A Life of Her Own: The Story of Margaret Dashwood

By Wendy Zomparelli

Margaret refuses to let a lack of money ruin her dreams of visiting Pompeii and making discoveries of her own.To her family's dismay she begins earning her own living as a companion to an elderly lady in London. She saves every shilling -- until an unexpected circumstance enables her to go to Europe.

With no male relatives able

• Language: English
• Publisher: Naramata, Inc.
• Release date: May 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9780578297415

Wendy Zomparelli

I love the novels written in the nineteenth century. The only problem is that nobody writes them anymore. So I decided to write one of my own: "A Life of Her Own."My writing career began after graduating in English at Cornell University. I went to work in Cornell's Office of Public Information, where I wrote press releases and articles. Those years taught me the basics of news writing, and eventually I was hired as a feature writer for The Raleigh (N.C.) Times, then for for its larger sister paper, The News and Observer. Later I moved to The Roanoke Times in Virginia, one of three metro newspapers owned by Landmark Communications. And in Roanoke, with support and mentoring, I became the first woman to be appointed as the paper's chief editor. I later was named the Times's president and publisher. Upon retiring, I moved from Roanoke to Charlottesville and, after serving as Reynolds Distinguished Visiting Professor of Journalism at Washington and Lee University, from non-fiction to fiction. My children's book, "Princess Ingeborg and the Dragons," came out in 2018, and "A Life of Her Own" debuted in November 2021.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

I saw the horse’s head this morning, for the first time in perhaps a dozen years, and through this long day it never has left my mind. I remember when first I saw it: Young and ungainly, I stood amidst a crowd of men talking in important voices, filling the hall with their cigar smoke and stuffy antiquarian theories. Of all the white creatures on display, only the horse seemed yet to breathe, trapped in the living stone.

Who was its maker, I wondered then; what callous master had ridden it to the cruel brink of exhaustion? What terror had made its eye roll so wildly, its veins throb so palpably beneath the smooth, cold coat? I now know some of the answers to those questions, but seeing it again has prompted new ones: What is the focus of that unblinking, unseeing eye? Is it looking toward the respite that comes with the dawn? Or is it gazing into the face of death . . . perhaps its own, perhaps mine?

When I lived in London, I went to see the horse every few months — at first in the stable-like gallery next to Montagu House, later in its grand new home in Russell Square. Unconsenting, it had become my totem, my talisman. I would approach it slowly, my mind quietly speaking to it as if in prayer, asking for whatever strength I, at the time, seemed most to need – determination, resolution, obedience, acceptance – strengths I was certain it possessed. It never spoke to me, of course, but once in my life, when I faced great trial and felt my courage falter, the visage of the horse suddenly appeared in my mind, and I thought I could feel its wild, warm breath touching my face faintly . . . faintly, as from a great distance.

In recent years, I have thought only rarely of the horse, and then in only the most cursory of ways: What, have you never seen Lord Elgin’s marbles? The very next time you are in London, you simply must go. The head of Selene’s horse is quite, quite superb. But when I came unexpectedly upon the horse today — when, despite the hordes of people craning to see it in that overcrowded display, I stood once again in the primeval presence of its power — I was as ashamed and penitent as if I had, for a time, forgotten God.

— M.A.D., 1851

CHAPTER I

NORLAND, 1811

No one was more astonished than her family to discover that Margaret Dashwood, of whom nothing much had been expected, would grow into a forthright and enterprising young woman.

Margaret kindled her family’s doubts at an early age, showing none of the talents so abundantly displayed by her two elder sisters. She had no interest whatsoever in playing the fortepiano, like Marianne, or in sketching, like Elinor. Music, art, and poetry held few charms for her, except that music occasioned opportunities for dancing, in which Margaret excelled. She detested sewing, both plain and fancy, and showed little interest in acquiring any of the skills that would help her become a desirable bride, accomplished wife, and the prudent mistress of a household.

