Expectations of Happiness

by Rebecca Ann Collins

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2011 by Rebecca Ann Collins

  Cover and internal design © 2011 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by Cathleen Elliott

  Cover image © The Bridgeman Art Library

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

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  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  An Introduction…

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Part Two

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Part Three

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Part Four

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Part Five

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  An Epilogue…

  Postscript

  Appendix

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  Dedicated to those friends of our youth,

  with whom we shared the

  “sanguine expectations of happiness”

  that filled our dreams.

  “…That sanguine expectation of happiness,

  that is happiness itself…”

  —Sense and Sensibility, Jane Austen, 1811

  An Introduction…

  Originally published in 1811, Sense and Sensibility, more so than any of Jane Austen’s other novels, leaves open the option for a sequel.

  In the final chapter of the book, while she tidies up the various strands of the story, Austen allows sufficient room for certain developments, which may be credibly used to continue the narrative without distorting the original concept of her characters.

  Elinor Dashwood and Edward Ferrars, the author has assured us, have a union of hearts and minds that is the accepted foundation for a happy marriage. In contrast, the marriage of Marianne Dashwood and Colonel Brandon, encouraged by Mrs Dashwood, following upon the end of a most unhappy affair between Marianne and Mr John Willoughby, does not engender in readers the same feeling of sanguinity.

  On first reading the novel many years ago, soon after I had read Pride and Prejudice, I was struck by this difference. Re-reading it more recently, after writing The Pemberley Chronicles series, I was further intrigued by the language of the author as she described the Brandons’ marriage. Marianne, we are told, “instead of falling a sacrifice to an irresistible passion” as she had expected, “found herself at nineteen submitting to new attachments, entering on new duties, placed in a new home, a wife, the mistress of a family, and the patroness of a village.” Colonel Brandon, who is twice her age, “was now as happy as all those who best loved him believed he deserved to be… consoled for every past affliction” by the regard and company of his wife, Marianne. Plausible, but not, one must admit, a particularly inspiring portrait of marital bliss.

  The prospect is not improved when one realises (and here we have Miss Austen’s word for it) that Willoughby still roams the countryside, unhappily wed, regretting his loss of Marianne and hating Colonel Brandon. There are even hints that his dishonourable conduct has been forgiven by those who were most injured by it—including Marianne.

  And then, there is Margaret, the youngest Miss Dashwood, thirteen years old in the original novel, precocious, bright, and keen to learn—she deserved to be permitted to discover her own “expectations of happiness” in a freer environment than before. I took particular pleasure in giving Margaret that opportunity, by drawing the story of this family forward into the next dynamic decade of the nineteenth century.

  Unlike Pride and Prejudice, in Sense and Sensibility we are not supported and surrounded by the weight of tradition and the social structures of a place like Pemberley providing the framework for the novel.

  The story of the Dashwood sisters is, by contrast, that of a family of modest means, living quietly in the country, coping with the varying circumstances and challenges that life throws up. My interest was mainly in the way these characters mature and play out their individual roles, as they seek to substantiate those simple expectations of happiness that we all cherish.

  RAC / November 2010.

  For the benefit of those readers who wish to be reminded of the characters and their relationships to one another, an aide-mémoire is provided in the appendix.

  Prologue

  Summer 1819

  The dinner party at Barton Park was exactly as Sir John Middleton had ordered it should be. The table was laid with the best porcelain, silver, and crystal, and the guests were presented with several courses of excellent fish, flesh, and fowl, accompanied by the finest wines in Sir John’s well-stocked cellar. Lady Middleton had reminded him that it was her mother, Mrs Jennings’s, birthday on Saturday, and Sir John had decided to please both his wife and his mother-in-law with an appropriately jolly celebration. Being a keen sportsman, no doubt Sir John may have been familiar with the notion of killing two birds with one stone, but, being also a kindly sort of man, it is unlikely he would have made mention of it on this occasion.

  Mrs Jennings, an elderly, fat, cheerful woman with a tendency to talk loud and long, had been delighted to have a party given for her birthday, at which both her daughters, Lady Middleton and Mrs Palmer, sat on either side of her at table. She was able to indulge her love of gossip and jokes, while her sons-in-law sat at the other end, where Sir John ate, drank, and talked and Mr Palmer listened, thus humouring each other. It was the sort of diversion Sir John enjoyed hugely, and it was the type of occasion that allowed him to indulge his preference for food, wine, and company without feeling any sense of guilt, for he had ensured that a good time would be had by his family and guests as well.

  There were not as many guests on this occasion as he would have liked, because, as he explained to each arriving visitor, it was almost the end of summer and many of the young men and ladies were already engaged for dances, picnics, and the like and had not been available at short notice.

