Expectations of Happiness

by Rebecca Ann Collins

  “I cannot understand how he came to be at Barton Park at all; I believe Sir John is still in London,” said Elinor, puzzled that Marianne had said nothing about her husband’s return. “When we last spoke, she seemed certain that he would be back from Ireland earlier than originally expected, but I’ve heard nothing since.”

  “Well, my dear, I suppose we had better go over to the manor house at once, if we are to start for Barton Park before dark. No doubt Marianne would wish to go prepared to spend some days there,” said Edward as they made ready to walk across to the manor house with the bad news.

  Elinor was nervous; she could not predict how Marianne would respond to the news. Her sister had been behaving quite oddly of late, and she wondered again why neither she nor Edward had been told of Colonel Brandon’s return from Ireland. Was it possible, she thought, that he had arrived home and they had quarrelled? Had the matter of Willoughby and Marianne’s meeting him been raised? Was that why he had ridden off to Barton Park to consult his friend? Why had the colonel not come to them? He had always treated her as a trusted friend, and she knew he had a high regard for Edward. Myriad possibilities, none of them very logical or satisfactory, occurred to her as she hastened to get her warm cloak, scarf, and hat and give instructions to the nurse about the children, before leaving for the manor house.

  ***

  Marianne had spent a wretched day waiting for either a message from her husband or a visit from Willoughby. The latter was, she had assumed, the more probable, since it was unlikely that Colonel Brandon would be able to conclude the business of Eliza Williams and her child expeditiously; she knew from past experience that Miss Williams was almost always strongly opposed to any scheme to remove her from her familiar surroundings. It would take the colonel two or three days at least to make suitable arrangements for her before returning to Delaford. She was vexed by the lack of any new message from him.

  By early afternoon, she had grown even more disgruntled with Colonel Brandon and longed for Willoughby to arrive, as promised, with what she hoped would be a solution to her dilemma. She had not stopped to consider what he might propose or how she should respond, but believed that he, because he loved her, would put her interest first.

  When she heard the carriage coming up the drive, she assumed immediately that it was Willoughby, and taking a quick look in the mirror that hung above the fireplace, she went out into the hall expecting to see him. Instead, she found that the maid had admitted Mr and Mrs Perceval and their elder daughter, Maria, and the expressions on their faces did not suggest that they had come with good news. Confused, Marianne even forgot her usually good manners and asked in a somewhat irritated voice, “Mr and Mrs Perceval, Maria, what on earth brings you here at this time?” It had occurred to her that if Willoughby were to arrive whilst they were there, she would be hard put to explain his presence. But the Percevals were clearly too troubled to be offended by her brusque question and Maria answered politely, “Mrs Brandon, we are sorry to intrude, but we have had some alarming news which we wished to communicate to you as soon as possible.”

  Marianne’s cheeks flushed as she realised her error and said, “Indeed? And what news is that? Please do come into the sitting room and tell me about it.” But the Percevals declined her invitation and Mr Perceval spoke quietly, “Mrs Brandon, we do not think it would be wise to discuss it here, if we were to be overheard by any of your staff, it might cause you embarrassment and we think it would be best if you came with us to our home, where we may speak privately. My younger daughter, Eugenie, who knows nothing of this matter, has gone with Miss Peabody to spend a few days with her sister in Somerset.”

  “Good Heavens!” exclaimed Marianne, astonished by this turn of events and unable to imagine what could have occasioned such a strange response, “but whatever can you have to say that would embarrass me? I am sure we could speak in the sitting room… See, I will shut the door…” but the Percevals shook their heads and Maria stepped up close to Marianne and whispered in her ear, “It concerns Mr John Willoughby.”

  It was with the greatest difficulty that Marianne restrained herself and said, in a voice that was now as quiet as that of her visitors, who had been reduced to whispering so that the servants would not hear, “I see; well, in that case, please do wait for me in the sitting room, I shall not be long,” and she raced up to her room to get her bonnet and wrap, and returned in a few minutes.

