Expectations of Happiness

by Rebecca Ann Collins

  “Ah, Glastonbury Tor,” said Mr Perceval, and she feared he was about to launch into another instructive discourse on the subject, when she was spared by Mrs Perceval drawing her husband’s attention to some particular site they were passing, causing him to return to the other side of the vehicle. Marianne continued looking out and absorbing the beauty of the woods, where the leaves were just turning to russet and gold, as she sank once more into silent contemplation.

  Upon reaching their destination, a small hostelry outside Glastonbury, they alighted and found the rest of the party, the young Percevals and their friends, who’d arrived ahead of them, gathered within. On seeing their parents, the Perceval girls claimed they were all quite famished and wanted only to unpack their picnic baskets and eat! Astonished that having had a large breakfast but a few hours ago, they could be so hungry, Marianne wondered aloud whether they could not take a little walk in the direction of Glastonbury first, only to be met with cries of alarm from the Perceval girls. “Oh no, that would be impossible… I simply could not walk all that way and back without some food—I shall faint for certain…” causing Mrs Perceval to declare with a sigh that, “Young people have such hearty appetites—they are never satisfied,” and since Mr Perceval had already settled into a chair with a jug of ale, it looked as though the last word had been said on the matter. The appearance of the Hawthorne sisters, Harriet and Hannah, proclaiming that they had “found just the most perfect place for our picnic,” set the seal upon it.

  Resigned to the fact that everyone apart from herself seemed keener on satisfying their appetites than getting a glimpse of Glastonbury, Marianne said no more and went out to assist the girls, who were already ordering the manservant to unpack their things and carry the hampers to the picnic spot. She could not deny that Harriet and Hannah had indeed found a near perfect place, in a small grove of trees, beside a clear running stream. In such agreeable surroundings, with ample food and drink, the party required little more to satisfy them, and consequently, there was hardly any conversation for the next hour or so, during which time large quantities of food and drink were consumed. Amazed at the quantity and variety of food being eaten, Marianne was not surprised to note that Mr Perceval and Miss Peabody were already surrendering to the soporific ambience of the afternoon, and Mrs Perceval looked so comfortably settled, she was unlikely to be easily persuaded to leave her seat. The young Hawthornes and Percevals were themselves so occupied with entertaining each other that it looked as though they were in no mood to move.

  Bored and determined not to lose the opportunity to see something of the site for which she had prepared herself with so much anticipation, Marianne rose and, leaving her companions in various states of relaxation, took the path that led up a small hill behind the inn, from where, the innkeeper had advised them, “one could get a very good view of Glastonbury Tor.”

  She didn’t know what to expect, but when she first saw the dramatic dark mount, with its tower rising like a stark sentinel above the fabled Avalon marshes and heath lands, all bathed in the red-gold afternoon light, Marianne gasped. It was a breathtaking sight, atmospheric and magical, like nothing she had seen before, and all the tales of ancient times with kings and knights and deeds of derring-do came flooding back. As she stood there, trying to absorb its impact, she heard a voice behind her say, “If you climb the Tor and stand on its summit, you can overlook three counties,” and Marianne froze, unable to move, because she knew that voice, she knew it well; it was, it had to be, the voice of Mr Willoughby.

  Often, in times past, she had wondered if she would ever see him again and, if she did, how she would cope with the situation. She had toyed with the notion that it would be easy, now she was married and quite out of his reach, to greet him with cold courtesy. She had believed that a mere formal bow would suffice to indicate politely but firmly that he meant nothing to her, that he was no more than a stranger. However, at this moment, not knowing if he was even aware who she was, for she had her back to him and wore a cloak and bonnet that almost completely hid her person, Marianne was unable even to turn and face the man who had addressed her. Indeed, she could not be certain that it was to her he had spoken, for, she thought, there may well have been some other person with him.

  As myriad thoughts reeled through her mind, she stood still, until he, taking a few more steps, reached her side and said, “It is not as difficult a climb as it might seem from here—even for a lady; it is steep, but well worth the effort,” thus making it plain that his words had indeed been directed at her.

