Expectations of Happiness (17 page)

It was with considerable difficulty that she let him continue, knowing that he had neither the right nor any logical reason for asking that she do so. Yet, it was impossible for her not to be moved by his story, the facts of which were already known to her. That he had wanted to impress on her the depth of his love for her, to ask her to believe that he still loved her, that he had dared even to suggest that his affections were deeper and stronger than Colonel Brandon's could have been—in all these claims, Marianne wanted to believe him. Not because she had spent the intervening years longing for his return, for she had long accepted that he was gone out of her life forever, but because she still wanted to believe that he really had been the romantic young cavalier she had fallen in love with when she was seventeen. It had been the strongest, most passionate experience of her young life; nothing, certainly not her subsequent marriage, had surpassed the exquisite excitement of that first love, and Marianne wished to treasure it. Willoughby, by his passionate confession, had given her a chance to do just that.

The sound of the carriage in the drive reminded them that there was still a journey of several miles to travel before she could be returned to Delaford, and Willoughby, who had been standing before her, appealing to her, rushed out of the room into the hall. He returned soon afterward to assist her with her cloak and help her into the carriage, and directed the driver to make for Delaford Manor. They left almost immediately; this time in the warm darkness of the carriage he sat beside her and, having ensured she was comfortably settled in, took her hand in his and held it throughout the journey, as though he had every right to do so.

Marianne was reluctant to say or do anything to discourage him, lest it should alert the servant sitting on the box, but as they drove on she had to admit that she had not really wished to, either. She had drawn some comfort from the intimacy of the contact and hoped that it would convey the sympathy she had felt but had been unable to put into words. When they drove into the grounds of Delaford Manor, she turned to him on impulse and said in a low voice, “Willoughby, I am sorry, truly sorry,” whereupon, he kissed her hand and said, “Bless you, Marianne, my dearest, and thank you for letting me speak.”

When the carriage stopped at the front porch, Willoughby's man assisted her to alight and unloaded her luggage, whilst his master sat back in the carriage, so as not to be recognised by the staff at Delaford, who had rushed to the door on hearing the vehicle arrive. Marianne went indoors and retired upstairs directly, explaining to her housekeeper that a horse had gone lame and delayed her return journey from the Percevals'.

The housekeeper informed her that Mr and Mrs Ferrars had called earlier that evening to ask if she had returned from Bath. “Should I send a man round to the parsonage with a message, ma'am? They were very concerned that you had been delayed.” Marianne agreed that it was a good idea. “Yes, please, Mrs Jenkins, and ask Molly to prepare my bath. It has been a long day and I am very tired indeed; I think I shall bathe and go directly to bed,” she said. “Shall I bring you some tea, ma'am?” Mrs Jenkins asked and Marianne replied, “Yes, I should like that, Mrs Jenkins, thank you.”

Sleep did not come easily that night, as Marianne, having bathed and partaken of tea, had hoped it would. Instead, she lay awake thinking through the events of the day, reliving every moment, and hearing again the words Willoughby had spoken.

She could not, as she was sure her sisters would urge her to do, dismiss everything he had said from her mind, even though she knew that it had been part of his attempt to excuse the inexcusable, to place before her his own sorrow and ask her to forgive his conduct. That he had blamed everyone else involved in the sordid episode did not resonate with her, keen as she was to see in his changed demeanour signs of genuine contrition and even a new humility, which she deemed was in accord with her expectations of him.

Even as she relived it, and heard again the words he had spoken, she could not resist the intensity of his passionate declaration, nor could she ignore her own warm response to his words and touch. Nothing had moved her as they had done; she knew in her heart that all the care and concern that Colonel Brandon had lavished upon her, the warm affection with which he had cherished and protected her, had not evoked such a deep response.

Marianne, together with her mother and sisters, had been deeply grateful to Colonel Brandon, and their gratitude had been demonstrated through the level of friendly intimacy that had been extended to him whenever he visited them at Cleveland and later at Barton Cottage. He had been permitted to call as often as he thought necessary to assure himself of her health and the well-being of the rest of her family, to assist them in whatever way he felt was appropriate, until it had become apparent that his deep affection for Marianne could not be denied and he had obtained her mother's permission to propose to her.

