Molly had been waiting for Potter to make an honest woman of her daughter for some time now (about as long as she'd been waiting for anyone to make honest men out of her sons, Merlin help her), and had certainly pictured Ginny coming to her one day and telling her that Harry had finally popped the question. She did not expect to find out from a post by the bloody Queen herself. Just, casually, as she was sipping her tea and waiting on a vegetable stock to cook through.
She knew it wasn't Ginny's fault. Maybe Harry's-- fine, probably not. But it was quite a shock. She was, frankly, jealous. Of the Queen, of the Potters, who were there to witness her baby girl being proposed to. Again, no one's fault, but lucky Lily Potter got to watch her son propose, and Molly found out via a journal entry by the bloody Queen. It was fine, just fine.
She wasn't angry. Just disappointed.
But it wasn't Ginny's fault. Perhaps she should blame the Queen. Oh, that was a dangerous sentiment, but much easier to blame someone she would never speak with.
"In here, dear!" Molly called from the sitting room, where she was folding a small hoard of freshly washed quilts. Arguably enough for an army.