Epilogue #2: Margaret the Maid

On chapter 6 (where Digory discovers the four went to Narnia when Mrs. Macready storms in and informs him of the fact), Ariel_of_Narnia commented that she'd like to see the Pevensies interacting with Margaret the maid (who is like Margaret Dashwood, adventurous and impatient). As I rather liked Margaret, I thought to oblige. Nothing is owned by me.

"Perhaps you could restrain Margaret; she saw the youngest looking for stags, and has decided to
adopt her. Up to and including teaching her fencing lessons if the child's older brother continues this
nasty teasing," said Mrs. Macready.

"I shall have a word with Margaret," the Professor promised in his gravest tone. "I do seem to have dissuaded her from believing piracy is her only option, at least."

Margaret stood pouring over an atlas* in the Professor's smaller study. He kept several of them, particularly of places where he'd fought in the wars, and he didn't mind her looking at them. (She tried to make sure Mrs. Macready, that old hennish bird, never caught her at it. The Macready wasn't nearly so understanding.) Margaret ran her finger down the border of the city of Paris; how many places the Professor had been. It was amazing! The things he'd seen, the adventures he'd had. Margaret went back to studying the atlases every time he told her a new story. He was the most fascinating grownup she'd ever met, and he'd been most places.

And somehow he ended up in a big old house in plain old England. She didn't understand how he could be content here.

But she didn't tell him that. He was one of the few adults in this pokey country town whom she liked; maybe even respected, though she wasn't telling her old aunt that. He had the heart of someone who had wanted more, once, and the brain of someone who'd actually lived. Kind of like a ship captain. She could listen to him, if he really asked something of her. Even if he did come to her sometimes with odd requests, like "Do leave the youngest Pevensie child alone for the time being, would you, my dear? I do think something is going to happen to her soon. Don't tell Mrs. Macready I said that. But if it does," and the Professor had made sure he had her full attention, "it will be better for her if she is with her siblings. Even the the one you don't like. He is her brother for a reason, and until we know that reason, it is best to let him be her brother. The older two siblings seem to be keeping him in check."

And that was true. The bullying, the sneering comments, that mocking laughter that made her want to truss the younger boy up like a captive and order him to walk the plank, much of it ceased. He still wasn't kind, and Margaret thought a flogging would do him good, but she didn't actively want to take the Professor's sword off the mantel and stab him.

She muttered fewer comments, which made the Macready happy, and kept her distance. The little girl cried less often. Perhaps now, Magaret thought, turning the enormous page so she could see the entire country of Spain, the girl would be interested in looking at the atlas. She seemed to be the sort of girl who liked adventures too. Perhaps she even liked the idea of sword fights, and high seas, and flags flying.

"Margaret!" The call, in the stern, cold voice Magaret dreaded, wasn't quite loud enough to echo down the halls, but it was loud enough to be heard. The maid closed the atlas with a groan before heading down the hallway, where the evil inciter of mutiny waited. Or the old bird. Old bird suited her better. Because nothing exciting ever happened. A mutiny would have been exciting, but Margaret wasn't allowed that.

Despite the four children, some days were still utterly dull.

"Yes, Mrs. Macready?" she answered in her best meek, compliant voice. She practiced it on the walks home sometimes. It would be a terrific way to get her enemies to underestimate her. And then she'd stab them!

"We are expecting a tour this afternoon, and the house must be dusted. Pay careful attention to the suits of armor, and don't take their swords out and look at them this time. We haven't long before the group gets here, and I want everything ready."

"Yes, Mrs. Macready." Margaret turned and walked away, and once out of hearing began muttering, "I should take your feathers to make the duster. As if Ivy didn't dust them two weeks ago! And this means the children will stay out of the way too. A ship's pox on it!"

And perhaps Margaret did deserve a little sympathy, because not much of anything happened that day. The children mysteriously vanished, as Mrs. Macready desired, and the maids stood at attention at the doors that had trouble opening (and Margaret couldn't even pretend hers led to a treasure cave, because once she opened it she got to hear Mrs. Macready describe every single item of worth inside it, and none of them were really treasures). And then everyone left, and Margaret went out to play in the forest, looking for sticks and binding them into mock-swords to add to her hoard of weapons (because a house this old and mysterious should have a proper hoard, thank you). She didn't come in for supper, and she went to bed tired, and wishing something would happen.

