Fate & Circumstance - A North & South Continuation

CHAPTER FIFTEEN - OF PHILANTHROPY AND PASSION

CHAPTER FIFTEEN – OF PHILANTHROPY AND PASSION

Margaret sat before the looking glass as Dixon busied herself with the dressing of her thick mane of unruly hair into her customary braided chignon, her thoughts drifting towards the prospect of the evening ahead.  Accustomed as she was to the habits of society, still she was horrified to find herself at the mercy of a nervousness which had, she realised, been steadily encroaching upon her over the course of the day, although not a hint of her growing disquiet showed itself upon her countenance.  To be sure, as she looked more intently at the passive reflection of the young woman before her, she saw that no furrow marred the serene clarity of her brow and no cloud lingered in the luminousness of her blue-grey eyes.  Yet there stirred just beneath this cool tranquility of her exterior self a perpetuating and restless agitation that imbued her belly with the flapping of tiny wings, which danced and flickered and teemed in irrefutable testament of her expectation of what was to come.

“Everyone will be quite delighted to see you, I’m sure.  And eager to offer their congratulations upon your engagement to John, of course.”

Fanny’s words of people’s interest regarding their forthcoming marriage made her wish to flee suddenly and to remove herself from the inevitable obstacle of people’s curiosity, as if a rabbit taking flight from a gamekeeper’s gun.  This cowardly notion, borne so unpredictably and incongruously within her, was, however, cleaved in an instant by the summons of her more robust and resilient self, ushered forth to raze those rumbling doubts that strove to topple her equanimity.

Oh! What pitiable spirit had possessed her to make her think this way? She was not faint-hearted or feeble-minded – and certainly not some coward who was easily intimidated! She was her own mistress, possessed of her own opinions and independence! It was, of course, perfectly natural that her new status as John’s future wife would rouse some attention from Fanny’s assembled guests.  She could not expect it to be otherwise and knew that, inexorable as the tides of the sea, she would have to confront their questions with the good grace that had been schooled so regimentally into her in her formative years, knowing all the while that she would be judged upon her answers and doubtlessly examined for her worth as a newcomer to Milton society, which she now teetered on the very fringes of finding herself thrust.

Yet these people she would see again tonight knew her as she did them, perhaps not as intimate acquaintances but certainly as nodding ones from past days.  They were not strangers to be faced for the first time. Oddly, however, it was not their rejection of her - she the renegade young lady whose lone voice at the Thornton Dinner had risen up distinct and recalcitrant in defence of the discontented and desperate populous - that she feared, but rather that they would not hear her at all.  She knew herself well enough to know that she would not be silenced by passive complacency if an opinion should be voiced that she disagreed with – even if, as before at that other dinner party, she ostracised herself by speaking out. 

She could not help but smile to herself at this consolidating acknowledgement. As she glanced briefly at Dixon, still immersed in the occupation of fastening her hair and surprisingly silent in her concentration of the task, she perceived that her maid, if she were but privy to her thoughts, would no doubt proclaim that her stubbornness and combative spirit, so capable of rearing up like an undisputable tempest amid tranquil skies, was irrefutable evidence of the Beresford blood – so ostensibly lacking in her mother, Edith and aunt – rushing through her veins.  

She had taken care with her toilette this evening, the selection of her gown resulting in many a rejection that, much to Dixon’s ill-concealed chagrin, now occupied much of the surface of the bed, its green coverlet reduced to a feeble, trickling stream winding perilously between numerous undulating and colourful islands.  In the end she had settled upon a midnight-blue silk which she’d not worn before and that she’d allowed Edith to talk her into having made up some months before.  Now, taking in the reflection before her, she could not regret Edith’s insistence.  Its plainness of style and quiet shimmering elegance suited her to perfection so that even Edith, who’d initially considered that it would be very dull without the adornment of some lace or pretty flounce, had had to concede that it looked very well indeed.