Expectations of Happiness

by Rebecca Ann Collins

  When she returned to their rooms, which were at the top of the house, overlooking a small yard with an orchard beyond, she found her friend fast asleep. Margaret was too excited to sleep; she had seen and learned so much that day, her mind was filled with the sights, sounds, and stories of one little corner of this enchanting place. How much more there must be to see and learn!

  Determined that she would remember it all, she sat down at the little table by the window and wrote everything she could recall in her notebook, promising herself that she would do the same on every day they spent here. It was a promise she kept quite faithfully for the rest of their stay.

  That night, after dinner, Margaret wrote to her sister a letter filled with the excitement and enthusiasm she felt as they concluded their first full day in Provence.

  Dearest Elinor,

  You may not receive this for a week or ten days, but I want to write you immediately, because I must tell you what a wonderful day it has been.

  First, I know you will want to hear that we had a safe voyage from Plymouth, and yes, we did, except for a couple of perilous hours crossing the Bay. Marseilles was wet and a bit dreary to begin with, but Aix-en-Provence—do tell Edward he was right—is sublime, and we have only been here one day!

  Before proceeding to tell you about our lodgings, which are excellent value, and the places we have seen, I must also tell Edward that we have met a gentleman who knew him when he was at Oxford. He is Mr Daniel Brooke—a colleague of Mr Wilcox, Claire’s friend, and also of Edward’s mentor at Oxford, Dr Francis Grantley. Now is that not an astonishing coincidence? He recalls meeting Edward at Dr Grantley’s rooms and asked after him. I wonder if Edward has any recollection of him—he is tall, very lean, and quite distinguished-looking. Claire says he is very handsome, but I think his countenance is rather too grave to be deemed handsome, although when he smiles or is involved in an animated discussion, he loses some of that gravity, and then I will admit he may be called handsome. Apart from his appearance, I have to say he is an exceedingly well-read and learned gentleman—quite the most informed mind I have encountered in my adult life. And yet, he has none of the conceit and loftiness of manner that one sees in so many less-educated men.

  Having exhausted her superlatives in relation to Mr Brooke, Margaret proceeded to give her sister and brother-in-law a detailed account of everything she had seen and heard and all she had learned from their travelling companion. Reading it, they would have no doubt that her holiday in Provence was providing Margaret with enjoyment in full measure.

  ***

  On the following day, they were to go to the town centre, where they had been told a Market Day was held once a week and all the locals brought their crafts and produce and set up stalls around the square. Margaret was looking forward to it and could scarcely wait until after breakfast, when they had arranged to meet the gentlemen again. However, this time, only Mr Wilcox arrived. His friend, he told them, had to attend to some urgent personal business in another part of town and would not join them that day.

  Mr Wilcox recommended that they visit the market and enjoy some of the food and wine available there before travelling to a couple of scenic venues in the area. Margaret could not hide her disappointment. Without Mr Brooke, who was going to tell them all about the historic places? She wasn’t sure that Mr Wilcox had that kind of knowledge—he was certainly amiable and helpful, but his knowledge of the area was far less impressive than that of his friend, she thought. Nevertheless, Claire Jones and Mr Wilcox seemed to have their minds set upon visiting the markets, and not wishing to interfere with their plans, Margaret agreed—perhaps the market could turn up a gift or two, she said. Her friend teased, “I know you’d rather be gazing at some old crypt in an ancient church, my dear, but we have many more days to do all that—Nicholas tells me that Mr Brooke has a number of historic places on his list, which we must see; so let’s enjoy the sunshine and the food and wine, which I’m assured is excellent, today,” and Margaret smiled and agreed.

  She was not entirely disappointed, because the day proved to be as interesting as Wilcox and Claire had promised it would be, and the food was certainly delectable, but, as they returned to their lodgings for the night, she had to ask, “Is Mr Brooke joining us tomorrow?” She was pleased when Wilcox said, “Indeed he is, and I believe he has a special treat in store for you, Miss Dashwood; he suggests that we engage a local cart and driver and travel to Saint Remy and Glanum—places of which I have very scant knowledge, but Daniel informs me they are important medieval sites, which I believe hold a great fascination for you, Miss Dashwood.”

  The smile that broke out on her face left her companions in no doubt that this was indeed true. “He did mention Saint Remy yesterday,” she said with such obvious delight, it was no surprise that when they were alone, her friend Claire decided that Margaret deserved to be teased, just a little.

  They dined early, since Wilcox had warned them they were to make an early start, and as they prepared for bed, Claire remarked, apropos of nothing at all, that she was very glad that Margaret was not finding their new companion too dull or too serious as she had supposed he would be. Margaret, who had not been expecting to be teased, misread the question and declared candidly that indeed, she was herself surprised to discover that beneath the appearance of gravitas Mr Brooke had quite a good sense of humour, even while he was able to provide much detailed knowledge and had an erudite understanding of all the historic places in the area. “I do believe you are enjoying his company, Margaret, are you not?” asked her friend, to which Margaret responded artlessly, “I am indeed, because it is always so much more rewarding to have a conversation with someone who is knowledgeable than with some ignoramus who pretends to know it all, do you not agree?”

