Margaret Dashwood's Diary by Elliott Anna

Author:Elliott, Anna [Elliott, Anna]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: jane austen continuations
Publisher: Anna Elliott
Published: 2014-01-08T05:00:00+00:00

* * *

I set this book down an hour ago, intending to—sensibly—go to sleep. But since I am still awake, and thoroughly sick of either staring at the ceiling or imagining Henry the 8th leering at me from his perch on the wall, I suppose that I may as well finish my account of the day.

Elinor and Marianne both happened to be present when I arrived back at Delaford House. They were sitting in the parlour with Charlotte as I came in—and all three of them exclaimed in nearly simultaneous horror at the sight of me.

Not that I could necessarily blame them; I was filthy from head to toe, and blood and birthing fluids stained my dress. Rawlings, Marianne’s maid, helped me to change tonight—and informed me sourly that the dress ought to be burned, because it would never be fit even to give to the poor.

There was no way of disguising where I had been or what I had been doing—part of what I had been doing, at least. So I told them as much of the truth as I could—that Star’s foal had arrived, and I had remained with her in the pasture to help.

Marianne shook her head, holding a handkerchief to her nose. “All by yourself? For heaven’s sake, Margaret—did it never occur to you to come back and bring Dawson or one of the other stable boys to help?”

I felt my cheek prickling with a blush. It seemed as though the fact that I had been kissing Jamie must have been stamped across my face for all the world to see. I said that no, it had not occurred to me to go for help—which actually was true enough. And then I diverted attention by giving an account of Aubrey’s visit. I felt I had to—in case Aubrey should ever come searching for me again.

My sisters’ reactions at least made me feel somewhat better. Elinor characteristically said very little, but she looked both shocked and indignant. Marianne looked rather like a simmering kettle while I told my story. And when I finished by repeating Aubrey’s magnanimous offer to forgive me—and his attempt to kiss me—she exploded. “That smug, self-centred, egotistical, bachelor’s son!”

“Marianne!” Elinor exclaimed.

Marianne tossed her head, her dark eyes dangerously alight with anger. “You needn’t chide me for language—I could have called him a lot of other worse names, besides. He had better not show his face here, unless he wants me to box his ears for him. And as for Mrs. Jennings, I could shake her until her teeth rattle for her interference!”

It was my turn to say, “Marianne,” in a warning tone. Not that I had not entertained similar thoughts of Mrs. Jennings. But her own daughter, Charlotte, was sitting just a few feet away.

I need not have worried. It is practically impossible to cause Charlotte any offence. I suppose she must have heard much worse from her own husband about Mrs. Jennings; Mr. Palmer more or less loathes his mother-in-law.

“That’s all right,” she said cheerfully.

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