Expectations of Happiness (27 page)

After a while, Margaret suggested that perhaps Daniel should leave, because it was best that her friend Claire did not discover that he was back. They arranged to meet at an appointed place and parted reluctantly, each longing for the moment when they would be together again. He left, and within minutes she regretted having sent him away and wept, annoyed with herself, because she had hurt his feelings and she had not even told him the news about Mr Armitage and his offer to publish her book.

Margaret spent a sleepless night, but not on account of her decision to accompany Daniel to his cottage in the Cotswolds. On that matter, she had no reservations; she loved him and trusted him implicitly. She knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she would be completely safe with him and nothing would happen between them, unless she wished it. And if, perchance, she did wish it, she thought, she would deal with that prospect when it happened.

Her discomposure arose from the troubling question of having to leave her work at the school. They had been good to her and she had enjoyed teaching the children, but she knew full well that once her relationship with Daniel became generally known in the village, questions of propriety would arise. The dilemma had kept her from sleep until the early hours of the morning and she slept late, so that by the time she came downstairs, Claire Jones had already left for work. Mrs Muggle had her breakfast ready, but Margaret ate very little, making the excuse that she was in a hurry, because she was going away for a few days to stay with a friend who was ill and needed caring for. She left a letter for Claire on the mantelpiece saying much the same thing, and adding her good wishes for their journey to Wales and her compliments to her parents.

Margaret, dressed for travelling, left the cottage, walked down the street carrying a small valise, and found Daniel waiting for her in a hired vehicle around the corner from the inn. He helped her in and they set off along the road travelling west to the town of Burford. It was a journey of some twelve miles, he told her, and the cottage was a short distance from the town. As they left the main street, taking the road to Burford, Margaret looked out; she loved travelling and always hoped to enjoy the sights and sounds of the countryside through which they drove. But there was little here to excite her enthusiasm, for the scene was still rather cheerless; winter had not loosened its grip on the land. The grey stone walls seemed unfamiliar and cold, unlike the friendly little hedgerows she had grown up with, and the trees, great elms and ancient beeches, appeared like phantoms in the lingering mist, their ghostly bare arms hung with long swathes of climbing ivy and mistletoe, while the occasional evergreen fir or pine stood out like stiff sentinels in the grey landscape. Catching a glimpse of hills in the distance, she thought even they looked unfriendly and bleak.

“Are those hills on the horizon the Cotswolds?” she asked, and Daniel, hearing the disappointment in her voice, said, “They are only the foothills—we are still in Oxfordshire, remember. One must travel much farther west into Gloucestershire to see the heartland of the Cotswolds,” he explained and then taking her hand in his, said, “I am sorry, Margaret, it is not the best time of year to introduce you to my favourite part of England, is it? Nowhere are there prettier spots to see than in the Cotswolds in spring, summer, and autumn, but I will admit that even I can find little to praise in this dismal winter landscape. But I am determined that you shall not be disappointed, so let me tell you of its history, which is colourful and busy enough to satisfy even the keenest scholar.”

She laughed then and sat back, declaring that she was prepared to be entertained with tales from the history of the Cotswolds, if he was sure they were going to be as diverting as the tales he had told them in France. Assuring her that it would prove even more exciting, he proceeded with an amusing narrative of the history of the area known as the Cotteswold, dating back to Saxon times, with tales of ancient battles and the totem dragon banners of Uther Pendragon, father of the fabled King Arthur, and many other wondrous things besides.

Margaret, who could never resist a really good story, listened keenly, her eyes shining as he told of the battle between Cuthred of the Saxons and Aethelbald of the Mercians, in a field near the present town of Burford, at which the Mercians prevailed. “It is a victory celebrated in Burford to this day with great enthusiasm, around midsummer,” he said, and when Margaret said she would love to see the celebrations, added, “So you shall, if you will come back later this year. I'll take you down to the field where it happens and you shall see the triumph of the golden dragons.”

