Expectations of Happiness (19 page)

He let her compose herself, before saying, “Margaret, I too have enjoyed the time we have spent together, and were it not for my circumstances, it may well have been possible for me—” but she could not bear to let him say it and interrupted him.

“I must thank you for your honesty and ask you to believe that my sorrow could not have been greater had your wife Helène been my dearest friend. You have behaved toward me with honour, I acknowledge that, but it does not change in any way the esteem and warm affection I feel for you.”

He held her close for a few moments, as one might comfort a grieving child, then settled her back under the rug, stoked up the fire to a blaze, and went away to look out of the window at the starless sky and the darkness outside, where the winds had abated a little, but snow was falling over the landscape, transforming it utterly.

***

Awakening early, hearing not a sound in the inn, Margaret rose and looked for Daniel; she found him seated on the steps of the front porch. Her hair loosened from its pins made her seem more childlike then ever, and he took her hand and drew her down to sit beside him. They sat there, saying very little, until the sun rose over the hills and its light flooded the valley. For Margaret, the tenderness of the moment was overwhelming. Before rising to go within, they embraced for a brief moment, as if to confirm what had been said the previous night.

The innkeeper's wife had breakfast ready, eggs and bacon with fresh baked bread and steaming coffee. Margaret claimed she wasn't hungry, but Daniel insisted that she eat because, he said, “We have a long journey before us, and it is Sunday.” By which she understood that many inns and hostelries might be shut. Margaret did as he asked and made her preparations, and they were ready to depart within the hour. Having settled his account with the innkeeper, Daniel persuaded her to take a walk along the lakeshore. “It would be a pity, having come this far, to leave without walking along the shore; it is something you will not forget, come,” he said, holding out his hand. She took it as they walked beside the water. The lake appeared calm again that morning, but the shore was littered with the debris of the turbulent night; broken boughs and tangled twigs lay in their path. How swiftly it had changed, Margaret thought, recalling the serenity of the scene when they had arrived the previous afternoon, when her mind had been filled only with expectations of a perfect day.

His voice broke in gently upon her thoughts. “Will you promise me, Margaret, that you will not leave here unhappy? It has been such a happy four weeks, I could not bear to think that I have caused you sorrow on our last day here.” She could not respond immediately, she feared her voice would betray her; she waited, before saying slowly and deliberately, “I cannot possibly leave unhappy, Daniel, because it was here I discovered that I love you dearly. How can that make me unhappy? Is it not the greatest gift we are given, even if it brings with it sadness and tears? I am content too that I have said it, because it means you know my feelings, and if that makes your life a little easier, then I shall be truly happy.”

He was silent then, as though he did not know what to say or do, until she put her arms around him and held him close, feeling the racing of his heart against her cheek. Looking up at his face, she read all she wished to know; she had no need of words.

***

They spoke mainly of other matters on the journey back into town. This time, he asked most of the questions, concerning her family, her work at the seminary, her hopes and plans, which she answered with her characteristic candour. Her accounts of their relations—the Middletons and Palmers and in particular, her tales of the Ferrars family, of Mrs Ferrars and Fanny, of Robert and Lucy—kept him amused for most of the journey. However, when she mentioned her letter to her sister Elinor and told him she had written of his friendship with Dr Grantley, who had been Edward's mentor at Oxford, he became rather serious and said, “You had best be prepared, if your brother-in-law is a friend of Francis Grantley. He is one of the two intimate friends of mine who are aware of the circumstances of my marriage and my wife's condition. Indeed, Francis has, on one occasion, while travelling in France, accompanied me when I visited her at the convent.”

Margaret assured him that her brother-in-law Edward Ferrars was not an intimate friend of Dr Grantley, but even if he were, it was unlikely that they would discuss the private affairs of a colleague. Nevertheless, she was grateful for the warning.

