by Robin Helm
“Miss Woodhouse, I wonder if you would care to come for a ride in my curricle?”
“Oh!” said Emma, before her sister could respond. “That would be delightful! I should enjoy it above anything!”
This was certainly a danger. Isabella might easily be swayed by her sister’s entreaties to let her join them, and this was one day in which that must not happen. John turned to Miss Taylor in mute appeal.
“Emma,” said Miss Taylor reprovingly, “you promised faithfully to practice on the piano-forte this afternoon, and you must do it.”
Emma sighed rebelliously but allowed John to escort Isabella out of the house without saying anything else. John bid Miss Taylor goodbye with a look that he hoped conveyed his gratitude. He thought she understood, for there was an unusually broad smile on her face.
He helped Isabella into the curricle and then seated himself and reached for the long driving whip, snapping it expertly over the horses’ heads to get them moving. They trotted off smoothly, and Isabella was full of admiration for the curricle, the horses, and the skill with which he drove them. It flashed across John’s mind that he knew she was not fulsomely flattering him; she truly meant what she said. This was indeed the woman he wanted.
John turned off the main road onto a little-used path toward Langham; there was a picturesque little river at the end of it, and some shady trees. It was there he planned to ask his question. They traveled along the small, quiet road toward their destiny; John could almost imagine them to be alone in the world. Isabella sat beside him in a beautiful blue-print muslin gown, a small drawstring reticule on her lap and a straw bonnet on her head that could not completely hide the little tendrils of light brown hair that brushed her cheeks when the breeze blew. He opened his mouth to tell her that she was looking very well when she suddenly spoke.
“Is someone burning leaves?” She was pointing to a column of smoke rising from behind the farm buildings they were just passing.
“It seems unlikely,” John said. “The trees are still green.”
“Of course,” Isabella returned. “It cannot be leaves. I only wondered because it seems like an odd time to have a bonfire.”
“It is,” said John. “Very odd. This is Mitchell’s farm, I think. I wonder what he would be burning at this time of year? It is a strange place for a bonfire as well—near that barley field that looks ready for harvest.” He stopped the curricle. “I think I might go and make sure all is well.”
He got down and walked the short distance to the nearest building. As he came around the side of it, he found that he was in a farmyard in the centre of several outbuildings and sheds. No one was about, but there was indeed a large fire burning there. It was not wood or dried vegetation that was being burnt; it looked to be cloth. He came closer to see. It was a large pile of grain-sacks, and now he could see that some wood—likely soaked in pitch if the smoke being produced was anything to judge by—had been added to the pile, probably in order to start the fire quickly and keep it burning. The fire was large and getting larger; the flames were taller than himself. Sparks and burning fragments of cloth were floating up into the air and gently landing all around him; some of them settled very near the edge of the barley-field. This was serious.
The feud! It must be Munnings’ work—revenge for the fouled fish-pond and lost manure. John had no desire to insert himself into a local feud, but this was going too far. If the barley-field caught fire it would do far more damage than just that crop. Other fields belonging to other farmers would probably also go up in smoke, and who could predict what else?
The fire must be put out. John’s first thought was to get water and he hoped there was a barrel of rainwater nearby, but a quick scan of the yard yielded nothing of the kind. It would take too long to go and find a bucket and a stream or to go all the way around to the farmhouse to get help—the house was a good distance from where he was. If he had a rake or a long stick he could try to get the sacks that were not yet on fire away from the blaze and perhaps spread out the burning ones and try to stamp out the flames. It was not a very good plan, perhaps, but the fire was continually sending out dangerous sparks, and the barley field might be alight at any moment. He ran into the closest barn to see if there was any sort of rake or pitchfork he could use, but other than an ox-yoke which was too heavy and clumsy to be of any use he could see nothing that would be helpful.
His whip! He could use the whip from his curricle. He ran back to the curricle. “What is it?” cried Isabella.
“I must put that fire out!” He jumped up into the carriage to grab the whip.
“Can I help?”
He had a horrible vision of her muslin dress catching fire from a stray spark. “No, Stay there!” He looked into her eyes. “Promise me you will stay there!”
“I promise,” she said. “Do be careful!”
He jumped down to the ground with the whip and ran back to the fire. A gentle breeze seemed to be stirring up the flames. Thankful that the ground of the farmyard was packed, dry earth, he began using his whip to pull away unburnt sacks. There were not many of these, and his actions did not seem to make the fire any smaller. He managed to get a small pile of burning sacks away from the main fire. They did not need much stamping on to put out, but it was obvious that he was not doing enough to get the blaze out quickly.
There must be water around somewhere. He threw his whip aside and made a rapid search of the farmyard buildings. In one of them he found a bucket and around the side of that building, to his overwhelming relief, a barrel of water. He plunged the bucket into the barrel with such haste that the back of his hand was badly scraped by a splinter sticking out of the edge of the barrel. He ignored it and ran to the fire, dumping the water on it. Again and again he went back to the barrel, filled the bucket, and ran back to slosh water on the burning mass. He was afraid the water in the barrel would run out before the fire was completely quenched, but at long last there was nothing left but a smoking, stinking pile of sopping wet rags. He dropped the bucket, picked up his whip and his hat, which had fallen off in his activity, and went back to Isabella.