With such tales he kept her engaged and entertained until they reached the town of Burford, which had been built in Norman times at a ford in the river Windrush. They alighted and went across to the inn, so Margaret could rest and take some refreshment, while he purchased stores for the cottage from the market stall across the road. Later, they stood on the banks of the Windrush, which ran down from the Cotswolds. It wasn't a very impressive sight now, but with the spring thaw it would swell into a stronger river rushing through the reed beds on its banks, through towns like Burford and Witney, to join the Thames. Daniel told her that one of the little tributaries of the Windrush trickled through the orchard behind his cottage, and promised that she would love waking up to its sound in the mornings. Seeing the stream running busily over the stones and under the bridge, she heard his words and blushed at she thought of waking up in his cottage. She had not stopped to think precisely what that could mean for her; she had not asked about their sleeping arrangements.

They got back in the vehicle and proceeded out of the town up a road that narrowed into a rutted country lane with bare trees bordering a field on one side and box-hedged gardens on the other. A mile and a half on they arrived at the gate—and Margaret almost cried out as she saw what was the most perfect cottage built of the warm yellow Cotswold stone, with that patina of age that lends much more honesty to a building than a coat of paint. She could not wait to leap out of the cart and run to the door and stand in front of it as though it would open at her command.

Daniel followed her, having unloaded their luggage and paid the driver, and when he asked, “Well, do you like it?” even he was surprised at the fervour of her response. “I love it, Daniel, it is quite perfect. How do you leave it? If I had a place like this, I wouldn't dream of living in town.” He laughed at her then and once they were inside, mocked her enthusiasm. “And would you also keep ducks and grow beans and cabbages?” She had to laugh, even as she said, “I would love to try,” because she knew he was teasing her.

They spent an hour wandering around the garden and the orchard, where with great delight she collected mushrooms growing around the roots of apple trees and early snow drops pushing up out of the long grass. There were still some old apples left on the gnarled trees and shrivelled blackberries hiding from the cold. He watched with amusement as she picked and ate them like a child enjoying a treat, then laughed as she pulled a face at the tart taste on her tongue. It had been many years since there had been a visitor at the cottage, and Margaret's candid responses delighted him.

When the sun disappeared they went indoors, and Daniel lit the fires in the kitchen and the parlour, made them tea, and carried hot water up to her room. She went upstairs and found her room, with its window that overlooked the orchard. It had a bed and a book case, a dresser with a mirror, and a large, comfortable armchair in front of the fire. She changed out of her travelling gown, washed, rested a while, dressed, and came downstairs to find Daniel preparing dinner.

Margaret insisted on helping him, and he let her lay the table and slice the bread, making her feel comfortable and at home. They talked cheerfully as they worked and then as they ate, he asked if she was tired and she admitted that she was, a little. “It's probably the long drive—you need a good night's sleep,” he said, and she agreed. She was beginning to feel the strain of everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours and hoped that he would not be annoyed because she was quiet.

In fact, far from being disappointed, it seemed he had anticipated her situation and made certain that her room was warm and comfortable. There was another, larger bedroom at the front of the house, and Margaret assumed that Daniel would sleep up there; when she said good night, she took her lighted candle and went upstairs.

But, having slept for some hours, she awoke as the clock struck two and was disturbed by a sound downstairs. Pulling a robe over her nightgown, she went to the landing and looked down into the parlour and saw Daniel lying on the couch in front of the fire.

A log had burned through and fallen into the fireplace. She waited only a few seconds before running down the stairs, and as she reached him, he sat up and, looking rather confused, said, “Margaret, what are you doing here? You should be in bed, asleep.”

“And so should you,” she said. “I thought you were going to sleep in your room upstairs. It is so cold, why are you down here?”

She stood over him, small, irate, and demanding to be told. He had no answer for her; he looked somewhat foolish and smiled as she stood there, unable to put into sensible words the awkward reasons that had prompted him to remain downstairs, rather than use his bedroom and perhaps cause her some trepidation about his intentions. When he said nothing, she persisted, “Why, Daniel? Had I known that you were to suffer such discomfort on my account, I would never have come.” He had to say something then and began by trying to reassure her that he was not in any real discomfort. “Margaret, I am not uncomfortable, believe me, this is an exceedingly comfortable couch and I am very warm here beside the fire. I have often slept here.”

