itsfarrah

[itsfarrah]

This is Money Snake. She only appears every 312 years. 

If you reblog her picture within the next twenty-five seconds you will have good luck and fortune for the rest of your life. 

[itsfarrah]

|Chapter 6|

Colonel Brandon arrived at the Middleton estate, his heart lighter than usual after a good night's sleep. As he handed his horse to the stableman, a familiar exchange of greetings ensued.

"Good to see you back, Colonel," the stableman, Thomas, remarked with a friendly nod.

"Thank you, Thomas. It's good to be back," Brandon replied, sharing a moment of small talk about the estate and the health of the horses he had come to know during previous visits.

Armed with a basket of freshly picked garden fruits and vegetables and a carefully selected bottle of wine, Brandon made his way into the house. He acknowledged the household staff with a nod and exchanged pleasantries, each member of whom he remembered by name, as he headed towards the bustling garden party.

Upon stepping into the garden, he was warmly greeted by Sir John and Mrs. Middleton. Sir John enveloped him in a hearty embrace.

"Brandon, my dear fellow, your presence truly lifts our spirits," Sir John exclaimed with genuine affection.

Mrs. Middleton, ever the gracious hostess, hugged him and kissed his cheek, then playfully called to the assembled guests, "Ladies, have you ever seen such a handsome gentleman? And he’s still available!" Her words caused a flutter of giggles and murmurs to ripple through the group, leaving Brandon slightly embarrassed.

A servant approached to relieve him of his gifts, and Sir John began guiding him around, introducing him to various guests. Among them were Mr. Reginald Hargrove, a wealthy and influential merchant known for his expansive trade networks, his wife, Lady Clarissa Hargrove, and their daughter, Miss Amelia Hargrove. Mr. Hargrove's demeanor carried an air of self-importance that matched his reputation for looking down on those he deemed below his social standing.

"Colonel, may I introduce Mr. Reginald Hargrove, a significant figure in our county's trade and commerce," Sir John announced with a nod toward Mr. Hargrove, who responded with a measured nod of acknowledgment.

"Indeed, Colonel, it is a pleasure. Our ventures span across the continent, and we uphold the standards of our class in every transaction," Mr. Hargrove declared, his voice laced with pride.

As the introduction continued, Lady Clarissa quickly took the opportunity to promote her daughter. "And this is our Amelia. Isn't she just the picture of beauty, Colonel? Surely, you can appreciate such refinement," she said, pushing her daughter slightly forward.

Miss Amelia offered a delicate smile, batting her eyelashes at Brandon, who managed a polite nod, his interest unkindled by the overt matchmaking attempt.

As they moved away from the somewhat uncomfortable interaction, Sir John mentioned that the Dashwoods would soon be arriving with an American guest, a newcomer named Farrah.

"An American, you say?" Brandon inquired, his interest piqued.

"Yes, indeed, a charming young lady staying with the Dashwoods. Her parents were quite distinguished back in America, but alas, tragedy brought her to our shores," Sir John explained thoughtfully.

Mrs. Middleton, joining the conversation, added her perspective with a hint of disapproval. "She's undoubtedly a beauty, but I hear she's very American in her ways, not quite the English rose one might expect."

The mention of Farrah sparked a new curiosity in Brandon. The anticipation of meeting someone so distinct from the usual company he encountered subtly deepened his interest in the evening ahead.

After Mrs. Middleton's remark, Colonel Brandon offered a thoughtful response, his voice tinged with curiosity rather than judgment. "Perhaps, Mrs. Middleton, what's been said about Miss Farrah's American mannerisms might be an over-exaggeration. And even if not, might she not bring with her some new ways that could prove beneficial for us all? It often takes a fresh perspective to see beyond our established customs." His words carried a hopeful tone, suggesting a genuine openness to the cultural diversity that Farrah might introduce to their English circles.

Sir John, ever the jovial host, chuckled warmly at Colonel Brandon's diplomatic reply and clapped him on the shoulder, saying, "Well, if she can make a decent cup of tea, then she's all right by me!" His laughter echoed around them, lightening the mood and reminding everyone of his easy-going nature.