As soon as she saw him she called out anxiously, “Is the fire out? Is everything all right?”
“Yes, all is right now. The fire is extinguished, and the crops are safe.”
“Are you well?”
“Quite, although I must look a fright. It seems you are destined to see me at my most disheveled, Miss Woodhouse.”
“What was burning?”
“Empty grain sacks. I fear it is part of the ongoing feud between Mr. Mitchell and Mr. Munnings.”
“Surely not! Mr. Munnings is a very respectable man—our neighbour. I cannot believe he would set fire to another’s property.”
“Likely it was not meant to burn a whole field, only the empty sacks. It was, however, a danger to not only Mr. Mitchell’s crops but other farmers with fields nearby. The fire is out now, but I need to tell Mitchell about it.”
John climbed slowly up into the carriage. He was aching and sore, his eyes stung from the smoke that had blown into his face, and his hand was smarting. Isabella saw his injury at that moment and gave a little cry.
“You’re bleeding!”
John looked at the wound. It was not serious—more of a scrape than a cut.
“It is nothing,” he said. “Only on the surface.”
Isabella paid no attention to him. She opened her reticule and pulled out a handkerchief.
“Let me see your hand,” she said. Amused, he held out the back of his hand toward her. “It ought to be bathed first, of course, but this will serve as a bandage until you get home.”
Gently she wrapped her handkerchief around his hand and tied it neatly. John waited until she had finished and then caught hold of her hand and kissed it. Her eyes grew wide.
“My dear Isabella,” John said, “I had intended that when we got to the river at the end of this road I would make an elaborate speech in which I would tell you that you are prec
ious to me, and that I wish more than anything to make you my wife, to take care of you, protect you, and cherish you all the days of your life. It seems instead, however, that I am regularly forced to let you take care of me. If you would not mind greatly, Isabella, will you please consent to marry me so that you will always be close at hand, and I will not need to go looking for you whenever I need help?”
Isabella was blushing but she spoke without hesitation. “Yes, I will. Every time you have needed my help it was because you had been trying to help someone else. I am honored to assist you, and will be happy to do so for the rest of my life.” She smiled tenderly at him and his arms were around her before he had even made a conscious choice to do so. To kiss her was not really a premeditated decision, either, but he could not find it within himself to regret it.
They sat there together happily for ten minutes before the sound of an approaching rider on horseback prompted John to start the curricle moving again.
“I suppose I ought to tell Mitchell about the fire,” he said, getting the horses in motion. “I will tell him that my brother will be informed about it; it is time for both parties to stop this and come to an agreement. George will be able to make them see sense.” He looked at his clothing, still damp and smoke-stained. “I am in a shocking state to be seeing anyone.”
“I can help a little with that,” said Isabella with a small laugh. She opened her reticule again and pulled out a comb.
_______________________
Two days later, the first fire of the autumn had been lit in the library at Donwell. The brothers sat together comfortably, Homer at his master’s feet and John leaning back in the wing chair staring into the fire. He had just returned from dining at Hartfield, and he thought to himself that he had indeed found tranquility.
He roused himself to ask George about his day.
“And so you met with Mitchell and Munnings today? Did they come to an agreement?”
“Yes. It became clear in talking to them that the feud had been taken up by the labourers of each farm rather than the owners. Mitchell had been ill in bed and was actually unaware of the theft of the manure and where it was put. And Munning’s stable-boy was the one who thought of setting fire to the sacks in retaliation. It was mere ineptness that put the fire so close to the barley-field, not malice. The farmers were still at odds, but their rage against each other was not so murderous as I had thought it might be.”
“Good. And are they satisfied now?”
“I believe so. We reckoned up the damages to each farm, and they seemed to be about equal. I asked them, as magistrate, to beg each other’s pardon, and they did. I hope we will hear no more about it.”
“I am relieved to hear it. I would have all be peaceful and harmonious about me.”
“That is very hypocritical of you, since you have contrived to cut up the peace of Mr. Woodhouse extremely with your plan to wed Isabella and take her to London with you.”
“He is not so distressed as you might think. I have had help in that quarter from Miss Taylor.”
“Have you?”
“I had told Isabella about some of Arthur’s vices and how he had numbered her heart among his conquests. She told Miss Taylor and her sister what I had said, and the outcome was that Miss Taylor told Mr. Woodhouse of this dangerous rogue, the younger son of an impecunious estate who had his eye on Isabella and her fortune. I fancy she enumerated every one of his faults, including the ones I omitted to mention to Isabella, but Miss Taylor could guess. Poor Mr. Woodhouse was almost ready to lock Isabella up in her room to keep her safe when my name was mentioned as a suitable rescuer. Married to me, Isabella could not fall prey to a scoundrel. What is more, I would always have ties at Donwell, and Isabella would never be whisked off to an estate in the North of England, away from her father and sister. When Miss Taylor had finished with Mr. Woodhouse, he almost looked on me as a knight of old, protecting his daughter and safeguarding his connection to her.”
