Margaret Dashwood's Diary

by Elliott, Anna

  Unlike mine, Jamie’s eyes were completely dry. He said in a flat, expressionless voice that the word meant ‘cursed’ and that his father was speaking of the fact that Jamie’s birth had been the cause of his mother’s death.

  I remember, too, that the last year or two that Elijah brought the gypsy caravan to Norland, he seemed shrunken, declined. He would sit on the steps of their family’s wagon, a bottle of spirits in his hand, glaring at the world from red-rimmed eyes. Those last couple of years, it was Jamie who did all the work with the horses, Jamie who settled the matters of business and payment with my father.

  And yet even still—even knowing all of that—I could not imagine what could have happened to make Jamie leave his family band and join the army, of all things. For any gypsy to depart their way of life is considered practically sacrilege, a betrayal of everything the Romany hold dear. I saw enough as a child to understand that, as well.

  Looking at Jamie’s tight lips and downcast eyes, though, I changed my question to, “What did you do in the army?”

  Jamie picked up a broken twig from the ground and idly started to peel away the bark. “I signed on as assistant to the veterinarian surgeon in the cavalry. The surgeon saw I had experience with horses and took me on.” Jamie shrugged. “I did all right—saved the colonel’s horse for him when it had an attack of colic. He took a liking to me, then. Saw to it that I got the chance to earn promotions. But then after the peace last year, my time was up, so I left.”

  “And you didn’t think of signing on to serve again in another regiment?” I asked.

  “God, no.” I saw Jamie’s muscles tense involuntarily as he shook his head. “I’d seen enough of war—had enough of trying to patch up innocent horses’ injuries they’d got in men’s bloody quarrels—quarrels they’d no part of. I took my pay and left.”

  “And you didn’t think—you didn’t consider going back to join your family?” I asked. Jamie’s family always followed a set route for the year, following the seasons for the various crops they could be hired on to harvest: strawberries, hops, peas, and the like. Jamie could have found them again, if he had wanted to.

  “I did.” Jamie’s mouth had tightened again. “But my father was dead—died while I was away. And my brother was … gone.” The twig in his fingers snapped in two, and he tossed it away. “Mamia Analetta died years ago, before I left.” He stopped and lifted one shoulder. “Nothing there for me. And—” He seemed to search for words again. “I could not go back, not even if they would willingly have me. I did not … I could not fit there anymore.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. I truly was. For all the tensions with his father, Jamie did belong with his family clan, years ago. Watching him play the fiddle in front of a leaping bonfire or run one of our yearling horses in a wide circle, no one could have doubted that.

  But I know the feeling of not-quite-belonging myself. Maybe it is because—however much I loved them—I was always a little on the outside with Elinor and Marianne while we were growing up. But I have for as long as I can remember felt—just slightly, like a scratching seam or a jagged fingernail that catches on your clothes—that I did not entirely fit in, wherever I was.

  I used to wonder when I was small if somewhere out in the world there was not a Margaret Dashwood–shaped blank space, where I might fit like a missing piece of one of my wooden jigsaw puzzles.

  Jamie shrugged again. Then he looked up at me and said, “I was sorry about your da’, too. We came to Norland that year—in September, after he’d died. And found the house in your brother’s hands, and you all gone away—into Devon, so they said.”

  Our eyes met, and there was a moment’s silence between us. Silence, but not an uncomfortable one. And yet it was not—at least not on my part—entirely comfortable, either.

  This journal entry is already reaching practically epic proportions. Not to mention turning into precisely the sort of sentimental contemplations that I was resolved to avoid. But in that moment of stillness, surrounded by the shadowed forest and the crickets’ calls, I felt so many things churning together inside me at once: the astounding coincidence that had led Jamie and me to meet here at Delaford, when anyone might have supposed it a virtual certainty that we would never see each other again; memories of our times together at Norland—and the black shadow of memories from the year my father died; the first time in my life I realised how precarious apparent security can be—how fully one’s life can be changed in a day … a moment, even.

