Expectations of Happiness

by Rebecca Ann Collins

  ***

  On Friday, Marianne waited, packed and ready, for the Percevals’ carriage to arrive. She had written a note to her husband in which she had quite deliberately described the excursion to Bath as being planned by the Percevals. In earlier communications, she had mentioned them and made much of the fact that the family was respectable and their daughters were cheerful and of good character. They were, she’d said, invariably amiable and hospitable and she was glad of their company, to which Colonel Brandon had responded that he was happy indeed that she had made some new friends. On this occasion, Marianne believed he would, therefore, be pleased to learn that her new friends were being so obliging and affording her an opportunity to see Bath, which city the colonel had visited but once and never wished to re-visit. Completing her note, she had given instructions that it was to be taken to the post following her departure on Friday afternoon. Her housekeeper was informed she would return home on Monday.

  When the Percevals’ carriage arrived, bearing Maria and Eugenie, Marianne could not help feeling a rising sense of adventure; she had decided this was the only way she would extract some excitement out of life in Dorset, and looked forward to the experience with a degree of eagerness that she had not felt since she was seventeen.

  As they drove out of Delaford, Maria and Eugenie regaled her with their hopes of seeing and meeting a range of interesting and distinguished personages in Bath. “There is to be a great party at one of the assembly rooms on Saturday night, to which we are all invited,” Eugenie advised and added, “I hope, Marianne, that you have brought one of your best gowns, for we understand the ladies of Bath are exceedingly fashionable.” There was little mention of the city’s celebrated architecture, of which Marianne had heard from her brother-in-law, Edward, whose parents had spent several seasons there when he was a boy; instead, they chattered on about what fun they were determined to have and how they must remember to do and say precisely the right thing when introduced to the various important persons they expected to meet.

  Marianne heard rather than listened with any interest to their talk; for while they were not inclined to crudely contemplate conquests of men they had not as yet met, they were both involved in a sort of competitive game—of setting their respective caps at some gentleman or other and making little wagers with one another on the result. They were not particularly vicious or nasty, just good-humoured girls with vacant minds, which could not accommodate more than a couple of thoughts together. And on this occasion all those thoughts were of the fun they intended to have in Bath.

  They cared little whether Marianne was at all interested in the pursuit of their kind of entertainment, assuming she would find something to occupy her time. It was well, Marianne thought, that Mr Willoughby was going to join their party—else she might be condemned to spend all her time with Mr and Mrs Perceval. It was not a prospect she could anticipate with much pleasure.

  Arriving at the Percevals’ house, they found a message had been received from the Hawthornes that one of the young ladies was ill with a fever and the other had been reluctantly persuaded to stay at home with her sister, while their brothers would join the party on the morrow. While there was some disappointment expressed by the Misses Perceval, their main ambition to have fun was unlikely to be thwarted by the absence of two young ladies, who might well be regarded as competition. Consequently, their disappointment did not last long, and by the time they sat down to dinner, their spirits were as high as ever.

  “I doubt that I shall sleep at all tonight; I am so brimful of expectation,” cried Eugenie as she finished her dessert, and her mother spoke up to warn that she should resist the temptation to have a second serving of trifle.

  “Take a cup of camomile tea instead, my love, and make sure you have a good night’s sleep, else your head will be heavy and your eyes dull, which would be the very worst thing if one wished to appear at one’s best,” she declared, adding, “Do you not agree, Mrs Brandon?” and Marianne, who had hardly heard a word, had to respond quickly. “Oh yes indeed,” she said, adding that “a good night’s sleep was very important.” This remark set off another interminable argument between the girls and their mother, during which Marianne wished with all her heart that she were twenty miles away, but forced herself to smile indulgently and say nothing. The Percevals, she noted, treated their daughters as if they were little girls who may be spoilt, as long as they were simultaneously warned of the dangers of overindulgence.

