Expectations of Happiness

by Rebecca Ann Collins

  On Christmas Eve, as Edward went to the church to prepare for the Christmas vigil, Margaret sought out her sister. Elinor was wrapping up the presents for her servants and preparing hampers of food for their families. She carried on with her work, chatting happily, regaling her sister with the tale of Colonel Brandon’s accident and the arrival of Miss Williams and her daughter to stay at Barton Cottage. “It is typical of Sir John, of course; Mama says he had simply told Colonel Brandon that Eliza and her child would be safer in the country and offered them the cottage. Do you not think that is very generous of him?” she asked, and Margaret had to agree that it certainly was.

  Seeing her sister busy, contented, and obviously happy in her home, Margaret could not help the little pinpricks of envy that assailed her. Why, she wondered, had she not been able to fall in love as Elinor had done with a man who was free to love and marry her? Why was her love to be thwarted by cruel circumstances neither she nor Daniel could have foreseen or controlled? With these thoughts came uncharacteristic tears, and Elinor, seeing them, asked in some alarm, “Why, Margaret, my dear, whatever is the matter? Have I said something to upset you?” at which the tears fell faster and Margaret had to retreat to her room, where Elinor followed her soon afterward, bringing with her a most welcome cup of tea.

  Elinor had sensed not long after her sister’s arrival that all was not well. Even though Margaret had appeared cheerful and ready to participate in their celebrations with her usual enthusiasm, her sister had noted a certain lack of joie de vivre. She had put it down initially to weariness after the journey in a vehicle that Margaret had declared was full to overflowing with people and their animals! “I counted three geese, two ducks, and a sack of rabbits—I could not say how many,” she had told them, “all travelling happily, unaware that they were soon to be a part of someone’s Christmas dinner.”

  But this morning, she had been rather pensive at breakfast and now this. Elinor was concerned. Margaret was the most stable member of her family; she was dependable, warmhearted, and for the most part predictable in a way that Marianne had never been. To find her in tears was exceedingly discomposing, and Elinor hoped to discover what had caused it. She had noted that no mention had been made of Daniel Brooke and wondered if there had been a falling-out, perhaps? She waited until Margaret had finished her tea and asked, “What is it, my love? Is it about Mr Daniel Brooke?” and that brought on a veritable flood.

  It was a random question, asked only because Elinor could think of no other person who could have been the cause of her tears. From Margaret’s letters Elinor had gathered that Mr Daniel Brooke had become quite important to her sister; she wrote of him in special terms, admired his learning and his great knowledge of the history of France, and marvelled at his willingness to spend time with them guiding them through so many places, which, without him, they would never have appreciated fully. She had written of his kindness and his humour and other estimable qualities besides, all of which had ensured that Elinor regarded him as a special person for whom Margaret had developed feelings of gratitude and affection. And yet, in the last two days since her arrival, though she spoke often of Claire Jones and her engagement to Mr Wilcox, she had said nothing about Daniel Brooke.

  Fearing that their friendship may have ended, Elinor asked, “We had hoped to meet him one day; did he not return to England with the rest of your party?” Margaret shook her head violently and blew her nose before replying, “He did not, and I do not know when he will.”

  “But why?” asked Elinor and was stunned into silence when she replied, “Because he has stayed on in Nice, where his wife is in the care of an order of nursing nuns. She is dying of some dreaded disease—tuberculosis, I think—and he will not leave her there alone.”

  Margaret saw her sister’s face drain of colour, her eyes fill with tears as she put a hand to her mouth as though to stop herself from crying out. It was as if she was thinking, “Not another case of deception… not another false lover,” and Margaret, reading her thoughts, cried out, “No, Elinor, you must not think that—he did not deceive me, he told me himself of the true circumstances of his life. He is not to blame, I am. Even after I knew, it did not stop me falling in love with the only man for whom I have ever felt anything deeper than passing friendliness.”

  Silently, Elinor put her arms around her sister and held her close. “My darling girl, I am sorry. And yet, I am glad too that you can say that he did not deceive you, for there is nothing that brings greater anguish, as we know with Marianne. I am grateful that you have been spared that, at least.” Then looking at her, she asked, “What will you do?”

  Margaret took a little time to answer, and spoke softly when she did, not because she was unsure of her response, but because she wished to spare her sister’s feelings. “I am not entirely certain when he will return, to England, but whenever he does, probably in the new year when he must return to his college at Oxford, I shall go to him. He has suffered much, Elinor, and needs some comfort. He knows how I feel; I hope he will let me comfort him.”

  Elinor did not respond as Margaret had expected; she was shaken, certainly, but she expressed no outrage. Instead she asked, “Are you quite sure Margaret?” and Margaret replied with a degree of certainly that surprised her sister, “Indeed I am. Ever since he told me—and he did so with the clearest objective of warning me not to fall in love with him—ever since then, I have known that I must go to him. I have never felt so deeply nor cared so well for any person before, apart from my own family, and knowing how much he has suffered, I must go to him.”

  Seeing her determination, Elinor, rather than censure or dissuade, asked a practical question, “Where will you stay?”

