Expectations of Happiness

by Rebecca Ann Collins

  Marianne dressed with great care that evening and was grateful that Miss Peabody, who had spent a most active and exciting morning, seemed too drained of energy to quiz her too deeply about her own expedition into the city. They had retired to their bedrooms to rest and rose in time to bathe and dress for the evening. Miss Peabody went down to dinner, but Marianne asked only for some tea to be brought up to her room; her thoughts were too full of what Willoughby had told her to let her think of food. The Perceval girls were running from one room to the next, discussing what they should wear, while Mrs Perceval was heard appealing for some peace and quiet so she could rest, else she would have to stay home and someone would have to stay with her, which dire threat seemed to bring instant silence.

  The carriages arrived to convey them to the assembly rooms, and the gentlemen were assembled in the vestibule when the ladies came downstairs and, while the youthful energy of Maria and Eugenie may have attracted the most attention, there was no doubt which of the ladies drew and held Mr Willoughby’s eyes, for Marianne appeared lovelier than she had looked in many a year. Her eyes had a sparkle and her cheeks a bloom that would have surprised her sisters and delighted her mother, for it made her appear several years younger than she was. There was about her also an air of anticipation, an expectation that she was on the brink of something particularly pleasurable, which generally surrounds the very young.

  Perhaps it was fortunate that only Mr Willoughby saw and recalled that it was exactly the quality that had excited and attracted him to her when they had first met at Barton Park. The rest of the party were too immersed in their own plans for the evening to notice that Mrs Brandon of Delaford Manor had stepped back in time, transformed that evening into Miss Marianne Dashwood of Barton Cottage.

  The ball at the assembly rooms was crowded, and once again, this suited both Willoughby and Marianne, for there was never any lack of activity or company during which they could be singled out for attention. Willoughby was as good as his word; he was particular to ask each of the Misses Perceval to dance and then went away to get them drinks and find them seats, before approaching Marianne for a dance that he knew she would enjoy—one with slow, gracious steps and elegant figures, rather than the bustling, noisy items that had preceded them. Marianne was a little nervous; they had never danced together in public before, though they had often talked of it in times past. She wondered how it would turn out, but Willoughby expertly led her through the dance, smoothly guiding her in and out of the figures, clearly familiar with the movements and the music. They completed it so successfully that there was spontaneous applause when it ended. Willoughby bowed low and escorted his partner to her seat, just as he had done with the others, thanked her, and then moved away, leaving Marianne feeling so utterly exhilarated that she hoped no one else was going to ask her to dance—her legs felt weak and she was sure she would not be able to stand up.

  When the music stopped for supper, Willoughby returned to help Marianne and Miss Peabody to a table and brought them drinks and food. After supper, Mrs Perceval was feeling tired, and though the younger members of the party were keen to remain at the dance, Miss Peabody elected to return with her cousin to Camden Place. When she rose to leave the room, Marianne went with her, but at the moment of leaving, she turned and saw Willoughby regarding her with such a look as she knew she had not seen on the face of any other man. It was the look she carried in her heart and took to her bed as she slipped between the sheets and fell asleep.

  For most of her life, Marianne, an avid reader of romantic literature, a lover of deeply emotional music, had cast herself in the role of a young woman whose life would be guided primarily by the intensity of her passions.

  While his recital of events, calculated to absolve him of guilt, may have strained credulity, nothing that had happened in her life since her affair with him, had convinced Marianne that Willoughby was not the man who could have made her the happiest girl in the world, if callous people and malign forces beyond their control had not intervened to thwart their destiny.

  Chapter Fourteen

  When Marianne awoke the following morning, she had no notion of what the day would bring. During a restless night she had swung between delightful dreams of the previous day, particularly the almost unbearable pleasure of touching hands with Willoughby in the course of the dance—openly, without guilt—then awaking to the misery of confronting the reality of their situation, with no expectation of future happiness together. Between the dreams and the waking there had been aching moments of realisation that he could still excite in her thoughts and feelings that no other man had inspired.