  After dinner, claiming she was rather tired, Marianne politely refused coffee and retired to her bedroom, where she changed quickly into her nightgown and slipped into bed, content to have the chance to let her own mind wonder at what tomorrow might bring. Unlike the Misses Perceval, she had no plans for fun or conquest, but she could not help thinking of Willoughby and how it might have been, had she not been married to the colonel and he had returned to find her. How might she have responded then? It was an intriguing question.

  Nothing in Marianne’s life had engrossed her thoughts and feelings as intensely as had her love affair with Willoughby, and though she had not admitted it even to herself, she had never stopped craving the high intensity of emotion she had known during that brief liaison. In him she had found not just a young man of passion and flair, to enhance the appeal of his good looks; he had also been possessed of the ability to engage her heart in everything they did. They talked, read, and sang together so well, she could imagine no other man in whose company she would wish to spend the rest of her life. Like a little girl who lays her head on her pillow after reading a favourite fairy tale, hoping to dream of Prince Charming, Marianne had not entirely emancipated herself of the beguiling dreams she had once cherished. As she went to bed, they returned to fill her mind and she willingly surrendered to them.

  ***

  In France, the little party of English travellers had spent most of their first week in Aix-en-Provence and its environs. In the village of Saint Remy and the ancient ruins of the Roman town of Glanum in the foothills of the Alpilles mountain range, Margaret had been both delighted and astonished by the beauty of the area and the antiquity of the sites. Absorbing the historical information and the diverse traditions of the region, she had been equally struck by the depth of Daniel Brooke’s knowledge, as well as the ease with which he communicated it to the rest of their party, as though he were telling a story, without any element of loftiness or condescension. What rich pleasure it would have been to have had the opportunity to study with such a teacher, Margaret thought.

  As the fine weather held, they travelled north to spend a few days touring one of the finest towns in France: Lyon. Margaret recalled that she had read accounts of excited English travellers in the eighteenth century, making the journey by river craft down the Rhône from Lyon to Avignon. When she mentioned it, Mr Brooke seemed both surprised and pleased by her knowledge and took the time to explain the historical significance of both towns, promising that she would be able to see many places of interest in Lyon. When she asked if they could possibly do the return journey by river, he said quietly that he would not recommend it—especially not in late October. “Now, if it were summer that would be an ideal way to travel down to Avignon. There are many pleasure craft that take touring parties down the river; it can be a very pleasant experience, since one has the advantage of an open boat, which enables one to enjoy the prospect on both sides of the river, and much of the country is very pretty indeed,” he explained. “However, it would not be as comfortable at this time of year.”

  When she said she wished it were possible to make such a journey, he mused, “Well, perhaps if you were to return next summer, Miss Dashwood, it might be arranged,” and Margaret looked up at his face to see if he was speaking in jest, but he looked entirely serious. “Do you mean that?” she asked, and seeing a look of some uncertainty cross her countenance, he went further. “Indeed I do, Miss Dashwood; I spend much of every summer in this part of France. I have
often travelled down the river by boat, and were you to return in summer, it would not be at all difficult to accommodate your wishes.” Margaret smiled and said nothing, but decided that it was an offer worth considering.

  Arriving in Lyon, the ladies had been pleasantly surprised to find the streets clean, with many excellent inns and rest houses. Having visited Paris often, Margaret said she thought the inns seemed every bit as good and the streets were cleaner and less crowded. So completely satisfied were they with their accommodation and meals, a decision was made by the entire party that they would spend at least two more days exploring Lyon and its surrounding countryside. They had been assured that there was much to see—many places of antiquity and artistic merit which Margaret looked forward to seeing, with a companion who appeared to take particular pleasure in encouraging and satisfying her interest.