Her family numbered Margaret’s primary interests as running helter-skelter through the gardens and fields, riding her pony, practicing archery, tearing her skirts, and skinning her knees. They did not understand Margaret’s fascination with all things alive, all things in motion — the vagaries of breeze and brook, rainclouds swimming across the sky, all of Nature’s animate secrets. Nor did they know that Margaret’s solitary romps included long stretches when the child was quietly observant — sitting in the tall grass of the meadow, watching the ants greet one another in passing, or perched on a snow-dusted tree stump, patiently waiting for the fox to emerge from its burrow.

Margaret is such a tiresome child, Marianne observed to her elder sister, as they sat in the morning room. Elinor looked up from her sewing and glanced out the broad windows, through which she could see Margaret playing her own version of cricket with a shuttlecock, whacking it as far as she could with a paddle, then running back and forth between two trees to score imaginary overs. She is so boisterous, and she has no talent whatever, Marianne continued. When she reads aloud, she shows scant sensibility or spirit, displaying neither a sense of the dramatic nor any subtlety of expression. She has little appreciation of music, and certainly no capacity for playing. I marvel at your patience in trying to teach her to draw; all she has so far managed is to ruin your pencils.

Dearest, Elinor replied, is it not perhaps premature to pronounce Margaret devoid of talent at ten years of age?

Not at all. True genius asserts itself in the nursery. Marianne sighed. I fear our dear Margaret will have few prospects. In all likelihood, she will marry some poor farmer who can provide her with nothing more than a field upon which to romp. Yet that, no doubt, will satisfy her soul’s deepest yearnings, so perhaps she is not to be pitied after all.

Margaret was not, in fact, devoid of natural abilities, but hers were so unlike her sisters’ — indeed, so unlike those of most girls — they had not yet made themselves known, even to Margaret. That changed the following year, when Margaret discovered her abiding passion.

At that time, the family of Henry Dashwood lived in Sussex, at Norland Park, a large and comfortable estate. The property belonged to Henry Dashwood’s uncle, who had never married and was advanced in years. For most of his life, the elder Mr. Dashwood had been cared for by his sister, who had served as both his companion and housekeeper. Upon her death he had invited Henry, his intended heir, to bring his family to live in the handsome manor that would, before long, inevitably become their home. The arrangement was a success in every regard: Mr. and Mrs. Dashwood did all in their power to make the old man comfortable, and he took great cheer from the genial presence of their three daughters.

The uncle also enjoyed the visits of Henry Dashwood’s son, John, the only child of his first marriage, and thereby the elder half-brother to Elinor, Marianne, and Margaret. Upon John’s coming of age, he had inherited considerable sums from his deceased mother, and he had added to his wealth through the marriage he contracted shortly thereafter with Fanny Ferrars. They had a young son, Harry, and it became the most profound gratification of the old uncle’s last years to sit at the head of the table in the formal dining room of the family’s hereditary home and gaze upon three generations of male heirs. It comforted him to know that his failure to marry would not deprive the county of an unbroken line of Dashwoods, and that, when he should reach his heavenly home, his forebears would not upbraid him for deficiency in duty.

One unforgettable May morning, Margaret awoke at first light. The chestnut tree outside her window had, overnight, festooned itself with white blossoms, as if dressed for its wedding, and the pearly sky promised to turn blue as soon as the sun might warm it. Margaret wriggled out of her tall bed as quickly as she could, determined to witness the marriage of flower and sky from beneath the tree. As she rushed to dress, too impatient to wait for the maid, she inadvertently slammed the door of her wardrobe. Hastening from her room, she allowed first her bedroom door and then the landing door to swing shut with loud bangs. Her sturdy boots sent echoes hurtling behind her as she raced down the main stairway.

As she passed the library, her father emerged with a quizzical look upon his good-natured face, and holding the largest book Margaret ever had seen. My dear, is it necessary to slam quite so many doors at such an early hour? Do you think you could content yourself with, say, two?

I am very sorry, Papa, Margaret said. I try to be careful about the doors, but they are so heavy, and they will bang so.

I am sure that if you stop to think how important an unbroken sleep is to your great-uncle’s health, and how loath you must be to disturb your dear mother in any way, you will be able to tame those unruly doors.