  Stopping only to tell her maid that she was going out to the Percevals, Marianne then entered their carriage and was gone. Throughout the short journey to the Percevals’ place, she was in a fever of impatience, since none of her companions spoke, clearly unwilling to have any of their private conversation overheard by the driver or the groom. She could not help noticing the grim set of Mr Perceval’s usually cheerful countenance and his wife’s anxious frown. Even Maria said little, except to comment on the worsening weather.

  On reaching the house, they went indoors and upstairs to a private sitting room, where they were unlikely to be overheard, and Maria closed the door. Mr Perceval’s first question stunned Marianne. “Mrs Brandon, forgive my asking you what must seem a most impertinent question, but how well do you know Mr Willoughby?” Unaware of the reason for his question, Marianne was at a loss to answer it; she wondered what significance it could have for her. But, even as she searched in vain for some way to answer it, Maria intervened to say, “You see, Mrs Brandon, we have had a visit from a man from a private detective agency, who is in the employ of Mr Willoughby’s wife, and he is looking for a certain woman who is said to be intimate with Mr Willoughby. He says she has been visiting him frequently at Combe Magna and has recently been seen with him in his carriage. The man from the agency has been following them for some weeks and has seen Mr Willoughby visit this house and your place at Delaford with this person in his carriage. He is keen to obtain information on her whereabouts for his client, Mrs Willoughby, who is applying for a divorce on the grounds of adultery.”

  Marianne sat transfixed; so shattered was she by the enormity of the situation in which she now found herself, she could say nothing. She could not take in everything she had heard—she did not want to believe it, yet it was unlikely that the Percevals could be making it up! They had no reason to fabricate such a tale.

  As she sat pondering what she should or could say, Mrs Perceval entered the conversation for the first time. “Mrs Brandon, we believed Mr Willoughby was an honourable gentleman, especially when he told us of his long association with your family when you all lived in Devon some years ago, before your marriage to Colonel Brandon. He spoke very highly of your mother and your elder sister, Mrs Ferrars, and your cousin Sir John Middleton, whom he claimed to know well. He appeared to be a decent young gentleman of sober habits, else we would not have invited him into our home or let him become acquainted with our daughters. We were aware that he was married, and he told us his wife preferred to spend summer in town or at her mother’s property in Essex, which is why he was here on his own, but we had no idea she was suing him for divorce! I am certain you will understand our concern, especially for young Eugenie—she is an innocent girl with no knowledge of these matters and has had quite a high regard for Mr Willoughby.”

  Maria took up the tale again and said, “We wondered, Mrs Brandon, if you could enlighten us as to his background, because we fear that with the appearance of the man from the detective agency, our family may get dragged in to any scandal that may follow from his divorce. If he has been entertaining this woman and driving her around in his carriage, Mama fears that Eugenie and I, who have been seen in his carriage on a few occasions, as have you, Mrs Brandon, may well be unwittingly implicated… even if only as witnesses.”

  Marianne found her voice at last to say, “Surely not! Whenever you have been in his company, it has been with your family or your friends the Hawthornes. I cannot recall ever seeing either of you alone with Mr Willoughby. As for myself, we… tha
t is my family… did know Mr Willoughby, many years ago at Barton Park in Devon, during one summer, before he was married; but we have had no contact with him whatsoever since. I never saw him in seven years or more until we met by chance at Glastonbury, when he offered to transport us home after your carriage was damaged in an accident. As to his wife suing for divorce, this is the first I have heard of it. I do not know her or this other woman with whom he is said to be intimate. I am as shocked as you are by this information.”