  It was during these days in Lyon and later at Arles and Nîmes that she began to realise that what had been an invigorating meeting of minds was gradually developing into something far less familiar to her. Excited by his intellect and knowledge and intoxicated by all she was learning from him, she had begun to experience other feelings—some unfamiliar though quite pleasing and others so sharp they caused her some disquiet each time she became aware of them. She had initially noticed that Daniel Brooke addressed her as Miss Dashwood throughout the last fortnight, even though Nicholas Wilcox had used her name soon after they began their holiday. However, recently it seemed that on some occasions, when their friends had wandered away to look at some other attraction and they were alone together, usually when he wished to draw her attention to something of particular interest, he would call her Margaret and would do so quite naturally, just as he would take her hand to assist her up and down steps or in and out of vehicles without fuss or awkwardness. While there had been no trace of familiarity or boldness, there was a sense of friendly intimacy that she enjoyed. She had smiled once or twice to acknowledge it and also to let him see that she did not object, but it had made little difference; when they were all together at a meal or in a carriage—she was Miss Dashwood to him again.

  Writing in her notebook at the end of a long and satisfying day, Margaret recorded her changing feelings.

  It has been over two weeks now since we arrived in Marseilles, and I cannot believe how swiftly and with what ease I have come to regard Daniel Brooke as one of the most remarkable men I have met in all my life. It is an experience quite unique to me, for I have rarely spent so much time in the company of one person. (This comes about because Claire and Mr Wilcox are increasingly inclined to spend as much time as they possibly can together. Although she has not said anything to me, it is become clear that they are very much attracted to one another—Nicholas is particularly keen, I believe, and will, if she will only let him, soon become deeply besotted with her.)

  As to my own situation, I cannot say what Mr Brooke thinks of me, except he is exceedingly generous with his time and patient in his answers to every question I ask, so that I have to conclude that he is a dedicated teacher who appears to enjoy imparting knowledge. He accords me a degree of respect that I love, letting me state my views without patronising or contradicting me, which, knowing he is a scholar of some distinction, makes me feel very honoured. Apart from my dear brother-in-law, Edward, I have not known any other man of that age (I assume, and Claire agrees, that Daniel Brooke must be at least thirty or thirty-two, perhaps) who exhibits such generosity of spirit in his willingness to share his time and knowledge with others. It is both remarkable and touching, when one considers how little respect is accorded to the intelligence of women by most men about town.

  Furthermore, he is kind and concerned, making every allowance for my safety and comfort as we travel about the place, without conceit or condescension. Unaccustomed as I am to such partiality from a gentleman of his age and reputation, I will acknowledge that it is an intensely pleasurable experience, such as I have not known before. Because I am determined to be sensible and not to let myself imagine that a situation exists which plainly does not, I shall not let myself believe that I am falling in love with him. However, I must confess that were I to permit myself to set foot along that path, it would not be difficult at all, for he is indeed a man of very endearing qualities.

  Tomorrow we return to Aix-en-Provence, and I wonder what our last week in the south of France will bring. We have been promised a few more days of this wonderful autumn weather before the arrival of the Mistral, and we must make the most of it.

  Concluding her entry, Margaret put away her notebook, extinguished the lamp, and went to bed. There had been some talk in the village of the weather changing—it was said the Alpine winds could begin to blow anytime now, and the temperate, salubrious Mediterranean would be assailed by their icy blast. But Margaret felt only the warmth of anticipated happiness.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The journey to Bath was accomplished with what seemed like the greatest of ease, with their transport and accommodation both meticulously organised by Mr Willoughby.

  The Percevals and their servants travelled in their own carriage, and the two Hawthorne boys rode alongside of them, thus allowing Mrs Brandon and Miss Peabody to be conveniently accommodated within Mr Willoughby’s vehicle, while his manservant sat on the box. Throughout the journey, Mr Willoughby was assiduous in his efforts to ascertain that the two ladies were comfortable and well informed of all the sites and scenes that were able to be viewed from the windows of their carriage. As they passed through parts of the Somerset countryside, with which he claimed complete familiarity, having spent much of his life in the county, he gave them accounts of historic places where ancient battles had been fought and settlements made, with the aplomb of a historian. Miss Peabody was most impressed—she had no idea Somerset was such an important county, she declared, only to be told, in the politest and most respectful manner by Mr Willoughby, that Somerset was one of the most historically significant counties in England.

