Expectations of Happiness

by Rebecca Ann Collins

  A discreet knock at the door and two footmen were admitted bearing trays of refreshments—cold meats, pastries, and fruit, as well as tea for the travellers. Miss Peabody gave a cry of delight and sat down to enjoy the feast, while Marianne still walked about the rooms, amazed by the luxury of it all, and was only persuaded to take some tea when her companion poured out a cup and begged her to try it. “It is an excellent brew, do try it, Mrs Brandon—the finest India, I am certain,” she cried, and Marianne obliged, if only to stop her urging.

  Some half an hour later, the rest of their party arrived and were similarly accommodated in their rooms, while Mr Willoughby, it was revealed, still playing the perfect host, had set out to get them tickets for a musical entertainment at one of the theatres in the city.

  The Percevals could scarcely open their mouths without praising him for his organisation of the excursion to Bath and all he continued to do to make their stay comfortable and memorable. While their daughters concentrated upon the food, as more trays were brought in and laid upon the table, Mr and Mrs Perceval sang the praises of their new friend.

  “I must say I have never met such a generous young fellow—so full of courtesy and concern, he cannot do too much to ensure that we are all satisfactorily served,” said Mr Perceval, and his wife echoed his sentiments, then added, “My sister, to whom I wrote mentioning Mr Willoughby’s kindness to us when we had the problem with the horses at Glastonbury, says he is well liked wherever he is known, he is such a generous and amiable young man. She lives not far from his country house in Somersetshire and says she cannot think what on earth his wife was thinking of when she decided to seek a separation from him. She must be exceedingly hard to please, my sister says.”

  Quite clearly, the Percevals had no notion of the pecuniary circumstances of their host, whose largesse depended entirely upon the vast fortune his wife had brought him at their marriage.

  Hearing their words, Marianne, astounded, could say nothing; presently, she rose and asked to be excused, claiming she wished to rest awhile. The Perceval girls declared that they were far from tired and intended to accompany the young Hawthornes on a tour of the Grand Terrace and Milsom Street shops that afternoon. Mr Willoughby had told them the shopping in Milsom Street was very good, they said. Marianne smiled and said she had no liking for shopping, urged them to enjoy themselves, and retired to her room.

  There, it was not fatigue or the prospect of a visit to the theatre that evening that occupied her mind, but the vital snippet of news, so carelessly thrown about by Mrs Perceval, that Willoughby’s wife had sought a separation from him. It absolutely consumed her thoughts. Her active imagination would not rest until she had worked out at least half a dozen possible explanations—almost all of which were favourable to him and not to his wife—for the situation in which Willoughby was now placed.

  Any one of the resolutions she could think of would provide him with a plausible reason for spending so much of his time in Somersetshire, and putting so much effort into making new friends, for it was surely unthinkable that he would be able to continue within the same circle of acquaintances they had made during the years of their marriage. This would certainly excuse the extravagance with which he courted the Percevals and attempted to ensure their comfort and satisfaction, she thought, in case one had wondered if he was showing off just a little. That aspect, Marianne decided, could now be explained away quite satisfactorily.

  Having spent most of the afternoon constructing scenarios that would excuse—nay justify—Willoughby’s present behaviour, she did finally fall into a light sleep, from which Miss Peabody came to rouse her when it was time to dress for dinner and prepare to go out to the theatre. She was most excited. “Mr Willoughby called to say he had obtained tickets for an excellent concert; it is all arranged—we are to dine downstairs at seven and leave for the theatre at eight,” she announced, with the kind of extraordinary animation one sees in someone to whom such excitement is rare indeed. Marianne could not help pitying Miss Peabody—she was quite certain she must be forty at least, and it did seem she’d had very little enjoyment out of life and grasped every opportunity with fervour.

  When they all met in the dining room, Marianne was glad she had brought one of her best gowns—the Perceval girls were attired in satin gowns with elaborate trimmings and had fur-lined capes to protect their bare arms from the cold, and the Hawthorne boys looked very debonair in formal evening dress, which one hardly ever saw in Dorset. Marianne had not known they would be attending a concert, but had decided that it was worth packing an elegant blue velvet gown, which set off her figure and suited her colouring so well, each time she wore it she had received many compliments. This night was no exception, for everyone at the table noted how well she looked, and both Mr Perceval and Mr Willoughby took time to tell her so. Marianne was well pleased.

  The concert was well attended and deserved to be, for it was a veritable musical feast—with a chamber group, two pianists, and two singers of considerable talent, all as determined to delight their audience as the audience was to be delighted.

  Their seats were in two groups—a complete half row was occupied by the Percevals and Hawthornes; to one side were three more chairs, and once again, it fell to Mr Willoughby to arrange for all his guests to be seated and then to discover that he had the seat between Miss Peabody and Mrs Brandon. Marianne did not wish to speculate whether he had deliberately arranged it so, but was happy to accept that as their host, he must ensure that the rest of the party had their seats first, although it was apparent that their seats were in no way inferior to the others. Miss Peabody, who confessed to being something of an enthusiast when it came to singing, having taken lessons herself, she told them, was absolutely delighted with the placement of their seats and thanked Mr Willoughby many times, at the beginning of the concert, the end, and in between items. She was sure that she’d never had such good seats ever before, she said.