“A very good strategy indeed. Miss Taylor ought to be commended for it.”
“I believe it was Emma who had the idea for the plot.”
George raised his eyebrows. “I must cultivate her acquaintance a little more. She has the makings of a first-rate schemer.”
“You are two of a kind. You were the one who schemed to get Arthur out of Surrey.”
“So I did. You had better be careful, then. With two such conspirators in the area, who knows what might be in store for you and Isabella?”
“I am going to marry and take my wife to London where we shall be comfortable and domestic; we will leave it to you and Emma to arrange the lives of everyone else in Surrey. You ought to beware, however: Emma is likely to try to find a wife for you. You may be the subject of her next stratagem.”
“I am not frightened,” said George. “I may say that I am more than a match for Emma.”
THE END
Other books by Barbara Cornthwaite
Available on Amazon.com
Charity Envieth Not: George Knightley is the owner of a considerable estate, a landlord, a magistrate, and a bachelor--a state that his brother John is perpetually prodding him to change. Thankfully, there is no one remotely suitable in his entire circle of acquaintance...or so he thinks. An unwanted interloper, a few romantic mishaps amongst his friends, and the dawning realization that Emma Woodhouse is no longer a child might just change everything
Lend Me Leave: A rival for the hand of Emma Woodhouse has brought about George Knightley’s realization of the true nature of his attachment to her. He is determined to win her in spite of Frank Churchill’s charming ways, and he has only to figure out how to make her realize that they were meant for each other. As he joins the ranks of the heart-sore men of Donwell, hope grows ever more faint, but good news sometimes comes at the most unexpected moments.
A Fine Young Lady: When her mother's death plunges her into reduced circumstances, Verity Hollis must leave her life of ease and privilege in London and make her home in the small country village. Her dreams of marriage to a wealthy Christian man with status now seem impossible. With the comfort of her Bible and the amusement of her favorite novels to bolster her spirits, Verity embarks on a life she couldn't have imagined a year ago. Is her faith sufficient to sustain her in her new circumstances? Are her dreams of love, marriage, and family gone? An awkward Baptist minister, an orphaned baby or two, and a village of new friends help her discover what she truly values and the plans the Lord has made for her life.
CHARMING MISS DASHWOOD
Chautona Havig
Charming Miss Dashwood Copyright ©2020 Chautona Havig
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writers’ imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real.
Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
DEAR READER
While the true inspiration for this novella did, of course, come from Sense and Sensibility the book, the Emma Thompson version of the movie inspired my vision of Margaret and a few small elements.
Of course, Colonel Brandon never uttered the words, “the air is full of spices,” in the book. Nor did the scene with the map and the “source of the Nile” conversation occur. Still, I liked Miss Margaret’s character in that adaptation, and wanted to explore her all “grown up.” As the original book was set between 1792 and 1797, I’ve chosen the earlier date to coincide with this story—and the end gives a subtle reveal as to why.
Haselbury Brian is the name of a village in Dorset. Or, rather, that is how it was spelled on a Regency map (you can find that here: https://www.wellandantiquemaps.co.uk/dor
setshire-john-cary-engraver-corrected-mr-e-boswell-c1795). Today, from what I can find, it is spelled Hazelbury Bryan.
I’ve proven myself a hypocrite with this book. You see, I dislike when authors give historical women modern sensibilities. However, in Margaret Dashwood, I couldn’t help allowing myself a little leeway. It seemed reasonable that an indulgent mother and older sisters might pamper a girl who had lost her father at such a young age, and as a result, she might be a little headstrong and accustomed to having her own way. Furthermore, I can’t help but hear Sophia Croft’s voice in my head when she tells Ciran Hinds as Captain Wentworth, “None of us wish to be in calm waters all our lives.” Of course, in the book she said, “But I hate to hear you talking so like a fine gentleman, and as if women were all fine ladies, instead of rational creatures. We none of us expect to be in smooth water all our days.”
I believe Margaret Dashwood would echo that sentiment—at least the Margaret who introduced herself to me and said, “So, what have you plotted for me to do in this little book of yours?”
I rather think she mocked me.
CHAPTER ONE
January 1805—
Stepping into the library at Delaford, Conrad Thayer found a view unlike anything he had ever seen. While it boasted the expected rich, polished wood, comfortable chairs, heavy carpets, and what must be hundreds if not thousands of books, it had one feature he’d never seen before—not in a library. Directly opposite the wide, double doors, stood a wall comprised almost entirely of large windows. Had it been a sunny day, light would have streamed across the floor and almost to the door. A northern facing wall. All indirect light, but still… the taxes!