Yes, Papa, she said contritely. Have I spoiled your reading?

No, my dear, he replied, placing a fond hand on the coppery red hair that was as irrepressible as Margaret herself. No, I was just looking at some drawings from Pompeii.

What is Pompeii? Is that the name of the bookshop?

No, my dear. It is the name of a wondrous city in Italy — a city that was lost for centuries, buried beneath rock and ash in a terrible eruption of Vesuvius, a great volcano. Pompeii was discovered some sixty years ago, and ever since, antiquarians have been digging there to unearth the buildings. This book contains drawings of what they have found. It is by an Italian man named Piranesi. Come sit beside me, and I will show you.

Foregoing her appointment with blossom and sky, Margaret pored intently over the engravings of temple columns standing broken in the open air, and a row of what were easily identifiable as shops, even without roofs or fronts. When Margaret asked to see exactly where Pompeii was, her father took down the gazetteer and turned to the map of Italy; he showed her how to see mountain ranges in the feathery lines of the mapmaker’s pen, the windings of rivers in wavy strokes. The Pompeii book included a map showing the locations of the excavated buildings, but what thrilled Margaret was the vastness of the unexplored sections of the town, still slumbering beneath layers of ash and soil. And there, drawn in tiny undulations that seemed to lift it off the page, and with a black center like a spider’s heart, loomed dread Vesuvius.

Forgotten cities, ancient people who may have lived much as she, the landscapes hidden in a map: That morning with her father was a series of revelations, and Margaret’s mind caught fire.

Oh, papa, I never knew that a book could be so exciting, she said. Doesn’t it make you want to know everything about Pompeii and Vesuvius, and long to see them for yourself? May we go there someday?

Perhaps, my dear, when you are as old as Elinor and Marianne are now, he said. It would be a costly journey, so I make no promise. But, he added, perceiving her disappointment, "we shall look at this book together very often, and read other books about Pompeii, and study the maps, so that if — that is to say, when we go, you shall be our guide."

Oh, papa, thank you! She threw her arms about his neck and kissed him.

Margaret’s father kept his word, and together they often looked at the engravings from Pompeii. Though her father had always been kind to his youngest child, he had never before shown much interest in her — and he certainly never expected her to become absorbed in Roman history. Yet there she was, listening intently as he translated Latin accounts of life before A.D. 79, when Vesuvius destroyed Pompeii. Margaret’s attention wasn’t kindled only by the romance of a lost city. Having an interest in common with her father — one not shared by others in the family — made her feel both loved and important to him.

They spent hours planning journeys to Italy, sketching different routes across Europe to Naples. Her father used plats of Sussex and the surrounding counties to teach Margaret to decipher highly detailed maps: how to distinguish main thoroughfares from country roads and shepherds’ tracks; how to discern the shape of a hill in the wavy march of topographical lines. He taught her to read his compass and drilled her in methods for calculating distance by measuring her stride, observing the apparent height of familiar landmarks, counting the number of steps it took her to reach them, and computing the distance in yards and fractions of miles. Sometimes they went exploring together, but as the months went by those occasions became fewer: Mr. Dashwood was often indisposed.

On the January morning of Margaret’s eleventh birthday, she awoke to find an embossed red leather box on the stand beside her bed, with a letter perched atop:

My beloved daughter, how I wish I could take you on one of our delightful rambles on this of all mornings, in honor of your birthday. Alas, I fear I am not up to such exertion. However, in this little box you will find a companion who always will be ready to go whenever and wherever you will, and upon whose sense of direction you may always rely. You will find further instructions for the day inside the box.

Please accept my heartiest good wishes upon your birthday. I look forward to hearing tonight where you and your new friend have gone, and everything you have discovered.

With the fond felicitations of your father,

HENRY DASHWOOD

Inside the box, nestled in folds of black velvet, Margaret found a silver pocket compass. Its case was engraved with swirls of vines and flowers, and inside it bore the date and the inscription, For Margaret, from her loving Papa. She had never received a present as costly or as wonderful, and she adored it instantly. It was the heart’s desire she had not known she possessed.