  “Oh, indeed I do,” said Claire, concealing a smile but deciding that she would not press her friend further on the subject of Daniel Brooke.

  Claire Jones, being some years older than Margaret and with wider experience of the world, sensed that young Miss Dashwood, while she was well educated and personable, had probably never before met a gentleman who had taken her by surprise, as it were, by his intellectual prowess alone. All her relations and acquaintances appeared to be exceedingly predictable men, whose moderate measure she could take quite quickly. Which is why, Claire thought, Margaret Dashwood had never admitted to being attracted to or in love with anyone. Neither her family circumstances nor her place of employment were particularly conducive to the possibility of meeting such a man, and Margaret was too deeply immersed in her work and too content in herself to be searching for one, as some young women of her age were wont to do.

  The appearance of Daniel Brooke and Margaret’s swift appreciation of his intellect and personality had set Claire thinking—but she was too sensible to rush into anything without a good deal more thought. She decided therefore to say nothing more, but determined to observe the pair with interest over the forthcoming days. And where better to observe potential lovers than in romantic Provence? she thought, as she watched her young friend, clad in her cotton nightgown, writing furiously in her notebook.

  As for Margaret, she was enjoying herself so much, she had not stopped to ponder whether her pleasure rose from the places they visited or the people they met or both; but she had travelled before and knew that she’d never felt such intense exhilaration nor known such complete satisfaction before. She hadn’t stopped to consider how much the presence of Daniel Brooke had enhanced her enjoyment, but she did know that without his knowledge and his quiet capacity to fill in the gaps in her information, her own appreciation of the places they had visited would have been the poorer.

  Chapter Twelve

  In Dorset, the balmy autumn weather held for a few weeks in October before the temperatures plunged as the north winds stripped the trees of their reddening leaves and drove them into the gullies. Looking out on the bleak landscape, Marianne wondered whether her dec
ision to accept Willoughby’s invitation had been rather premature—for it looked as though the party may not eventuate at all. It seemed simpler for her to say nothing about it when Elinor called on her, ostensibly to tell her of her visit to Barton Park and convey a message from their mother.

  “Mama wished me to remind you that with the colder weather approaching, you are to be careful not to catch cold or a chill; she worries about you,” said Elinor, and Marianne laughed as she poured out tea. “Really, Elinor, Mama and you still believe I am ten years old, do you not? Of course I am careful about colds and chills—Mama knows that. But she need not worry so; I believe I am a good deal stronger now than I was five years ago.”

  Her sister thought instantly that she would feel a good deal happier if she could be as certain that Marianne was as careful about the company she kept as she was about avoiding colds and chills.

  Marianne asked after their mother’s health and was told that Mrs Dashwood appeared perfectly content looking after the household at Barton Park while Sir John was away in London. Elinor had expected Marianne to query their mother’s newfound interest in household management and was surprised that she did not; nor did she ask about Mrs Dashwood’s arrangements for Christmas. It had been a tradition since Elinor and Marianne were married that their mother spent Christmas with one or the other of her daughters. This time, nothing had been said and it appeared to Elinor that Marianne seemed disinterested in what their mother decided to do.

  However, when Marianne revealed that Colonel Brandon was delaying his return from Ireland, Elinor thought she had a clue to her sister’s mood. Perhaps, she thought, Marianne was feeling disappointed; it was almost six weeks since the colonel had left for Ireland. Believing she might enjoy some company, Elinor asked if she would like to come to dinner at the parsonage on Sunday and was very surprised when Marianne thanked her politely and refused, saying in a nonchalant sort of voice, “I shall be away; the Percevals have invited me to join them on a tour of Bath, and since I have never been to Bath, I have accepted,” and when Elinor exclaimed, “What? In this weather?” she added, “Well, I am assured that we will not be inconvenienced greatly by the weather on the journey, because we shall be conveyed there and back in two large closed carriages. Besides, we shall be chiefly indoors, since we are invited to stay at the residence of a particular friend of the Percevals.” So astounded was Elinor by her calm declaration, she could frame no suitable response. It was as though Marianne was defying her sister to question her right to enjoy herself as she thought fit, in the company of her new friends. She recalled vividly that this was the same attitude Marianne had taken during the time when Willoughby had courted her, and Elinor experienced a cold feeling of unease that had nothing to do with the weather.

  Elinor knew she could not mention Willoughby, though she longed to discover if he was to be of the party. Any mention of his name would immediately set up suspicions in her sister’s mind regarding her knowledge of their previous encounter at Glastonbury. Elinor wanted desperately to urge Marianne to have a care—to suggest that the Percevals were only recent acquaintances of whom they knew little—but she knew full well that were she to say any such thing, Marianne would react with such hostility as to destroy any chance of Elinor providing her with some sensible advice. Yet, she did persist, at least with practical matters, reminding her of their mother’s warning and urging her to wrap up well if the weather continued as inclement on Saturday. To this Marianne said lightly that she would be leaving Delaford on Friday; the Percevals were sending a carriage for her and she assured her sister that she would be very well looked after by them. “I know you do not care for them, Elinor—only because they are friends of Robert and Lucy—but truly, they are a most hospitable and kindly family, and you need have no fears on my account. They are very fond of me and I shall be very well cared for,” she declared confidently and with that, Elinor had to be content.