As Sir John's laughter tapered off, he and Colonel Brandon continued their stroll through the garden, discussing Brandon's recent travels. Sir John listened intently as Brandon recounted the challenges and the rare beauties he encountered in the distant lands of the Indies and Australia. Their conversation was a blend of curious inquiries and reflective observations, painting vivid images of exotic landscapes and tumultuous sea voyages.

As they neared the front of the manor, their conversation paused abruptly as the sound of carriage wheels crunching on the gravel driveway reached their ears. Sir John, ever attentive to his guests, glanced towards the entrance and smiled broadly.

"Ah, that will be the Dashwoods, and our American guest, Farrah," Sir John announced with a twinkle in his eye. He gestured to Brandon. "Come, let's welcome them."

Both men quickened their steps, reaching the front just as the carriage rolled to a stop. The driver hopped down to open the door, and Sir John prepared to greet his arrivals with his customary robust enthusiasm.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As the carriage drew to a halt in front of the Middleton's grand manor, excitement buzzed through the air. The anticipation had been building, especially after hearing Sir John Middleton and Colonel Brandon were waiting to greet them. From her vantage point inside the carriage, Farrah could see Sir John's jovial figure bustling about. She couldn't yet see Colonel Brandon, but his presence was noted with a flutter in her stomach.

The door swung open, and Sir John's hearty voice welcomed Mrs. Dashwood warmly, assisting her and then Elinor out of the carriage. His words were a jovial blur to Farrah, her senses heightened in anticipation of meeting the man they had spoken of during their ride.

Then, another voice joined the mix, deeper and strikingly calm. It was Colonel Brandon, assisting Margaret and Marianne with a gentlemanly grace. Though Farrah still hadn't caught sight of him, his voice alone—soothing yet invigorating—struck a chord within her. It was a voice she felt she could listen to endlessly, one that seemed to narrate thoughts only her heart could hear.

Moments later, his hand appeared inside the carriage, reaching out to assist the next person. Farrah took it, and the contact sparked an inexplicable sensation. It was a simple touch, yet laden with an unspoken connection that seemed to tether her to him. Colonel Brandon halted his conversation with Margaret, turning to see Farrah for the first time.

Their eyes met, and Farrah was instantly captivated. He was more than handsome; he was striking, with a strong nose that gave him a noble, almost classical look, reminiscent of the Greek gods she had read about. His eyes, a warm blend of autumn leaves and honey, held hers in a steady gaze that she felt in her very core.

Gathering her composure beneath those deep, honeyed eyes, she offered her introduction with a gentle confidence that carried the soft echo of her Southern roots.

"Good day, Colonel Brandon, I am Miss Farrah," she said, her voice blending warmth and a trace of amusement at the formality of it all. The simple introduction seemed to hover between them, a delicate bridge in their first shared moment.

"Colonel Brandon," he replied, his voice low, as he brought her hand to his lips in a gentle kiss. The gesture, though customary, felt charged with an electric current under their mutual gaze. Both blushed under the weight of the many eyes now fixed upon them, witnessing this moment of instant, unspoken connection.

A cough from Sir John broke the spell, reminding them of the world around them. "Well, then, shall we?" he chimed, leading the way with a knowing smile. Farrah and Colonel Brandon, still slightly dazed, followed, stepping into the festivities that awaited them, their hands reluctantly parting.

[itsfarrah]

|Chapter 5|

As the first blush of dawn tinged the sky, Farrah awoke, her spirits buoyed by the remnants of a whimsical dream featuring the Dashwoods at Sir John Middleton’s party. In her slumber, she had seen them engaged in a merry, if somewhat absurd, dance involving three-legged races and copious amounts of laughter. The incongruity of the vision brought a smile to her face as she sat up in bed, the sheets pooling around her.

She moved to her vanity, the morning light casting gentle illuminations across the room, and began to brush her hair. Her thoughts, unbidden, wandered to the forthcoming party, and the notion of a gentleman seeking her company caused her cheeks to bloom with color. She quickly dismissed these fancies with a shake of her head, laughing softly at her own silliness.