  “He has a cottage in the Cotswolds,” Margaret said simply, as though that was all that mattered, and in truth it was, for apart from her determination to go to Daniel when he returned to England, she had made no other plans. It was plain, Elinor thought, that her young sister’s feelings were so deeply engaged, she had paid no attention to any other consideration. The practical realities of life in the community appeared to have faded into insignificance.

  Elinor’s eyes were full of sympathy, but her voice was grave as she strove to counsel her. “You do know it will not be easy, Margaret; there will be those who will gossip and others who will condemn you, once it is known. Do you think you are prepared for that?” Margaret’s usually gentle face was stern as she responded, “I am. I have no fear of the censure those others, who mean nothing to me, may bring against me. My only fear is that he, in some noble act of renunciation, will send me away and try to endure this pain alone, as he has done for years already. I fear he will say that I must not sacrifice myself to care for him.” Elinor, understanding her feelings yet dreading the consequences of her sister’s impending actions, held her hands but could find no words to console her. She wondered how well prepared Margaret was for the kind of condemnation she would surely face in a small rural community.

  But it seemed that Margaret was not seeking consolation; her mind was made up, she had decided upon her course of action and was ready to face the consequences. She spoke reasonably and without emotion. “Elinor, I cannot ask you not to tell Edward, I know you have no secrets from him; but please do not say anything to Mama or Marianne. It would kill me to have them ask me questions and give me the benefit of their opinions. I will tell you my plans and send you word of where I am, when the time comes.”

  The sisters clung together, and when they broke apart, Margaret said, “Thank you for not preaching at me, Elinor, or berating me for what I plan to do. It would not have changed my mind, I love him too much, but it would break my heart to have you turn against me.”

  Elinor kissed her cheek and said, “I could never turn against you, you know that. But I will admit that I am very afraid of what you may have to face. Please promise me that you will think very carefully before you take such a step. I should hate to see you throw aw
ay all you have achieved from study and hard work—you, with all your life ahead of you, more than Marianne or myself, have much to lose.”

  Margaret promised and thanked her sister again; but Elinor could not but feel a deep anxiety for her. Spirited and intelligent, Margaret had been the one who combined both good sense and a gentle sensibility; Elinor would pray that it was not all to be squandered on a passionate affair. Without the advantage of knowing Daniel Brooke, she could not judge if Margaret’s love would bring her happiness or misery.

  The sound of carol singers at the gate took them to the window, and seeing the children with their lanterns and candles, the sisters went downstairs together to greet them. Harry and John ran out to join them, and the housekeeper brought out a basket of goodies for the singers, who crowded into the hall, glad of the warmth and the welcome.

  It was Christmas, and Margaret was determined that her problems would not spoil the special celebrations of her sister’s family. With a bright smile that belied the sadness that filled her heart, she joined in the singing. This time it was Elinor who could not hold back the tears.

  ***

  On the morning after Christmas, they all slept late, following what was generally agreed to be an excellent Christmas dinner. Cook had excelled herself, and Margaret claimed that she could not recall a better pudding since they had left Norland Park!

  While they were at breakfast, there was heard a great commotion outside the parsonage and, on looking out of the sitting room window, Edward saw the large carriage from Barton Park standing in the road and Sir John Middleton, attired like some explorer bound for the Arctic, alighting from it. He marched to the door and banged upon it, calling out for the family of Ferrars to wake and prepare to celebrate Boxing Day at Barton Park.

  He had travelled all this way, he declared, to take them to his home so they could all be together, and he had organised a great celebration with food, fun, and fireworks for the entire family. Amidst cries of delight from Harry and John and groans from most of the adults, Sir John proceeded to rouse and ready the entire party, pack them into his carriage, and drive away, all within the hour, assuring them that everyone at Barton Park awaited their arrival, determined to have what he termed “a jolly good time on Boxing Day!”

  End of Part Four

  Part Five

  Chapter Twenty

  A few days after their return from Barton Park, choosing a quiet moment of the day, Margaret sought out Elinor in the nursery, where she was helping her sons solve a picture puzzle they’d received for Christmas.

  There had been no mention of Daniel Brooke between them since Margaret had revealed the circumstances of Helène’s health. Wishing to be certain that her sister had not changed her mind about inviting him to dine with them, she asked, albeit a little tentatively, “Elinor, when you wrote me in France about inviting Daniel to dinner, I did mention it to him at the time; do you still wish to meet him?”

  Surprised at being asked, Elinor replied, “Of course I do.”

  “And Edward?” Margaret persisted. “Would he, do you think?” Elinor said, “I have said nothing of Daniel’s situation to him yet; I shall not, until your plans are more certain and you advise me of them. But I have no reason to suppose that Edward will not be just as pleased to see Daniel again; as I said in my letter, he recalls meeting him at Dr Grantley’s rooms and speaks highly of him as a historian. When Daniel returns to England, we shall decide on a day when you can ask him over to dinner. I am looking forward very much to meeting him, Margaret, especially since he means so much to you.” Elinor spoke with such transparent honesty that Margaret had no doubt at all of her sincerity. She had been both surprised and pleased by the calm manner in which Elinor had received the news about Helène; knowing her sister’s high standards of personal morality, Margaret had feared her censure above anything. For Margaret, inexperienced in love, still struggling to impose a degree of rationality upon her feelings for Daniel Brooke, Elinor’s genuine solicitude and understanding, however qualified, meant everything to her.