“Elinor has suggested that I should invite you to dine at the parsonage when we return to England. Will you accept?” she asked a little tentatively, and he responded directly. “With the greatest of pleasure; I should like very much to meet your sister and Reverend Ferrars. My friend Francis Grantley has a very high opinion of him as a clergyman,” he said, and Margaret agreed that her brother-in-law was indeed worthy of admiration. “He works very hard as a parish priest, and I know he supports Mr Wilberforce's campaign against slavery, too,” she said.

After they had been silent for a while, she asked, “Will you travel with us to Marseilles on Tuesday?” and he said very gently, “I fear not. I have arranged to accompany Helène and her nurse to Nice, where I expect to remain until after Christmas. It's quite strange, but Christmas is the one occasion that Helène seems to enjoy—she probably recalls childhood memories—and I have always visited her at Christmas.” Perhaps anticipating her disappointment, he said, “Nicholas has been told that I have some work in Nice and cannot travel with your party to Marseilles. Besides, do you not think it may be difficult and more painful to maintain a pretence before Nicholas and Miss Jones? Would you not prefer to say good-bye before they return from their tryst?”

“Claire will be much amused to hear it called a tryst,” said Margaret, and he asked with a wry smile, “What would you call it? Not just a sightseeing trip to the Alpilles, surely?” Then she laughed too, but added that he was right, perhaps it was best that they should say their farewells before their friends returned; she feared she may betray her feelings, she said, and he nodded, and admitted that it would be difficult, especially as Nicholas and Miss Jones would, in all probability, return engaged to be married. When she said nothing, he took her hand and held it, and though nothing was said, Margaret knew he meant to comfort her.

They reached Aix-en-Provence as darkness fell and said their goodbyes; he put his arms around her and held her close and there was a degree of warmth and affection that, in spite of the words of that morning, took them both by surprise.

She asked if she might write to him and he said, “Certainly you may,” and gave her his card with his poste restante address in Nice, adding that he expected to be back in Oxford at the New Year, which gave her some hope. Margaret wanted to ask if she would see him when he returned to England, but held back, fearing that he might feel compromised by any answer he gave. Instead she asked if he would write, too, and was delighted when he said, “Of course,” and added, “I would be very happy to do so.”

She was about to go indoors when he took out a small package from his pocket and handed it to her. “It's a little souvenir of Provence, which I hope you will like.” As she thanked him, he bent and kissed her cheek, and touching her face gently, said, “Thank you, Margaret, I shall look forward to your letters. Now you must go indoors or you will catch cold. The wind here is very strong already.” Then he climbed into the vehicle and drove away.

Margaret went slowly up to her room. Opening the package, she found within an exquisitely painted image of the abbey they had visited, with a tiny posy of dried wildflowers from the surrounding meadows glued to the back of its frame. The thoughtful tenderness of the gift touched her heart and brought tears again. Margaret could not recall when she had wept so much and thought, ruefully, that grief must be an inevitable part of love.

She was alone that night and very glad that Claire and Nicholas were only returning the following day. There would be time enough to get busy with packing and hide the tears, she thought.

Indeed, when they did arrive, there was no question of tears, for they were so obviously happy, so certain that they were in love, celebrations were in order. Nicholas Wilcox and Claire Jones announced that they were engaged and planned to marry in the new year, and Margaret, her friend said, had to be her bridesmaid!

“Now my friend, what have you to say to me?” Claire demanded, and Margaret could only smile and throw her arms around her and wish her friend every possible happiness.

End of Part Three

Winter 1819

At the parsonage in Delaford, following a rather quiet autumn, all was excitement. Preparations were afoot for Christmas, and into the midst of their traditional activities had come the news that the Palmers together with Mrs Jennings were to call, en route to Cleveland in Somersetshire.

Elinor was keen to ensure that they would all be comfortably accommodated and, to that end, devoted a great deal of time to planning menus and giving careful instructions to her housekeeper and staff, while Edward wondered aloud if he could possibly find a subject serious enough to engross Mr Palmer's attention for the duration of their visit. “You must admit, my dear, he is a somewhat difficult fellow to engage in any form of discourse; apart from the political news, of which there will not be much seeing as the Parliament is not in session, I cannot imagine what conversations we shall have,” he said gloomily. His wife was a good deal less worried about Mr Palmer and much more concerned about keeping up with both Charlotte Palmer and her mother Mrs Jennings. They were both garrulous women and, coming directly from London, were certain to have plenty to gossip about, much of which was of no interest to Elinor.