Her musings were abruptly interrupted as Margaret burst through the door, brimming with excitement. “Farrah, make haste! Breakfast awaits, and we mustn't tarry if we are to ready ourselves for the party!” Grabbing Farrah’s hand, Margaret pulled her toward the dining room where the scent of a warm meal filled the air.

At the breakfast table, Marianne and Mrs. Dashwood were already deep in conversation about the evening’s prospects, their voices a blend of excitement and eager anticipation. Elinor, ever the practical sister, was at the stove, flipping what appeared to be pancakes. She looked over her shoulder, her eyes twinkling as she teased Marianne and their mother, “Perhaps today we shall finally see our dear Marianne swept off her feet!”

The table burst into laughter, the joyous sound mingling with the clink of cutlery and dishes. As they ate, the conversation naturally drifted back to the party, each sharing their hopes and slight anxieties about the evening.

After breakfast, Farrah excused herself to prepare for the party. She took a leisurely bath, allowing the warmth to soothe her nerves. Once dried and dressed, she stood before the mirror. The gown she chose was reminiscent of the one worn by Pauline Bonaparte in the painting by Robert Lefèvre—elegant and striking with hues of blue, white, and gold, its design subtly challenging the typical English fashion with a dash of American boldness.

Her hair was styled in a loose bun with curls softly framing her face, enhancing her natural beauty without ostentation. A light touch of makeup and a pair of matching silk gloves completed her ensemble. She descended the stairs, her gown whispering against the steps.

The Dashwood family ceased their chatter, momentarily struck by Farrah’s appearance. Regaining their composure, they showered her with compliments, to which Farrah responded with modest demurs, deflecting the praise back onto them.Observing the faint blush coloring Farrah's cheeks, Mrs. Dashwood briskly gathered us all and ushered us into the carriage.

As the carriage wheels crunched the gravel beneath them, the conversation inside turned, at the behest of Mrs. Dashwood, to Colonel Brandon, the very mention of whom seemed to carry a certain weight of respect and intrigue.

“He is quite a sight, you know,” Marianne began, her eyes alight with the vividness of her description. “Tall, with an air of quiet strength, and his countenance—oh, it speaks of depth and the kind of handsome maturity one reads about in novels.”

“Not to mention his intellect and his admirable service in the army,” Elinor added, her tone reflecting both admiration and a hint of melancholy for the man’s past trials. “He has just returned from a strenuous deployment in the West Indies and Australia. It must have been quite taxing.”

Mrs. Dashwood nodded, her expression turning somber as she delved deeper into his history. “Poor soul, he has indeed been unlucky in love. Years ago, he was quite taken with a young woman named Eliza, a beauty of gentle disposition whom he intended to marry. But alas, fate was not kind. She was compelled to wed Colonel Brandon’s elder brother, a match of convenience that broke more than one heart.”

Marianne sighed, her romantic sensibilities clearly piqued. “And after his brother passed away, Eliza left him, vanishing from his life forever. One cannot help but feel for him; such misfortune in love is a cruel burden.”

“The poor man,” Elinor murmured, shaking her head. “It seems unjust that someone so deserving of happiness should be so thoroughly cursed by love’s caprices.”

The carriage fell into a brief silence, each lost in contemplation of Colonel Brandon’s plight, until Mrs. Dashwood, ever the matchmaker, brightened and said, “Perhaps, Farrah, someone fresh from different shores could change his luck. You are both new beginnings in your own right.”

Farrah, caught between amusement and bashfulness, managed a laugh. “Oh, Mrs. Dashwood, a distinguished man like him would hardly find what he needs in an American orphan like me.”

Their light-hearted banter filled the carriage as it rolled towards the Middleton estate, where the evening’s festivities awaited, and where, unbeknownst to Farrah, her fate might intertwine with the very man they discussed with such fervor.

Arriving at the party, they were greeted by the sound of laughter and music, the estate bustling with guests and festivity. As they alighted from the carriage, Farrah took a deep breath, steeling herself for the evening ahead, filled with both excitement and a hint of trepidation about the possibilities the night might hold.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Colonel Brandon awoke with a rare sense of tranquility that morning, the remnants of a pleasing dream lingering in his mind—a dream filled with laughter and light, a stark contrast to the last arduous eight months. It was a luxury to wake naturally, without the harsh summons of duty or the jarring sounds of a military encampment, and he savored the unfamiliar indulgence of arising late.