  I could see the talk was tiring Jamie, though. His muscles were still tight—but with a different tension, now, as though he were continuing to hold himself upright through sheer force of will.

  “It’s late,” I said, starting to rise. “I should go and let you rest.”

  As I was getting to my feet, though, my heel caught on a half-buried root; I lost my balance and pitched forward, directly into Jamie. I would have fallen flat on my face if his arms had not come out by reflex to catch me.

  I froze. I had fallen full against the solid muscles of his chest; I could feel the unnatural heat of the fever that warmed his skin—it seeped even through the layers of his shirt and my muslin gown. The stubble of beard on his jaw prickled against my cheek. Something—some awareness that burned in its own way and yet was not unpleasant, either—seemed to race across my skin.

  And another memory from years ago expanded, clear as a soap bubble, inside my mind: my father and mother talking together one day, when Jamie had just been in to receive my father’s payment for the week’s work.

  “A good, steady lad,” my father had said. “Never saw a boy his age so serious and stoic looking, though.”

  I could have—but did not—say that Jamie had reason to look so, when he was continually having to drag his drunken father away from the nearest tavern, or get his older brother Sam out from whatever trouble he had landed himself in. Jamie would never have damaged the family pride by complaining to my parents; he had never once complained to me, come to that. But I knew, all the same.

  My mother shook her head, looking through the drawing-room window at Jamie’s retreating figure, and said, “That boy needs someone to love him.”

  I do not think either of them realised I was listening. Not that I was actually trying to eavesdrop on that occasion; they had both simply forgotten that I was there. But I startled them both by saying, resolutely, “I will.”

  “I’m sorry.” I pushed back from Jamie and found that his face had whitened and that he was looking at me strangely. “I’m sorry—did I hurt you?”

  It seemed to take a moment for my words to sink in; Jamie simply stared at me, his face taut as he dragged in first one breath, then another. “No—no, you didn’t hurt me,” he finally said.

  His voice was raspy, though, so that I did not entirely believe him. And from the slightly dazed look in his eyes, I was afraid that the fever might be taking another turn for the worse.

  I reached to feel his forehead with the back of my hand—but to my surprise, he flinched away from my touch and said, almost roughly, “I’m fine.” But then he gave me a brief flash of a smile—a little forced, but an echo of his usual grin, and said, “I’m the one who’s sorry. My grandmother always said that when a dog was well enough to snarl at you, you could feel safe he wasn’t likely to die anytime soon.”

  I raised my eyebrows—trying to steady the odd racing of my heart. “Well, if it is a question of dogs,” I pointed out, “they also say that you can tell if they are healthy by whether their noses are cold. And I am fairly certain that you would fail on that count. Assuming that your nose is as feverish as the rest of you.”

  Jamie laughed—and then he seemed about to say something. But he changed his mind and shook his head. “Good night.” He looked up at the darkening sky. “You’d best be getting on if you’re to be back at the mansion house before it’s full dark.”

  * * *

  I really am going to finish and set this journal aside before my candle burns
itself out. But after I had returned to the house and was going up the front stairs to my room, I ran across Marianne, just coming down.

  “Margaret!” She drew up short at the sight of me, her hand going to her throat. “Goodness, what on earth are you doing?” She took in my dusty boots and the light cloak I had thrown over my gown. “Surely you haven’t been out to see that poor horse of yours at this hour?”

  I hated to lie—I hate being dishonest with anyone, much less with my sister. But I had promised Jamie—and until I persuaded him otherwise, I did not feel as though I could tell even Marianne. So I said, “Star’s foal could come any day, now. I feel as though I ought to check on her as often as I can, in case there is some difficulty.”

  Trying to appease my complaining conscience with the fact that I had not, technically speaking, uttered any actual untruth.

