Expectations of Happiness

by Rebecca Ann Collins

  Marianne assured him that she had suffered not at all from the ordeal, and indeed, she was very sorry to hear about Mrs Perceval’s illness. Even before she could ask him, Willoughby responded that he would be happy to convey her sympathies to the Percevals when he dined with them that evening.

  “They have kindly asked me to dine, which is far more agreeable to me than dining alone, which would be my fate were I to return immediately to Somerset. Indeed, they asked me to convey this invitation to you,” he said, taking an unsealed note out of his pocket and holding it out to her. Marianne blushed as she took it and turned away to the window to read the contents—Maria Perceval had written asking her to dine with them and suggesting that, since it may be late and with Colonel Brandon away from Delaford, she may prefer to stay overnight. She added that Mr Willoughby had offered to convey her from Delaford to their house that evening, if she was agreeable.

  It was with some difficulty that Marianne turned to face her visitor and say in a voice that she hoped was sufficiently credible, “I am sorry, but I am engaged to dine at the parsonage with my sister and brother-in-law this evening; if you could wait, I will write a note to the Percevals explaining why I cannot accept,” and she rushed upstairs, her cheeks burning, knowing that her excuse was a lie, that in her heart she would have liked to accept the invitation, yet aware that she could not. She wrote a brief, polite note to Miss Maria Perceval and took it downstairs. Willoughby put it in his pocket and sat down to take tea.

  Apart from a comment about the attractive aspect of the room in which they were seated, which she took to be a clear indication that he recalled the room at Barton Cottage she had replicated here, he behaved exactly as he had done before: speaking of the Percevals and what a very hospitable and pleasant family they were. He made no reference to her sister and brother-in-law, nor did he attempt to engage her in any familiarity, but she knew he must have discovered from the Percevals that her husband was away in Ireland. It had probably emboldened him to suggest that he could convey her to the Percevals’ place for dinner, she thought, reflecting that it was very much as Willoughby would have behaved when they had first met those many years ago. He retained the qualities of quick thinking and decisive action that had recommended him to her at their first meeting, when after her fall, he had picked her up in his arms without fuss and carried her home in the drenching rain.

  He did not stay long after finishing his tea, but before he left, he thanked her, said again how glad he was to find her well, and hoped they would meet again. He said it as though he knew it would be so, she thought as he bowed and said goodbye. Marianne said nothing except to thank him for his concern and to assure him she was very well. But once he had gone, she went slowly upstairs to her room and her mind was filled with a multitude of thoughts, all of which were the very opposite of what she had said.

  ***

  Elinor and Mrs King travelled to Barton Park on what was a pretty autumn morning, with a pleasant westerly breeze pushing the clouds ahead of them. They arrived at the house to be told that Mrs Dashwood was busy upstairs with two of the servants, who were engaged in clearing out what had been Mrs Jennings’s rooms. When Elinor looked surprised, the housekeeper informed her that Mrs Jennings had left that very morning with her son-in-law, Sir John Middleton, to join the Palmers in London.

  The news pleased Elinor; this was a most fortunate circumstance indeed, thought she, since it would enable her to speak privately with her mother and convince her to return to Delaford with them, since it would pose no inconvenience at all to Sir John. There should be little doubt that Mrs Williams the housekeeper could maintain the household while the master was away in London.

  Leaving Mrs King in the sitting room, Elinor went upstairs and found her mother busier than she had ever seen her in their own home. The rooms and all their fine furniture were being cleaned and aired—fresh linen and accessories were ready to hand and fresh flowers were being arranged in two large glass vases, which Elinor recalled seeing in one of the rooms downstairs. Perhaps they were expecting another visitor, she thought. After greeting her daughter affectionately, but with some degree of impatience at not having been notified of her arrival, Mrs Dashwood informed her that Sir John had taken his mother-in-law to London to join the Palmers. They would travel thence to Brighton, where it was hoped the sea air would help her feel much better. As for Sir John, she said, he had been missing his friends in town and would probably spend a few weeks at his house in London. Mrs Dashwood then continued working as she talked, laying out new doilies on the dressing table, ordering the maids to remove the old linings in the chest of drawers and replace them with fresh ones and hang fresh lavender in the linen press.