Marianne recalled the sense of inevitability that had surrounded her acceptance of Colonel Brandon's offer of marriage and the general happiness that preceded their wedding; it was as though the entire family, from Sir John Middleton and Mrs Jennings to Edward, Elinor, and her mother, had all prepared themselves to rejoice with the couple and so they had. Shocked and dismayed by Willoughby's behaviour, they were all so convinced of Colonel Brandon's decency and generosity that there appeared to be no need to ask whether she would be happy with him—no one doubted that she would.

Now, some seven years later, Marianne could not comprehend how swiftly she had changed from her belief that her destiny was only to be moved by irresistible passion to an acceptance that kindness and compassion together with honest affection were sufficient to make a happy marriage. If they were, then how, she asked herself, was it possible for her to be thrown into such moral confusion by the return of the man who had wooed her with ardour and charm, only to betray her when matters of money and social status intervened?

Try as she might, she could not explain or excuse her response to Willoughby's recent advances—which, even as she understood that they were calculated to win her trust, had nonetheless succeeded in moving her closer to a state when she could forgive his past for the intensity of his present feelings. It was a conundrum to which she had no answer.

Although she did not acknowledge it, Marianne was not yet free from the tyranny of her youthful devotion to romanticism; clearly missing the depth of passion she had once demanded in all her attachments, she thought she was rediscovering it in a reformed Willoughby.

Roused from her bed by the maid, who brought in her tea, she awoke with her mind in the same state of confusion. Deciding that she would go for a long walk in the woods and let the fresh air clear her thoughts, Marianne dressed and went down to breakfast.

In Provence, Claire Jones and Margaret Dashwood were preparing to return to England, having correctly interpreted the first signs of the Mistral as heralding the arrival of winter into the Mediterranean. They had but four days before it would be time to return to Marseilles and the vessel that would take them back to Plymouth, when Claire surprised her friend with the news that Nicholas and she planned to go away together to a little place in the lower slopes of the Alpilles.

“Nicholas has asked me to marry him,” Claire said quietly, and before Margaret, who had long suspected Mr Wilcox of being in love with her friend, could respond, she added, “I am not sure it's what I want, but I am very fond of him and I do not wish to refuse him without discovering if I do want to marry him or not.”

Margaret did not know what to say; she had, over the years, become quite accustomed to her friend's liberal views regarding relationships, which she had accepted as part of the sophistication that gave Claire Jones a particular
savoir faire
, which perturbed some of the straitlaced denizens of Dorsetshire. However, Margaret had never been confronted with a situation such as was being proposed now and she found it exceedingly difficult to respond. Determined not to appear prudish, she was nevertheless concerned about her friend's reputation and asked in the most innocuous way if Claire had considered all the consequences of such a scheme.

“Of course I have,” she replied. “Should it be talked about back in England, I shall probably be labelled a wanton hussy; but no one will know, Margaret, except the four of us and I know I can trust you not to gossip. As for Daniel Brooke, Nicholas would trust him with his life! No one here cares—they adore lovers and enjoy seeing them together.”

Margaret was confused. “I think you already know you love Nicholas, he certainly loves you…” she began, and when Claire nodded, she asked, “Then why must you—?” Anticipating her question, Claire interrupted her. “Because, my dear young friend, I have believed myself in love before and become engaged only to find that I was not. It is not a pleasant prospect. Fortunately, it was easy enough to become disengaged. But this is the first time I have seriously contemplated matrimony and I must discover if I love Nicholas enough to want to settle into marriage at twenty-seven and not regret it.”

Seeing Margaret's troubled countenance, she added, “Now, Margaret, you are not going to be all miss-ish and disapprove of me, are you?” to which Margaret could only reply, in as lighthearted a manner as she could muster, “Of course not, but anyone can see he loves you desperately, Claire, so do take care you don't break his heart.”

Claire laughed, the long, uninhibited laugh that Margaret enjoyed so much, and said lightly, “I shan't do that, I know he loves me and I am exceedingly fond of him; I just need to know if I love him enough to want to marry him and change my life completely. It would be far worse to discover after marriage that I did not. I see that you, my dear friend, are not concerned that I may do some damage to my own heart. You must be confident of my good sense at least. But seriously, you must not worry about us at all; Nicholas knows the people we will stay with, we shall be quite safe and expect to be back on Monday afternoon,” she said and then, seeking to reassure her friend, added, “Meanwhile, Daniel Brooke has promised to look after you and see that you are not bored. He believes there are one or two places you might like to visit before you leave Provence.”