Beneath the beautiful compass was a second note:

At 10:30 a.m. today precisely, leave the house by way of the kitchen door. Go 1 mile ESE through the fields; then turn north for a quarter of a mile. Take the track you find there, which will head roughly NNW. Follow it for 1 league. You should find yourself at a crossroads. Take the road to the west for half a mile: you will be in a village. Go toward the public house on the square (do not go inside it) and then to the third door to the west. Knock, and give them your name.

Excited by the mysterious instructions and the prospect of adventuring such distances by herself, Margaret scarcely managed to sit through breakfast. At her mother’s insistence, she ate a spoonful of egg and a half-slice of toast, but she spent most of the meal repeatedly taking her compass from its box and tilting it in different positions to see the needle move. She was so absorbed that she barely heard the birthday greetings of her mother and sisters and did not notice that they too seemed unusually animated.

Margaret begged the housekeeper for a scrap of soft cloth and spent the slow minutes until 10:30 polishing the case over and over. Five minutes before the appointed time, she was standing at the kitchen door as impatient as a hunter awaiting the view-halloo. Mrs. Dashwood anticipated her there, knowing the child would have no thought for gloves or outer garments, despite the morning’s frost. She bundled Margaret into her heaviest woolen cloak, tied the hood beneath her chin, made sure she was wearing her thickest petticoat, stockings and boots, and insisted that she put on her worsted mittens before leaving the house.

At last her mother declared herself satisfied with Margaret’s attire, and the child bolted out the door. She dashed through the kitchen garden, climbed the stile into the pasture, and set off at a run before remembering that her distance calculations required observation and counting. Slowing to a rapid walk, she held the compass in one hand and the instructions in the other, constantly consulting both.

Margaret had no difficulty holding her course through the fields, but she was not entirely confident that she had judged the mile aright, and she took the northward turning with some trepidation. She decided to count her steps for the quarter mile and to retrace them if there were no sign of a track, but she found it precisely where it was supposed to be, as if it had been waiting for her.

Calculating the league was easier. Margaret knew that she could walk one league in about an hour and, with great pledges of care, she had borrowed Elinor’s little watch. She had only to remember to observe the time at which she started, walk at her normal pace, and stay on course. Feeling most accomplished and independent, she stepped onto the little track, checked the time, and headed north-northwest. When the sixtieth minute passed without sight of any road, her anxieties returned, but she rallied her resolve and marched on. Five minutes later, the track opened out of the woods within sight of a crossroads. She took the western turning, which the signpost said would take her to Slindon, a village that she had seen on county maps but never visited.

Another twenty minutes found her in a bright, charming hamlet. It was market day, and the streets bustled with men hauling crates of turkeys and geese, vendors selling winter cabbages from wooden carts, and women laden with shopping baskets, chatting with their neighbors. The pub was doing a brisk trade, but Margaret obediently stayed well away from it. The third door to the west belonged to a small shop built of both stone and red brick, with a thick thatched roof weathered to dark gray. Reclining in its large bow window were baskets of currant buns, ginger biscuits, and scones, which declared better than any sign that the shop was that of a pastry-cook. She stepped inside and shyly gave her name to the ample, amiable woman behind the counter.

Welcome, my dear; come this way, do, the baker said, ushering Margaret into a little back room where, to her astonishment, she found Marianne and Elinor, all smiles and kisses, and a table decorated with flowers and set for three. In the center of the table was an enormous cake.

Their father had planned the entire outing, Elinor told Margaret, as she helped her untie the knot in her hood’s string. Both he and their mother had planned to join them for the collation at the pastry-cook’s, but he had not felt well enough to attend, and their mother had stayed at home to keep him company. Her sisters praised Margaret for having arrived just on time and congratulated her with another round of kisses when she proudly announced she had made not a single wrong turning.

What they did not tell Margaret was that their father had hired a local gamekeeper to follow in her track, to make sure that she did not go badly wrong or encounter undesirable wayfarers. Anxious to protect Margaret’s sense of independence, he had impressed upon the man that he was not to be seen, except in an emergency.