  Seeing all this activity, Elinor had to ask, “Who is it for?” expecting to hear that some relative of the Middletons was to stay. Her astonishment was beyond imagining when her mother replied, “It’s for me, dear, it’s my new accommodation; Sir John said I should have this suite of rooms, since it is unlikely that Mrs Jennings will return to stay for long periods of time. She may come with the Palmers when they visit, I suppose, but there are two other rooms that would be quite suitable for a short stay. Sir John thinks these rooms, which are very nice with such a pretty prospect, would be wasted if they are shut away. There’s work to be done—Mrs Jennings has used them for many years. I’ll be making some changes. I think I’ll have some new curtains made up—I am not very fond of that colour—although that may have to wait until after Christmas.”

  Elinor listened with increasing amazement, as her mother chattered on as though this was the most exciting thing that had happened in her life. Bright and energetic, like some young woman with a new home, Mrs Dashwood was settling in at Barton Park, preparing to occupy a luxurious suite of rooms from where she presumably expected to carry on her duties as a glorified manager of her cousin’s household. It was an idea her daughter found difficult to take seriously.

  Recalling her duty to her friend Mrs King, who had been sitting patiently downstairs, Elinor informed her mother that they had come on a very important errand and it concerned her sister Marianne. This brought a flicker of interest. “What is the problem? Is she unwell?” she asked quickly, looking a little concerned, but when Elinor said she was not, her mother looked relieved and returned to rearranging her toiletries.

  “Marianne is quite well, but there is something you should know, Mama,” Elinor began, but Mrs Dashwood waved her away. “Well, my dear, you can tell me all about it later. I am glad to hear she is not ill, but I must get on with this now. Do make my excuses to your friend and say I shall join you for dinner later. Meanwhile, why do you not take some refreshment and then perhaps, you could take her for a stroll in the park. Will you stay the night?” she asked as an afterthought, and when Elinor said she thought they could stay at the cottage, her mother looked appalled and said, “Oh no, my dear, not at the cottage—that would not do. Why, no one has been there to air the bedrooms or anything for several weeks—there’s only Thomas and his wife there anyway. What would Sir John say? He’d be most upset to think we sent you off to sleep at the cottage. No, no, you must stay here. The maids will make up a couple of beds in two of the smaller rooms for you. You will be much more comfortable here. It will all be done when you get back from your walk.” It was more than Elinor could do to keep a straight face—this she had never anticipated. Finding her mother so completely immersed in her own role at Barton Park was extraordinary; still worse, how on earth was she going to convince her of the need to return to Delaford?

  Going downstairs, she apologised to Mrs King and was grateful that the housekeeper had seen fit to send in refreshments. Elinor partook of a cup of tea, but her thoughts were filled with the new circumstances she faced. Glad of the good weather and with the grounds at their best in early autumn, it wasn’t too difficult to interest Mrs King in a walk through the groves of Barton Park. As they walked, Elinor, in a most uncharacteristic manner,
related most of her conversation with her mother. “Helen, I am at a loss to understand my mother; she appears reluctant to be concerned with any matters outside her own life here at Barton Park—where she is clearly comfortable and pleased with her role in Sir John’s household,” she complained. “It is quite astonishing; I am not at all certain she will consent to come with us to Delaford. Indeed, I doubt that she will even share my concern for Marianne.”

  Helen King tried to assuage her friend’s anxiety with argument; surely, she said, Mrs Dashwood would consider the situation of her daughter, her happiness, and possible damage to her reputation to be matters of serious concern. She tried to persuade Elinor that when her mother heard all of the circumstances, including the possibility that Willoughby may try to meet Marianne again and that Marianne may be susceptible to his approaches, she would surely begin to take it seriously. But Elinor was not hopeful. She recalled clearly what little disquiet her mother had shown in the past, declaring that she trusted her daughter and Mr Willoughby implicitly and would not intervene to question them. She was, she had stated, perfectly satisfied that they loved each other and that was proof enough for her. She had berated Elinor for doubting her sister and suspecting Willoughby of deception.