Elinor knew them well. “I think, my love, I'd rather have the problem of Mr Palmer's reserve than Charlotte's endless chatter,” said she, “and when you have added Mrs Jennings's contribution to the conversation, we shall probably be grateful for Mr Palmer's silences.”

Edward agreed that she had a point and went away to work on his sermon, while Elinor took the post from the maid and sat down to read her letters. There was one from Margaret, which she opened up eagerly. Written about ten days before their party had left Provence, it was full of the joy and exhilaration that Margaret was feeling at the time.

Dearest Elinor, how I wish you and Edward could be here. It is hard to describe the appeal of this lovely place. There is so much history everywhere, in the ancient abbeys and churches, the old farmhouses with their orchards and meadows full of wildflowers, and the exquisite blue lakes that stretch forever in the foothills of the mountains. It has been a very special pleasure to have as our guides Claire's friend Mr Nicholas Wilcox and his colleague Mr Daniel Brooke, of whom I wrote earlier. They are both familiar with this part of the country, and Mr Brooke has made a study of historic churches and knows everything about them. He is indeed one of the most interesting people I have met, yet is quiet and modest as well. I do believe Edward will enjoy meeting him again.

Margaret went on to say that she intended to convey Elinor's invitation to Mr Brooke before they left France and hoped that they would have an answer when she joined them for Christmas at the parsonage.

Elinor smiled; clearly Margaret was very impressed with Mr Daniel Brooke, she thought, drawing certain conclusions from her sister's letter that were not as obvious as she would have liked them to be and hoping this new friendship would lead to something more. She was about to turn the page and read on when she heard the doorbell, and the maid admitted her friend Mrs Helen King. Elinor, always happy to see Mrs King, who had become a trusted confidante as well as a sensible companion, rose to greet her and, looking forward to a pleasant conversation, she asked the maid to bring them tea.

She began immediately to talk about Margaret's letter and her imminent return from France, but Mrs King, while evincing some interest, appeared preoccupied, as though she had something on her mind of which she wanted to speak urgently. Elinor stopped almost in midsentence and asked, “Helen, you seem troubled; have you had some bad news?” to which Mrs King could only nod and say, “Indeed I have, Elinor, and I came as soon as I could. You see, I have had a visit this morning from Miss Henrietta Clift.”

Elinor's heart leapt. “Mr Willoughby's cousin?”

“Indeed, and she has mentioned two matters that could cause you some anxiety in relation to your sister, Mrs Brandon.”

Elinor sat forward in her chair. “What matters?” she asked, her concern already evident upon her countenance. The maid brought in the tea tray and set it on the table, and their conversation ceased until she left the room. “Helen, please tell me, what did Miss Clift say?” Elinor pleaded.

Mrs King accepted her cup of tea, added two lumps of sugar, and began, “Well, the first point is that, according to Miss Clift, Mr Willoughby is said to have made some new friends in the county—no, she did not name your sister, but they are the Perceval family. I recall you said that your sister had been introduced to them recently and they had become good friends; well, now Willoughby is a friend of theirs too, and his cousin, who is probably a little jealous of the Perceval girls, who are much younger than she is, declares that he must be flirting with one or both of them, because he is forever driving around the county with them in his carriage. I understand that he recently made up a party with them and they travelled to Bath; Miss Clift was not invited and appears to be very put out.”

“Oh dear God!” Elinor cried and put down her cup hurriedly, as if afraid that she would drop it, and it was clear to Helen King that her friend was seriously troubled by what she had just heard. “Oh Helen, that is the most dreadful news, because my sister Marianne was also one of the party that went to Bath with the Percevals! Yet she said nothing to me about Mr Willoughby joining them. That must surely mean that she has met him and has decided to keep their meeting a secret.”

