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“Why does everyone think I have the slightest inclination for getting married to anyone, when nothing could be further from the truth!” Margaret was seething with indignation. “I have no wish to be married by summer or even by next Christmas, so I would be very grateful if you would inform your friends and relations of this fact forthwith. If you will excuse me, I have come to select a novel or two, and as yet, have not opened a single book for perusal.”

Margaret turned on her heel, cross that she had lost her temper in front of the sisters, but glad to have escaped their company. She soon lost herself amongst the bookshelves, striding up and down, convincing herself that she was engaged in a purposeful mission for some reading matter.

“Goodness me, Mrs Brandon, is your sister quite well? That was quite an outburst.”

Marianne had also had enough of the sisters’ company. “Excuse me, Mrs Ferrars, Miss Steele, I must go to my sister. Goodbye.”

Without a backward glance, Marianne set off in pursuit of Margaret, only to find her distractedly pulling one novel after another from the shelves. Her face was pale and wan, wearing an expression that showed a determination not to give in to her real feelings. It was obvious to Marianne that Margaret was not reading a single word of any of the books she picked up, despite her studied contemplation of every one.

As if reading Marianne's thoughts, Margaret addressed her sister directly. “I am fine, Marianne. Please do not be concerned. I am perfectly happy and just wish to select a book. I suggest you do the same.”

Sensing that Margaret might wish to be alone with her thoughts, Marianne went in search of some music manuscripts. When feeling at odds with the world, her remedy was to lose herself in melodious harmony. Nothing soothed so well as a piece of composition. Although she had not confided in Margaret, the truth was that relations between her and William were strained once again. Criticising Brandon's sister had been an ill-judged censure but she had felt it necessary, nevertheless. Her fierce and protective love for her sister and perhaps for a part of herself she now thought lost had been at its root, but how she was to make her husband understand, she could not decide. However, all that could be forgotten at the present; Marianne selected a large sheaf of music and finding a seat in a cosy corner, determined to lose herself for a pleasant half hour.

Margaret busied herself with a variety of books, stacking them on a small table beside her; unable to decide whether she wished to read of gothic horrors or maiden's fortunes in love. She opted for the former, a tale of terror bound in leather, as the prospect of happy endings filled her with more dread than the most ghostly tale. Determined to find a seat where she would not be disturbed or observed, Margaret worked her way past several rows of bookshelves until at last at the very back of the library in a quiet, but dimly illuminated spot from the lack of natural light, she found an unoccupied chair set against a tall but empty bookcase. The chair was a comfortable-looking seat so she sat down, convinced that the lack of any reading matter at hand would mean that she would be left alone. Closing her eyes, she tried to blot out the thoughts that persisted in haunting her. Everywhere was quiet, only the clock ticking on the wall and the occasional scrape of a chair leg or a person coughing could be heard. As Margaret tried to relax, to clear her head of unwelcome thoughts, her ear was caught by the low voices of a couple, a man and woman, talking in whispers, quite intimately on the other side of the high shelving. It was impossible to see them but her attention was duly fixed when the agitation and accent of the lady rose to a pitch, making her curious to hear more. There was no mistake. The possessor of the genteel voice, which kept lapsing into French, was a lady. Margaret held her breath, longing to hear the answering speech of the gentleman. His voice was deeper