After dressing in simple attire, he descended to partake of a modest breakfast, enjoying the quietude that only a morning at one's own pace could offer. With a light meal concluded, Brandon donned his hat and strolled into his well-tended garden. The air was crisp, the garden lush with the bounty of late summer. He carefully selected an assortment of ripe fruits and crisp vegetables, envisioning them as a thoughtful offering to the Middletons. His next choice was a fine bottle of wine from his cellar—a vintage that had matured as gracefully as he hoped his own years were unfolding.

Once his gifts were prepared and set aside, Brandon retreated to the sanctuary of his personal quarters for a soothing bath. The warm water was a balm to his weary body, and he took his time shaving, ensuring his appearance was as meticulously tended as his estate. Clad in the outfit he had selected the night before he examined his reflection. The mirror showed a man marked by recent trials yet carrying himself with an enduring hope that perhaps, at today’s gathering, new joys might begin to soften the old scars.

Mounting his horse, Colonel Brandon felt a stirring of anticipation. The ride to the Middleton estate was brisk and invigorating, bolstering his spirits further. As he approached the familiar grounds, his thoughts were optimistic, tinted with a cautious excitement about the impending social gathering. This day, he mused, might yet hold more promise than any dream could foretell.

[itsfarrah]

|Chapter 4|

Colonel Brandon eased his horse down the familiar path leading to his estate, feeling each familiar dip and rise in the land beneath him. His mind wandered back to the harsh eight months spent on military assignments in the West Indies and Australia—a grueling tour of duty that tested his resolve and drained his spirit. The relentless sun, the unyielding sea, and the stern faces of men hardened by constant peril filled his thoughts, but with each hoofbeat toward home, the weight of those days began to lift.

As he rode, Brandon's thoughts inevitably turned to his personal life, or rather, the lack of it. Over the years, his military engagements had often come at the expense of his private happiness. Love had brushed past him, a whisper of what might have been, leaving him with memories of opportunities lost. Now, with what he hoped was his final mission behind him, a wave of sentimentality washed over him. Perhaps it was time to find someone to share in the quiet moments, someone whose love matched the fervor of his own. Yet, as he contemplated this possibility, he shook his head, dismissing it as unlikely fortune.

Upon arriving at his estate, he was greeted with the warm and familiar faces of his staff. Their genuine smiles and respectful nods were a balm to his weary soul. After a long bath to wash away the grime of his travels and a change into fresh garments, he was gently reminded by a maid that dinner awaited him.

Sitting alone at the grand dining table, surrounded by opulence meant for many, the empty chairs echoed his earlier musings. The possibility of sharing his life with someone seemed even more poignant now. Lost in these thoughts, a servant approached, presenting him with a letter sealed with Sir John Middleton's familiar stamp.

Breaking the seal, Brandon read about Sir John's understanding of the hardships he had faced and the invitation to a forthcoming garden party. The letter hinted at relaxation and perhaps, more intriguingly, the prospect of finding someone special. Sir John’s words, suggesting it was high time he found a companion who could love as deeply as he did, stirred something within him. Sighing he put the letter aside and finished his dinner in contemplative silence. He then withdrew to his study, where he hoped to immerse himself in anything that would distract himself from Sir Middleton's invitation. However, that proved easier said than done.

The Colonel, ensconced in his study and gradually immersing himself in the depths of his botanical tome, felt a lingering unrest stirring within him. As he pondered Sir John Middleton's invitation, the ramifications of attending the party began to occupy more of his thoughts. The cool night air wafted through an open window, carrying with it the scent of the gardens below—those meticulously kept expanses that were, to him, both sanctuary and solitude.

He placed the book aside and walked over to the window, gazing out at the serene darkness settling over his estate. "It's an opportunity, is it not?" he spoke softly to himself, considering the gentle push from Sir John towards companionship. "A chance to step beyond these walls, not just in duty but perhaps for personal fulfillment as well."