  “But that must not mean that we will be any less merry,” he declared, encouraging everyone to enjoy themselves, as food and drink appeared in such variety and quantities as would satisfy even the kee
nest connoisseur and the heartiest appetite.

  Since they could all eat well, even if they were not all particularly good at clever conversation, there would be no complaints from the guests, thought Mrs Dashwood, who had been conveyed to the manor house from her cottage in a curricle sent by Sir John. He was her cousin, whose kindness in making Barton Cottage available to them some nine years ago had rescued her and her three daughters from the embarrassment of being evicted from Norland Park, their home in Sussex, on the death of her husband, Mr Henry Dashwood.

  Her stepson, Mr John Dashwood, and his wife, Fanny, had arrived, eager to take possession of Norland as soon as the funeral was over, and were it not for the generosity of Sir John’s offer of the cottage, they would have been in very dire straits indeed.

  Once settled at Barton Cottage in the county of Devon, Mrs Dashwood and her three daughters, Elinor, Marianne, and Margaret, had found themselves drawn into the ample circle of the Middletons’ hospitality. While it had meant that they would never want for company or entertainment, it had not always been agreeable and had occasionally brought complaints from Miss Marianne that they suffered from an excess of both.

  Since then, of course, two of Mrs Dashwood’s daughters had been married: Elinor to Mr Edward Ferrars, now parson of the living of Delaford in Dorsetshire, and Marianne was married to Colonel Brandon and presided over the mansion house at Delaford herself.

  The youngest sister, Margaret, had continued to live with her mother until the age of sixteen, when she had insisted that her thirst for knowledge could no longer be assuaged by books alone and she felt compelled to seek a fuller education. With the recommendation of her brother-in-law, the Reverend Edward Ferrars, she had enrolled at a ladies’ seminary outside of Oxford, where she studied with great dedication to improve her mind and her skills, in the hope of becoming a travel writer, thus felicitously combining her desire to travel with her literary aspirations.

  Mrs Dashwood, who had been very close to her two elder daughters, travelled often to Delaford to see them, but seemed not to miss, quite as much, young Margaret, who maintained an irregular sort of correspondence with her mother and sisters, sufficient to provide the kind of news of her progress that her relatives demanded.

  “Margaret writes that she is almost at the end of her course of study of English poetry and is writing an essay on the work of Mr Wordsworth,” Mrs Dashwood replied rather proudly to an enquiry about her daughter from Mrs Jennings, whose knowledge of both English poetry in general and the work of Mr Wordsworth in particular was inadequate to permit her to say more than, “Is she indeed? My very word—did you hear that, Sir John?”

  To which her son-in-law replied, “Hear what, madam?” and when Mrs Dashwood repeated her original information about Margaret, he merely grinned broadly and added, “Is she indeed? Excellent, excellent! I always said she was a smart young thing!” before returning to refill his glass. Mrs Jennings, whose enquiry had been directed at Miss Margaret’s love life rather than her academic pursuits, also lost interest and turned away to chat with her daughter Charlotte Palmer, who had plenty of gossip from London to tell regarding the latest exploits of the Prince Regent and his courtiers.

  And in such a manner was the party proceeding, until one young lady—the daughter of a near neighbour—was persuaded to take her place at the pianoforte, which she did with some enthusiasm, providing two or three jolly songs in quick succession for their entertainment. Sir John, who liked nothing better than a good “sing-along,” set about gathering a small circle around the instrument, urging everyone to join in, intending by this means to increase the general merriment of the party to make up for its lack of numbers.

  It was at this point in the proceedings that Lady Middleton, who had been standing by the coffee table at the far end of the room, fell suddenly to the floor. Her sister, Mrs Palmer, first gasped, then screamed loudly enough to stop the performers in midsong.

  No one seemed to know what to do next. Mrs Palmer continued to scream, Mrs Jennings looked stupefied, and Mrs Dashwood bent over the collapsed form of Lady Middleton, making soothing sounds and trying to rouse her with her fan.

  “I do believe the room is too hot,” she cried and proceeded to wave her fan about, while Sir John seemed to be stunned into silence. Only the consistently imperturbable and reputedly droll Mr Palmer, who had not been persuaded to join the singers and had continued to smoke his pipe by the fire, appeared to understand the need for some action. Ordering the servants to go for the doctor, he gave instructions for Lady Middleton to be laid upon a couch and asked his wife, Charlotte, to loosen her sister’s clothing and fetch the smelling salts, while he ushered the rest of the company out of the drawing room, declaring that there was need for more air.

  The doctor arrived and went directly to Lady Middleton’s side, where Mrs Palmer sat weeping and wringing her hands, while Mrs Dashwood continued to wield her fan assiduously but to little effect. The doctor was attentive and thorough but, alas, it was too late; the patient had suffered a severe seizure and it seemed her heart had failed.