  Prudence would decree, and no doubt, she thought, Elinor would agree, that she should abjure these indiscreet musings now and see him no more. And yet she knew she could not, because she had agreed to hear what Willoughby had to say, not just because he had pleaded to be heard, but because in her heart she wanted very much to hear it.

  As she lay in bed, reluctant to rise and face the day—they were due to leave Bath after breakfast—she expected that Miss Peabody must by now be packed and ready and would soon be poking her head around the door to urge Marianne to do likewise. Which was why she was surprised when the maid who brought in the breakfast tray informed her that one of the ladies had been taken ill overnight and a doctor had been called. Marianne was astonished; it could not have been Miss Peabody, she would surely have heard if doctors and others had been tramping through their sitting room, she thought, and went to investigate. Finding Maria Perceval in the corridor, she asked if Miss Peabody was unwell and was told it was not Miss Peabody, but her mama, Mrs Perceval, who had been taken ill during the night. “Poor Mama had such a bad turn, she was very sick indeed. The doctor thinks it must have been the fish she had for supper,” Maria declared. Marianne was glad she’d had none of the fish. “Is she feeling any better?” she asked anxiously and was told, “A little better, but she is not able to leave her bed. The doctor will return at noon. It means we cannot leave Bath today—but no matter,” she added casually, “Eugenie and I are going over to the Nicolsons’ for the rest of the day. Miss Peabody will stay here and attend on Mama.”

  This piece of intelligence worried Marianne, since she had arranged to be back at Delaford on Monday and wondered about the consequences if she could not. But in the next minute, Maria informed her that her father had to leave Bath directly because he had urgent matters of business to attend to, which could not be delayed, and Mr Willoughby had offered to convey him in his carriage instead of Miss Peabody, who would remain with Mrs Perceval. Marianne was relieved, even though it meant she would be travelling with Willoughby and Mr Perceval. At least her return would not be delayed, causing concern at Delaford.

  Not long afterward, Mr Willoughby himself appeared at their door to advise that his carriage would be ready to leave whenever she was. He explained that some of their arrangements had changed, due to Mrs Perceval’s sudden illness, but assured her that he would see she was safely conveyed to Delaford that evening. Reassured, Marianne now concentrated upon the practicalities of the journey, hastening to pack and be in readiness to leave as early as possible, aware that the autumn evenings were already drawing in and it would be preferable to be back at Delaford Manor before dark.

  When she was ready, she went to call on Mrs Perceval and found her looking very pale and unwell, clearly unable to rise and be dressed, much less undertake a journey of several miles. Marianne commiserated with her, wished her a speedy recovery, and went downstairs, where she found Willoughby’s carriage waiting at the door. Mr Perceval’s luggage had already been stacked, and Willoughby’s manservant added hers to the pile and strapped it in. When his master appeared, the man opened the door, admitting first Marianne and then Mr Perceval, before Willoughby climbed in and minutes later they were on their way.

  It was not quite the company she had expected—but, she reasoned, it could suit her better to have Mr Perceval rather than M
iss Peabody, since he was less likely to attempt to engage her in chatter, for which she was singularly disinclined, nor was he likely to eavesdrop on their conversation. She was proved right when about half an hour into their journey, Mr Perceval, having made it clear that he was still feeling the aftereffects of the party at the assembly rooms, and encouraged by the motion of the vehicle, fell asleep and snored.

  Willoughby, who had been sitting opposite her, crossed over to sit beside her and said in a quiet voice, which would not disturb their sleeping companion, “I am sorry if you were troubled by the change in our travel arrangements, but when I realised that Mrs Perceval was unwell and could not make the journey, while her husband urgently needed to return home, I thought it best to offer to convey him in my carriage. Since Miss Peabody was needed to attend upon Mrs Perceval, it was not an inconvenient arrangement after all. What do you think?”