The pony trap that had conveyed Marianne and Elinor to Slindon was waiting to take the sisters home. All had eaten heartily of the excellent roasted capon and potatoes, and of the delicious fruitcake iced with marzipan — particularly Margaret, famished after her expedition — yet most of the cake remained, and the pastry-cook put it in a basket for them to take. Upon entering the house, they were delighted to be greeted by their father, who said he was feeling much better. He asked Margaret to come into the library and tell him all about her adventure.

Oh, Papa, she said, sitting on his lap, entwined in his arm, I have had such a splendid day. I am sure I shall never have a more wonderful day as long as I live.

Her father expressed his hope that she would have hundreds of far better days. What, he asked, had been most interesting? Had she seen animals? Inspiring landscapes? Unusual trees or birds?

She had seen a fox, she said, and a great stag, and many lovely views. But Papa, what made it so exciting was that I did not know what I might see next, or even where I was going. I felt at every moment that I might discover something wonderful, all by myself, and that I was on a real adventure. And, Papa, I have made a decision.

What is that, my dear?

When I grow up, I am going to be — Margaret paused dramatically — an adventuress.

Her father chuckled. Are you certain, my darling daughter, that ‘adventuress’ is the term that you mean?

Men are said to be adventurers. I should think a lady would be called an adventuress.

Some are, indeed, though I am not sure, in that case, whether they truly are ladies. I would suggest, my dear, that you instead declare your intended profession to be that of lady explorer.

Early in the spring, Uncle Dashwood passed away. When his will was read, Henry Dashwood learned, to his distress, that while his uncle had not been so unjust as to leave the estate from him, he had bequeathed it in such a way that nearly all its value was secured to John, then to his five-year-old son, Harry. Mr. Dashwood was prevented from making any charge on the estate or selling its valuable woods in order to provide for his wife and daughters. He knew that his uncle had not meant to be unkind — the old man had left a thousand pounds to each of the three girls — but he was severely disappointed that the old man’s impulse to preserve the estate entire for little Harry had weighed more with him than all the years of loving attention he had received from Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters.

Still, Mr. Dashwood was of sanguine temperament. He regarded his ailments as the normal vicissitudes of middle-age, and he believed he would live many years more. He resolved to be frugal and to put by as much as he could from the produce of the estate, which already was considerable, and upon which he now was free to improve; by his industry he would provide for those so dear to him.

Mr. Dashwood’s resolve was strong but his health was not, and the fortune that had been so long in coming was his for only a twelvemonth. When it became evident that his illness was to be his last, he sent for his son and implored him to supply the needs of his stepmother and stepsisters. John, though not a man of deep family feeling — or, for that matter, of much feeling at all — was moved by his father’s distress at such a time and promised to do everything in his power to ensure the comfort of Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters. The given promise brought peace to Henry Dashwood’s mind, and with that peace came death.

Including the legacy from their late uncle, Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters would have 10,000 pounds, which would yield an annual income of 500 pounds — not a large sum upon which to support four people. But in his last moments, Henry Dash-wood told his wife of John’s solemn promise and assured her that she and the girls never would lack the comforts they had known.

A few days after the funeral, without having sent any notice of her intention, Mrs. John Dashwood arrived at Norland with her son and attendants to take up permanent residence. Doing so was certainly her right, for the estate had devolved to her husband with Henry Dashwood’s last breath. Few ladies would have displayed so little delicacy or have acted so unfeelingly toward a mother-in-law at such a time — but then, Fanny was exceptionally selfish. Mrs. Dashwood, a lady of romantic temperament and generous spirit, felt the sting of Fanny’s behavior acutely. She was tempted to quit the house instantly, but upon reflection she resolved to try, for her daughters’ sakes, to stay and to avoid a breach with their brother.

