--

"His manners required intimacy to make them pleasing."

Sense and Sensibility

--

This all might have remained the state of affairs for quite some time had a random but fortuitous series of events not occurred. The first was that Colonel O'Neill had taken to going on morning walks, exploring the acres of woods and fields now under his purview. The second was that the fencing that separated his property from that of his neighbor's was in a rather piteous state of disrepair, and sheep from both estates had been wandering back and forth across the border for some time. The third was that the Carters, long-time residents of Vorash Hall and the aforementioned neighbors, were perhaps even more infamous than the Colonel himself for their oddity.

Separately, none of the facts would have amounted to anything particularly notable, but when combined, they led to Colonel O'Neill wandering rather aimlessly through the woods on his far property line when a rather muddy shoe fell from a tree above and landed with a solid thump squarely atop his head.

Understandably bewildered, he bent over to pick up the offending piece of footwear. "What in heaven's name…?"

"I did not throw it at you," an undeniably female voice said from the tree above him. "It just slipped off."

He looked from the shoe to the tree and back again. "I am not certain I believe you."

"Have you ever tried to climb a tree in shoes like that? Not practical at all. No grip."

"Well, why didn't you wear more appropriate footwear then?" he asked, not bothering to ask why his mystery conversation companion was in the tree in the first place—that, he assumed, would be revealed in due time.

"I didn't know I was going to be climbing trees today, now did I?" she pointed out rationally. "But this tree has the best view of the fence, and I needed to see where it's broken through." She was silent a moment before adding, "Now that I think of it, I should have thrown that shoe at you."

Feeling more than a little disconcerted by this statement from a mysterious tree-dwelling stranger, the Colonel stared up into the branches of the tree above him. "Have I done something to incur your wrath?"

"The fence is on your property, and therefore, your responsibility. Yet, when you neglect it, it's my sheep that go missing. So, other than leaving it in its current pathetic state of disrepair, no, you have done nothing to provoke me. But I am certain you will eventually. Consider the shoe an advance against future wrongs."

Not really knowing the correct response, as Jack O'Neill wasn't exactly the most refined in everyday situations, let alone scenarios involving renegade slippers, he merely said what was on his mind. "In that case, shouldn't I get both shoes? Best to get a head start on these things, you know."

Something that sounded suspiciously like an indelicate snort reached his ears right before a second shoe sailed straight at him. This one he managed to catch before it hit anything vital. "Well, you certainly are a singularly unique sort of man."

"Coming from the young lady in the tree, I'll take that as a compliment."

"Ah, but I shall soon be in a tree no longer. I'm coming down," she corrected before a flash of a muddy petticoat and white ankles entered his line of sight. He turned because it was the gentlemanly thing to do, or so he supposed—not that he was feeling particularly like a gentleman at the current moment.

Or that he ever did, really. Still, it seemed best to at least try.

A gentle thud sounded as a body hit the ground behind him, and when he turned around he finally caught glimpse of his mystery woman. Not nearly as young as she sounded, he decided as he studied her flushed face. But beautiful in an uncommon kind of way—wide blue eyes and coils of golden hair and a smile unlike anything he had ever seen—and Colonel O'Neill had seen a lot in his time. "May I have a name to put to the face of my attacker?" he asked, trying to be charming.

"Samantha Carter. My father owns Vorash Hall, just south of here. And you're Colonel O'Neill."

"How did you…?"

She took one shoe from him, then the other, using his shoulder to balance herself while slipping them back on, as though such a casual display of intimacy was an everyday occurrence. "News travels quickly in Gateshire—gossip even faster. You're rather infamous these days."

Not quite certain how to feel about that, the Colonel decided to circumvent the issue entirely. "Well, I am pleased to meet you, flying footwear and all. And I will be sure to send someone out to look at the fence as soon as I get back to the house."

She had the grace to look a bit embarrassed by the whole incident now that she had two feet firmly planted on the ground, both literally and figuratively speaking. "Thank you, on both accounts."

Perhaps it was Teal'c's influence, but he found himself bowing ever so slightly in response. "Of course."

Seemingly flustered, Miss Carter flushed. "Yes, well. I should return. Mr. Siler, my Man of Affairs, wanted to discuss tenant rates this afternoon."

Surprised in spite of himself, O'Neill spoke before he had a chance to think about what he was saying. "Is that really a matter with which you need concern yourself?"

Stiffening, Miss Carter glared rather indecorously in his direction. "Why? Because I'm a woman?"

He was fairly certain that there was no safe response to such a query. "Well, it is certainly not usual for a lady of your position to attend to such matters." He may have forgotten a lot about British gentility in his years of travel, but that much was very clear.

"Perhaps. I, however, am not very 'usual.'"

With that, she flounced off through the trees, leaving a somewhat bewildered Colonel staring after her. He wondered how long it would take Walter to discover what he could about his new neighbor—for once, he had a bit of an interest in the matter.

--

Walter would have little trouble in uncovering information about the Carter family, or even Samantha Carter in particular—she was a favorite subject of discussion in town. It seemed that her entire existence was a string of social gaffes, each more shocking and unseemly than the last. They began in her childhood and continued into a timeframe as recent as last week—though if the gossipmongers had known of the incident in the woods that afternoon, that estimate would have been revised once again.

The Carter family was respected and ridiculed in almost equal measure. They came from a long history of money and good breeding, and General Carter was widely known as a hero in the Royal Army. However, his near constant absence since the death of his wife almost two decades ago had endeared him to no one in Gateshire, and the fact that he let his daughter run his estate rather than hire some kind of manager was considered by some to be downright offensive. Luckily, he was rarely around for anyone to tell him so, and when he was present, no one would have dared mention it.

