The Adventures of Margaret Dashwood

A/N: I would like to point out that many of Austens couples are related and that it was quite common to marry your first cousin, or someone connected to your family back then.

Examples

1. Edmund marries Fanny Price, Mansfield Park (first cousins)

2. Emma marries Mr. Knightly, Emma(her brother in law)

3. Mr. Collins proposal to Elizabeth, Pride and Prejudice (first cousins)

4. Jane Austen's own brother Henry married their first cousin Eliza de Feuillide

So its not an uncommon thing yet still makes me squeamish hence this chapter which will clear some things up hopefully.

Do let me know if the above confused you further and I will try to clear things up.

Oh and a small FYI for those who don't know what a Ginger is (points at title) its a term that refers to red-heads, particularly fair-skinned/ freckled red-heads (think Southpark haha).

Disclaimer: I own the majority of the plot and all original characters, the rest belongs to Jane Austen.

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“Had he married a more amiable woman, he might have been made still more respectable than he was:--he might even have been made amiable himself; for he was very young when he married, and very fond of his wife. But Mrs. John Dashwood was a strong caricature of himself;-- more narrow-minded and selfish.” Sense and Sensibility


OF HONEYSUCKLE BLOSSOMS AND GINGERS


The thing Margaret disliked most about London was the air.

It gathered in still, dark, sooty clouds and hung there, thick and unmoving. She felt stifled under its oppressive, motionless weight. As if a blanket of polluted air was wrapped around her head, suffocating her.

It had only been a few days and she already longed to return to Barton cottage.

She wanted to feel the wind play with her unbound hair and chase her skirts around her ankles; to feel the spray of the salty seawater mist her face. She wanted to sink her bare toes into the sand and watch the honeysuckles that climbed the walls of the cottage, framing the windows, bloom. She missed the long walks she would take through the hills and sand dunes with only her thoughts and the music of the wind whistling through the tall grass to keep her company.

Instead she sat on a mustard yellow chaise in the sitting room of a Mrs. Stanton listening to Mrs. Jennings chatter to their host. They had spent the entirety of the morning in what seemed to be an endless round of social calls to some of Mrs. Jennings many acquaintances.

Under Mrs. Jennings watchful eye that morn, Margaret was pinched and prodded by her maid in order to be made 'presentable'. The silken length of her hair had been intricately coifed at the nape of her neck so tightly that the pressure on her scalp was causing her eyes to water.

Margaret had always felt that her hair was her most pleasing feature.

It was her one vanity, it made her feel beautiful, feminine. Not the color, she thought it to be a rather unremarkable common shade of brown, though she wasn't aware of how it gleamed red in the sun. It was more the luxury of its length and weight, as it fell is gentle waves down her back, which made her feel alluring.

Margaret knew she was not a beauty.

That title went to her elder sisters. She had neither Eleanor's slender figure or dark coloring. She lacked Marianne's lush svelte curves and angelic golden curls. Her figure was nothing extraordinary and she was too tall for a woman. Her features were average enough, her mouth perhaps too wide and her forehead too tall for her face. Her appearance was overall pleasing, though she would never be called classically beautiful. From the most generous she might be called handsome.

Not that she minded in the least, why should she be praised for something that was not her doing. Wouldn't it be better to be praised for one's quickness of wit or strength of character than something as fleeting and passing as beauty?

A sudden commotion from the front door drew Margaret's attention toward the new arrival.

“Charles...” Mrs. Stanton exclaimed, “I didn't expect you till tomorrow”.

“My business did not keep me as long as I had anticipated Aunt”.

“Charles, this is Mrs. Jennings and her charge Ms. Dashwood, and this is my nephew Charles Hudd”.

Mrs. Stanton's nephew was a slender slight young man with a handsome face and head of perfectly tousled blonde curls. He bowed gallantly before Mrs. Jennings before crossing the room to where Margaret stood.

Grasping the tips of her fingers in a gloved hand he raised them dashingly to his lips.

“Delighted to make your acquaintance Ms. Dashwood”.

Perhaps her stay in London might prove to be enjoyable after all.

--

As Margaret made the acquaintance of the charming Charles Hudd, another gentlemen across town had retreated to the privacy of his bedchamber to brood.

Harry Dashwood, heir to Noland Park, had spent the morning listening to his mothers frequent and most favorite lecture, an unfortunately lengthy speech in which she nagged him to find a suitable wife.

She had dragged him to London for that very purpose.

Harry did not put much stock in holy matrimony. He defiantly did not want his mother to pick out a wife for him. The ones she did approve of had either fortune or connections or both to recommend their suit.

In her eyes, and to the majority of gentile society, marriage was viewed as business transaction, to add land or finances or connections, nothing more. Once a heir was produce often times both husband and wife would live virtually separate lives with discrete dalliances.

That was the way it was with his parents.

His mother and father lived in different worlds. His mother preferred the buzz and social whirl of London's elite society while his father preferred the comforts and privacy of Norland Park estate.

He had spent his childhood in a secluded part of the house, looked after by nurses and a succession of tutors.

As a child he had been sullen and unruly, trying his best to stir up trouble and be as difficult as he could in a desperate attempt to garner the attention of either of his parents. But in the end it was always one of the servants who wiped away his tears, patched up his hurts, and sung him to sleep.

His mother remained a distant figure, involved enough to ensure that his education was proper and thorough, and that all of his material wants were met. Somehow it was never enough.

When he was ten, in the fit of a temper, he decided to run away. He had gotten as far as the stables, where he had fallen asleep in a corner amidst scratchy hay, arms clenching his mothers best silver platter to his pudgy chest.

The coachman who had found him was lanky and tall, and his head was covered in the same shade of scarlet as Harry's. His mother was not waiting teary-eyed and anxious like he had imagine as the man with the same vermilion hair as his carried him into the house.

He found himself wandering back to the stables days later. Perhaps it was loneliness that caused him to seek out the coachman, or perhaps even at that age he had somehow known. Either way a tentative friendship had formed.

It was short lived.

His usually placid father had been overly animated and livid when he found out with whom his son had formed an attachment to. The next day Harry's only friend, a man with identical coloring and a jaw Harry would later acquire, was gone.

Although his mother had protested fiercely his father was adamant about the relocation of the brawny coachman.

He was too young to understand the rumors circulating through the house by the servants. Years later though he would put together the pieces. He was absolutely certain by then that he was the by product of one of his mothers torrid affairs and he could never forget that particular coachman whose hair was the same shade as his.

Either the man he calls father is actually ignorant or he chooses to turn a blind eye to his wife and her varying lovers.

Harry did not want a marriage like that.

He was not foolish enough to hope to marry for love. Love was not an emotion he understood. He did however aspire to marry someone with whom he could share mutual trust and respect.

He had decided long ago that he would rather die alone than share his wife with another man.

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Okay so I have a feeling you guys either hated or loved that. What did you think of my original character, Charles Hudd? What about the origin of Harry's parentage? Updates will be whenever I can get to it, or if insomnia strikes :O

So if you enjoyed what you read let me know!