  Recalling all this, she explained her fears to her friend, “I should very much like to believe as you do, Helen, that Mama will regard this matter as important enough to require her intervention in my sister’s life, but I cannot be certain. Should she refuse to return with us to Delaford, I do not know what I shall do. I cannot confront Marianne—I have neither the right, nor the evidence to warrant such action—whereas Mama could, just by being there, make a practical difference to the situation. She needs no excuse to visit Marianne and spend some time with her. Marianne may not welcome it, but she can hardly object.”

  When they returned to the house some time later, everything had been prepared as promised; their rooms were ready and a maid had been assigned to assist them with their toilette and dressing for dinner. Mrs King was very impressed, but poor Elinor’s heart sank. Quite clearly her mother was so immersed in her role at Barton Park, it would take much more than the account of a chance meeting between Marianne and Willoughby to drag her away to Delaford.

  When they came down to dinner, Mrs Dashwood greeted Mrs King graciously, apologised for not having met her earlier, asked if her room was comfortable, and added that it was a pity Sir John Middleton was away, as he would have enjoyed meeting her—as he always enjoyed meeting new people and making new friends. Throughout the excellent meal and afterwards, she chatted on about Barton Park and its owner as though she felt it was her responsibility to convince Mrs King of the generosity and kindness of her cousin. Tales of the happy parties and picnics he hosted and the lavish hospitality that his guests always enjoyed were retold with the added aside that of course this was all before the sad demise of dear Lady Middleton, some months ago. There had been no parties since then, except a shooting party for some friends in the neighbourhood, she said.

  A query from Mrs King about Sir John’s spirits and how he was coping with his loss brought a paean of praise about how brave he had been and how he devoted time to the two children, who were now, “poor little darlings, mainly in the care of their nurse.”

  “They do miss their mama, I’m sure, but Nurse Wallace is very good and I do my best to keep them happy,” she said. “I have suggested to Sir John that it is time they had a young governess who could start them off on learning their letters and numbers and perhaps trying out the pianoforte, too. I always say it’s never too early—all my girls started learning early, and as you can see they have done very well indeed,” Mrs Dashwood declared, and Mrs King had to agree that she was right.

  Throughout the evening Elinor’s hopes sank lower. It seemed to her that her mother had sloughed off her own maternal responsibilities and, having taken up a new, more enterprising role at Barton Park, was unlikely to want to revert to that of anxious mother of adult daughters again.

  When she did go to her mother’s room, after Mrs King had retired to bed, and tried to lay before her the concerns she had about Marianne, Elinor was proved right. Mrs Dashwood, having listened to her elder daughter’s account, showed very little interest in the question of Marianne’s situation at Delaford, pointing out that she had plenty to keep her occupied because Colonel Brandon had provided her with everything she needed to carry on all her hobbies and interests and there could be no cause for any complaint at all.

  As for the question of Willoughby living in Somerset for part of the year and regularly visiting his relatives in Dorset, Mrs Dashwood well nigh ridiculed Elinor’s concerns: “But of course he lives in Somerset, dear, we always knew that—he has a property there, and since he married Miss Grey, he now has the money to enable him to keep a second establishment in the country, and a very fine place it is too, I understand. Sir John told me all about it last year. Marianne must have known that—I know Colonel Brandon certainly does; but surely that is not something we can worry over. Elinor, my dear, I know your disposition is cautious and wary—you love to doubt wherever you find a reason—but I do not. I am different and I trust Marianne—of course she loved Willoughby, who did not? We all did—although I grant you, you did express some reservations; but it was a long time ago, they are both much older and they are both married.”

  Elinor tried to argue with her mother, “Do you really believe that will influence them, do you think it will restrain Willoughby—should he see an opportunity—from trying to re-engage her feelings for him? Remember that he hates Colonel Brandon with a passion and may well be tempted to use this as a means of avenging himself upon the man whom he blames for all his misfortune.” But Mrs Dashwood would not be persuaded.