Mrs. Dashwood expected that John would approach her to discuss what he intended to do for his step-family, but weeks went by with nothing said of the matter. At first, John had firmly intended to honor his promise by giving a thousand pounds to each of the girls. With the increase of wealth he gained with Norland, he could afford it, and it would enable them to be quite comfortable. He took pride in a resolve that would so handsomely acquit him of his promise. But when he told Fanny of his plan, she was horrified and chastised him roundly for depriving his child of such wealth. It was her belief, she said, that Mr. Dash-wood had not intended that his son should give them any money at all — simply that John help them find a comfortable house, and see that their things were moved, and send them occasional presents of fish and game, in season.

Besides her profound sadness over the loss of her beloved father, Margaret had new cares. The spoilt and undisciplined Harry was drawn to his youngest aunt and, as is typical of ungoverned little boys, displayed his fascination mischievously. He tore the petals from the wildflower bouquets Margaret loved to arrange, poured treacle into her favorite slippers and found clever ways to sneak up behind her and pull her hair. Six years his senior, Margaret saw no reason why she should be tormented by the little boy and appealed to her mother, but her troubles with Harry counted for little in comparison with Mrs. Dashwood’s larger concerns. She told Margaret not to bother her with trifles.

More deleteriously, Margaret no longer had regular lessons. At Margaret’s age, Elinor and Marianne had benefitted from excellent governesses, music teachers, and drawing masters, but their need for instruction ended just as Margaret became old enough to profit by it. Retaining a governess for just one child — a child whose intellect apparently would derive little benefit from assiduous development — seemed an extravagance to Mr. and Mrs. Dashwood, and they determined upon conducting Margaret’s education themselves. At first the plan worked well; Mrs. Dashwood was well-read in literature, fluent in French, and competent in as much arithmetic as any girl might require. Mr. Dashwood’s contribution comprised the sessions on Pompeii, geography, and taking accurate compass-bearings.

But as Mr. Dashwood’s periods of indisposition became more frequent, Margaret’s lessons often were postponed. With his death and her mother’s resultant grief and financial anxieties, they ceased altogether. Elinor attempted to fill the void, reading travel literature and translations of the classics with her youngest sister, and setting mathematical problems for her. She encouraged Marianne to assist as well, but Marianne, so deeply passionate about her own interests and sensibilities, regarded Margaret’s as pedestrian. Her attempts to offer instruction in music and poetry usually ended prematurely, with raised voices, slammed doors, and her complete exasperation with what she perceived to be Margaret’s lack of intelligence.

In her bereavement, Mrs. Dashwood had turned to her elder daughters. Elinor, possessing at nineteen an unusual strength of understanding and coolness of judgment, became her mother’s advisor in all practical matters and assumed responsibility for managing their finances. Marianne, two years younger, had been born with her mother’s romantic temperament and had resolved to cultivate it, equating moderation with shallowness of feeling. In sharing their sorrow, mother and daughter both nourished and sought its increase, a tendency Elinor sought to mitigate with but little success.

Mrs. Dashwood did not include Margaret in her counsels with the older girls. Her rationale was that she did not wish to burden the child, but in truth she preferred to immerse herself in the emotion of mourning rather than to rally herself to become the source of calm and solace necessary to one so young. In the first weeks that they resided at Norland with John, Fanny, and the vexatious Harry, Margaret was left to herself.

She spent as much time as she could out of doors, where she could not be called upon constantly to undertake petty errands for Fanny, where she would not hear her mother’s weeping or the melancholy tunes that now constituted Marianne’s repertoire. Outside she always could amuse herself by tunneling through a thicket, or skipping stones on the pond, or watching a bumble-bee climb inside a foxglove and emerge covered with pollen, as if he had changed his striped waistcoat for solid yellow. In the capacious pockets beneath her skirt, where her beloved compass resided, she began to carry a pencil and a small notebook, in which to record observations and thoughts about the animal and plant life she encountered. Sometimes, alone in her room at night, she wrote little compositions based upon her notes of the day.