  For all that, I thought Marianne gave me an odd look, as though puzzled or dubious of what I had said—though maybe it was only my own sense of guilt. But then I realised that Marianne, too, was dressed for out-of-doors. I had thought she had retired for the night—but she was wearing a dark shawl about her head and shoulders and nankeen half-boots beneath a wine-coloured gown. “Are you going out for a walk?” I asked. “Would you like company?”

  “No.” Marianne shook her head—then made an effort to soften the bluntness of the refusal by adding, “I have a dreadful headache. I should be very poor company for anyone. Lavender water did not help, so I thought I would try going for a walk in the gardens.”

  She hurried past me and down the stairs before I could answer. I could scarcely attach myself to her side and insist that she not leave the house alone. But a realisation struck me as I made my way along the passage to my room—the explanation for my nagging sense that there was something wrong in what Marianne had said.

  Lavender water—she had spoken of trying lavender water to help with the headache. I could not have missed smelling it; I know it is often used in perfumes, but I loathe the sharp, soapy scent of lavender and always have. Yet I had caught from Marianne no fragrance of lavender at all.

  Saturday 12 June 1802

  I do not think I have ever been quite so angry in my entire life as I was today. Not even during that last meeting with Aubrey, before I left Devonshire. I had always thought ‘boiling blood’ a mere hackneyed expression before now. But remembering today’s events even now is making my blood feel as though—if not actually boiling in my veins—it is at least approaching a low-grade simmer.

  Though at least the reason for the Willoughbys’ presence in the neighbourhood is now explained.

  I did not have the chance to visit Jamie yesterday. Marianne and I went to see Elinor, and then Elinor invited us to stay for dinner with her and Edward. Afterwards Marianne consented to sit down and play on the spinet piano. It was well past nightfall when Marianne and I arrived back at the house.

  At least I could be certain that Marianne had not sneaked out to do anything reckless or unwise. But early this morning, I set out under the pretext of taking some eggs up to Eliza and Joanna—and intending to visit Jamie and then Star’s pasture, as well. I called at Eliza’s cottage first, and was startled to see a large, elegant carriage at the door—the same carriage, in fact, that I noticed lingering in the road the other day. As I approached the cottage door, I heard the same woman’s voice—grating and strident as before—coming through the open window of the front room.

  “If you are prevaricating, thinking that I will give you a higher price, I assure you that you are mistaken.” The voice was not merely strident, she also sounded angry. “You will certainly not get a better offer for her.”

  I could not imagine who the woman might be or what her business with Eliza was. Save for Elinor, Marianne, and me, Eliza gets practically no visitors. And this woman appeared to be trying to purchase something from her.

  I tapped lightly at the door, and a moment later Eliza opened it. If I had been startled by the strange woman’s presence, I was still more taken aback by Eliza’s appearance. Her face was white and strained, and she looked as close to losing her composure as I had ever seen her.

  “Eliza, is something—,” I started to say.

  I got no farther than that, though. Eliza was summarily pushed aside by the woman behind her, who looked me up and down and demanded, “Who are you?”

  It was Mrs. Willoughby, of course. Doing nothing to improve my first impression of her. Though at least she had spared me the trouble of attempting to be polite. I said, with equal crispness, “Margaret Dashwood. We actually have met already—at the Rushworths’ dinner party the other night.”

  “Oh did we? I had quite forgotten you.” Mrs. Willoughby waved that aside and added, “I take it you are a friend of Miss Williams here?”

  I suppose I must in fairness credit her that she did not actually give a disdainful sniff after she had spoken the words—but she certainly looked as though she wanted to. “I suppose that is hardly surprising, given what I know of your family’s low tastes. However, since you are here, will you be so good as to persuade Miss Williams to cease her ridiculous equivocating and accept my very generous offer for her child?”

  I blinked. I was beginning to feel not merely as though I had stumbled into the audience of a play already midway through the first act—but that the play itself was in some foreign language.

  “Her …” I began.

  At the same moment, Eliza said in a low, unsteady voice, “She wants Joanna.”

