August 1894

Today was a busy day. Margot was up before dawn to bury her dolls in the garden after all died gruesome deaths in a shipwreck off the coast of Africa. (Jobena was the sole survivor but wouldn’t live long, poor thing, as she had a whopping case of Scarlet Fever). She had just gotten to the best bit when the widows and orphans were wailing and throwing flowers, when Nanny discovered her and made her go-into-the-house-and-change-your-frock-for-heaven’s-sake-you-heathen-child. After a fidgety luncheon and a fidgetier hour listening to Father read the Bible (all “begats” and no “smite”), she spent the afternoon in a tree spying on the neighbor boy and dropping marbles into Mr. Fitzwilliam’s koi pond. She eventually came down for tea, and was now waiting until the coast was clear to hide her crumpets in the piano.