Time & Tide - Original Wattpad Version

Chapter Eighteen: In Which Jessie Meets Margaret

To be perfectly honest, I had forgotten, okay?

In the wake of what had been a pretty fucking miserable night, between breaking Elizabeth's heart a little bit and spending most of my time alone in the darkness grieving - properly, finally grieving - for the world, and life, and people I had been forced to leave behind, and the lack of sleep... I had just plain forgotten that I was supposed to be meeting Margaret Goodenough in the morning.

So when I came downstairs in my crumpled jeans and tee-shirt with sore, puffy eyes, chapped lips, and what was probably an epic amount of bedhead, I just shuffled into the breakfast room. My only aim and sole intent was to grab some tea and toast, and plod back up to my room to be miserable alone. It was just past seven, but the sideboard was already filled with apples and fruit spreads, cheese and eggs, sausages and some kind of fish - gross. Otherwise the room was empty and silent, lucky for me, so I decided to stay and hunker down next to the source of caffeine while I could.

Feeling crusty and grimy, wrung out and worn thin, and all the other things you are when you're processing the death of everyone you've ever loved, I plopped myself with absolutely no grace whatsoever into the first chair I literally stumbled against. I ended up rocking the table a bit, but whatever, I was alone.

Except, no.

An annoyed little sound, a tiny feminine grumble, echoed from the far side of the table. Blinking, surprised, I turned my face to the other side of the room. Way at the end, with six chairs and the width of the table between us, a young woman wrapped in a well-loved quilted housecoat, blonde curls trying to escape from a askew sleep cap, glowered at me.

"Fuck," I said, feelingly. The teacup dropped from my hand.

Luckily, it didn't have far to go, and clattered down into the saucer with a noise loud enough to make me wince. Hot tea splashed against my chest, but I ignored it.

"Goodness!" the woman at the other end of the table blurted. "Are you well?"

"I'm, uh, fine," I said, my voice strangled and grief-rough. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, I mean, I didn't think... how did you...?"

The woman, who I now realized had working on something that was propped up on a sort of wedge-shaped tabletop music-stand-slash-paper holder. She had a pencil on the tablecloth beside her, graphite smudged up the side of her hand. And she was glowering at me.

"We got in very early this morning, and I decided that I would try to get some work in," she replied. "While it was still quiet."

"Right, uh, I'll just," I said, jerking my thumb at the door. I stood, running my good hand over the disaster that was my hair, oh god. I was a sweaty disaster bisexual, and the woman at the other end of the table had blue-grey eyes like gimlets, and a frown that could cut glass, and Jesus fucking Christ, she was writing, and now that I was paying attention her face was the same shape as Francis', and she had that same kissable cupid's bow upper lip and this was a goddamned mess. I turned to the door and started to make good on my escape.

"Miss Franklin!" she called, and I froze on the spot, shoulders up around my ears. "You are Miss Franklin, aren't you?"

I nodded, terrified of what my voice might do. There was the sound of shuffling papers and I didn't dare look around. I could feel the weight of her gaze on me and it made every short hair I possessed prickle upright.

"Pleasure to meet you," she said, and it sounded teasing and smug and, oh my god, Margaret Goodenough was laughing at me. Silently, but laughing all the same.

"Pleasure's all mine," I croaked.

"Which is precisely why you are fleeing as if your train has caught fire, I presume," she said. I couldn't help the snort of laughter that floated out of my chest. Something deep inside me, still brittle with damp grief, cracked a bit. My shoulders dropped.