Samantha herself was the real cause for concern in the minds of many citizens. The disgrace of being raised without any female role models to speak of was bad enough, and her behavior only highlighted the indelicacies such neglect had given rise to. Naturally headstrong, obstinate, and outspoken, the general opinion was that she knew entirely too much about business, math, and science and not enough about more proper subjects like music, art, or embroidery. (In truth, she was actually quite an accomplished piano player—but only because as a young child she had learned to relate it to math, calculating the frequencies of octaves and intervals. Nothing could get under Samantha's skin so well as an unresolved chord.)

Unfortunately, despite her many faults, it was a bit difficult to actively dislike Samantha Carter. She had a brilliance that shone, even through her sometimes considerable temper, as well as the gift of charming people without any particular effort that had served her well on more than one occasion. It had also led to what was perhaps the largest blemish on her reputation as a respectable young woman—the string of jilted fiancés she could boast to. Most had lost count of the exact number of men that had flitted in and out of Samantha's life, but the fact was that they were both very numerous and very dismissed.

But none of that mattered where she was headed this particular morning—on a visit to one of her tenants and closest friends, Janet Fraiser.

Her continued camaraderie with the town's midwife was yet another strike on young Samantha's record of public opinion. Besides being more than a degree or two lower than Samantha on the social ladder, Janet Fraiser was generally considered a public menace—until someone found themselves in the midst of a particularly difficult labor, that is.

Mrs. Fraiser had married young, and though the marriage had been a good one for someone of her family and wealth, the middle-aged son of a relatively prosperous local farmer, it was apparently fraught with marital discord. After three years, she had left her husband, taking it upon herself to move into a small cottage on the Carter estate, paid for with the profits of her midwifery and the various other small medicinal services she offered to passersby. When the man she had married died unexpectedly in a farming accident several years later, she seemed genuinely undisturbed by the news—she hadn't even donned the traditional black of a mourning widow.

To make matters worse, several years ago she had aided a young servant girl who had found herself in a family way out of wedlock. It had been a difficult delivery and while she had managed to save the baby, the young mother had died. Instead of doing the expected and sending the child away to an orphanage in the city, Janet had chosen to take the baby under her own wing, raising it alone. As Miss Carter was the only person in three provinces who had supported her decision, she had become the child's godmother. So a friendship was forged that lasted to this day, much to the disdain of the general public.

Of course, Samantha Carter had long ago given up caring about the opinion of the general public, which is why she gave no thought to strolling down the lane to see her friend on this or any other morning.

"Good morning, Cassie," she called to the girl hanging laundry on a line in the yard.

Taking the excuse to abandon her chores, the eleven-year-old girl ran to her enthusiastically, wrapping her in a hug so tight that Samantha struggled to breathe. Ruefully, Samantha thought that if everyone showed affection so easily, the world might be a much friendlier place. "Sam! Did we know you were coming?"

"No, I was just on my way home and thought I'd stop by. Where's your mother?"

"In the kitchen. She was mashing something when I checked last."

Besides being a midwife, Janet had a considerable talent for making poultices and teas. Everyone in the town used them, although no one admitted to it. Janet didn't particularly care one way or the other, as long as she was paid.

After one last hug, Samantha head inside, ducking through the low threshold and smiling at the sight of her friend elbow-deep in herbs. "There you are."

Janet smiled, wiping her hands on her apron to go and greet her friend. "Yes, as usual. What a pleasant surprise! Can you stay long? I could make some tea."

"Regretfully, no. There are some business matters that need dealing with. I've been avoiding them, and you know how these things tend to stack up when you're not paying attention. I just came by to see if you had any of that poultice for cuts and scrapes that I could purchase from you."

A cupboard wedged into the far corner was laden heavy with mysterious jars and bottles; Janet picked out one easily and handed it to her. "Don't be ridiculous, just take it. What did Mr. Siler manage to do to himself this time?"

Mr. Siler was known throughout this county as being one of the best men around—and also one of the most prone towards incident. "To be honest, I'm not certain. I know a plow was involved. One moment, he was fine, and the next he's got another gash."

The slightly older woman nodded serenely. "Men are like children in that respect—and many others." Quickly exasperated with the subject of the opposite sex, Janet turned her eye to Samantha's somewhat haphazard appearance, which really wasn't that unusual. "You really should just try wearing those old trousers of your father's if you're going to prance around the countryside like you do. Much more practical."

Ruefully studying her muddied petticoats, part of Samantha silently agreed. "Yes, well, one scandal at a time. I've been unseemly enough for one day, and it isn't past noon yet."

Delighted (but, to her credit, trying not appear as if she was), Janet smiled. "Do tell."

Waving her hands as if to brush the whole matter into nothingness, Samantha humored her dear friend and began to relate the events of her morning. "I was checking on the fences this morning and ran into the new proprietor of Cheyenne Manor."

"So he does exist," Janet remarked dryly. "And? How did you find him?"

Hesitant of her feelings on the matter, Samantha fretted over the matter. "Vexing. And diverting. And…I'm not quite certain, really."

Janet knew that for Samantha, such uncertainty was an altogether uncommon occurrence. "I was in a tree and he—well, I accosted him."

Her friend blinked in surprise. "Samantha, I know I've been pressing you to expand the limitations of your role in society, but even I think that's going a bit too far."

"Oh, no! It was an accident. My shoe fell off." The delicate skin of her pale cheeks flushed a bit as she admitted, "I think he may have seen my ankle."

At that, Janet merely rolled her eyes. "Heaven forbid."