  When, on returning to the parsonage, she told her husband of the meeting and her disappointment that Marianne would not be joining them for dinner on Sunday, he, being ignorant of the circumstances causing her concern, appeared far more sanguine. “I know you are distressed, my love, but it is natural that Marianne would rather spend time with her friends who are younger and probably much more amusing than we are, and with the prospect of visiting Bath thrown in—I doubt that I could find it in my heart to blame her. Personally, I cannot understand what people see in Bath—apart from the impressive architecture in the city, which I grant you is remarkable, the baths and pump rooms are just an excuse for a lot of gouty old men to get together while their ladies gossip about each other, while at night, the same people dress up and dine and dance at the assembly rooms. But, if your sister has never visited Bath, it may well be an experience worth having, while one is still young enough to be entertained by it.” Elinor laughed, but not with much conviction; she could not help being concerned about Marianne, and unhappily for her, since she had said nothing to Edward about Willoughby’s reappearance in her sister’s life, she was unable to seek any counsel or comfort from him on that score.

  ***

  Two days later, Margaret’s letter reached her sister and for some time at least it relieved her mind, filled as it was with cheerful news and plenty of interesting information about their sojourn in Provence. It was quite clear that Margaret was enjoying her holiday, and of her well-being Elinor had no cause to worry.

  She carried the letter to her husband, who was equally pleased to hear of Margaret’s travels and in particular her meeting with Mr Daniel Brooke.

  “Do you recall him at Oxford?” asked Elinor, and Edward certainly did.

  “Indeed, I do, he was a colleague of Dr Grantley at whose rooms I saw him frequently, but he was not a student of theology. Francis and he shared an interest in sacred music and architecture—Brooke was reading history and knew everything there was to know about ancient abbeys and churches and all that sort of thing, and I do recall he was making a special study of medieval churches in France. He had a folio of sketches which were quite superb. I have not met him since, but I am quite certain Francis Grantley and he must have remained friends, since they are both still at Oxford.”

  Elinor was pleased. “Then it is no surprise that he has so much information about all those historic places in Provence. Margaret is very lucky to have someone like him in their party—you know how keenly she studies her history.” Edward agreed and was about to return the letter, when his wife asked, “And what sort of person is Mr Daniel Brooke—is he an amiable sort of man?”

  “Oh perfectly amiable, as I recall,” her husband replied. “He was much younger then, of course, around twenty-five or -six perhaps, rather a scholarly, quiet sort of fellow, but very handsome.”

  Elinor smiled and said, “I see, and that means he must be no less than thirty years old now,” with which Edward readily agreed. “Certainly, though he may appear older because of the gravity of his countenance. I was struck by the fact that he appeared more serious than either Francis or me, although we were both older than he was. But I cannot think why we are concerned with his age, Elinor; is there some particular reason for these questions of which I am unaware?” he asked, regarding her with some amusement, but his wife only laughed lightly and said, “Oh no, Edward, none at all—it’s just nice to know that Margaret has had the good fortune to meet with such excellent companions on her holidays. I could wish with all my heart that Marianne might be as well served by her new friends.”

  She went away to reply to Margaret’s letter, and in her response told her sister how pleased they were to learn that she was enjoying her holiday in Provence and took care to mention that Edward did remember Mr Daniel Brooke and had described him as a “perfectly amiable, quiet, scholarly sort of fellow,” which, Elinor said, sounded as though he were a very pleasant sort of person, and perhaps when they all returned to England, she might like to invite Mr Brooke to visit them at the parson
age. “I am sure Edward and he will enjoy meeting again after all these years,” she wrote.

  Neither her husband nor her sister would guess that Elinor, in her heart, had begun to be concerned about Margaret’s future—indeed, Elinor would scarcely admit it to herself. But she was aware that Margaret’s almost total concentration upon her studies and her teaching, and her lack of interest in the usual romantic pastimes of dancing and parties that filled the waking hours of most young persons of her age, might well leave her a stranded spinster.

  At twenty-one, with but a tiny dowry to her name, and no hope of a substantial inheritance, Margaret Dashwood had only her looks, her youth, and her intelligence to commend her to a possible suitor, and there were not many likely men in the circles in which she moved. Having rejected the advances of Mr Andrew Barton, whose wealth and social status had not attracted Margaret—indeed, she had regarded them as a significant drawback—Elinor feared that her youngest sister might be left to survive on the emoluments of her teaching position, unless she met and married a suitable gentleman in the next few years. Yet, she knew that Margaret would never marry anyone unless he could share her interests and she could care deeply for him.

  Which is why she had found the enthusiastic account of Mr Daniel Brooke in Margaret’s letter so thoroughly promising. At least, she thought, as she sealed her letter and sent it off to the post, the week had brought one thing about which she could feel some pleasure and hope—despite the disappointment she had experienced with her mother and the deep sense of foreboding that shrouded her thoughts of Marianne.