  The looks on the faces of the three Percevals convinced Marianne that they had some difficulty believing her. Quite clearly, while she had continued to believe that he had been protecting her from embarrassment by avoiding any mention of their past association, Willoughby, who had become a frequent visitor to their home over the past few months, had given the Percevals a vastly different account of his acquaintance with her family. By referring to his visits to Barton Cottage and his friendship with Sir John Middleton—dropping names, mentioning her mother, her sister, and her well-respected brother-in-law, Edward Ferrars—as though they were close friends and no doubt conjuring up a picture of benign intimacy with them—he had advanced an image of his own respectability to suit his pernicious purposes. It was a degree of duplicity that left her deeply shocked.

  Even as she realised how he had taken them in, she understood with a sickening clarity how easily she had been deceived, yet again, by the easy charm, the casual courtesies, and the show of concern, which were his stock in trade. Not only had he deceived her, he had left her open to the dishonour of having her home watched by a man from a detective agency employed by his wife, as though she were party to his misdemeanours. Her husband’s home had been named as a place he had visited, with this woman with whom he was said to be intimate. It was an outrage! How was this possible?

  Suddenly, she remembered that on the day he had arrived at Delaford Manor without warning and stayed but a short while, listening to her complaints about Miss Williams and promising to return the following day, the curtains of his carriage had been closed, as though there was inside a passenger who did not wish to be seen. Marianne’s maid Molly had been certain that this was indeed the case, one of the grooms had told her so, she’d said; but Marianne, consumed by her own grievances, had paid no attention. It was clear now that the passenger was probably the woman being sought by the detective and Mrs Willoughby.

  Appalled that she had allowed herself to be so deluded and angry that he had once again left her to suffer the ridicule and humiliation of strangers, as he had done before, tears welled in her eyes and coursed down her cheeks. “You must believe me; I knew nothing of this woman or Mr Willoughby’s dealings with her. I fear he has deceived us all most shamefully,” she sobbed, and the Percevals, disconcerted but nevertheless concerned for her, strove to comfort her, attaching no blame to her. She thanked them, but when they tried to persuade her to stay and take tea, she refused and begged to be taken home. Her husband was due to return at any time, she said, and as the Percevals agreed, Mr Perceval declared, “Let me assure you, Mrs Brandon, that we will not permit Mr Willoughby or anyone else to besmirch your name; my wife and I have only the highest respect for you.” They were kind words; Marianne could only hope that they meant what they said.

  As she was leaving, Maria Perceval intervened to add that she had always been wary of Mr Willoughby, on account of something the Hawthorne boys had said. They had friends in London who had warned that he was not a man to be trusted because of his reputation for high living, she said, but she had not wished to put it about in the county, without having any proof. Maria Perceval was not much older, nor could she have been deemed to be cleverer than Marianne had been when she had first encountered Willoughby with all his charm; yet she had not been as easily misled by his duplicitous character. It was something Marianne had time to ponder as the Percevals’ carriage conveyed her to Delaford Manor.

  ***

  When Elinor and Edward arrived at the manor house, they were surprised to find that many of the rooms were in darkness. It was apparent that no one was upstairs, and the servant who answered the doorbell and admitted them informed them that Mrs Brandon had left with the Percevals earlier that afternoon.

  “Did she say when she would return?” asked Elinor, to which the servant shrugged his shoulders and replied that the mistress never said what time she would be back and they had assumed she would be dining with the Percevals. “Did she say so?” asked Edward, but the young man said she had not. It seemed the servants at Delaford Manor had begun to take their mistress for granted. Edward and Elinor exchanged glances, electing to wait for Marianne, hoping that she would not be dining with the Percevals after all. Elinor went to speak with the housekeeper and found her in a state of confusion as she complained that ever since the mistress had begun “going here and there with these Percevals and their strange friends” things had not been the same at the manor house. “We are never told when the mistress will be dining at home, and when she is, she eats so little it seems a waste to prepare a decent meal and bring it to table, ma’am.”

