Titterington, Spring 1781
Meg scrutinized herself carefully in the looking glass on her bedroom chest of drawers. On second glance, she decided, there was nothing terribly wrong with her reflection, as she peered closely in the mirror for any sign of blotches, spots or, God forbid, crow’s feet, on her unblemished complexion.
She let out an unladylike sigh. It was not in her character to have silly moods and megrims. After all, life was good and she had nothing to complain about.
Spring had nearly sprung and a return from town to life in the countryside was tolerable as a result. She was staying rent-free in the little cottage in Titterington that she loved, which was situated conveniently to her close companions, the Whitmores, and their charming family. She was in the pink of health, f