The next morning she went about her duties (the Macready had her dust all the suits of armor again, because she'd missed the one behind the bookshelf, and since she'd actually been at fault the Professor didn't intervene. Ships' holds. She hated being at fault). But even the Macready had to admit she'd done a good job by the time lunch finally arrived (Margaret was determined to learn from her mistakes; she wouldn't miss that suit of armor again!), and the Professor gave her the afternoon off. And Margaret went immediately to go find her hoard.

Only to find someone else—four someone elses—had gotten there first.

"I say, Peter, look at this!"

"Swords," the oldest boy said, and Margaret couldn't help the pride she felt, at the wonder in his tone. "And some of them quite good."

Her pride evaporated. Some of them? And what did he know about swords? Margaret had to dust them, and they were another thing the Professor didn't mind her looking at, as long as she didn't cut herself. She certainly knew more about swords than this boy.

"The balance on this one is perfect," the bully said, his own tone surprised. He held her favorite sword, Margaret noted.

"Do let me try," the youngest girl asked, holding her hand out, and the bully passed it over willingly.

That was a surprise. Margaret had expected a jeering comment, and the older one interfering. But the girl took it as if she expected her brother to be kind. That was as odd as a tender kiss from a pirate. But then—

Then the girl took it and swung it. It whistled through the air, almost faster than Margaret could see, and the maid almost felt like sitting down. But the girl stopped after a few moves.

"That's all I remember now,"** she said regretfully. "It's only been one day, and some of the things we learned feel like a dream."

"A good dream," the older girl murmured, a wistful smile on her face, and the four were quiet a moment.

Kind of the like the Professor was, when he remembered the oddest of his stories. Margaret frowned.

"Do you think we should be messing with these?" the girl asked, guestering at the hoard. "Someone obviously put a good deal of care into them. They're even sheltered from most of the rain, under those sticks."

The boys hesitated, the younger looking to the elder. Since when did that happen? Margaret thought. It was almost like the younger boy wasn't a bully anymore.

"No one has seemed to care what we messed with here," the older said thoughtfully. "I would be surprised if this were an exception. But it's better to wait till we can ask."

"We can ask the Professor after dinner tonight," the older girl offered, as the younger handed back the sword.

No! The Professor is nice and all, but… I don't want him to know about this. I like it being a secret. Margaret took a deep breath. "Please don't," she said, stepping out.

Instantly the four spun around, the two brothers moving in front of their sisters.

I do believe it was right then that Margaret decided to reevaluate the younger brother, for suddenly the younger sister had mocked was held behind him with one arm, while the other was extended, searching for threats.

Of course, after Margaret's dramatic stepping forward (and she was a little pleased with the drama of it, it went over much more dramatically than she expected), she couldn't think of what to say.

Fortunately, the older sister came to her rescue. "Your Margaret, aren't you?" she asked from behind her brother. "Are these yours? And you don't want us to tell the Professor about them? I think he would understand."

"Yes, I am; yes, they are; and no, I don't. I get that he'll understand, he's been very understanding, but this is what I do on my time off, and I just, I don't… I want… "

"You want it to be your secret," the younger girl—Lucy, that was her name, Margaret remembered—offered. Margaret smiled, a bit shyly, and nodded. This girl really did feel like a friend. She understood.

"Then we won't tell." And that was the bully. Former bully. (Possibly.) But somehow…

Margaret looked at him. He sounded as serious as a captain during an oath to the navy, and looking at his face, he looked as if he could be trusted. As if all the little meanness had left, and left behind something wise and true.

"Thank you," she replied, with as much dignity as she could assume. He did sound like taking an oath, after all, and she should respond appropriately.

"May we borrow some of these? Only if you don't mind," Lucy added hastily. "They're very well made, and they look like fun to play with."

"You'd be welcome to join us, if you didn't mind us using them," the older sister (what was her name?) added gently.

"You are welcome to join us anytime, whether we use your swords or not," the oldest added.

Margaret's eyes flicked from one to the other, noting the way the oldest still held the sword—and he held it as if it was familiar, as if he knew how to use it.

