face such a decision, but at the same time I pity her. She would scoff at me if she knew I felt that way, before turning on her heel and walking with her head held high, declaring to the world that she's perfectly capable of making her own decisions and looking after herself. She can be very stubborn, my sister; sometimes to a fault.

Oh gracious, even after washing my hair, multiple times, and quite thoroughly—there are still flakes of dried mud falling from my head. I hope Gwen has managed to recover from our ordeal. I hope no one outside of Anna suspected anything and that she won't get into any trouble. Thank heaven for Branson—he claims he did little, but it relieves me to just know that someone was here, ready and prepared to defend us if need be.

Although he can be absolutely horrid! How I wanted to punch that smug smile off his mouth this morning—and later today, when he saw us in our ghastly state. He can be so arrogant! The way he folded his arms and leaned against the car, smirking at me—oh and what he said, about not lecturing me because Papa would—how I wanted to shove him into his own puddle of mud! Just because he knows how to drive a loud, sputtering car, he thinks he's needed every time I travel? Just because he's a man, he thinks a woman needs him to help her get about? I hope Dragon leads him on a wild goose chase, I hope he falls flat on his face in a…in a dung heap in trying to lure that silly horse back to the stables!

Oh Lord, how juvenile I sound! Like a little girl, throwing a fit because the bigger children won't let her play. The thought of poor Branson falling into a dung heap is so comical I can barely write…

…Now that I feel I have my senses under control once more (although just barely!) I will say, in all seriousness, and despite his annoying habit of getting a rise out of me…I am very grateful to have had his help today. And that was very kind of him…to offer me his jacket when I shivered earlier; of course, I would expect him to do that for any lady—he can be a gentleman, when he's not teasing me.

Mama wants our help tomorrow, with the final preparations for Saturday's flower show, and her patience with me is already thinner than this slip of paper on which I write. So I end this entry, praying that despite the mess Gwen and I found ourselves in, it was all for the best. I know she got the job, I just know it!