Expectations of Happiness (25 page)

It was Christmas, and Margaret was determined that her problems would not spoil the special celebrations of her sister's family. With a bright smile that belied the sadness that filled her heart, she joined in the singing. This time it was Elinor who could not hold back the tears.

***

On the morning after Christmas, they all slept late, following what was generally agreed to be an excellent Christmas dinner. Cook had excelled herself, and Margaret claimed that she could not recall a better pudding since they had left Norland Park!

While they were at breakfast, there was heard a great commotion outside the parsonage and, on looking out of the sitting room window, Edward saw the large carriage from Barton Park standing in the road and Sir John Middleton, attired like some explorer bound for the Arctic, alighting from it. He marched to the door and banged upon it, calling out for the family of Ferrars to wake and prepare to celebrate Boxing Day at Barton Park.

He had travelled all this way, he declared, to take them to his home so they could all be together, and he had organised a great celebration with food, fun, and fireworks for the entire family. Amidst cries of delight from Harry and John and groans from most of the adults, Sir John proceeded to rouse and ready the entire party, pack them into his carriage, and drive away, all within the hour, assuring them that everyone at Barton Park awaited their arrival, determined to have what he termed “a jolly good time on Boxing Day!”

End of Part Four

A few days after their return from Barton Park, choosing a quiet moment of the day, Margaret sought out Elinor in the nursery, where she was helping her sons solve a picture puzzle they'd received for Christmas.

There had been no mention of Daniel Brooke between them since Margaret had revealed the circumstances of Helène's health. Wishing to be certain that her sister had not changed her mind about inviting him to dine with them, she asked, albeit a little tentatively, “Elinor, when you wrote me in France about inviting Daniel to dinner, I did mention it to him at the time; do you still wish to meet him?”

Surprised at being asked, Elinor replied, “Of course I do.”

“And Edward?” Margaret persisted. “Would he, do you think?” Elinor said, “I have said nothing of Daniel's situation to him yet; I shall not, until your plans are more certain and you advise me of them. But I have no reason to suppose that Edward will not be just as pleased to see Daniel again; as I said in my letter, he recalls meeting him at Dr Grantley's rooms and speaks highly of him as a historian. When Daniel returns to England, we shall decide on a day when you can ask him over to dinner. I am looking forward very much to meeting him, Margaret, especially since he means so much to you.” Elinor spoke with such transparent honesty that Margaret had no doubt at all of her sincerity. She had been both surprised and pleased by the calm manner in which Elinor had received the news about Helène; knowing her sister's high standards of personal morality, Margaret had feared her censure above anything. For Margaret, inexperienced in love, still struggling to impose a degree of rationality upon her feelings for Daniel Brooke, Elinor's genuine solicitude and understanding, however qualified, meant everything to her.

Before she said her final goodbyes, Margaret spoke again to Elinor of her plans. “It will probably mean giving up my work at the school; it will not do to have a teacher of young girls setting such an example. But it is no matter, I can teach privately; there are many families who cannot afford the fees for a place in a school or the cost of a governess. They are happy to have their daughters taught at home. I have seen many notices in the papers seeking such services; I shall write to a few of them and see what eventuates. They do not pay as well as the school does, but I live fairly simply, I do not need a great deal of money.”

Elinor looked worried; it was hard for her to accept that her young sister was making these difficult decisions alone. “How will you manage? I could give you something to tide you over… I have some savings…” she began, but Margaret laughed and said, “Thank you, dear, dear Elinor, but I do not need to take your money. I have some savings, too; remember that I have always planned to be a writer when I tire of teaching and I've been putting a part of my income away. So I shall be all right, you must not worry about me.”

Elinor could not help but be concerned. “But will you promise me that if you do need help, at any time, you will ask?” she pleaded, and Margaret promised. The sisters embraced then and wept a little, each conscious of the other's pain, though unwilling to speak of it. Since Marianne's marriage to Colonel Brandon, Margaret, then just a girl, had grown closer to Elinor, and theirs was a warm, supportive affection; however, they dried their eyes, smiled at one another, and Margaret went away to finish packing her trunk.

The following morning, the small carriage from Delaford Manor would take Margaret to meet the coach at Dorchester. There were still a few days before her friends would return and she had much to do.