Margaret assured her that she would certainly not be bored, and Claire left, having promised to tell her friend everything when she returned, and urged her to enjoy the last of their vacation. “As you know, Daniel is an excellent travelling companion; he will ensure that you are kept occupied and safe.”

***

That evening, Margaret was entirely alone for the first time and retired to her room directly after supper. She was hoping to finish a letter to Elinor and had just settled down to write, when a maid knocked on her door to say she had a visitor in the parlour. Surprised and curious, Margaret went down to find Daniel Brooke seated in front of the fire. He rose as she entered the room and said, a little awkwardly, “About tomorrow—I wondered if you would… I thought it might be best… I wasn't sure if Miss Jones had said…” Clearly he was unsure if she knew that Claire and Nicholas had gone away together, she thought, and to save them both some awkwardness, she said quickly, “Oh yes, she did. I know they are away for a few days, and in truth, Daniel, I do not want you to feel you have to look after me while they're away. I am well able to wander around on my own after all this time. You must not think that you—” but he interrupted her then.

“I was not thinking that at all,” he said, and she stopped speaking as he continued. “I thought it might be a good opportunity to pay a visit to the little village in the valley by the lake, which we passed on our way north; there is an abbey church there which is very ancient, and I recall you saying you would have liked to see more of it. I thought, if you wished to go tomorrow, we could. I called tonight, because if you decided to go, it would mean leaving quite early, soon after breakfast—the days are shorter now and the journey would take a few hours.”

Margaret was struck by the gentle reasonableness of his tone and suffered pangs of guilt at having spoken as she had done. He must think her ungrateful and silly, she thought, and apologised. “I'm sorry, Daniel, I did not mean to sound unappreciative of your kindness; I do recall the church and the lake—it was a beautiful place, and of course, I should love to go back and see it properly. It was very kind of you to remember, thank you.”

Whereupon, he said, “That's good; I'll call for you at nine and do remember to wear something warm—it can get quite cold there, it's much closer to the mountains.” She thanked him again, grateful for his concern, and as he moved to the door, he added in a gentler voice, “It wasn't kindness, Margaret; I was perfectly happy to keep you company while the others were away, and the church at Le Lac du Sainte Germaine is a particular favourite of mine.”

Margaret smiled and bade him good night. Returning to her room, she decided to leave her letter to Elinor until the following night—there would be more to tell, she thought. Instead, she made a brief note in her diary before she retired to bed that night:

I do feel quite wretched about my words to Daniel; it was a stupid thing to say when he was being so kind, offering to spend his time going out to visit the old abbey church at Sainte Germaine with me, which I did want very much to see, and quite unforgivable, especially after Claire had arranged it all. Yet, he is such a good, generous-hearted man, he was at pains to assure me he had taken no offence, but I still feel such a fool. I must be on my best behaviour tomorrow.

***

The morning was bright with clear blue skies and no sign of the winds that would presage the onset of winter. Daniel Brooke arrived in a small vehicle that looked like a gig, but had a hard top, which was useful in cold weather. It was smaller and yet looked quite comfortable inside. Margaret smiled when she saw it. He thought she might be concerned about its stability and reassured her, “Don't worry, it's a lot stronger than it looks, and I've used this one before on longer journeys—the owner is a friend of mine.” She laughed and said, “I was not worried about its safety; it's just that I have never seen a gig with a hard top before—not in Devon at any rate.”

“They're popular in France, the young men around town seem to favour them—and I imagine there would be some in London, too,” he said as he helped her in, and she admitted that she had not lived in London in years.

“Apart from a short visit two years ago at Christmas, when the weather was so dreadful that we stayed indoors all day, I cannot recall when we were last in London.”

He confessed that he had no liking for the city either. “I find all that carousing and merry-making that goes on is not to my taste. I do need to visit the British Museum regularly for my work, and when it is done, I tend to get away from London as fast as I can.”

Mention of the British Museum brought a sparkle to Margaret's eyes. “I should love to visit the Museum; Edward has told us a great deal about it, but none of us has ever been; one must have to be a scholar of some repute, I expect,” she said. He smiled at her enthusiasm and said, “Not at all, the museum's charter grants admission ‘to all studious and curious persons' and I am sure you qualify on both counts, Margaret,” adding in a very matter-of-fact voice, “Well, the next time I am in England and visiting the museum, you can join me.” Margaret looked quickly at his face to see if he was teasing her, only to find that he looked perfectly serious. Clearly he had meant what he said.