  “Elinor, you have been reading too many novels, I think,” she protested. “Why, I cannot believe you really think so ill of your sister. Did not Willoughby claim to you, when you met at Cleveland, that she was the love of his life? Why would he wish to destroy her? Even if I allow that we cannot count on Willoughby’s sincerity, then surely you must believe that Marianne is quite without virtue, if you think she can so easily be tempted into a liaison that could destroy her marriage and every advantage she has at Delaford. Can you honestly tell me that you believe your sister is capable of such folly?”

  It was an argument Elinor knew she could not win; clearly her mother would not countenance any interference in Marianne’s life. Sadly, with tears in her eyes, she said, “I can only pray that you are right, Mama,” as she left the room and returned to her bed, feeling more helpless than she had been before they had set off for Barton Park.

  ***

  Meanwhile, at Delaford, Marianne received a visit from the Perceval sisters, who came accompanied by Mr Willoughby in his open carriage. They came, they said, to ask if she was well and had suffered no distress after the expedition to Glastonbury. On this occasion, Willoughby had brought with him a very pretty sketch of the site at Glastonbury, with the ruined abbey perfectly rendered in watercolours by a local artist, against a distant view of Glastonbury Tor. He presented it to Marianne as a souvenir of her visit, and she was delighted with it, accepting it after some small show of reluctance. Later, he found a moment, while the two Perceval sisters were examining some of the artefacts in the library, to invite her to join them on another excursion, this time to the historic city of Bath.

  Having given her some information about the city, he claimed to be organising a party to visit Bath, he said, and the Perceval family and their friends the Hawthornes were coming too; it was to be in a fortnight’s time. Marianne asked for time to consider, which he gladly agreed to, and promised to call to hear her answer. But she, exercising some caution, said she would send him her answer by post, whereupon Willoughby gave her his card with the address of his country house in Somerset.

  After her visitors had taken tea and left, Marianne took her souvenir of Glastonbury up to her room. She
had at first decided it would look well in her studio, but upon further reflection, it looked too lovely to be hidden away up there, she thought, and propped it up on her dressing table. It was a charming piece of work, capturing the ambient atmosphere of the ancient ruins, and the more she looked at it, the more she recalled how Willoughby was wont to indulge her with similar gestures when they had first met at Barton Park. Each time he had brought her some little gift, it would help to confirm in her mind that she was special to him. She had been excited then by the promise of those thoughtful gestures and the warm feelings they had aroused in her, just as she was now.

  Marianne was still in two minds about the excursion, though; she wanted to go, but was a little concerned. It was almost the middle of October, and Colonel Brandon was due back soon. While she had convinced herself that there was no harm in her joining a party of friends on an excursion to Bath, she was not entirely comfortable with the thought of explaining the presence of Mr Willoughby in the party to her husband. By the time she fell asleep that night, Marianne had not made up her mind.

  The following morning was cold, and rain threatened. She was at breakfast when the post was brought in and there was a letter from Colonel Brandon. She opened it eagerly—it might tell her when he would be back. Following the usual affectionate enquiries about her health and happiness, he informed her that he would be delayed in Ireland by business that had to be concluded before the onset of winter. It would mean he would be home by the middle of November, he wrote, and while apologising for the delay, added that he had arranged that on his next visit, in the spring, she could accompany him and they could spend some time in Dublin, which he assured her was a fine city that she would like very much.

  Marianne would never know what had prompted her decision; whether it was the colonel’s letter, the annoyance of a further delay in his return, or just the inclement weather that affected her mood. Whichever it was, the prospect of spending a few days in the salubrious city of Bath seemed far more attractive than a week of wet weather at Delaford. She rose from the breakfast table, returned to her room, and on impulse, wrote a note to Willoughby, thanking him for the sketch of Glastonbury and saying she would be happy to join their party on the excursion to Bath. She called for the small carriage to take her into the village and posted the letter herself. And so, upon a whim, the die was cast.