Prologue

PROLOGUE

BARTON, DEVONSHIRE

15 JUNE, 1802

F rom a distance, the figure on the hill was a speck of dark in the half light of morning, moving silently in the gathering dawn, across the very top of the hills. Unseen, beyond the hills, was the ocean, but this was at a tolerable distance and apart from the odd whiff of salt air, the early light carried more of the scent of fresh grass than of the sea which lay beyond. The hills upon which the speck moved were rounded with gentle slopes, and a crest of tall trees stood along its closest edge. A little in front of these trees could be seen the merest pale line of a dirt track, thin at first, but growing thicker as it led down to a small cottage at the bottom of the valley.

These slopes were pale gold in the new morning light, and as the predawn glow deepened and brightened, the little speck on the hill grew brighter also. Here and there the figure moved, sometimes quickly, sometimes halting completely as if to gaze across the top of the world as the sun began to warm the creatures in the valley below. As the light increased, the creature on the hilltop turned now to an earthlier glimpse of paleness against the greening hills, and the white muslin folds of a garment flashed briefly as it caught the first rays of the sun.

Now the figure grew larger as it came slowly down the hill, and the few sheep which had been grazing there scattered lazily as the girl descended the track. This dirt track had been carved into the hillside by feet, both ovine and human, for centuries, and led directly to the back garden of Barton Cottage. The girl who now came along the track was barefoot, and as she approached the cottage, one could observe that her long dark hair was unwound and flowed down her back, and that she had on only a white muslin chemise dress and no stays beneath, for the morning was warm although it was not an hour into daylight.

Although the young woman considered herself quite grown up, in her white muslin, sheer and thin, she could almost have passed for a child but for her stature, which was uncommonly tall. Her fine skin, translucent and clear, was blushed with a tinge of natural rosiness around the cheeks, and her brows, which were fine and dark, gave expression to the large, brown eyes below. A lush rosy mouth lay below all these, which smiled frequently. These features were framed by a good deal of mahogany-coloured hair, almost unfashionably straight when her mother's curling iron was not applied. Her form, which had been variously called classical and excessively pleasing, was light, slender and strong, its movements charming and naturally graceful.

Margaret Dashwood had been called a beauty more than once, although she had never been told such a thing to her face, and had no idea of being anything other than perfectly ordinary- looking, for her friends had never wished to swell her head by remarking upon the fact.

Now, however, dirt had splattered her sun-browned legs, but she seemed not to care as she went to the water pump and hummed a little as she first washed her bare feet and then splashed water on her face. Drying her face and legs on the muslin of her dress, she entered the house and cheerfully greeted the servant who came to meet her at the door.

‘Good morning, Hannah—is Mama awake?'

Hannah was not to be distracted, however. She placed her hands on her hips. ‘I declare, Miss Margaret, have you been galivanting around these here hills again, and no stays or petticoats? And no shoes on your feet! Lord have mercy! You'll catch your death of cold! A good thing your mama is still asleep, ain't it! Now you go get dressed, ‘afore I come after you with my carpet beater!'

Margaret, who was by now laughing openly, took Hannah in her arms and squeezed her affectionately. ‘You know you would do no such thing, and besides, there is no one about to see me. In this hot weather it is so refreshing to stand up on the hill and catch the breezes! The air was so close last night that I couldn't wait to walk this morning. You ought to have come with me!'

‘And just who would get the fires lit and the breakfast ready, if I was to come galivanting with you around the countryside all the time? I suppose you'd be denying me ma boots too, and make me feet get all dirty! Look at your skirts, girl! Its poor Betsy and me as has to clean ‘em! Don't you care I might die of overwork cleaning your gowns all the time?'

‘But I always help to clean them myself, Hannah, do I not? So don't be cross! There, I knew you were not so cross with me, for I can see you smile—you know you can never be truly stern with me!'

Hannah, shaking her head, rolled her eyes heavenward but could not conceal the smile. ‘One day, Miss Margaret, you will have to put away these boyish habits of yours and begin to act like a lady. You are eighteen now, and soon you'll be wanting a beau, and beaus don't want their sweethearts barefoot and running around them hills!'

‘Then it would be the briefest attachment ever,' replied Margaret with a smile, ‘for I always like to go barefoot—the feeling of fresh, soft grass under my feet is the greatest felicity in the world! Nothing but a dreadful illness could prevent me from my early morning walks—and our hills are so beautiful in summer!'

Hannah however would not be moved by these sentiments and would only smile and shake her head again. ‘Well, I dare say you will learn some decorum at Delaford, Miss Margaret, for you will not, I'll stake on it, be running around like a young hare under Colonel Brandon's care! Now, you'd better dress proper before you take Mrs Dashwood's tray up. If you come to the kitchen when you are dressed, I shall have it ready.'

Margaret, who knew better than to say anything more, left Hannah and went up to dress, reluctantly pulling on the stockings she disliked, buff-coloured nankin boots over these, and replacing the mud-spattered white gown with the dreaded stays and over these a patched sprig-muslin dress in a peach tone. It had once been Marianne's, had been mended many times, and had faded excessively. But that was nothing, she thought, since they did not expect company today. Indeed, the residents of Barton cottage rarely expected visitors for they were themselves, more often than not, visitors at Barton Park, where they dined regularly, and when not dining, took their tea and sat about with Sir John and Lady Middleton and their raucous children.

These latter were the bane of poor Mrs Dashwood, who since her illness had barely been able to tolerate their noise for above half an hour. The children were, however, a genuine delight to Margaret, who ran about with them, making almost as much noise as little Charlotte, the youngest, and with as much liveliness as John, the eldest. She was a favourite with them, as all adults who deign to give time and attention to children become, and she had become as adept at managing them as was their nurse. But today, Margaret and Mrs Dashwood were neither to dine nor take tea at the Park, and secretly Margaret was relieved, since of all things she did not like to dress up and act a ‘lady' if she could help it. Today she would practise French conversation to please Mama, and then spend some pleasant hours in the garden, pouring over Edward's atlas, which had been given her many years before.