They drove out of town in a westerly direction, and as there was little traffic, they talked for most of the time; at least, Margaret did most of the talking, asking questions, while Daniel would provide the answers. It was as it had been throughout the autumn: Margaret had enjoyed their conversations, not because he agreed with every idea or applauded every proposition she made, but because he listened with interest and responded as though he understood her meaning. When he did not agree or pointed out that she was mistaken on some matter, she was never discomposed because she was conscious of his respect. He was, she had decided, the very best type of teacher one could hope to have.

She recalled a day on which they had visited an old convent, where for centuries young girls had come to take their vows as nuns. Claire had remarked that she would have been driven insane if she had been shut away in such a place at a tender age, and Margaret had been inclined to agree, until Daniel had pointed out that many had been orphans or illegitimate daughters of noblemen, who would have had no opportunity for the kind of enjoyment that they assumed a young girl of that age should have. “It is much more likely that they would have become drudges at home or been sold into domestic service with only long hours of hard labour and abuse to look forward to,” he had said, explaining that at least at the convent the girls were fed, clothed, taught to read, pray, and sing, as well as work, in healthy, salubrious surroundings. “It may not have been the best life a young woman could aspire to, but it was a good deal better than many of them could expect, had they remained where they were born.”

Claire had not been entirely convinced, but Margaret had admitted that she, having no knowledge of abbeys and convents, of which there were not many left in England, had been compelled to think differently of them thereafter.

Later, Daniel had explained that the nuns were not all shut away in the convent either. Some of the girls did not necessarily take all their vows to become full-fledged nuns, but were trained to nurse the sick and dying and care for children at the abbey's hospitals and schools. It was then she had asked, “You know so much about them, Daniel; are you of the Roman Catholic faith?” to which he had smiled and said simply, “I am not, but I have long been interested in the history of the church, not for religious reasons but for the work it does in society. Were it not for dedicated men and women in the church, who would care for the poor and the sick, the frail and the elderly? Certainly not the government.” Margaret, who'd heard of the horror of poor houses and debtors' prisons in England, had to agree.

In these and other similar conversations, she had begun to discover in Daniel Brooke the thoughtfulness and compassion that she missed in most of the people she met outside her family, particularly the young men, whose lives were constrained only by their capacity for enjoyment and the size of their allowance. Her appreciation of the extent of his knowledge and understanding had increased with each occasion on which they had travelled together and explored the many fascinating places to which he had led them. When Mr Wilcox and Claire had been with them, it had been fun; but even when they had gone their separate ways, Daniel's enthusiasm and wealth of information had kept her mind engrossed. On this day, which she expected would be their last, Margaret hoped she would get the chance to tell him how well she had enjoyed her holiday in Provence and how much of that enjoyment she owed to him. She did not wish to embarrass him, but resolved to wait for a suitable opportunity.

They reached the valley and saw the lake extending northward, bounded on the far side by thickly forested hills, its shore dotted with clumps of juniper and oak bordering bays and rocky inlets that invited one toward the blue water. In the distance they could see boats and light skiffs skimming over the surface of the lake. It was so calm and beautiful in the sunlight, Margaret wanted to leap from the gig and run toward it. But her companion was swift to advise against it, pointing out the unevenness of the ground and the roughness of the terrain. “It would be better to wait until we are a little farther into the valley, where the foreshore of the lake is less wild and better suited to walking; there are easier paths along the lake's edge, and in the fields behind the abbey, there may yet be some wildflowers left, if you are lucky,” he explained.

Margaret agreed to be patient, and they drove on until they saw the abbey and beyond it the old inn a few hundred yards along the road. She recalled the picturesque view they had passed as they had journeyed north a fortnight ago. They drove into the courtyard of the inn and as Daniel helped her out, he reminded her to take her wrap, lest the wind should come up without warning; she was aware of a sense of ease and tranquillity that was unlike any feeling she had experienced before. So accustomed had she become to accepting his advice, so readily did she accede to his requests, it was as though she had known him and understood his character and disposition for many years, yet she had met him but a few short weeks ago. Margaret could not recall another person—neither man nor woman—in whose company she had felt so contented and secure.