Daytime, 21st March, 1894 — Greengrass Home, Bartonburg
She had resolved to stay at the house today, so as not to have a repeat of that abortive shopping trip. (At the house: she wasn’t at ease enough yet to dare call it home.)
It might have been easier to settle in if Ford had been here during the days – she had just adjusted to spending all that time in his company at the Sanditon, and now he was at work. Not that anyone had been dreadfully unfriendly to her yet, but she still felt uncomfortably like a guest whom no one had actually wanted to invite. And – unlike a guest – even if Jemima took the hint, she had nowhere else to go.
So she had been doing her best to seem busy without getting into anyone else’s way – and without having any real purpose in life, either. (Previously most of her daily activities had been spent in debutante-esque pursuits, which were altogether irrelevant now.) Jemima was hovering at a bookcase downstairs, not-so-casually scanning the shelves. Ford had been reading something at the Sanditon, a book of poetry she thought she would recognise if she saw it again (and it felt mildly useful to learn a little about the things he liked). She hadn’t found it yet, but the door opening behind her made her jump out of her skin.
It was Clementine. “Oh – sorry – I was just looking for something to read,” Jemima explained quickly, although Clementine hadn’t so much as asked yet and she was sure she hadn’t been doing anything wrong, besides. Still, she turned away from the bookshelves just to gauge whether Clementine wanted possession of the room and preferred her gone. (Jemima would have been perfectly happy to cede the space to a dormouse if it had thought her a nuisance.)
It might have been easier to settle in if Ford had been here during the days – she had just adjusted to spending all that time in his company at the Sanditon, and now he was at work. Not that anyone had been dreadfully unfriendly to her yet, but she still felt uncomfortably like a guest whom no one had actually wanted to invite. And – unlike a guest – even if Jemima took the hint, she had nowhere else to go.
So she had been doing her best to seem busy without getting into anyone else’s way – and without having any real purpose in life, either. (Previously most of her daily activities had been spent in debutante-esque pursuits, which were altogether irrelevant now.) Jemima was hovering at a bookcase downstairs, not-so-casually scanning the shelves. Ford had been reading something at the Sanditon, a book of poetry she thought she would recognise if she saw it again (and it felt mildly useful to learn a little about the things he liked). She hadn’t found it yet, but the door opening behind her made her jump out of her skin.
It was Clementine. “Oh – sorry – I was just looking for something to read,” Jemima explained quickly, although Clementine hadn’t so much as asked yet and she was sure she hadn’t been doing anything wrong, besides. Still, she turned away from the bookshelves just to gauge whether Clementine wanted possession of the room and preferred her gone. (Jemima would have been perfectly happy to cede the space to a dormouse if it had thought her a nuisance.)