  Unwilling to pry into the domestic affairs at the manor, but keen nevertheless to discover if the staff knew when Colonel Brandon had returned from Ireland, Elinor asked, “And when did your master return? Has he been back long?” at which the housekeeper rolled her eyes and declared, “Been back long, ma’am? The master has not been back at all—he has been in Ireland these last six weeks and then we had word he was coming home earlier than expected. But, a few days ago, the mistress received a letter saying he was going directly to London to sort out some problem, ma’am, and the mistress was not best pleased. Molly said she wept and threw herself on the bed; then the next day the gentleman from Somerset, who is a friend of those Percevals, arrived and Molly heard the mistress weeping again as they talked. I am sorry, ma’am, but I think the master should come home and sort out matters here first. I wish someone would tell him; I have never seen the mistress in such a state before.”

  Astounded by what she had heard, Elinor returned to the sitting room, where Edward had poured out a glass of sherry and invited her to sit by the fire. His calm exterior belied his own concerns for Marianne; it was late afternoon and he wondered how much longer she would be. Elinor sat down beside him and related some of the information she had gleaned from the housekeeper, adding to his anxiety. By the time the clock struck six, they were beginning to get quite desperate, but there was nothing they could do but wait.

  It was half past the hour when a vehicle was heard turning into the drive, and the maid rushed in to tell them that it was the Percevals’ carriage and the mistress was back. Elinor and Edward went into the hall and as Marianne alighted and came indoors, they could see she was in a dreadful state. Her eyes were red with weeping, and she looked as though she had already been given the bad news they had brought. Wary of upsetting her further, Elinor went to her at once and put her arms around her sister, “Dearest Marianne, thank God you are safe, we have been so worried, waiting for you to return…” she began and was more than a little perturbed when Marianne pushed back from her and asked, “Elinor, Edward? Why are you here? What have you heard? Has someone been round to the parsonage already, peddling a pack of lies?”

  “A pack of lies? Marianne, what are you talking about?” Elinor exclaimed, aghast; this she certainly had not expected and it left her bereft of speech. It was Edward who said quietly, “Marianne, we are here because we have received a message from your mother. Colonel Brandon has had an accident,” then seeing the look of horror on her face, he continued, “He was riding last night from Barton Park returning to Delaford and was thrown from his horse and suffered a concussion and a broken leg. When the horse returned, the stable hands set out to search for Colonel Brandon and he was taken to Barton Park, where the Middletons’ doctor is attending upon him. Mrs Dashwood has written to ask that we take you directly to him; he is in some pain and has asked for you. We have been here f
or the best part of an hour, waiting on your return.”

  Marianne’s attention had been riveted by her brother-in-law’s calm, serious tone. Struck dumb by the news, she reached for the note which Elinor held out to her, and as she read it, there came more tears and she rushed upstairs to her room. Elinor followed awhile later, rather tentatively, for she was unsure whether she would be welcome; she could see that Marianne had suffered some violent affliction even before she was given the news of her husband’s accident, but had no notion what it was that had distressed her. She couldn’t help wondering if it had something to do with Willoughby and the Percevals, but was reluctant, in ignorance, to say anything that might further exacerbate her sister’s distress.

  On entering the bedroom, however, she found to her surprise that Marianne had already sent for her maid Molly and a manservant and asked them to pack two trunks, one with her clothes and one for the master, and had given orders for the big carriage to be made ready for the journey to Barton Park. While there were still traces of tears, it was clear that Marianne, shocked by the news of the accident, had decided that she was going to organise herself for the journey that lay ahead and was doing so with a degree of dispatch that belied the state of extreme agitation in which she had been but a few minutes ago.

  She even thought to ask if Edward and Elinor had dined already, and when Elinor said they had, she gave orders for tea to be served to them in the sitting room and declared that she would be dressed and ready to leave within the hour.

  Chapter Nineteen

  They travelled through the night, on icy roads with a bitter wind whipping the vehicle to slow their progress and reaching into the carriage to increase their discomfort. It had been difficult work for the horses and their driver on the roads, and it was easy to see how the accident had happened. As the dawn struggled through a mass of low clouds weighed down with the sleet that was falling all around them, the gates of Barton Park loomed up though the mist and their relief was palpable.