She shook her head. “I don't believe you,” she said and then when he added, “I had hoped you would be asleep and not notice. I did not wish to alarm you,” she interrupted him. “Alarm me! Oh Daniel, how can you say that?” It was an argument he could not win and presently, he gave in and agreed to go upstairs to his room, which he did, having doused the fire and given her another lighted candle for her room.

The next day was near perfect; the weather was cold but dry, and they spent it following the little stream into the woods, where they walked beside it through the stands of beech and elm, still gaunt and bare, until it tumbled hurriedly over rocks into a shallow pool and flowed on thence to join the Windrush. Later, they explored some of the old churches in the district and one in particular moved her to tears, an ancient abbey that had been deliberately vandalised when Henry the Eighth dissolved the monasteries.

She knew little of that era, and recalling the many similar places they had visited in Provence, all lovingly preserved, Margaret could not comprehend that here in England, they had been so ruthlessly destroyed. Looking at the mutilated images, she asked, “Why?” and he tried to explain, without much success, the irrational brutality of the period. “It was a hard, cruel time, Margaret, unlike anything you and I have known; powerful kings ruled like gods, by decree. It was as much as your life was worth to question their orders,” he said and saw her shudder with disgust.

Warm and companionable, their affection for one another acknowledged, but neither paraded nor hidden, they achieved a degree of intimacy very like that they had enjoyed during those last two days in Provence. He promised her that he would bring her back in the spring so she could enjoy the wealth of wildflowers and apple blossoms and again in autumn, to taste the sweet ripe berries and crab-apples that grew in profusion everywhere.

“I shall not rest until you have seen the Cotswolds at their best; winter has to be the very worst time of year,” he said ruefully, but she shook her head. “I don't agree, because unless one has seen the bare bones of the land in winter, how can one appreciate fully the new life that rises in it in spring? No, Daniel, I am glad I have seen it as it is now, cold and bare on the surface, but with everything waiting impatiently underground to burst into life with the return of the sun.”

He clapped his hands and praised her poetic account of the changing seasons, and she thought it was the right time to tell him of Mr Armitage and his offer to publish her book. This brought on a clamour of congratulations with Daniel putting his arms around her and kissing her, which made her shy, but seemed to please her very well, especially when he told her he was very proud of her.

A sudden gust of wind from the north cut through the bare woods and hit them; he took off his coat and wrapped it around her and they hurried back to the cottage, which was warm and welcoming. After dinner, they were seated together on the couch in front of the fire, and she was telling him of her intention to use the material she had gathered in Provence for a travelogue, when, with lightning and thunder, a storm broke over the valley of the Windrush.

As the doors and windows rattled and shook and the wind blew out their candles, Margaret looked apprehensive; she had been terrified of storms since childhood. She hated the thought of going upstairs and trying to sleep in total darkness with the wild sounds of the storm outside. When he lit the candles again and asked if she wanted to go to bed, she said quietly, “I hate storms, Daniel, may I stay down here with you?” He smiled then and said, “Of course.”

It was simply said and done with no fuss at all; she tucked herself into a corner of the sofa and said, “You were right, it is a very comfortable couch.” He covered her up with a warm rug, put more wood on the fire, and as the storm abated, she fell fast asleep.

He awoke early the next morning and gently moved her so he could extricate himself from his corner of the couch. When he brought her tea, she awoke, smiled, and thanked him as she reached for her cup. She knew there would never be any question of trust between them ever again.

***

They returned to Oxford that afternoon and reached the cottage well before Claire and Nicholas arrived. A letter from Elinor awaited Margaret, and on opening it, she found a reminder about inviting Mr Daniel Brooke to dinner. Elinor wrote:

Should Mr Brooke wish to stay overnight, it can be arranged because Mama's room has not been used in many months. It may be more comfortable than rooms at the inn and tramping around in the cold at night. And do please tell me, Margaret, if he has a favourite dish—or on the other hand, if there is something he particularly dislikes which we should avoid. I do recall that Edward had a distinct aversion to pig's trotters, which we all loved, except Marianne, who was much too dainty to try them. You must write directly and let me know a date that suits, so I can order the fish and poultry.