Marguerite - A Thomas Shelby story

Chapter 1

She ran her slender fingers softly over the spine of the book, examining the dust that had settled in every crevice between the binding and the cardboard support over the decades. It was an old book, The Tale of Roses, about a woman whose bad luck was overturned by true love, but who ended up dying for that Love. The book had a brown wooden cover with intricate carvings and the pages were yellowing, stained with coffee and quite simply falling apart. It had been written in the 17th century, but there was no indication of who the author was.

In any case, it was one of the saddest and most beautiful books Marguerite Collins had ever read in her lifetime, and she had read many. Being an only child had never bothered her, for she often found herself busy with a pencil, a flute or a book in her hands rather than an apron or a knitting set. It did, however, seem to others that she was a curious woman. Perhaps they believed she preferred to be alone, and that would surely be true, but only because she'd never experienced real friendship or companionship before.

Marguerite was an old soul in the body of a twenty one year old. Her mother had died two years after her birth of colon cancer and her father worked as a clerk in Birmingham, so Marguerite stayed with her Aunt Emmeline on Weekends.

During the Week, Marguerite resided in the dorms of Cambridge University. It was a grand University, with grandiose architecture similar to the Oxford building, and in some instances, the dreamy teary-eyed Marguerite would even compare it to her Fantasy of a quiet magical life.

It was not, however, Magic that she was learning, in fact, Marguerite was not learning at all. Life was harsher, more real. It was the 1920s, and therefore, women were very rarely allowed into any sort of higher education. She planned on becoming a Historian in the future but because her Mother, before she died, had always told her to dream big but she knew it was an unrealistic wish. Her Father briefly talked about her, but the young woman knew almost nothing about the one who had given birth to her. Marguerite was fortunate enough to come from an extremely wealthy aristocratic family, and was lucky to be able to take part in some form of private higher education, even though the degrees were less advanced or important as the ones the men would receive.

Would she ever find someone who could Love her like the woman in the Tale of Roses?

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"Marguerite."

A tall lady in her middle ages tapped on Marguerite's shoulder. She was wearing a long blue skirt and a red cardigan. The young woman, adjusting her collar, asked in a shy voice:

"Is Ms Graham not here today?"

"I'm afraid not, Marguerite. But I will do my best to replace her today." She quickly changed her tune when she saw Marguerite's face fall.

"Or... perhaps replace is not the right word. I will do my best to assist you, alright?"

The lady attempted a comforting smile, and placed her hand on Marguerite's shoulder to lead her to a small room on the other side of the Library.

"She's caught a nasty case of the flu, unfortunately," sighed the Lady, while slumping down on Ms Graham's chair. The office was tiny compared to the other rooms in the University. It had small rectangular windows at the top of each side of the walls, which unlike the rest of the school, were covered in a flowery wallpaper with warm colours and splashes of mustard yellow. Hanging on the walls, there were picture frames of Ms Graham's friends, as well as some scenery photography, which was a hobby that she told Marguerite she had developed whilst on a trip in Scotland. The frames were a rusty golden colour, and had a harsh texture, but they were vintage, and therefore very much of value to Marguerite, who loved anything that was old and used.

The ceiling of this room was very low, which gave it a cosy feeling, unless you were claustrophobic of course, which was not the case for the young woman who, on the contrary, was agoraphobic.

The desk was relatively modern, but the objects placed on top were thrifted from an antiques shop; all sorts of trinkets and masterpieces, such as an old green lamp from the British Library that had made its way into the hands of some uninterested soul, but found its way back to a proud owner. There was also a pocket watch that Ms Graham carried around which she had left on the desk, as well as a polished paperweight set and a few fountain pens.

Marguerite reached out for the pocket watch, but the Lady snatched it up swiftly.

"Careful now, Marguerite, this watch is old. Ms Graham bought this from an antiques shop in London and I'm sure she wouldn't want you to fiddle around with it."

What this Lady did not know was that Ms Graham would, in fact, want Marguerite to fiddle around with it. At every "rehabilitation" session, she would hand the young woman the pocket watch in case she got anxious or nervous, and let her distract herself with it for a few minutes to regain her composure.

"Marguerite?" The Lady called out three or four times to the young woman before catching her attention.

"I'm sorry Madam," said Marguerite dryly, sensing a few tears well up in her eyes but pushing back the sensation as best she could, "I didn't quite catch your name..."

That was because the Lady had been too hasty and impolite to even present herself, but it was in Marguerite's nature to blame herself for any mishap she experienced, no matter how insignificant.

"I'm Carol Hitchings," stated the Lady, in an indifferent tone.

"I'm Marguerite Collins"