***

The coach from Dorset was late and it was almost dusk when Margaret arrived at the cottage she shared with Claire Jones. She put down her luggage, lit the lamps, and started the fire before she saw the letters propped up against a vase on the mantelpiece. One was a note from Claire and the other was from Daniel Brooke. There was also a nondescript brown envelope, with the direction to Miss M. Dashwood inscribed in perfect copperplate but with no indication who it was from.

During the last hour on the coach, Margaret had longed for a cup of tea; she had planned to put the kettle on the moment she got inside the door, but those thoughts fled as she found her letters and began to open them. She read Claire's note first, which said simply that the letter from Daniel Brooke had been addressed to Nicholas Wilcox's rooms in Oxford and he had brought it round. She added that Nicholas had also had a note from Mr Brooke, who had written that he would be back at Oxford in the new year.

Margaret then opened and read Daniel's letter to her, and try as she might, she could not restrain her tears. It was not that there was anything shocking or tragic in the news it brought, it was just the stark, painful truth she confronted that hurt so grievously. After a few brief words of greeting and expressions of hope that she had enjoyed Christmas with her family, he wrote of his efforts to spend some time with Helène at Christmas.

I was permitted by the kind nuns who care for her to see her for about an hour each morning and again on Christmas day for a short period in the evening, while the nuns went to chapel. On both occasions I took her flowers and little gifts, which she clearly liked; she smiled and thanked me, but said very little else that was coherent. I saw her on several occasions thereafter, but I am certain she has no recollection of me at all. She is very frail now and grows weaker by the day. The senior nun, who has had much medical experience, advised that Helène was too ill to be moved back to Provence; they felt it was best that she be cared for at the hospice in Nice at least until the spring, when they would make a decision depending upon her condition.

I can do no more for her here and must return to my work at the college by mid-January, when I hope I will see you again. I have just received your last letter and can only say in response that not a single day passes that I do not think of you, dear Margaret. I should not have to say it, because I am quite certain you know it already. I miss you and long to see you again.

Yours very sincerely,

Daniel Brooke.

Margaret read the letter over many times before she folded it and put it in her pocket. She wondered at the strange mixture of intense sadness and joy it had brought her and thought again of the resolution she had made to go to him when he returned to England. “Well, at the very least, I think I know that I will not be unwelcome,” she thought, as she opened up the unfamiliar brown envelope.

It contained a single sheet of note paper bearing the letterhead of a publisher, Fielding and Armitage, on which were two brief paragraphs written in the same precise hand.

Dear Miss Dashwood,

Thank you for sending us your manuscript of
A Country Childhood
, which we are happy to accept for publication and offer a payment of twenty pounds, on the condition that you agree to certain editorial changes that we may advise.

As to your proposal to write
A Provençal Journal
based on your travels in that part of France, we should be pleased to review it on completion and decide if it is acceptable for publication. I might add that we are impressed with the quality of your first composition, and if this standard is maintained in the rest of your work, we foresee a promising future for you as a writer.

The letter concluded by inviting her to call on them at the address above, if she was willing to accept their offer, and it was signed by someone called Armitage, who wrote his name with a great flourish. Margaret could not quite make out his first name from his signature, but she did not care; so delighted was she that for fully five minutes she laughed and wept alternately, unable to control the feelings that completely overwhelmed her. This was indeed unexpected and joyous news!

Unbeknownst to anyone, even her friend Claire, some months ago Margaret had sent the manuscript of
A Country Childhood
to a publisher in a small town near Oxford. It was a compilation of pieces she had written over the years; simple and evocative, they recounted the experiences of a young girl growing up at Norland Park in Sussex and later transplanted against her will and at very short notice to Barton Cottage in Devonshire. Having told the stories to her pupils and been pleased with their response, Margaret had supposed that the anthology might make pleasant reading for young ladies. It seemed the gentlemen at Fielding and Armitage agreed.

In her letter accompanying the manuscript, she had mentioned her extensive travels in France and her intention of spending some weeks in Provence this autumn. She expected to keep a detailed journal, which she hoped could form the basis of a travelogue, she'd said, and asked if they would be interested in reading the manuscript when it was ready.

Thereafter, Margaret had given it little thought, expecting to receive a polite letter of rejection. Not in her wildest dreams had she anticipated this response. She wished someone had been there with her to share her joy; then again, she was glad there was no one to see how totally silly she looked as she threw cushions into the air, rolled on the rug in front of the fire, laughed and wept without reason, and finally collapsed exhausted on the sofa, where she fell asleep, clutching both her treasured letters to her heart.