Drawing in a deep breath, he continued, "I've seen much of the world—its wildness, its beauty, and its trials. Yet, here, in my own heart's landscape, there lies an uncharted territory." He paused, his reflection faintly visible against the glass. "Could there truly be someone at this party who might share such a vision? Someone to share not just idle chatter but the quieter, deeper conversations I've longed for?"

Colonel Brandon chuckled quietly at his own hopeful musings. "And what of love? A notion so easily spoken of by others but such a rare visitor to my own life." The thought seemed both a balm and a fear, a possibility he had often dismissed but which now seemed worth considering. "Well," he murmured, turning from the window, "perhaps the evening will reveal more than just the same old dance of social niceties. Perhaps."

He picked up his pen, his hand steadier now, and wrote a brief note of acceptance to Sir John's invitation. As he sealed the envelope, he allowed himself to entertain the hope, however slight, that this garden party might indeed be the catalyst for something new, something meaningful. "To new beginnings, however they may come," he whispered, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he handed the letter to his waiting servant.

Watching his servant leave with the letter, Colonel Brandon felt a subtle lift in his spirits, a slight loosening of the weight he had carried since his return. The decision made, there was now a sort of eagerness in him, a readiness to face whatever the garden party might bring, whether it be tedious company or delightful encounters.

He ascended the staircase to his bedchamber, his steps slow but steady. There, he opened the doors of his wardrobe, contemplating his attire for the upcoming occasion. He selected a fine, dark blue coat and matching waistcoat, which he laid out carefully on his bed, along with a crisply starched white shirt and a subtly patterned cravat. Ensuring everything was in order for the tailor's review on the morrow, he felt a renewed sense of purpose.

With his attire chosen, Colonel Brandon allowed himself a few moments of quiet reflection by the window, looking out over the moonlit grounds of his estate. The quiet of the night soothed his nerves, and a gentle breeze whispered through the open window, carrying with it the scent of the blooming gardens below.

Finally, feeling the day's weariness encroach once more, he extinguished the candles and settled into bed. As he lay in the darkness, his thoughts drifted to the forthcoming party, to the faces it might bring into his life, and to the faint, yet distinct possibility of finding someone who could truly share his heart and home. With these hopeful thoughts, he drifted into a peaceful sleep, the first in many nights not haunted by the shadows of the past.

[itsfarrah]

|Chapter 3|

The days following my arrival at Barton Cottage passed in a whirlwind of new experiences and warm companionship. Each morning, I awoke to the gentle sounds of birdsong filtering through the window, a welcome contrast to the cacophony of city life back in America.

As the sun climbed higher in the sky, casting dappled shadows across the garden, the Dashwood family and I embarked upon our daily routine. Mrs. Dashwood tended to her beloved roses, imparting her wisdom on their care as we meandered through the flower beds. Margaret skipped ahead, her laughter mingling with the rustle of leaves as she chased butterflies through the garden.

Elinor, with her practical demeanor, busied herself with household tasks, organizing the pantry and attending to correspondence. Despite the mundane nature of her duties, she approached each task with a quiet efficiency that left me in awe of her capabilities.

Meanwhile, Marianne and I retreated to the parlor, where she indulged my curiosity with tales of English literature and music. With each passing hour, I found myself captivated by her enthusiasm and passion for the arts, eager to absorb every word she uttered.

As the afternoon waned into evening, we gathered around the table for a simple yet satisfying meal, the clatter of cutlery and lively conversation filling the air. We feasted on roasted chicken, accompanied by buttered peas and mashed potatoes, followed by a delectable apple tart for dessert. Between bites, the Dashwood sisters engaged in animated discussion, exchanging tidbits of gossip from the town.

"And did you hear about the recent scandal involving the Thompsons?" Marianne exclaimed, her eyes alight with excitement. "It seems that Mr. Thompson was caught in a compromising situation with Mrs. Smith at the local inn!"

Elinor shook her head in disbelief. "Scandalous indeed," she murmured, her brow furrowed in concern. "It's a wonder how such rumors spread like wildfire in our small community."

Just as Mrs. Dashwood was about to reprimand us for discussing such unladylike matters, a servant entered the room, bearing a letter addressed to the Dashwood family. With eager anticipation, Mrs. Dashwood broke the seal and began to read aloud.

