An Unexpected Affection

|Chapter 2|

The carriage trundled along the narrow lanes of Devonshire, the rhythmic clip-clop of the horses’ hooves a comforting sound amidst a sea of unfamiliarity. As I peered out of the window, quaint cottages with thatched roofs gave way to rolling hills dotted with sheep. England in May was a revelation, a lush tapestry of greenery and blossoms that unfolded before my eyes like a vision from a dream.

Maybe it was the long days and endless nights aboard the vessel, or the company of hardened men, ungentle by the harsh conditions and unforgiving seas, that had heightened my apprehension towards this unknown land. As one of the few women aboard on my voyage to this uncharted place, I had never envisaged that my life would one day lead me here, halfway across the world. The dreams and hopes I harbored as a child never included leaving America, traveling across the ocean, and certainly not alone at the age of eighteen. Nor had I ever contemplated a future bereft of my parents. Perhaps it was my own innocence, believing life would always remain perfect, or the fact that I had never encountered the hardships most youths my age faced in America, that shaped such beliefs. But now, as I sat in this carriage, gazing out upon this new, unfamiliar world, I grasped the full weight of my circumstances.

This was to be my new home, a refuge offered by the kindness of the Dashwood family following the sudden demise of my beloved parents. My father had cherished his Oxford days alongside the Dashwood patriarch, forming bonds of friendship that had connected our families despite the vast ocean that later lay between us. I recalled but dimly their visit one summer when I was but seven, and our correspondence thereafter—letters exchanged with Marianne and Elinor that were warm yet sparse. Yet, despite these threads of connection, I had never felt the deep familial ties that had so bound my parents to the Dashwoods.

As the carriage slowly approached Barton Cottage, my heart filled with a tumult of emotions. What if my decision had been too hasty, or perhaps the Dashwoods, moved by pity, expected something in return for their generosity? Such thoughts plagued my mind until the carriage halted and I beheld the cottage for the first time. The sight that greeted me was one of eager faces and beaming smiles, an assurance that this, indeed, might become my new family.

Mrs. Dashwood, Elinor, Marianne, and little Margaret, who often stayed shyly behind her elder sisters, stood awaiting at the door, their expressions warm and welcoming.

"Welcome, Farrah," Mrs. Dashwood said, enveloping me in a gentle embrace. "We are delighted to have you join us."

"Thank you, Mrs. Dashwood," I replied, my voice quivering slightly as I returned her embrace. Though the shadow of grief loomed large, their kindness was a beacon of solace amidst my sea of uncertainty
Elinor followed with an embrace and then Marianne. Margaret, however, appeared somewhat uncertain, and truth be told, so was I. I had never personally met Margaret, as she was born several years after their visit to America, and thus knew not what to expect from her. I harbored no ill sentiments towards the young child. Though we had not formed a bond over the years, the embraces and warm welcomings I had just received had eased my troubled thoughts and calmed my racing heart.

Elinor then grasped my bag and one of my suitcases, while Marianne took the other. I assured them that I could carry my belongings inside, but they would not accept a refusal. As they set my belongings down, I surveyed my new surroundings. Though it could not compare to the grand abode my family had built in America, it nevertheless instilled in me a sense of joy. While the Dashwoods may not have been as financially fortunate as my parents, their home was rich with possessions that spoke of a cherished life. Flowers unfamiliar to me, obviously well-loved, were scattered about the room, and intricately sewn lace pieces, woven blankets, and embroidered pillows, which must have taken hours to create, adorned the space. A piano stood in one corner, with stacks of sheet music beside it—likely Marianne's doing, as I recalled my mother mentioning her fondness for music. Perhaps I would ask her to teach me, should she be so inclined.