  Before she said her final goodbyes, Margaret spoke again to Elinor of her plans. “It will probably mean giving up my work at the school; it will not do to have a teacher of young girls setting such an example. But it is no matter, I can teach privately; there are many families who cannot afford the fees for a place in a school or the cost of a governess. They are happy to have their daughters taught at home. I have seen many notices in the papers seeking such services; I shall write to a few of them and see what eventuates. They do not pay as well as the school does, but I live fairly simply, I do not need a great deal of money.”

  Elinor looked worried; it was hard for her to accept that her young sister was making these difficult decisions alone. “How will you manage? I could give you something to tide you over… I have some savings…” she began, but Margaret laughed and said, “Thank you, dear, dear Elinor, but I do not need to take your money. I have some savings, too; remember that I have always planned to be a writer when I tire of teaching and I’ve been putting a part of my income away. So I shall be all right, you must not worry about me.”

  Elinor could not help but be concerned. “But will you promise me that if you do need help, at any time, you will ask?” she pleaded, and Margaret promised. The sisters embraced then and wept a little, each conscious of the other’s pain, though unwilling to speak of it. Since Marianne’s marriage to Colonel Brandon, Margaret, then just a girl, had grown closer to Elinor, and theirs was a warm, supportive affection; however, they dried their eyes, smiled at one another, and Margaret went away to finish packing her trunk.

  The following morning, the small carriage from Delaford Manor would take Margaret to meet the coach at Dorchester. There were still a few days before her friends would return and she had much to do.

  ***

  The coach from Dorset was late and it was almost dusk when Margaret arrived at the cottage she shared with Claire Jones. She put down her luggage, lit the lamps, and started the fire before she saw the letters propped up against a vase on the mantelpiece. One was a note from Claire and the other was from Daniel Brooke. There was also a nondescript brown envelope, with the direction to Miss M. Dashwood inscribed in perfect copperplate but with no indication who it was from.

  During the last hour on the coach, Margaret had longed for a cup of tea; she had planned to put the kettle on the moment she got inside the door, but those thoughts fled as she found her letters and began to open them. She read Claire’s note first, which said simply that the letter from Daniel Brooke had been addressed to Nicholas Wilcox’s rooms in Oxford and he had brought it round. She added that Nicholas had also had a note from Mr Brooke, who had written that he would be back at Oxford in the new year.

  Margaret then opened and read Daniel’s letter to her, and try as she might, she could not restrain her tears. It was not that there was anything shocking or tragic in the news it brought, it was just the stark, painful truth she confronted that hurt so grievously. After a few brief words of greeting and expressions of hope that she had enjoyed Christmas with her family, he wrote of his efforts to spend some time with Helène at Christmas.

  I was permitted by the kind nuns who care for her to see her for about an hour each morning and again on Christmas day for a short period in the evening, while the nuns went to chapel. On both occasions I took her flowers and little gifts, which she clearly liked; she smiled and thanked me, but said very little else that was coherent. I saw her on several occasions thereafter, but I am certain she has no recollection of me at all. She is very frail now and grows weaker by the day. The senior nun, who has had much medical experience, advised that Helène was too ill to be moved back to Provence; they felt it was best that she be cared for at the hospice in Nice at least until the spring, when they would make a decision depending upon her condition.

  I can do no more for her here and must return to my work at the college by mid-January
, when I hope I will see you again. I have just received your last letter and can only say in response that not a single day passes that I do not think of you, dear Margaret. I should not have to say it, because I am quite certain you know it already. I miss you and long to see you again.

  Yours very sincerely,

  Daniel Brooke.

  Margaret read the letter over many times before she folded it and put it in her pocket. She wondered at the strange mixture of intense sadness and joy it had brought her and thought again of the resolution she had made to go to him when he returned to England. “Well, at the very least, I think I know that I will not be unwelcome,” she thought, as she opened up the unfamiliar brown envelope.

  It contained a single sheet of note paper bearing the letterhead of a publisher, Fielding and Armitage, on which were two brief paragraphs written in the same precise hand.

  Dear Miss Dashwood,

  Thank you for sending us your manuscript of A Country Childhood, which we are happy to accept for publication and offer a payment of twenty pounds, on the condition that you agree to certain editorial changes that we may advise.

  As to your proposal to write A Provençal Journal based on your travels in that part of France, we should be pleased to review it on completion and decide if it is acceptable for publication. I might add that we are impressed with the quality of your first composition, and if this standard is maintained in the rest of your work, we foresee a promising future for you as a writer.

  The letter concluded by inviting her to call on them at the address above, if she was willing to accept their offer, and it was signed by someone called Armitage, who wrote his name with a great flourish. Margaret could not quite make out his first name from his signature, but she did not care; so delighted was she that for fully five minutes she laughed and wept alternately, unable to control the feelings that completely overwhelmed her. This was indeed unexpected and joyous news!