  Marianne indicated that she agreed, adding, “It is very good of you to offer to help. I am sure Mr Perceval is grateful. I am too, since I am expected at Delaford this evening and it could pose some problems were I not to return. I should not like the housekeeper to send word to my sister and trouble her and my brother-in-law, which she might do, were my return to be excessively delayed.”

  Once again, Willoughby promised her solemnly that she need have no such fears; he expected to deliver Mr Perceval to his home by midday or shortly afterward, and then they would travel on to Delaford.

  The first part of the journey was accomplished without difficulty, and a grateful Mr Perceval was delivered to his door before one o’clock. Having broken journey to water the horses, they set off again, leaving the main road for a quieter route through some well-wooded country. Marianne had been wondering when and how Willoughby intended to make the “discreet arrangement” he had promised, so he could tell her more of his story. Since leaving Bath, their conversation had all been of the pleasures of Bath and the beauty of the Somerset countryside, which, in view of the presence of Mr Perceval, seemed a sensible thing to do.

  They had travelled some distance from the Percevals’ home and she could tell from the lengthening shadows that it was probably midafternoon when, quite suddenly, the carriage slowed and pulled up. There were raised voices and the sound of a horse neighing. Willoughby put his head out of the window and asked a question, then opened the door and got out himself. Marianne began to feel anxious—she hoped it was not a problem like the one that had afflicted the Percevals’ vehicle on its way back from Glastonbury. There was more talking among the men; she tried to listen but could not make out what was being said.

  Soon afterward she heard a horse galloping away and Willoughby returned. Standing in the road, with the door of the carriage open, he said, “There’s been a problem with one of the horses; he could be lame. I’ve sent my man to fetch another vehicle and a couple of fresh horses; he shouldn’t be long.”

  She was worried. “How far does he have to ride to get another vehicle and fresh horses?” she asked, and he smiled and said, “Not far at all—we are within a few miles of my estate.” While that gave her some comfort, it also introduced another question. He had never mentioned that the road to Delaford went anywhere near his property. Had he, she wondered, taken another route in order to bring them past Combe Magna? Had he perhaps planned this? Was this the “arrangement” he had made? She could not help wondering, but was reluctant to ask.

  Willoughby closed the carriage door and stood outside the vehicle with the driver while they waited, and Marianne drew her cloak around her and hoped it would not be too long, for it was clear that the wind was much colder now and it would be dark in an hour or two. Looking out, she saw that the land on one side of the road was pasture—she could see haystacks and sheep in the distance—while on the other side, the woods came right down to the road, the trees mostly leafless and bare. The sky was grey, although it didn’t look like rain, but Marianne wished the man would hurry; she was not at all comfortable with the situation.

  She was almost beginning to panic—despite her confidence in Willoughby, she disliked the idea of being stranded here alone with him and the driver—when she heard the sound of horses’ hooves on the road. Willoughby’s servant had returned with a neat little curricle, and with him came a groom and two fresh horses for the carriage.

  Willoughby acted swiftly, helping her out and into the new vehicle, and, making certain she was well protected from the cold with a warm rug tucked around her, he instructed his servant and the groom to attend to the horses and carriage, climbed in, and drove on at quite a fast pace, putting her once more in mind of days past. He was a skilled driver, she recalled, but she was unaccustomed to being driven at such a pace; however, she said nothing, knowing that she was dependent entirely upon his goodwill to get her home. They spoke little, since he was concentrating on the road, but when they turned in at the gates of a property, she turned and looked at him, questioning what was happening. When the vehicle came to a halt, she asked, “Where is this place?” He smiled then and said, “Marianne, welcome to Combe Magna, I have always wanted you to see it. Now, although it was not how I hoped it would be, here we are.”