  Lady Middleton was pronounced dead.

  ***

  Sometime later the doctor went away, leaving Sir John still stunned and bewildered, Mrs Jennings and Charlotte Palmer both distraught, trying to console one another, and Mrs Dashwood in a quandary, for once, not of her own making.

  She felt she had to do what she could to help, yet knew not what to do; she couldn’t go back to Barton Cottage at that hour—it was long past midnight—and she wanted desperately to contact her daughters at Delaford, but had no means to do so. As the hours passed, feeling awkward, still dressed as she was in her evening gown, Mrs Dashwood went into the kitchen and found the staff in various stages of shock and grief, apparently unable to comprehend the death of their mistress. With some difficulty, a sobbing maid was persuaded to prepare a tea tray and take it in to the morning room, where Mr Palmer stood at the window, regarding the early dawn sky. Somewhat tentatively, Mrs Dashwood approached him and asked if it would be possible to have a message sent to her daughter Mrs Edward Ferrars at the Delaford parsonage in the neighbouring county of Dorset. Familiar with Mr Palmer’s reserved and often abrupt manner, she was quite taken aback when he acknowledged her, bowing politely, thanked her for ordering the tea, and then declared that of course it could be done and if she would write a note, he would have it conveyed to Delaford immediately.

  “Of course you wish to inform your daughters, Mrs Dashwood; I will have it sent directly. Furthermore, should you wish to return to Barton Cottage at any time, my carriage is available to take you home. You have been awake all night, attending on Mrs Jennings and my wife; you must be very tired. I am sure you must wish to rest.”

  Mrs Dashwood, pleasantly surprised by his consideration, expressed her gratitude and, assuring him she was in no hurry to leave, moved to sit at a side table and compose her message to Elinor. Giving few details, but conveying the shock and sorrow she felt, she wrote:

  Clearly, everyone has been shocked by Lady Middleton’s untimely death. Poor Sir John—he seems stunned; he said not a word and has not left his room since. As for Mrs Jennings and Mrs Palmer, I cannot imagine how they will console one another, they are both utterly bereft. Only Mr Palmer seems able to cope and it’s a good thing he is able, because there is no one else to handle the arrangements for the funeral. I confess I am as disabled as the rest, for I cannot take it in and do not know what I can do to assist my cousin at this time. I long for your advice, my dear daughters, and beg you to come to me as soon as possible.

  Urging Elinor to convey the news to Marianne and Colonel Brandon as well, Mrs Dashwood begged her daughters to come at once to Barton Cottage, where they were all welcome to stay until the funeral.

  ***

  It was almost late afternoon when Elinor and Edward Ferrars arrived at Barton Cottage. Mrs Dashwood was first surprised and then disappointed that Marian
ne was not with them and would not be attending the funeral.

  “Marianne sends her condolences, Mama, but unfortunately, she is unwell and cannot travel; however, Colonel Brandon has been informed and promises to be here by nightfall. He insisted that we take the carriage; he will follow on horseback,” Elinor explained.

  Her mother was not happy; Sir John had been exceedingly kind and generous to them all and had taken a particular interest in Marianne when she had fallen seriously ill following her disastrous love affair with John Willoughby. No one had been happier than Sir John when she had finally married his good friend Colonel Brandon.

  “I had hoped Marianne would have understood that Sir John is all the family we have—the only relative we may turn to, since it is unlikely that the selfish attitude of John and Fanny Dashwood will ever change. We have every reason to be grateful to him and to show him some kindness and sympathy in his time of grief,” she complained.

  While Elinor agreed with her mother on the matter of Sir John’s generosity, she was uncertain about the depth of his grief; she had not noticed any signs of deep affection between the Middletons. His wife had spent most of her time spoiling her children and gossiping with her mother and sister, while her husband pursued his favourite pastimes with his friends. However, Elinor knew her mother’s sensibility well and did not wish to provoke her, so said nothing of that, trying instead to console her with the news that Edward had dispatched an express to Margaret’s address in Oxfordshire breaking the news, and it was possible she would arrive in time for the funeral.

  Later that afternoon, Colonel Brandon arrived at the cottage and together with Edward went up to Barton Park to support his old friend Sir John and remained there for most of the evening. When Edward returned, he reported that Sir John’s spirits had improved a little. “He seemed better able to cope with the arrangements that have to be made and was exceedingly gratified to have Colonel Brandon’s company,” said Edward, adding that Mr Palmer was being very useful and appeared to have everything in hand. “He seems such an odd sort of fellow, yet he is clearly a man of practical common sense and good understanding,” he said.