The Adventures of Margaret Dashwood

A/N: I just saw the BBC series of Sense and Sensibility and decided to continue the adventures of the remaining sister, Margaret Dashwood.

Disclaimer: Im not Jane Austen which sadly enough means I don't have that awesome brit accent.



----Of Atlas Maps and First Impressions----



“No sooner was his father's funeral over, than Mrs. John Dashwood, without sending any notice of her intention to her mother-in-law, arrived with her child and their attendants.” Sense and Sensibility


Ms. Margaret Dashwood had made up her mind to never marry.

Indeed she was quite determined to make her own way in the world without having to rely on a man. How she would manage that she was not certain. Her two elder sisters were settled and married to gentlemen who were both blessed in their circumstances. Marianne had married the Colonel Brandon, who was in command of a sizable fortune and her elder sister Eleanor was quite happy with her country parish and her Edward.

Margaret and her mother were the only occupants of the small costal cottage now. They were very comfortable, far more so than when they had first taken the cottage after her fathers death and their resulting forced departure from Norland Park in Sussex county.

In those years past she remembered how they scrimped and squeezed all they could out of every penny they had.

It was the hardest for her mother.

Eleanor was the sensible one, she was left to the task of managing their measly income of 500 pounds a year. Marianne in her dreamy whimsical state declared the cottage and its wild surroundings “quite romantic” and Margaret herself, as a child, only saw many hiding spots in the creaking house and the delightful adventures she could have in the sand dunes.

But mother, oh poor mother.

Having gone from being mistress of the Norland estate in all its grandeur to the small dinginess of a cottage on the edge of no where. Having to endure the insipid, insufferable blathering of a Mrs. Jennings and her bumbling attempts in trying to marry off the sisters, much to their mortification. Having once been a great Lady of wealth and situation and then to be pitied, ah poor mother.

How things had changed since then.

With Marianne and Elena so well matched and married Margaret and her mother were able to afforded more luxuries, with their generosity, and were now quite comfortable in the cottage they had fixed up over the years.

In fact Margaret knew that she could live out her life quite happily with her mother, with the means available to them. But something inside her urged to be financially independent, to make her way in the world. She of course had her pen but was slightly terrified of encountering failure if she attempted to publish her work.

Yet she was quite set on becoming a writer as she had impudently informed her Aunt Fanny those many years ago, horrid women. Horrid, spiteful women and her spoiled mean spirited son.



Margaret had first met him, Harry Dashwood, some six years ago.

She was twelve at the time and her father had just died. To Margaret it was not only the loss of a father but of her best friend.

There was no doubt that Mr. Dashwood had loved all of his daughters equally, but in different ways. He had admired his elder daughters accomplishments, Eleanor's drawings and Marianne's music, but he had little to do with their education and upbringing. At most he was a supportive outside observer.

To Margaret he was her closest companion, they built a treehouse together, he taught her to ride, and he would read for hours to her in the study. Her fondest memories were of when she would curl up in his lap by the fire and they would peruse the pages of the atlas together. Father would paint such wonderful pictures about exotic lands and dark skinned natives and lush landscapes.

The sickness that took him came suddenly and without warning.

Not even a week passed before they arrived.

Mr. Dashwood had a son from his first marriage who arrived to oversee and take possession of his newly inherited estate. He brought with him his wife and son, Fanny and Harry.

Aunt Fanny was a pompous women who treated those around her as if they were lower than her. She immediately began to demand of her husband that he “rid her house of his relations”.

Her son was worse.

A short pudgy boy with a head of shockingly red hair, he was spoiled to the core by his mother. Margaret was told by her mother that she was to play and keep Harry entertained. She showed him her treehouse and the treasures she stored there. He sneered at them and called them stupid. She thought for sure he'd be impressed by her fathers atlas but when she tried to point out to him India he had stuck his tongue out at her and pushed the precious book off the table and onto the floor.

Oh how she loathed him. She had lost her temper then pushing him to the floor and yelling that he was “a horrid horrid creature” and how she “wished he was dead”. He had run crying to his mother, spineless git that he was. Fanny had insisted that she apologize and let him ride her pony and Margaret stubbornly refused.

The only reason she did give in was because mother looked so tired and sad and Margaret didn't want to upset her with their bickering.

She had named her pony Napoleon, after the french conqueror. He was a small short Shetland pony her father gifted her with on christmas of last. Indeed he had the very mannerisms of the late Napoleon. He was a proud little pony but gentle around her. Every day since she and father would go for a ride.

Harry was waiting on the lawn when she brought Napoleon from the stables, a petulant frown covering his chubby face. It wasn't enough for him to watch her, he had insisted on having a go for himself. He had a hard time hauling his body up and over into the saddle and kicked Napoleon twice in the ribs on the way up. She watched as his thick fat fingers pulled at the bridle and his short legs flayed at the horses side. She had implored him not to be rough, and he in turn pulled harder on the reins, a malicious grin crossing over his face. Napoleon, not used to such handling began to buck.

After more struggling and yelling from Harry's part he had tumbled from the saddle. She told him, as he struggled to his feet, that he shouldn't have been so rough. He replied that he would be as rough as he pleased since it was his horse. Margaret was outraged but struggled to contain her anger when she responded back that it was her horse, that her very own father gave her.

“Well your stupid father is dead ain't he so all this is ours, mother says, and that means I own him and I can do whatever I want”.

As soon as the words left his mouth Margaret saw red.

Margaret was sure she had never hated anyone more in her life. She didn't realize she had tackled him to the ground until a servant was pulling them apart.


Only days later they would be forced from the only home they had ever know, with father and husband barely laid in the ground. But it had given Margaret great satisfaction and consolation to see that Harry's discolored eye had yet to fade.



Please REVIEW!!! Let me know if I should keep this going.