  Marianne could no longer avoid it; she turned and looked up into his face, and the consternation reflected upon it told her that he had not known it was she. Indeed, she, in recognising his voice, had been momentarily advantaged and better prepared for this encounter, while he was clearly deeply shaken. When he could speak, which was in a few seconds, though it seemed an eternity, he said, “Marianne—I beg your pardon, Mrs Brandon—I had no idea it was you. There is a party here from Somerton, who are visiting Glastonbury… I met them briefly at the inn and seeing you from behind, standing there, I assumed it was one of the ladies… else I should never have taken the liberty… please forgive me…” at which point words seemed to fail him, and as he stopped, she said in a voice that she struggled to keep from trembling, “Mr Willoughby, there is no need to apologise; I can see you were mistaken.” And in a gesture that at once astonished and delighted him, she held out her hand, which he grasped and held for a moment before raising it to his lips.

  Marianne withdrew her hand swiftly and tucked it inside the deep pockets of her cloak before saying, “I too am with a party of friends who mean to visit Glastonbury this afternoon. I left them in the woods below the inn and made my way here to get a glimpse of the view—the landlord recommended it; but it is time I returned, or they may begin to worry that I have got myself lost.”

  At this, with the smooth gallantry she remembered so well, he warned her of the danger of sliding and falling on the rough footpath as they descended the hill, which remark immediately recalled to her mind the very first time they had met at Barton Park, and a blush rose in her cheeks. He offered her his arm, which she may well have found quite helpful, yet Marianne, realising that she must not be seen with him by the Percevals and their friends, who would proceed to ask a thousand questions, politely declined his assistance, claimed she was able to manage the descent on her own, and preceded him downhill.

  She found the rest of the party making preparations to return to their carriages. “Ah, there you are, Mrs Brandon, we were beginning to wonder if we should send out a search party to find you,” said Mr Perceval, and his wife demanded to know where she had been. Marianne obliged quickly, seeing it was easier to answer the question, else it would be asked again and again, relentlessly. “I wasn’t far away; I walked up the hill behind the inn and took a look at Glastonbury Tor in the distance—it is a most impressive sight, indeed,” she said.

  By this time the younger members of the party had all climbed into the brougham and were about to drive out of the yard, which brought the conversation to an end, as Mr Perceval urged his wife and her cousin Miss Peabody to hasten, if they were to have any chance of seeing Glastonbury before sundown. When they were all seated and the carriage was moving out, Marianne turned and looked toward the inn, and there she saw Willoughby standing at one of the windows, a glass in his hand, watching them; as she caught his eye, he lifted a hand in a casual gesture, looking for all the world like an indifferent acquaintance waving them farewell. His insouciance startled her; yet knowing him, she should not have been, for it was exactly what she could have expected him to do.

  As they travelled toward Glastonbury, Marianne’s thoughts were filled with the afternoon’s encounter and the image of the man who had filled her life, to the exclusion of all else, but a few years ago. She was surprised at how little he had changed in appearance; he looked perhaps a very little older but not, she decid
ed, in any way coarser in his features or less graceful in his figure, and his confident air and gallant manner were as they had ever been. The contemplation of these matters gave her an unexpected degree of pleasure, making it difficult for her to drag her mind away when they arrived at their destination.

  Marianne had looked forward to Glastonbury with such avid interest, and yet, suddenly, she felt drained of energy and enthusiasm as they alighted from their vehicles. She decided it was because her present companions were so dull in their responses to what lay before them—the timeless site, its mysterious ruins inspiring a string of myths and legends reaching back into the earliest period of Christianity in Britain. It had been one of the most significant centres of religious practice and pilgrimage since the tenth century, during the time of the great Abbot of Glastonbury—later Saint Dunstan. As Marianne stood before the massive piles of stone, sunk in the soil of an ancient land over which the setting sun cast huge purple shadows, she was conscious of being in a sacred place, which was deeply moving to her romantic soul.