"My dear Dashwood family," she began, her voice carrying a note of excitement. "I am delighted to extend an invitation to a dinner and garden party at Norland Park, hosted by Sir John Middleton. The event is to take place in two days' time, and he kindly requests the pleasure of our company, as well as that of our dear guest, Miss Farrah."

The room erupted into joyful exclamations, each member of the Dashwood family expressing their delight at the prospect of attending such a prestigious event. Marianne's eyes sparkled with excitement, while Elinor nodded in agreement, already considering the logistics of our attendance. Margaret clapped her hands in delight, eager for the chance to explore the grounds of Norland Park.

As Mrs. Dashwood folded the letter and set it aside, she turned to explain to me who Sir John Middleton was. "Sir John is a dear friend of our family and a respected gentleman in the neighborhood," she began. "He is known for his generous hospitality and his fondness for hosting grand gatherings at his estate. His garden parties are particularly renowned, filled with music, dancing, and lively conversation."

Marianne chimed in, her excitement palpable. "And the guests! You'll have the opportunity to meet some of the most esteemed families in the area. The Middletons are well-connected, and their parties are always attended by a delightful mix of society's finest."

Margaret, ever the irrepressible one, interjected with a mischievous grin. "Who knows, perhaps one of us will find a dashing suitor amidst the festivities," she teased, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

Elinor raised an eyebrow, casting a pointed glance at her sister. "Indeed," she replied dryly, her lips quirking into a small smile. "Though I suspect Marianne may be the one to catch the eye of a certain gentleman."

Marianne's cheeks flushed pink as she swatted playfully at her sister. "Oh, hush, Elinor," she protested, her laughter filling the room.

But Marianne, ever perceptive, noticed the blush that had spread across my cheeks. With a playful glint in her eye, she turned her attention to me. "And what of you, dear Farrah?" she asked, her tone teasing. "Do you anticipate the arrival of a charming suitor at Sir John's party?"

Feeling the weight of their teasing, I blushed furiously, my gaze falling to my hands in embarrassment. "Well," I began, my voice hesitant. "I suppose I am open to the idea of finding a suitable gentleman, but I shan't get my hopes up too high."

Elinor and Mrs. Dashwood exchanged knowing glances before Elinor spoke with a reassuring smile. "Oh, my dear Farrah, there is no doubt that you will capture the attention of a fine gentleman at the party," she said confidently.

Mrs. Dashwood nodded in agreement. "Indeed, my dear," she added, her eyes twinkling with maternal warmth. "You are a charming and delightful young lady, and I have no doubt that there will be many suitors vying for your affections at Sir John's party."

Grateful for their words of encouragement, I nodded in agreement, hoping to bring an end to the teasing. But before I could utter another word, Marianne and Margaret seized upon the opportunity to indulge their penchant for fashion.

"Come, sisters," Marianne exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "We must begin planning our attire for the party at once!"

Margaret clapped her hands in agreement. "Indeed!" she declared. "We shall pick out the most elegant dresses, the finest makeup, and the most stylish hairstyles. We shall be the belles of the ball!"

And so, under the watchful eyes of Marianne and Margaret, we embarked upon a whirlwind of satin and lace, trying on dresses and experimenting with hairstyles until the late hours of the night. As I retired to my chamber that evening, the image of the Dashwood sisters' laughter and camaraderie filled me with a sense of belonging, eager for the adventures that awaited us at Norland Park.

[itsfarrah]

|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.

Among these were hand-drawn pictures of flowers, a house resembling the cottage, and what I could only assume was an endearingly poor attempt at depicting a sheep and a cow in one. I smiled at this, realizing how delightful it must have been to grow up with siblings. My reverie was interrupted by Margaret, who bade me follow her as she would show me to my room. As we ascended the stairs, passing a room that I assumed was Margaret’s, adorned with crayons and dolls, we reached my chamber. Before I had the chance to open the door, Margaret spoke in a shy, soft voice, admitting that while it was not the largest room, she hoped I would find it to my liking. She also mentioned a surprise awaiting me on my bed, one she had crafted herself. I must admit, my heart quickened at the mention, for I had not expected any further kindness after their generous offer to shelter me during my time of need.