  Marianne, who’d heard a good deal of the same information on another occasion, had not forgotten, and while she listened with interest, she could not help being favourably impressed by the way in which he would use his knowledge to move and astonish those in his company. Perhaps, she thought, he wishes to make it plain to me that he is not just attempting to influence my opinion of him, else he would not pay so much attention to Miss Peabody’s enquiries as well. As they approached Bath and Mr Willoughby was giving them an account of the unique hot springs that gave the city its reputation, Marianne, not wishing to give the impression that she was indifferent to the significance of the historic city, asked, “And when did the Romans discover these hot springs?”—aware from her own reading that the bath houses had been constructed over two or three centuries of Roman occupation. He answered without hesitation, “Ah, but they did not, Mrs Brandon,” he said, with a knowing smile. “Indeed they have long claimed to have done so, but scholars of Celtic history will tell you that the hot springs of Somerset were the centre of a Celtic shrine long before the Roman invasion of Britain. The Romans dispatched the defeated Celts to the mountains, occupied the site, and built a temple to the goddess Minerva on the spot.” Miss Peabody made sympathetic noises about the poor defeated Celts, but Marianne was fascinated as he went on to tell them more about the depredations of the Romans and their evil Emperor Claudius. It seemed to her that Willoughby had extended his interests and knowledge, making him an even more fascinating person now than the young man she had met those many years ago in Barton Park. She would never have thought him to be a student of history, and yet here he was giving them facts and dates aplenty. In her readiness to credit him with enhanced learning in the intervening years, Marianne had clearly forgotten that even when they first met, Willoughby had proved to be a quick learner when it came to her particular interests and had matched every one of her enthusiasms with great zest and energy. It was a talent he used to good effect, then as now.

  As
they drove into Bath, he gave instructions to the driver and, turning to Marianne, said quietly, “There are those who believe that King Arthur fought and won a great battle here, before he set up his court at Glastonbury.” Then, looking directly into her eyes, he reminded her, “And I am sure you will recall, Mrs Brandon, that it was at Glastonbury the great traditions of chivalry and romance were laid down in England, by King Arthur himself.” He spoke as though his words were meant only for her, and sensing this, Marianne dropped her eyes, feeling for the first time that perhaps he was trying to remind her of something else they had shared. She was unsure if she wished to follow where he was leading her, but she could not deny the excitement of the moment.

  The carriage drew up before an elegant Georgian building in Camden Terrace, where Willoughby had taken several suites of rooms for their entire party for the next three days. Escorting the ladies in, he handled all the arrangements with swift efficiency and had their trunks carried up to their rooms, while he promised to await the arrival of the second carriage, bearing the Percevals. It was travelling somewhat slower than his own, he said, urging the ladies to retire to their rooms and partake of the refreshments he had ordered for them.

  Miss Peabody and Marianne found themselves in a handsome sitting room with windows that looked out across a wide street to a park beyond; two bedchambers led out from doors at either end of the sitting room, both appropriately equipped for comfort and convenience. Miss Peabody was amazed at the luxury, claiming she had never been in such a place before and wondering aloud what it must have cost. Marianne, who knew better than to speculate about the cost, simply wandered in and out of the rooms, thinking that Willoughby’s new affluence had only enhanced what had been to her one of his most endearing traits—his generosity. Recalling his desire to bring her gifts, including, on one occasion, a specially trained horse, which to Marianne’s chagrin, Elinor had insisted they could not afford to keep, Marianne’s mind played upon their present circumstances and sought to see them in the best possible light. He was trying to make amends, to demonstrate that he had learnt from his past mistakes, she decided charitably, permitting herself thereby to enjoy, without guilt, his favours and his company, which she had to confess were very pleasing.