  I felt my eyebrows rise as I turned back to Mrs. Willoughby—whose lips now resembled a hairline crack through which the words were squeezed; I suppose she did not very much like having to explain her private affairs to me, a comparative stranger. But she lifted her chin and said, the words coming out in staccato bursts, “My husband and I have no children. Nor after so many years of marriage does it seem likely that we shall have them. I have consulted the most eminent physicians in London. They say there is nothing to be done. So since every home should have children, I have determined to take a child into our home to adopt.”

  The actual words were not perhaps so un-admirable. Though the way she spoke them made it sound rather as though she regarded children as some necessary accessory—like a new Rumford fireplace—that no house should be without.

  “However,” Mrs. Willoughby went on—supremely unaware of my eyebrows trying to climb towards my hairline, “I shuddered at the thought of taking some orphan—a stranger’s child—into our home.” She actually did shudder, too—a delicate quiver of her shoulders beneath the fine blue silk of her pelisse. “Impossible to be certain of exactly what sort of family heritage the child might have—exactly what sort of inheritance had been passed down to it through the blood of its parents. However, I knew of Willoughby’s unfortunate connection with Miss Williams—I made him tell me all of his past dalliances before we were married—and that she had tried to trap him into marriage by bearing his child.”

  That was so far from the truth of what had happened that I felt my mouth drop open—and saw twin spots of bright colour appear in Eliza’s pale cheeks.

  Mrs. Willoughby sailed on, “Of course, the thought of Willoughby being so far unfaithful to me to father a child on another woman was quite unthinkable. However, his and Miss Williams’s child already existed, and after much consideration, I decided that I would rather adopt a child into our household who might claim at least Willoughby’s parentage, if not mine. I made Willoughby rent a house in this neighbourhood so that I might have the chance to observe the girl from afar for a time before I committed myself to an actual offer. I have done—and though she is high spirited and has plainly been allowed to run disgracefully wild, I believe she is not without the capacity to be improved and trained. I have therefore come here today to offer Miss Williams a sum—a very handsome sum—in exchange for renouncing her every claim to her daughter and making the girl over into my care immediately. And yet—I presume in some grasping effort to extract more money—s
he has so far refused.”

  Mrs. Willoughby came to a halt, small dents of anger whitening the corners of her mouth as she looked at Eliza.

  I opened my mouth—and then closed it again. I could not recall a time when I had been literally at a loss for words, as the familiar expression goes. But at that moment I was, utterly so.

  I could not decide what made me angriest: Mrs. Willoughby’s apparently not having bothered even to discover Joanna’s name, her assertion that Joanna might be ‘improved’, her careless insult of Eliza—or the simple fact that she appeared to regard Joanna as a commodity, to be bought as one might a hairbrush or pair of gloves.

  Since I was drawing a blank on finding words vile enough to tell Mrs. Willoughby what I thought of her, I did the next best thing. I was still carrying the basket of eggs that Marianne had sent for Eliza. Pretending to stumble, I tipped forwards and managed to crash the basket directly into Mrs. Willoughby’s chest.

  Actually, the result was far more satisfying than mere words would have been. Several of the eggs broke on impact, leaving slimy, yolky trails across the front of Mrs. Willoughby’s very expensive-looking pelisse. Several more eggs tumbled out and broke open over her equally expensive-looking silk shoes. Mrs. Willoughby stood looking down at the damage, her mouth moving—but no sound emerged.

  “Oh dear, I am so terribly sorry!” I exclaimed, widening my eyes. “Oh, how unlucky—and how inexcusably clumsy of me.”

  Avoiding the eggs, I took hold of Mrs. Willoughby’s arm and steered her towards the door. “You had much better get straight home and change. And”—I met her gaze and allowed myself to abandon the sweetness of my tone—“never, ever dare to show your face within five miles of this cottage again.”

  Mrs. Willoughby’s face flushed first a brilliant scarlet—and then went white with fury as she drew herself up, remnants of egg still sliding down her front. Her chin fairly quivered with rage as she spoke. “You, Miss Dashwood, will regret this one day.”