This book remained her favourite study, and when she opened its yellowed and well-thumbed pages, she was drawn into a fantastical world of spices and heat, exotic animals and mysterious clothing, of frozen wastes and endless deserts. She loved to walk the hills of this country, but her heart yearned, too, to explore the world outside Barton; in lieu of a real adventure, the atlas was her map and her imagination the ship she voyaged upon.

When she went in to see Mrs Dashwood, her mama was awake and sitting up, but looking dreadfully pale. ‘I have the headache, Margaret dear. I might stay in bed a little longer before I go down to the parlour.'

Margaret went to her. ‘It is this dreadful heat! Here, put on some lavender water. There, does that do you some good? Hannah sent a tray—do you think can you take anything? A little tea, perhaps?'

Mrs Dashwood was contrite. ‘I am sorry my dear, but I cannot eat at present. I feel so stupidly weak.'

‘You must rest more, Mama. You must save your strength for tomorrow, when we go to Delaford. There you will have Marianne and Elinor about you all the time, and the dear children. They shall revive you, I am sure!'

Her mama, still weak from a long winter pleurisy, had made a tolerable recovery, although she kept much to her bed. Although Elinor and Edward were frequent visitors to Barton cottage, Edward's duties meant that visits were once a week only, and Marianne and Brandon were so busy at Delaford that their visits were even less frequent. But the Colonel, as soon as Mrs Dashwood had become strong enough to travel, had insisted that Margaret be given some rest from her nursing, and that Mrs Dashwood convalesce as a guest at Delaford, where she could enjoy the society of her friends.

The invitation had been accepted with gratitude by Mrs Dashwood, who had severely missed her daughters while being confined to her bed at Barton. As soon as she able had thought herself fit to travel, she had sent a note to the Colonel and the carriage had been arranged to come for them. They would spend at least full three months at Delaford, the best part of the summer and autumn, and it was hoped that here Mrs Dashwood would regain her full strength under the watchful care of her family.

‘Then I shall rest,' replied Mrs Dashwood, ‘if you would be so kind as to give me one of my cordials, and perhaps you will read to me later? Hannah will pack our trunks. You had best ask Thomas to bring them upstairs.'

‘Yes, Mama.'

‘Margaret, dear?'

‘Yes, Mama?'

‘When we are at Delaford, my darling, you must not walk about outdoors without your stays, and you must be sure to wear your bonnet and gloves when you go out in company. I am sure you will be often at the Parsonage, and you must remember our dear Edward has a reputation to preserve, so you must not be bringing reproach upon his house. I am sorry to speak sternly to you, my dearest love, but I know you will not take my words wrongly. I think both of you and our friends when I say this.'

Margaret smiled. ‘I understand you, Mama. I only go about without my proper clothes here, for where, if not in our own home, can I feel free to be so thoroughly myself? It seems that all the world wants me to conform to something I am not!'

‘My dearest girl! But you are eighteen, and you must conform to that behaviour which is expected of a lady, or you shall not find a husband. What young man will want a female who is not a little willing to be pleasing?'

‘I don't mind pleasing someone, so long as it pleases me to be pleasing!' she teased. ‘If being married means I must become someone quite different, then I confess I shall not like it very much! Oh, I do so detest the feeling of being laced up into my stays, confined by clothing! What a life those young ladies of society must lead, always being confined by boots and hats and gloves and stockings, just to please the gentlemen! I cannot see what my sisters find so appealing in it!'

‘One day, my dear, you will wish to appear a lady, and take pride in your dress, for one day you will meet a gentleman for whom doing all this will indeed please you!'

‘I shall never meet a gentleman that I like well enough to wear stays for!' remarked Margaret airily. ‘Or at least, I shall avoid the ones I like at all costs, for I detest stays—dreadful uncomfortable things! Surround me with horrid, boring gentlemen, and I promise you, I shall be quite content!' she laughed.

‘It is my own fault,' sighed Mrs Dashwood, shaking her head sadly, ‘for I have let you run wild too long! Without your sisters here to teach you how to behave, I believe you have become quite wild! It is well that we are to visit Delaford for the summer! Your sisters, I hope, will have a greater influence than I have done!'

‘Oh dearest Mama!' Margaret went to take her hand and added mischievously, ‘I am sure that my behaviour is very wild indeed. You know, the poor cows were quite shocked to see me this morning without my stays, and as for the sheep, they turned their eyes when they saw me without my boots!'

Mrs Dashwood smiled but remained firm. ‘Nevertheless, my darling, you must remember that at Delaford you shall not be at liberty to wander about without boots, and your hair down! You must not bring reproach on your sisters!'

‘Yes, Mama. I know I shall not have the freedom there which I enjoy here. How I shall miss Barton cottage!'

‘But at Delaford you shall have all the excitement of new society and the pleasure of being reunited with old. You must be an example to your young nieces and nephews, and make your sisters proud,' replied her mama.

‘I promise I will put on my stockings and boots whenever my feet might be seen. Do you know, I have just had very a good notion! I shall have Hannah help me to lengthen my gowns so excessively that they drag upon the ground. Then I might satisfy myself as to what I wear below them, and give offence to no one!'

At this jest, Mrs Dashwood gave her daughter such a speaking look that Margaret had to contain another smile, but after taking her cordial, the former was content to lie back on her pillows and be left to rest, and Margaret was able to take her leave and deliver messages to Thomas and Hannah about the packing up of their things for a long stay at Delaford.