Mrs King's face revealed her feelings. “Then it is as I feared; although I confess I did not think things had gone this far. I wanted to warn you of Willoughby's newfound friendship with the Percevals because I believed it would afford him opportunities to meet Mrs Brandon. If what you say is right, then it seems they have already met.”

“Indeed you are right and the damage is probably done,” cried Elinor. “I am concerned that she has said nothing of this meeting to me, which is what I expected her to do, if he no longer meant anything to her. We thought, my youngest sister Margaret and I, that even if Marianne were to meet Willoughby socially—and one isn't always able to avoid such meetings in a small community like ours—then she could quite easily demonstrate her indifference to him by telling us about their meeting openly. However, if she has met him at the Percevals, and I do believe this is not the first time such a meeting has taken place, and has concealed it from us, it must mean that she still harbours some feelings for him and cannot speak of him without betraying herself to us. Do you not think so?”

Mrs King was inclined to agree but tried to alleviate her friend's distress by pointing out that it could also be argued that Mrs Brandon may have been trying to avoid causing the kind of anguish that Elinor was suffering by not revealing her meeting with Willoughby. While this argument seemed reasonable enough, Elinor felt she knew her sister better and was not readily comforted by it. “You said there were two matters, Helen, what was the other?” she asked, apprehensive that worse was to follow.

Mrs King looked quite grave and spoke in a hushed voice, “Dear Elinor, I must ask you not to take this information too much to heart, since, as far as I can tell, it is still only a rumour, but Henrietta Clift says that they have heard from relatives in London that Mrs Willoughby's lawyer has been instructed to seek a judicial separation—on the grounds of adultery.”

Elinor burst into tears; this was much worse than she had expected. Helen King rose and went to her side and begged her not to make herself ill with worry. “It is not right that you should become ill as a consequence of the foolish actions of others. Besides, there is no suggestion your sister is involved, in any way,” she said. “Come, my dear, I told you it is only a rumour; Miss Clift has not had it confirmed as yet, so it may just be some London gossip, which has followed him all the way to Somerset.”

Elinor wiped away her tears. “It may be, and it may be true as well. Knowing Willoughby's past, I am not confident that it
is
just gossip. Do you not see, Helen, that if his wife and he are separated, he will have nothing to lose; he will feel quite free to try to re-engage my sister's feelings. Oh Marianne, what are you doing? Why have you not confided in any of us?” she cried as tears filled her eyes, and poor Mrs King began to feel truly wretched for having brought her friend this dismal news.

“I wish there was something I could suggest,” she said in a forlorn voice. “Since your mother will not intervene, is there not someone your sister respects who can counsel her? Perhaps if you were to ask Mr Ferrars…” but Elinor shook her head. “Edward will not interfere, he loves Marianne as I do, but she is no longer just my younger sister, she is Colonel Brandon's wife, and Edward will not feel comfortable trying to advise her on such an intimate matter, unless she were to ask for his guidance, which of course, she is unlikely to do. It is entirely possible that Marianne will resent it too and it may create a rift between them, that would break my heart,” she said, and there was such despair in her voice and attitude that it caused the kindly Mrs King to put her arms around her and say, “Dear Elinor, please do not let this make you ill. If you do, I shall not forgive myself for having brought you the news.”

Bur Elinor would not let her friend take the blame. Summoning all her reserves of good sense and sound judgment, she said, “Helen, never say that; I am grateful for the information you have brought me, because at the very least it prepares me for what may follow. As you have wisely said, it may not all be true, but if it is, we can at least be ready to deal with whatever happens in the future. I shall talk to Edward, of course, and fortuitously, we are expecting a visit from some relations from London, who may have some further intelligence on the matter of Mr Willoughby's marital situation, all of which should help us prepare ourselves for the consequences. Furthermore, I am hopeful that Colonel Brandon will be returning from Ireland very soon and that will surely put an end to Willoughby's efforts to restore his reputation with Marianne.”