After settling into my room—a snug sanctuary that immediately spoke to its own unique charm—I was struck by the quaint yet thoughtful touches arranged just for me. The walls were painted a soft, calming shade of dove grey, offset by white trim that gave the space a clean and airy feel. An antique wooden writing desk sat near the window, its surface polished to a warm glow, paired with a matching chair that beckoned me to sit and pen my thoughts. Beside it, a small bookshelf was stocked with an array of books, ranging from poetry to novels, each spine hinting at the many evenings I might spend lost in other worlds.

The bed, draped in a delicate white lace coverlet, stood invitingly against one wall. Upon it lay a drawing, a gift from young Margaret Dashwood. It was a sweet attempt at capturing the surrounding landscape, with uneven lines forming a meadow and a wobbly stream that zigzagged across the paper. The flowers and trees were boldly colored outside their outlines, a testament to the earnest effort of a child. Attached to the picture was a note in Margaret’s sprawling hand, welcoming me to my new home. Her charming attempt at artistry brought a smile to my face and added a personal warmth that made the room truly feel like mine.

The rest of the furniture included a sturdy, oak armoire for my belongings and a small, round table adorned with a vase of fresh flowers that scented the room with the fragrance of the garden. Everything about this space was designed to comfort and soothe, reflecting the Dashwood family’s graciousness and their intent to make me feel welcomed and loved.

After surveying the confines of my chamber, I embarked upon the task of unpacking my belongings. Though the bulk of my possessions comprised garments and sundries, I took special care in arranging certain items within the chamber. A treasured tome, a copy of "Romeo and Juliet" bestowed upon me by my father on the occasion of my sixteenth birthday, found its place upon the modest bookshelf adorning the room. Beside it, I positioned the silver hairbrush gifted to me by my mother, alongside a delicately embroidered handkerchief bearing floral motifs intertwined with my initials, resting near my brush.

Yet, amongst these tokens of familial affection, none held greater significance than the portrait bestowed upon me by my parents in celebration of my eighteenth year. Though initially reluctant to undergo such an endeavor, deeming it a frivolous expenditure of time and effort, the prospect of immortalizing our familial bond swayed my resolve. It was to be our first and, regrettably, our last family portrait. The mere recollection of those poignant moments spent in the artist's studio, each stroke of the brush a solemn testament to our unity, now elicited a poignant pang within my breast.

Reflecting upon the portrait's role as the culmination of our familial legacy, the notion that its creation inadvertently heralded the onset of my parents' affliction weighed heavily upon my mind. In a cruel twist of fate, what had begun as a gesture of familial devotion had become the indelible emblem of our final shared memory. As a solitary tear traced a silent path down my cheek, I found myself ensnared in a labyrinth of bittersweet remembrance, grappling with the weight of a past irretrievably lost.

A sudden knock at my chamber door disrupted my reverie. Hastily, I brushed away the lingering tear stains from my countenance before answering the summons. Standing before me was Marianne, her gaze perhaps catching sight of my troubled visage, though she made no mention of it—a kindness for which I was profoundly grateful.

"We have prepared some tea and sandwiches, should you care to partake," she offered, her words delivered with an air of unaffected warmth.

I accepted her invitation with gratitude, assuring her that I would join them presently. Taking a moment to compose myself, I endeavored to restore a semblance of composure to my appearance before descending the stairs to join the company below. The air was rich with the scent of freshly brewed tea and the soft cadence of their voices as we exchanged tales and shared laughter. Despite being far from my homeland, I felt a burgeoning sense of belonging enveloped by their genuine warmth.

As the afternoon faded into evening, and I stood by the window watching the last rays of sunlight paint the garden in hues of gold, a profound sense of peace settled over me. Here, in this quaint English village, embraced by the gentle care of the Dashwood family, I dared to nurture a flicker of hope—a hope for new beginnings, new friendships, and a willingness to embrace whatever life or fate brings my way.

[itsfarrah]

|CHAPTER 1|

"Remember, my dear Farrah," my father whispered, his voice weakened by illness but still filled with conviction, "in every storm, remember the lessons of our love. Let it be your compass, guiding you through the darkest nights and the roughest seas."