  At one point in the entertainment, when there was a short interval, Miss Peabody had to accompany her cousin, Mrs Perceval, to the cloak room, leaving Marianne with Mr Willoughby. As they walked about the room, she was at first reluctant to break the silence, but when he did, asking her opinion of the performances and offering some comments of his own, she found no difficulty in entering into a discussion about some of the items on the programme. However, when he chose a particular duet—Ben Jonson’s pretty “Song to Celia”—as the one he favoured most, she knew he had done so to remind her that it was one they had often sung together at Barton Cottage. It had been a favourite with Mrs Dashwood, too.

  The room was rather warm, and he invited her to step out onto the adjacent balcony overlooking the garden, where various men and ladies were promenading and talking quite excitedly, and there they stood and watched the passing scene, without saying a word, until they were summoned within to take their seats. It was then, as she made to go indoors, he said, “Mrs Brandon—Marianne—I must speak with you. Please have no fear that I will embarrass or discompose you in any way—nothing could be further from my thoughts—but I must speak with you. Will you permit me, please, to find some time in the course of these three days to speak privately with you?”

  Marianne should have been prepared for such an overture, but she was not, having believed that Willoughby was being particular to avoid any reference to their past association. But she was not inclined in her present frame of mind to deny him and so said, with a fair degree of dignity, “Mr Willoughby, as you are aware, our friends the Percevals have no idea that you and I have known one another before our recent meeting at Glastonbury. I should prefer that they continue in this belief, which makes it difficult for me to grant your request. However, if you can arrange it discreetly, without placing me at risk of becoming the subject of gossip, I am willing to hear what you have to say.”

  His immediate response was one of deep gratitude and complete acquiescence with the terms she had set, as he promis
ed to make such arrangements as were necessary, taking every precaution to shield her from any suspicion. As they returned to their seats, Miss Peabody came to join them, and she was so busy praising everyone and everything she had seen, she failed to notice the change of mood in both her companions. Mr Willoughby and Mrs Brandon remained very quiet for the rest of the evening, and while Mrs Brandon looked a little flushed, the gentleman wore an expression of heightened excitement that, in truth, had nothing at all to do with the excellent quality of the concert.

  The following morning was to be spent mainly in sightseeing in the town before luncheon, followed by attendance at a ball at one of the assembly rooms that night. After breakfast, which was served in their rooms, Marianne found Miss Peabody all agog to go downstairs, because the Percevals were going to the Pump Room, where all the best people met to take the waters, she said, and since she had never been in such a place before, she intended to go with them. Marianne confessed that she had not either, but was not keen to join them.

  “I have no particular interest in it myself; I’d much rather take a walk along the Royal Crescent, which I am told is one of the finest architectural achievements in England,” she declared, and a voice behind her said softly, “Well said, Mrs Brandon, you are well informed, the Pump Room is for invalids who need the waters and others who like to gossip, while the Royal Terrace is not to be missed.” It was Willoughby, and he made it clear that he would be exceedingly happy to escort her as she walked, pointing out that it was a particularly fine day for walking.

  Seeing that all other members of the party had by now departed on their own expeditions into the city, Willoughby offered Marianne his arm as they set off up the street. At first, she felt a little self-conscious, but soon, he succeeded in putting her at ease with his conversation, which was as usual full of trivial gossip and lighthearted jokes about some of the people they passed on their walk.

  Various gracious carriages and dashing little gigs passed them by, while groups of giggling young girls and flirting couples stood ostensibly examining the wares in shop windows. Clearly familiar with the town, Willoughby maintained a quiet stream of conversation, and Marianne was astonished at how little he had altered in manner and style from the young man she had known.

  Yet, there was something, she could not quite put her finger on it at first, that was different about him. As they walked, pausing to admire first one fine building and then another, he told her of the history of the city, and it did occur to her that Willoughby’s manner seemed far less arrogant than it had been before. It was as though he had realised that the brash self-confidence that had characterised his youth, when he would express contempt for others without reservation, would not be acceptable to her. In its place was a more amenable, certainly far less pretentious gentleman, whom she found very agreeable indeed.

  As they made the gradual ascent from Queen’s Square to the Gravel Walk and thence to the Royal Crescent, Marianne was able, without any difficulty, to convince herself that here was a more mature Willoughby, changed from the somewhat presumptuous young man she had loved several summers ago. Elinor would be surprised indeed were she to meet him now, she thought to herself, recalling that her elder sister had been thoroughly censorious of his reckless impetuousness and the lack of proper decorum in his behaviour, even when she had enjoyed his company.

