(From Margaret’s diary)
I have begun and, for my very first effort, it is really going rather splendidly. I do not think even Marianne could have conceived an outline superior, though I doubt its being very improving. Instead, it is thrillingly exciting, boasting dangerous highwaymen, perfidious dragoons and hauntings of all sorts. This is the beginning of my romance:
The beauteous Lady Arabella was very beautiful indeed. She had hair as black as midnight and azure eyes and everyone who saw her admired her. She was greatly admired, from the top of her tumultuous hair to her tiny shoe-roses, by everyone who clasped eyes upon her. Everyone who beheld her must admire her, and bore their neighbour with how exceedingly lovely she was.
Only yesterday I had thought this quite divine, but today, I greatly fear… nothing is occurring. It is all loveliness, beauty and shoe roses. Mrs Radcliffe would have been ashamed! I tore it up and began again.
The moon shot through the landscape like a dagger, showing up the haggard ruin of the castle’s twisted yet amazingly picturesque visage. Through the cemetery crawled the macabre hand of the lost nobleman, Sir Roger. It had been lost – alas, alack – in the duel which had ended the empty forlornities of his life.
This, I cannot help but think, has the makings of something rather splendid. But where ought the castle to be? I had thought of Italy, where so many authors set murders, castles and any number of horrid mysteries. But here I am at a sad disadvantage, for I have never been to Italy – nor am I ever likely to visit it – and I have no wish to make myself a laughing stock. Instead, I long to have all London almost desperate to discover who the mysterious ‘lady’ author might be – for ‘by a lady’ is the correct method of keeping an avid populace agog as to one’s identity. (That is, until everyone finds it out.)
I think about this quite often in the middle of the night, when fighting slumber.
(Later.) I have decided that Northumberland is safe, for no one I know of has even visited it – and it is distant enough to sound wild, dangerous, uncontained, rich with thick forests, sinuous swamps and dark ravines. Though, as I wished to be absolutely sure, I asked Marianne after dinner, ‘Is not Northumberland a very wild place? ’Tis close to Wales, is it not?’
‘Not at all, it is quite the other way. Were you to leave Wales for England, and to progress east, you would find yourself in Northumberland. Were you to move north from Northumberland, why, you would be as far north as Scotland! Have you lost your map of the British Isles?’
‘But is it not very wild?’ I asked, feeling rather disappointed (in Northumberland, especially).
‘Wild? Are you thinking of wolves or wild boar, perhaps?’ asked Marianne.
‘No. I was thinking of wild and misty hills, craggy ravines and stormy winds.’
‘There are forested hills certainly, and heather moors, and it is said to be very pretty,’ said Marianne, looking for some reason rather amused. ‘I am doubtful about ravines, however – I should rather have thought of those as being in the north of Wales, which also boasts waterfalls and great peaks.’
Wales did sound delightful. But I have got Northumberland in my head and cannot seem to relinquish it. | 