Mrs King was relieved indeed to find her friend recovering from her state of wretchedness and strove to encourage her, suggesting that perhaps with the imminent return of Colonel Brandon, Marianne may also discover that a degree of prudence and caution in her social intercourse might be appropriate. Elinor smiled and, out of loyalty to her sister, did not say what she knew to be true, that prudence and caution were not Marianne's strong suit, and were more likely to be honoured in the breach. Elinor could recall vividly the contempt with which her sister had responded to her requests for some prudence and caution during the early days of her friendship with Willoughby.

She had hoped, indeed for some time she had believed, that Marianne, following the anguish she had suffered after Willoughby's betrayal, had begun to comprehend that life, in order to be worthwhile, did not have to be lived on the cusp of disaster. But in the last few months, she had begun to doubt that the lesson learned at seventeen had been fully absorbed. Her sister's disposition was as yet unsettled, and her emotional volatility made her vulnerable to misdirection by someone whose character was stronger or just more appealing to her. That Willoughby still had the power to move her mind and heart, Elinor had no doubt.

After Mrs King had left, Elinor went to her room, where Edward found her in a sombre mood. He had some news which he was sure would please her—a letter had arrived from Ireland: Colonel Brandon was returning some days earlier than expected. Elinor, delighted with the news, decided not to trouble her husband with the tales of Willoughby's depredations that Mrs King had brought, for, as her friend had said, they may only be rumours and in the light of the colonel's return to Delaford might not signify at all. Besides, there was much to be getting on with; the Palmers and Mrs Jennings were expected in a few days.

***

The Palmers, their two children, their nurse, Mrs Palmer's maid, and Mr Palmer's manservant as well as Mrs Jennings and her maid all arrived in two carriages, and for a while Elinor was afraid that there would be no room to accommodate all of them at the parsonage. Fortunately, before she began to consider sending a note to Marianne, requesting emergency assistance, Mr Palmer said the second vehicle and most of the staff, except for the nurse and his manservant, would be travelling on to Cleveland directly, leaving a smaller party at the parsonage. When Mrs Palmer claimed she would never find anything in her trunks without her maid, her husband, with characteristic disregard for her protestations, said she should not worry because no one would notice the difference. This brought the usual complaint of excessive drollery from his wife, but Elinor intervened to assure Charlotte Palmer that she would be perfectly happy to lend them her own maid for the duration of their stay. Although they stayed but a few days, Mrs Jennings and her daughter managed to recount such an enormous volume of information and gossip that left Elinor in a fever of apprehension.

On the first evening of their stay, Charlotte, who had not stopped talking and making whimsical comments since the moment of her arrival at the parsonage, broke the news that Lucy—Mrs Robert Ferrars—was pregnant again and that Mrs Ferrars, the mother of Robert and Edward, was said to be considering changing her will if it was a boy. Apparently she was determined to ensure that her grandson was adequately provided for.

Elinor glanced at her husband and found Edward looking amused, while Mr Palmer appeared as inscrutable as ever. Mrs Jennings then intervened to add that she thought it was all rather odd that Mrs Ferrars should want to change her will. “I cannot see that it will make any difference to her now, seeing that Edward and Elinor have already presented her with two grandsons,” said she, and Edward said in a very quiet voice, “Perhaps it is the fact that we live so far away, down here in Dorset. Maybe my mother has forgotten that she already has two grandsons.” This caused Mrs Palmer to shriek with laughter. “Forgotten that she has two grandsons! Oh, dear Mr Ferrars, you are become almost as droll as my Mr Palmer!” she claimed. Whereupon Mr Palmer looked accusingly at Edward as though he'd been robbed of a prize possession and, determined not to be outdone, added, “I believe it is the fact that your boys have never really been ‘presented' to Mrs Ferrars that causes her to forget their existence. Edward, you must see to it that your two sons are taken to London and presented with due ceremony to their grandmother, without delay.” This proposition caused Edward and Elinor to smile, while Mrs Jennings laughed very loudly and tears rolled down Charlotte's face as she giggled and cried, “Oh Mr Palmer, you are so droll! I ask you, Elinor, have you heard anything like it? Do you see what I mean?”