When the weather was inclement, she stayed in her room, reading. Without the discipline of daily lessons, Margaret simply read and reread her favorite books. One, which she had found in the library, was A Compendium of Useful Knowledge, Containing a Concise Explanation of Everything a Young Man Ought to Know, to Enable Him to Converse on All General Topics, Calculated for Youth of Both Sexes, from Fourteen Years of Age to Twenty, by the Rev. Dr. John Trusler. Though it had troubled Margaret that she was some two years short of the minimum age of the designated audience, she had been unable to resist a book that promised a concise explanation of everything, which was precisely what she wanted to know. She had whisked it away to her bedroom, at first planning to hide it, so that the fruits of its knowledge could not be forbidden her. But her conscience argued that the reverend author would not approve of deception, so she had left it on her bureau in plain sight. That night, when her mother had come to kiss her and wish her pleasant dreams, Mrs. Dashwood had merely glanced at the book and said, Ah, I see you are reading the good doctor. Margaret had sighed with profound relief.

From Dr. Trusler, Margaret learned that there is no rain in Peru; that the whale is called the queen of the seas because she is the greatest fish and the largest of the watery tribe; that the Cordeliers in America are the highest mountains on Earth, the tallest of which reaches nearly sixty miles in height; and that, in the year 1430, some girls from West Friesland caught a mermaid that was foundering in the mud, took it home, dressed it in women’s apparel, and taught it to spin, though it never spoke. Thereafter, Margaret often daydreamed about discovering and taming a mermaid of her own, only hers would speak beautifully and tell endlessly fascinating tales of the sea’s wonders.

Margaret believed implicitly in the good doctor’s pronouncements, partly because his authoritative tone admitted no doubt as to his mastery of his topics, and partly because of his honest admissions as to that which was not known. No one, he wrote, understands what produces the tides: It seems as if it pleased God to conceal this among a number of other secrets of nature, which are impenetrable to the human mind. Margaret liked knowing things, but she loved that myriad secrets remained in the world, because it meant that she might discover some.

Though Dr. Trusler’s compendium had captured her mind, another book had long before captured Margaret’s heart. This was The Childrens Cabinet, or Key to Natural History, given to her by her father when she was a very little girl. She so loved its opening poem, she sometimes included it among her nightly prayers:

From all the living that four-footed move

Along the shores, the meadow, or the grove,

Lift we our reason to the Sov’reign Cause,

Who blest that whole with life, and bounded it with laws.

The text was engaging and informative, but what thrilled Margaret were the book’s drawings. Each creature stood alone on the clean white page, inked in careful black lines with no background or embellishments of any kind, so that the beauty of its form and markings were fully revealed: the whorled stripes of the zebra, the impossible neck of the giraffe, the rings on the tail of the Maucauco, and, resembling the leaves of an artichoke, the manis’s sharp scales. There were birds and insects, too, from the King Bird of Paradise to the lanthorn fly. Had she ever heard cries of fire! in the house, Margaret would have grabbed her Childrens Cabinet first.

Despite her rambles and writings, her books and daydreams, Margaret was lonely. She missed the father who had understood and even appreciated her exuberant traits, which so often dismayed her mother. He had perceived that Margaret’s intellect was not deficient in comparison with her sisters’ — merely different. Her curiosity about the natural world was much deeper than theirs, and he saw that Margaret’s experiences in life were likely to influence her more than books or tutors. Margaret, when praying each morning and evening for the repose of her beloved father’s soul, often whispered her own small prayer for a likeminded companion. As with most prayers, it was answered in an unexpected way, with the arrival of Fanny’s eldest brother, Edward Ferrars.

None of the distaff Dashwoods, whose opinions of Fanny had steadily deteriorated while sharing a roof, had looked forward to meeting a second member of her family. Edward was to arrive at noon, and Fanny had announced many times that all the Dashwood ladies should be waiting to welcome him in the morning room, particularly since John and little Harry were away visiting John’s maternal relatives.

Yet from the moment he arrived, the Dashwoods were pleasantly surprised by Edward’s gracious, gentlemanly manner. Indeed, he seemed to be all that Fanny was not. Where she was arrogant and aggrandizing, he was naturally shy, with a manner so diffident as to belie his fine qualities. Where she was self-centered and grasping, he was considerate and generous. Her tongue seemed ever-ready to say any spiteful, hurtful thing; his words consistently displayed an open, affectionate sympathy.

