Post by MISS CHARLOTTE DELAFORD on May 27, 2013 23:28:40 GMT -5
{Tag: Mr George Wickham}
The day was bright, the moment as carefree as it could be considering an announcement that the Lockwoods would soon again be back at Hadleigh. They were to attend for the annual visit that fulfilled the entire obligation of family, whilst reaping not one of its benefits – at least not to Charlotte’s mind – for it was obvious to all and sundry that the Lockwood’s much preferred Kent or London and it was quite obvious that many preferred them to stay there. James had naturally chided her for the sigh, which had slipped out in response to her mother’s reading of the letter, casually mentioning that nobody liked a wet blanket. She had taken his meaning, though she was reluctant to agree that it was unnecessary, after so many years, still to express her displeasure so decidedly.
It was just that she disliked Mr Lockwood so intently. This James well knew.
So, naturally, she had taken to a more invigorating pass-time. She would go into Meryton – that it was on her mother’s instruction to take Imogen and purchase some ribbons for the upcoming assembly could be overlooked – and drop into Mr Haversham’s for some sheet music. She had quite lost patience with her current collection, having played worked her way through each piece until the mystery that drew her into it had quite vanished for that familiarity that would – at another time – be quite the solace. Now, she needed something new, something on which to focus her joy and she walked with Imogen alongside so as not to allow herself to be quite overthrown by her agitation.
Thinking of agitation, she had meant to drop of a novel at Haye Park. It was for Miss Cadwallader, of course, for while she might accuse him of it for the lark, she was sure that Mr Goulding had no interest in novels. Novels required imagination to enjoy and certainly a whiff of sentimentality – the strain might be altogether too taxing on him. She resolved to pay the family a call later in the day and diverted herself in the meantime by imagining his response to being called a family.
She cherished the moment already in which she would find out.
Meryton was its usual bustle, which paled in comparison to the ordered chaos of London, but held its own in a way that Charlotte delighted in. Busyness was not everything and while she enjoyed having a bevy of activity to choose from, she liked too the opportunity to be properly known. Mr. Haversham had sold her family music at a time when her head had not yet reached passed the stool, which held the door of his little shoppe open, his eagerness to help and the warmth in his smile a staple of her youth.
“Good morning, Mr Haversham,” she greeted with equal warmth, having promised to take Imogen to the milliners once she had concluded her business here, “I trust you are well this morning?”
It was at that moment, as though to answer the query, that Imogen – keen as her sister for intrigues – upended a music stand on display, the pages of the sonata shooting themselves almost comically into the air before depositing neatly across what seemed the entire floor. Charlotte winced, knowing full well that such was the mark of this kind of morning and turned to see her sister peering at here wide-eyed and apologetic. It was the calm before the storm, not of Charlotte’s reponse, but of a flurry of explanation.
“I’m so sorry, sir, I merely meant to – but then I noticed the craftsmanship and – oh it really is everywhere!” As the girl hurried about to make amends, Charlotte chuckled and carefully picked up a piece that had landed as homage at her feet. How well she liked an upset.
And upsets were certainly on the cards of late.
The day was bright, the moment as carefree as it could be considering an announcement that the Lockwoods would soon again be back at Hadleigh. They were to attend for the annual visit that fulfilled the entire obligation of family, whilst reaping not one of its benefits – at least not to Charlotte’s mind – for it was obvious to all and sundry that the Lockwood’s much preferred Kent or London and it was quite obvious that many preferred them to stay there. James had naturally chided her for the sigh, which had slipped out in response to her mother’s reading of the letter, casually mentioning that nobody liked a wet blanket. She had taken his meaning, though she was reluctant to agree that it was unnecessary, after so many years, still to express her displeasure so decidedly.
It was just that she disliked Mr Lockwood so intently. This James well knew.
So, naturally, she had taken to a more invigorating pass-time. She would go into Meryton – that it was on her mother’s instruction to take Imogen and purchase some ribbons for the upcoming assembly could be overlooked – and drop into Mr Haversham’s for some sheet music. She had quite lost patience with her current collection, having played worked her way through each piece until the mystery that drew her into it had quite vanished for that familiarity that would – at another time – be quite the solace. Now, she needed something new, something on which to focus her joy and she walked with Imogen alongside so as not to allow herself to be quite overthrown by her agitation.
Thinking of agitation, she had meant to drop of a novel at Haye Park. It was for Miss Cadwallader, of course, for while she might accuse him of it for the lark, she was sure that Mr Goulding had no interest in novels. Novels required imagination to enjoy and certainly a whiff of sentimentality – the strain might be altogether too taxing on him. She resolved to pay the family a call later in the day and diverted herself in the meantime by imagining his response to being called a family.
She cherished the moment already in which she would find out.
Meryton was its usual bustle, which paled in comparison to the ordered chaos of London, but held its own in a way that Charlotte delighted in. Busyness was not everything and while she enjoyed having a bevy of activity to choose from, she liked too the opportunity to be properly known. Mr. Haversham had sold her family music at a time when her head had not yet reached passed the stool, which held the door of his little shoppe open, his eagerness to help and the warmth in his smile a staple of her youth.
“Good morning, Mr Haversham,” she greeted with equal warmth, having promised to take Imogen to the milliners once she had concluded her business here, “I trust you are well this morning?”
It was at that moment, as though to answer the query, that Imogen – keen as her sister for intrigues – upended a music stand on display, the pages of the sonata shooting themselves almost comically into the air before depositing neatly across what seemed the entire floor. Charlotte winced, knowing full well that such was the mark of this kind of morning and turned to see her sister peering at here wide-eyed and apologetic. It was the calm before the storm, not of Charlotte’s reponse, but of a flurry of explanation.
“I’m so sorry, sir, I merely meant to – but then I noticed the craftsmanship and – oh it really is everywhere!” As the girl hurried about to make amends, Charlotte chuckled and carefully picked up a piece that had landed as homage at her feet. How well she liked an upset.
And upsets were certainly on the cards of late.