  Meanwhile, the Misses Perceval tramped about the place with very little comprehension of where they were or what significance might be ascribed to each ancient ruin, and Marianne, who had hoped to give them the benefit of her research into the site, felt a sudden sense of lassitude at the thought of trying to convince them of its antiquity and historical significance. Consequently, she moved from one monumental pile to the next, studying them intently, recalling all the things she had read but making no effort to share her feelings with the young men and ladies, who appeared to be far more interested in teasing each other with secrets and jokes and references to Lancelot and Guinevere.

  As the sunlight faded and a cool breeze invaded the ancient site, Mrs Perceval, tiring from her exertions, retired to their carriage, while the younger members of the party flitted around like late butterflies—to no particular purpose, except to exclaim from time to time, “Oh do come and look at this,” each time their eyes fell upon some carving or inscription. However, when the others gathered round, there was not much more said, except to ooh and aah and speculate at how very old it must be. Marianne found it all very unedifying. She was almost relieved when it was decided that it was time to get back in their vehicles and make for the inn. Miss Peabody agreed at once, claiming she was simply dying for a cup of tea.

  Their carriage reached the inn first and the ladies—Mrs Perceval, Miss Peabody, and Marianne—went upstairs to refresh themselves, while awaiting the brougham bearing the rest of their party. They were surprised, on coming down to tea half an hour later, to find no sign of the others. Mr Perceval, who had been taking some liquid refreshment in the bar, came out to greet the ladies, and when it was pointed out to him that the vehicle bearing the younger members of their party had not arrived, he seemed puzzled and quite unable to comprehend what might have happened or, indeed, what needed to be done.

  While Mr and Mrs Perceval were standing in the hall, the latter looking rather troubled, Marianne and Miss Peabody had seated themselves in the parlour from where they could see and hear what was going on. Miss Peabody poured out the tea, claiming she was very tired and would like nothing better than a bit of dinner and a good night’s sleep. Marianne was about to agree, when suddenly, another voice was heard in the hall, addressing Mr Perceval. “I could not help overhearing your conversation, sir,” it said. “The rest of your party may have been delayed by some minor mishap—a lame horse or a broken axle, perhaps. It may not be safe for the young people to be stranded out there after dark. May I suggest that I ride out along the road to Glastonbury, taking your manservant with me, and if there has been a problem, we could take your carriage and bring the stranded travellers back with us?” Marianne knew at once it was Willoughby, but said nothing to Miss Peabody, who was eager to listen and discover what was afoot.

  Both Mr and Mrs Perceval responded with great appreciation to Willoughby’s offer of assistance, and Marianne heard him say, with all of his usual charm, that he would not consider it any trouble at all—he understood their concern and it was indeed a pleasure to be of assistance. As he went out into the yard with Mr Perceval to find Wilson, the manservant, Mrs Perceval entered the parlour, declaring that there was a very fine gentleman indeed and were they not truly fortunate he was at hand to offer his help? Marianne and Miss Peabody nodded, and the latter poured out more tea for herself and Mrs Perceval.

  Shortly afterwards, Willoughby and the Percevals’ servant were heard riding out to search for the brougham on the road to Glastonbury, and Mr Perceval entered the parlour with more praise for the exceedingly helpful Mr Willoughby, whom he had fortuitously met in the bar of the inn that very evening, he said.

  “I must say that Mr Willoughby is such a decent young fellow; upon my word, am I glad that I responded kindly to him this evening when he came over and introduced himself. I don’t stand much on ceremony, you see; he seemed a good sort of fellow, and when he said he had a place here in Somerset, I knew he was a gentleman and acknowledged him, which was a jolly good thing because as you see, he’s offered to go out on the road and look for the brougham, which is more than I could have done. It’s jolly decent of him, I must say. He’s taken Wilson with him, and I daresay they’ll find them stranded somewhere—Willoughby thinks it must be a lame horse…” He rattled on even though no one was listening, while Mrs Perceval seated herself next to Miss Peabody on the sofa and sipped her tea.