"Will you fight with me?" Margaret asked eagerly. The children traded looks, and she scowled. "Don't tell me you can't because I'm a girl, that's a silly excuse! I-"

"I would not dream of such an objection," the younger-former-bully put in hastily, his mouth twitching. Margaret glared at him suspiciously. "After having such a valiant, and stubborn, younger sister, I truly do not object to any lady learning the sword, for times when such is needed. But I'm afraid we might have a rather unfair advantage over you."

Margaret straightened, affronted. "I don't just make the swords, I practice with them too!"

"I'm sure," the oldest said, and his quiet tone stilled the words on her tongue. "But we have had lessons from the best. If you care to put aside your pride, and ready yourself to learn while knowing that learning means making mistakes, we will be glad to teach, and to play."

Something about the way he spoke, the authority he assumed that fit perfectly on his shoulders, made her swallow any protests.

"Agreed," she said, and he smiled.

"Then catch!" and he threw a sword at her.

She caught it—he threw it perfectly for her to catch, she had to learn how to do that!—and then suddenly a sword was striking hers.

A moment when she meant to protest it wasn't fair—and then she set her stance and glared at him, swinging her own sword up.

He smiled, approving, and suddenly she liked him as much as she liked the Professor.

"Wrist loose," the other boy said, suddenly beside her. When she didn't listen, his hand caught her wrist, adjusting the sword and then her hand. "Arm firm—" and he was pushing on it. She clenched the muscles, pushing back. "Good! Now swing back at him!"

One swing, and the wooden clack rang through the forest.

"Good!" the younger girl cheered, and Margaret realised the two sisters had drawn close to watch. A smile started to grow on her face. But it vanished when the boy's sword swung at her again.

Again, and again, and again he sparred with her, trading off occasionally with one of his siblings. Another sibling was always offering advice, correcting stance, grip, leverage, and all the things Margaret had read about but never understood.

This, she thought, panting, is better than any pirate ship.

"And rest!" Lucy said, flashing her a smile above their swords. "It's harder to remember how to hold a sword if you're tired enough you're panting."

"True enough," Peter agreed. Margaret had learned their names by now, as they'd scold each other at times. She dropped beside the oldest sister, looking as the bu-Edmund offered his hand to his sister and helped her sit, before the boys sat themselves.

"Where did you learn this?" she asked them, when she got her breath back. "That was better than anything I've imagined!"

"In a place more marvelous than any of us imagined," Lucy said, wrapping stems of grass around one finger. Her eyes were distant, and almost sad. "A place where we met terrific friends, and lived impossible lives." Margaret felt her forehead furrow. It sounded imaginary, but the skills they got from this place were real enough. How odd.

"Do you miss it?" she asked.

Lucy came back to herself with a start. "Very much," she admitted, for all four of them. Margaret started picking grass stems of her own, unable to meet their eyes with that strange, calm sorrow in them.

"Then it must be dreadful to be here, where nothing ever happens." She flung the grass away impatiently, the strands fluttering down.

"Oh, no," Lucy disagreed. "There are good things here, too."

"Like what?"

"Like meeting you!"

"Like the English sky," Edmund put in.

"Like the Professor," Susan added.

"Like the call of duty, and home, and family. Our mother is here, and we have things to do in this world too."

Margaret looked at the oldest; they all did, as his words resounded in their hearts like a trumpet calling to a soldier.

"And so we find joy here, too. For here is where we're meant to be," Lucy finished softly. She held her hand out to Margaret. "May we come and join you, in the evenings? I enjoyed this evening very much."

Margaret took the hand-the friendship. And she thought of her aunt, who liked her quiet country life but also cared for her niece, and Margaret thought of the Professor, who had also come to this quiet country life. And she thought of her pirate ship, and of her dreams of making Edmund walk the plank, before he became whatever he was now, and she was a little ashamed.

Not much, but a little. Perhaps, if I play with them every night, I will learn how to find joy in this country life as well. While learning enough of swords I can still have the pirate life if I want it.

No matter what the Professor says.

"Agreed," she said, shaking on it.

*The atlases were Ariel's idea, and I loved it. :)

**In Prince Caspian the Edmund has to remember his old skill when dueling Trumpkin, so at some point they did lose that skill back in England. I don't know how long, but since my own headcannon tends to be that Aslan suited them to the world they were, that they might live good and full lives, many of the physical skills they learned as they grew older vanished when they regained their youth; and a lot of the other diplomatic lessons faded, too, so they could truly be children again, in many ways. Again, just my personal headcannon!