After a few minutes of genial conversation, Edward looked about, and said, But where is Miss Margaret Dashwood? I am most eager to make her acquaintance.

Oh, who knows where that harum-scarum might be! Fanny said. I asked her to be punctual, but she ignores all my requests. She is probably somewhere on the estate, pretending to be an antiquarian, digging up rocks and leaving unsightly holes. No doubt she will return with her dress caked with mud and her face streaked with dirt. Her behavior is simply beyond belief.

As Fanny spoke, she did not observe Margaret’s quiet entrance into the room, nor did she realize that the child had heard her remarks. Actually, Fanny, said Margaret, I am just back from the errand you gave me this morning, to walk to Oakstone Manor and collect the lace cloak you forgot there. I have taken it upstairs to your maid.

But darling, asked Mrs. Dashwood, approaching her daughter and taking her hand, why did you walk all that distance? I would have thought you would have ridden your pony.

I intended to, Mama. But when I got to the stables Thomas told me that I couldn’t ride my pony anymore.

Why, what is wrong? Has poor Pudding been injured?

No, Mama, he’s fine, Margaret said, fighting hard to prevent tears. But Fanny told Thomas that Pudding is part of the estate, which means he belongs to Harry now. I am not to ride him without getting Fanny’s permission first. The company turned to Fanny, whose face and neck began to redden.

I never . . . that is . . . That is not at all what I meant! Fanny insisted. Thomas is an unsufferable man of little understanding, and as usual he has mistaken me. I merely wanted Margaret to let me know when she is likely to want the pony so that . . . so that I may schedule the riding lessons that Harry is to begin quite soon.

Well then, said Edward, jumping into the uncomfortable silence around him, all that is needful, Fanny, is to thank Margaret for making the long walk to Oakstone to retrieve the cloak — and then to introduce me.

Of course, Edward. Fanny turned to Margaret with a smile that lifted the corners of her mouth but failed to mask the acrimony in her eyes. Thank you, child, for fetching my cloak. Edward, allow me to present John’s youngest half-sister, Miss Margaret Dashwood.

Margaret’s curtsey and Edward’s bow restored the balance of etiquette and unloosed the tongues in the room. Margaret volunteered to show Edward her favorite sections of Norland’s grounds after tea. Marianne inquired as to his favorite pieces of music, which she offered to play for him after supper, and Elinor proposed a tour of the house and library in the morning. Between the Dashwood girls and Edward, cordiality reigned.

In the next days, Edward chose to spend much of his time with Margaret, preferring her energetic company to sitting silent and mortified by the mean-spirited gossip of his sister, or sitting silent and intimidated by her sisters. He found Marianne beautiful and charming, though he always ended up tongue-tied when he tried to respond to her rhapsodic pronouncements on poetry and music. He never forgot her look of horror when he confessed he had never read Cowper.

Elinor intimidated in a different but more disturbing way. Her intelligence and sensibilities corresponded more closely to his own than those of any lady of his acquaintance. She grasped his thoughts before he even uttered them, and her kindliness and consideration to all never wavered, not even to the servants. Marianne’s beauty was more striking, but Elinor’s quiet grace, and the light in her gray eyes when she spoke, made him regard her as the loveliest woman he ever had seen. That left him tongue-tied, too.

Only with Margaret could he be entirely natural. They spent hours together outdoors in autumn’s bronzed sunshine, pretending to be explorers seeking the Northwest Passage, or Knights of the Round Table defending Margaret’s dolls from marauding Saracens. Edward bought Margaret a bow and arrows, after exacting multiple promises that she would shoot only at targets, never at any living thing, and well away from the house or any person. Margaret took instantly to archery, rapidly developing an accuracy approaching Edward’s, though she could not shoot as far. Hordes of imaginary Huns, Black Knights, and sheriff’s men succumbed to her bow.

On rainy days, they often sat in the library, studying Piranesi’s engravings of Pompeii