  It was clear she was still anxious about the girls. “I do hope Mr Perceval is right and they are all safe. I am terrified of accidents, and I do not know what I shall say to the Hawthornes if anything has happened to their girls,” she said over and over again, until Marianne began to wish she had never come on this expedition.

  Chapter Eight

  As the sky darkened outside and the candles were lit in the inn, it was decided that they would take some dinner while waiting for news. The host was setting a table for them, when there came the sound of horses’ hooves in the yard, followed by boots in the hall, and Mr Willoughby strode in.

  “They are safe,” he announced brightly, bringing a great cheer from Mr Perceval and a cry of relief from his lady. “We found them stranded not two miles up the road. It is as I thought, a horse has thrown a shoe and pulled the vehicle into the ditch, which has damaged a wheel—but there’s no injury to any of the passengers, except, with the wind coming off the marshes, they were beginning to feel the cold. Naturally the young gentlemen were reluctant to leave the ladies alone and go for help—no doubt they expected someone would come looking for them.”

  “No doubt, no doubt,” echoed Mr Perceval, “and I thank you, Mr Willoughby, for your kindness in offering to look for them. But how shall we arrange to transport them? We are too large a party to pack into my carriage together…” Once again Mr Perceval, for all his boast of travelling in the Grampians, appeared not to have any practical common sense, and again, it was Willoughby who said, in a quiet but decisive voice, “If you will allow me, sir, to make a suggestion that may resolve your problem, I have taken the liberty of asking your man to take your carriage to collect the young ladies and gentlemen and convey them hither. In view of their state of discomfort, I thought it was best to have that done without delay,” with which Mr Perceval agreed directly.

  Willoughby continued, “When they arrive, may I suggest that you and Mrs Perceval should join the four young ladies and return to your home, while the two young gentlemen remain here with the rest of your party,” he said, bowing in the direction of Marianne and Miss Peabody, as though he had never met them before and had no idea who they were. Whereupon Mr Perceval proceeded to introduce the two ladies, and Mr Willoughby bowed deeply again to each of them. Continuing to explain his plan, he added, “My own place is but a few miles from here—I shall ride there directly and return with my carriage, in which I am sure we can arrange to convey them safely to your home.” He sounded so confident, the Percevals, clearly delighte
d that he had taken the problem out of their hands, were effusively grateful. Mrs Perceval began to say, “But, Mr Willoughby, we cannot possibly put you to so much trouble. It will be dark and riding around these country roads could be quite hazardous…” but he interrupted her protestations with a wave of the hand. “Mrs Perceval, as I have said before to Mr Perceval, it is no trouble to me, and I am perfectly familiar with the roads in Somersetshire, I assure you.”

  Then, looking at them directly, he added, “There is no other way, unless the ladies choose to stay overnight here, which, while it may be quite safe, is unlikely to be very comfortable. It is only a small establishment, and I am not certain the facilities and services will be to your satisfaction. However, if that is your preference, I will ask the landlord if he has a room for the two ladies.” Then, seeing the look of consternation on the faces of Mrs Brandon and Miss Peabody, who were both thoroughly disconcerted at the prospect of having to stay overnight at the inn, without the help of a ladies’ maid and no nightclothes to change into, Willoughby smiled and said, “I think, sir, the ladies have made their wishes clear; I have no doubt that after a long day out of doors, they would appreciate a good night’s sleep in their own beds.” At which both women nodded vigorously, and Mrs Perceval added that it certainly would not be seemly to leave the two ladies alone at the inn overnight.

  Listening to Willoughby, Marianne, who had remained silent throughout this discourse, was amazed at the ease with which he had promoted himself to everyone as their saviour—the man with the best solution to their problem, the good Samaritan who would extricate them from the predicament in which they had found themselves. Indeed, she decided, he had not changed at all. Not long afterward, he took his leave of them and left the inn, and they heard him ride out of the yard.