***

It was late when Margaret awoke, rather stiff and uncomfortable, realising that she was both cold and hungry, but nevertheless feeling weirdly, deliriously happy. Opening a window, she noted that the weather had cleared, with bits of blue sky showing through the clouds. She recalled that she had eaten nothing last night, and this time, she did put the kettle on and was preparing to get some eggs from the larder, when there was a loud knocking at the door. When she opened it, there, to her immense relief, was Mrs Muggle, the woman who came regularly to “do” for the two young ladies, by which she meant clean, cook, and shop for them, which jobs, despite her uninspiring name, she did very satisfactorily.

Margaret greeted her like a long-lost friend, and confessed that she was hungry and would give her life for a pot of tea. “No need for that, miss,” said Mrs Muggle, who put down her basket of fresh bread, butter, and eggs on the kitchen table and got to work at once, getting tea and breakfast ready in less time than it took Margaret to go upstairs, clean her teeth, and brush her hair.

As Margaret ate hungrily, feasting on the plate of ham and eggs, Mrs Muggle continued working around her, dusting, washing, and putting things away, all the while plying her with food and giving her the neighbourhood news. Margaret heard, without paying much attention, that the butcher's wife had had twins on Christmas Eve, the grocer's daughter had been married on Boxing Day, the fishmonger had been in a fight with a traveller from another village and he had been locked up by the local constabulary, which meant no one had any fish that week. And of course, she added with a twinkle in her eye, everyone in the village knew by now that Miss Jones was going to be married very soon to that lovely young gentleman from Oxford, Mr Wilcox.

This last piece of information did alert Margaret, and she stopped Mrs Muggle in midsentence to ask who had told her and did she know how soon the couple were to be wed. Mrs Muggle declared that she had had it from Miss Jones herself, before Christmas, and indeed, she thought the wedding would be in February, because she believed they'd want to get it done before Lent. Margaret didn't quite comprehend why this was so, but said, “Ah yes, of course,” and continued eating, as Mrs Muggle produced more buttered eggs and refilled her tea cup, while adding that she anticipated there'd be a bit more work for her at the cottage once the couple were married and settled there.

Margaret was pensive. In the euphoric mood of the previous evening, this was one situation she had not anticipated. If her friend Claire and Nicholas Wilcox were to marry in the next month or two, where would they live? She knew Wilcox had rooms at a boarding house in Oxford, which probably meant he would move into the cottage when they were married. The cottage, though perfectly comfortable for two young women, was small and not constructed to offer much privacy and, thought Margaret, this must mean that she would have to find somewhere else to live. While not particularly frightening, it did add some uncertainty to the picture and cloud the bright prospect to which she had awakened an hour ago.

But this was not a morning on which Margaret was going to be disaffected; she had in her pocket two letters that had brought her the best news she could have asked for. Daniel Brooke, the man she loved, missed her and was returning to England within the week, and a certain Mr Armitage was happy to publish her book and had offered to pay her twenty pounds for it! Nothing else mattered at the moment.

She decided to take a good look at the clothes in her wardrobe and choose an appropriate gown to wear when she went to meet the perceptive Mr Armitage. If only Claire were here, she thought, she'd know what I should wear to a meeting with my publisher; but moments later she set that thought aside, as realisation came that henceforth, she would have to make most of her own decisions in matters of far greater import. She selected a simple gown in a soft cream fabric with an overcoat in deep green wool. It had been a gift from Elinor, who'd said it suited her well, and that was sufficient for Margaret. The colours certainly set off her striking honey-gold hair.

Leaving Mrs Muggle to continue with her chores at the cottage, Margaret left to take the coach into town. She had decided that she needed a new hat, one that would impress Mr Armitage and please Daniel Brooke as well. If such a hat might be found somewhere in Oxford, then Margaret was in the right mood to purchase it.

The milliners in town had hats aplenty, but they were all very expensive and some, replete with ribbons and plumes, were rather daunting; but, when she saw the pretty straw bonnet adorned with a cream rose and a wisp of silk, she had to go in and try it on. Once she had done that and the woman in the store had let her look in the mirror, there was no turning back. She paid up and returned with her prize, hoping, as she held the hat box on her lap, that both Daniel Brooke and Mr Armitage would be impressed by her choice.