Those were his last words to me, uttered with a tenderness that would forever echo in my heart. The memory of that moment, of his steady gaze and the warmth of his touch, would be etched into my soul for eternity.

My father, a man of towering intellect and gentle spirit, had been my guiding light throughout my childhood. His own upbringing had been marked by hardship and estrangement, as his own father, a stern and unforgiving man, had sent him away to boarding school in an attempt to "make a man out of him." Yet, my father emerged from those formative years with grace and resilience, his spirit unbroken by the cruelty of his father.

It was at Oxford University, where my father had been sent to study against his will, that he found solace and friendship in the form of Edward Dashwood. United by their shared experiences and a mutual love for knowledge, they became lifelong friends, their bond forged in the fires of adversity.

But it was in America that my father's star truly rose. With a keen eye for opportunity and a sharp mind for business, he had built and owned railroads that crisscrossed the nation, connecting cities and communities in ways never thought possible. His ventures had made him a titan of industry, a man of immense wealth and influence both in America and abroad.

Through his astute trading with England, he had further solidified his fortune, leveraging his connections and expertise to navigate the complex world of international commerce. His dealings had brought prosperity to our family, allowing us to live a life of luxury and privilege that few could ever dream of.

My mother, a woman of quiet strength and unwavering love, had been the heart of our home. Her gentle demeanor belied a fierce determination and a fierce love for her family. She had nurtured me with tenderness and care, her presence a source of comfort and solace in even the darkest of times.

As an only child, I was the apple of my parents' eye, and they spared no expense in my education and upbringing. Our home was a sanctuary of knowledge and curiosity, with shelves overflowing with books from every corner of the globe.

Together, they had created a home filled with warmth and laughter, where love was the guiding force that bound us together.Though their time with me had been cut tragically short, their love would live on in me, a beacon of hope to light my way through the storms that lay ahead.

As I wandered through the now desolate corridors, once vibrant with the echoes of love and laughter, I couldn't help but long for the warmth that once permeated every corner of our grand abode. Standing at the threshold of my new life in England, with the Dashwoods as the only family I had left, I felt a mix of fear and optimism coursing through my veins. The journey ahead was uncertain, but I knew that with their love and support, I would find the strength to embrace the challenges and forge a new path forward. And so, with a heavy heart and a hopeful spirit, I stepped forward into the unknown, ready to begin anew.

[itsfarrah]

♡Hello! This is my first time posting on tumblr, and this is my first time writing, so any suggestions or comments would be great ( if anyone reads this, lol)! Im currently obsessed with Colonel Brandon from Sense and Sensibility. I will fair warn you that the details may not be completely accurate, but I will try my best to be! Anyways, here's some background info! ♡

Title: An Unexpected Affection

Plot Summary:

Set in the scenic landscapes of 19th century England, An Unexpected Affection follows Colonel Christopher Brandon, a dignified and reserved gentleman, and Farrah, a spirited and cultured young woman from America. Taken in by the Dashwood family after the tragic death of her influential parents, Farrah's arrival at Barton Cottage stirs a new sense of life into the quaint English countryside. As Farrah navigates the complexities of English society and the Dashwood family’s reduced circumstances, her presence captivates Colonel Brandon, who is a close friend of the Dashwoods.

Key Characters:

• Colonel Christopher Brandon: A wealthy landowner with a somber past. He is thoughtful, observant, and inherently kind, though often perceived as reserved.

• Farrah: A vibrant, intelligent, and somewhat unconventional young woman, aged 18, who brings a breath of fresh air into the traditional English society. She is curious, bold, and deeply empathetic, owing to her cultured upbringing.

• Mrs. Dashwood: The kind and gentle matriarch of the Dashwood family, who has always treated Farrah as her own.

• Elinor and Marianne Dashwood: the daughters of Mrs.Dashwood and practically farrahs big sisters , each dealing with their own romantic and personal struggles throughout the story.

|Chapter1|

|Chapter 2|

|Chapter 3|

|Chapter 4|

|Chapter 5|

|Chapter 6|