  This time, even she had to protest; it was as though reality had finally intruded upon her romantic fantasies. “Willoughby, I cannot do this; I cannot have it said that I was here at your house. Should this information reach my family or be spoken of in the area and is somehow conveyed to Colonel Brandon…” She stopped, unable to go on. It was the first time her husband’s name had ever been mentioned by either of them, and even as she said it, she saw the look on his face change. The welcoming smile had disappeared, and he looked as though he had been reminded of some dreadful memory that he had spent years trying to forget. When he did speak, he said quietly, “Marianne, I did not do this to trick you into visiting my home; but as you must realise, we had no alternative—we could not proceed to Delaford in this little vehicle and must wait until my carriage and horses arrive. Then, I promise, I will ensure that you reach Delaford Manor safely. Meanwhile, we can rest awhile and take some refreshment here. There is no harm done. Have no fear, Marianne; no one knows you here, and none of my servants will ever gossip about me and any guest of mine.”

  He sounded confident; seeing she had no other alternative and realising that she could not continue to sit in the vehicle without drawing undue attention to herself, she alighted and let him lead her indoors, into a pleasant, large reception room, where a fire burned in the grate and the drapes were drawn against the bleak weather outside. It had clearly been prepared under his instructions, and he hurried to get her settled in front of the fire. A footman brought in refreshments and Marianne was persuaded to partake of a drink, on the grounds that it would help her avoid a chill. “I should not wish to be responsible for making you ill. I recall that you have a delicate constitution and I beg you to take care,” he said. She smiled then, for the first time since the horse had pulled up in the forest, and said, “I do believe I am a lot stronger now; I have not caught a chill in years.” He bowed and said gravely, “I am very glad to hear it, but I still believe you would be well advised to keep warm and take some hot food while we wait for the carriage. Please help yourself,” he urged, and she, not wishing to make too much of it, did as he asked.

  As they waited for the carriage to arrive, he told her his story.

  It was very little different, in fact, to the tale he had told Elinor at Cleveland several years ago, when he had arrived and demanded to know if Marianne was out of danger and insisted on being permitted to relate the circumstances that he claimed had forced him to leave Marianne and marry Miss Grey. But it was as self-serving a narrative as one might expect of a man who had already betrayed one unfortunate young woman, leaving her with an illegitimate child to care for, while courting another on the other side of the country, permitting her to believe that he was free, willing, and able to make her an offer of marriage. As Marianne listened, he gave his account,
omitting any mention of Eliza Williams and her child, concentrating upon the injustice perpetrated upon him by his aunt Mrs Smith in denying him his inheritance and compelling him thereby to marry Miss Grey.

  While using the same set of facts as a frame to support his appeal to Marianne’s heart, which he had already guessed was kindly disposed toward him, he added many embellishments to the picture—telling her over again how deeply he had fallen in love with her, how there had never been another woman for whom he had felt anything like the depth of affection she had inspired in him. He even insisted that, had she not been married so soon afterward to another (demonstrating again his inability to even speak her husband’s name), he would have freed himself of the mutual misery of his marriage and sought once more to regain her affection.

  When she looked genuinely shocked at this suggestion, he challenged her, “Can you say with conviction that if you had not been married and I was free again and had come to you, you would have refused me? Knowing how well we loved one another, how happy we had been and could be again? I think, my dear Marianne, if you are honest, you must admit that at the very least, you cannot have said no. I should have begged you to consider—even though I know your sister and perhaps even your mother may have denied us, I believe you would have wanted to take that chance.” Then seeing her bite her lip, for she could not bring herself to speak, he added, “But it was a vain hope; for in those few months, when I was unable to do anything to break free from the cruel trap in which I found myself, another person, who must have seen his chances improve during that dreadful time, one who loved you also, but not as I loved you, approached you and won your heart. It was for me the very worst news. I told your sister so and it angered her; she urged me to forget you, she said you were lost to me forever and sent me away,” and as he spoke with great passion, Marianne could have sworn there were tears in his eyes.