  As for what had followed, with the dreadful episode when he had left Barton Cottage without giving them an honest explanation and had turned up later in London, engaged to the wealthy Miss Grey, Marianne recalled the condemnation that had been heaped upon him by all and sundry; but today, she could find no trace of the cruelty of which he had been accused or the selfishness that was said to have tainted his contrition. She was pondering what her sister would say if she told her they had met and she had judged him to be a changed man, when he, having been silent as they had slowed their steps while negotiating a rising gradient in the pavement, spoke suddenly, interrupting her thoughts.

  “Marianne, I must speak with you; I cannot let this opportunity pass, lest I should never get another chance. Shall we go down into that little park? It is quiet and private, but pretty enough to have a natural attraction for you to visit it.” She was a little taken aback, but after his remarks the previous evening, she had been expecting some sort of approach, so acquitted herself quite creditably, saying, “It certainly is, and it is sunny as well, which may provide another reason to visit, since there is quite a breeze rising.”

  He agreed immediately and assisted her down the shallow steps on to the footpath and then down another flight of steps into the park. It was indeed an exquisite little haven, with a fountain playing amidst the prettiest arrangement of plants; they found a quiet bench beside a pool and were seated. Marianne was glad of the rest; her spirits had been roused since the previous evening, and as they had walked she had felt the racing of her heart—due both to the brisk exercise and a sense of anticipation. Now, as she waited for him to speak, she could scarcely control the rising colour in her cheeks and was glad of her wide-brimmed bonnet that hid some of her face from his view. Willoughby spoke softly, tentatively, as though he feared she would refuse to listen.

  “Marianne, I have spent many hours in agony over the years past, wondering if I would ever have the chance to speak with you. I know your sister refused to let me hope; she said you were lost to me forever and urged me to forget you and make my own life—but I hoped and prayed that one day, I would have the opportunity to tell you what I felt, how deeply I loved you, and how wretched was my state of guilt and misery, when we were forcibly parted—” at which point, he was interrupted.

  “Forcibly parted? What do you mean? By whom were we forcibly parted?” she asked, disbelieving, and he responded, “Did not your sister Mrs Ferrars acquaint you with the details of my wretched fate? I told her everything, while you lay ill at Cleveland House; I had hoped that she, knowing that I had no chance of ever regaining your good opinion, would at least tell you as much of the story as would help you think me less evil than you did at the time.” He sounded hurt; she turned and, looking at him for the first time, said in a quiet voice, “Evil! I never thought you were evil—selfish and thoughtless, reckless, inconsiderate of the tender feelings of others perhaps—but never evil.”

  He picked up her hand and kissed it then, saying softly, “Thank you, Marianne. Even after all these years, it gives me some comfort to hear you say that. Will you let me tell you the rest—the details you did not hear, which I will relate if only in the hope that it will help you understand how my youthful stupidity combined with the cruelty of Fate itself, led to the circumstances that forced us apart? If I’d had the means or the courage, I should never have let it happen, I would have stayed with you, urged you to come away with me, thrown myself upon the mercy of your family and my friends, rather than be driven meekly into an alliance that has brought me nothing but misery. Marianne, please, will you hear me out?”

  She nodded. “But not here—we are too easily observed, and I do not wish to become the subject of gossip among the Percevals. It may be carried to Elinor and Edward.”

  “Of course; that is the very last thing I should wish. Will you allow me to make some arrangement on our return journey?” he asked, and as she nodded, he continued, “But I thank you from the bottom of my heart,” and kissed her hand again. Marianne, unable to hide the blush that rose in her cheek, said, “I think I have stayed too long out of doors, we should be getting back.”

  They walked back almost in silence; as they passed some notable and significant points in the city, he stopped and drew her attention to them and she nodded and noted what she saw, but they were both very aware that something had changed between them. The many attractions of Bath had long faded into irrelevance as neither could avoid thinking of what had been said. No longer would it be possible to pretend that they were casual acquaintances enjoying a sightseeing tour of Bath.

  ***
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  Back at their rooms at Camden Terrace, all was astonishment, for the Percevals had unexpectedly encountered at the Pump Room another family they had met on a visit to Lyme Regis last summer. The Nicolsons consisted of a father, mother, an aunt, and three young persons—a young man and two girls all of about the same age as the Percevals’ daughters—and to their great glee, they were found to be staying in a house on the same street and had promised to join their party at the assembly rooms that evening.

  Marianne would normally have been somewhat put out by this sudden increase in the numbers in their party, but on this occasion and in the circumstances, she was rather pleased. It would suit her, she thought, to have the Misses Perceval distracted by more young men and ladies of their own age, leaving her to her own devices and under less scrutiny. Miss Peabody too seemed to be quite excited by the prospect of another meeting with the Nicolsons—also an advantage, Marianne thought.

  However, she was cautious, and before she parted from Willoughby, she managed to warn him that they should not appear to be too closely engaged in conversation during the evening, lest it should be noticed and talked of. He promised that he would ensure that no such thing occurred, assuring her that he would engage all the young ladies in their party to dance before approaching her. Marianne smiled, remembering again how very much like the Willoughby she had known was this man; despite the touches of grey at his temples and the fine lines that marked his countenance, he was still the epitome of her romantic hero.