Expectations of Happiness

by Rebecca Ann Collins

  Unbeknownst to anyone, even her friend Claire, some months ago Margaret had sent the manuscript of A Country Childhood to a publisher in a small town near Oxford. It was a compilation of pieces she had written over the years; simple and evocative, they recounted the experiences of a young girl growing up at Norland Park in Sussex and later transplanted against her will and at very short notice to Barton Cottage in Devonshire. Having told the stories to her pupils and been pleased with their response, Margaret had supposed that the anthology might make pleasant reading for young ladies. It seemed the gentlemen at Fielding and Armitage agreed.

  In her letter accompanying the manuscript, she had mentioned her extensive travels in France and her intention of spending some weeks in Provence this autumn. She expected to keep a detailed journal, which she hoped could form the basis of a travelogue, she’d said, and asked if they would be interested in reading the manuscript when it was ready.

  Thereafter, Margaret had given it little thought, expecting to receive a polite letter of rejection. Not in her wildest dreams had she anticipated this response. She wished someone had been there with her to share her joy; then again, she was glad there was no one to see how totally silly she looked as she threw cushions into the air, rolled on the rug in front of the fire, laughed and wept without reason, and finally collapsed exhausted on the sofa, where she fell asleep, clutching both her treasured letters to her heart.

  ***

  It was late when Margaret awoke, rather stiff and uncomfortable, realising that she was both cold and hungry, but nevertheless feeling weirdly, deliriously happy. Opening a window, she noted that the weather had cleared, with bits of blue sky showing through the clouds. She recalled that she had eaten nothing last night, and this time, she did put the kettle on and was preparing to get some eggs from the larder, when there was a loud knocking at the door. When she opened it, there, to her immense relief, was Mrs Muggle, the woman who came regularly to “do” for the two young ladies, by which she meant clean, cook, and shop for them, which jobs, despite her uninspiring name, she did very satisfactorily.

  Margaret greeted her like a long-lost friend, and confessed that she was hungry and would give her life for a pot of tea. “No need for that, miss,” said Mrs Muggle, who put down her basket of fresh bread, butter, and eggs on the kitchen table and got to work at once, getting tea and breakfast ready in less time than it took Margaret to go upstairs, clean her teeth, and brush her hair.

  As Margaret ate hungrily, feasting on the plate of ham and eggs, Mrs Muggle continued working around her, dusting, washing, and putting things away, all the while plying her with food and giving her the neighbourhood news. Margaret heard, without paying much attention, that the butcher’s wife had had twins on Christmas Eve, the grocer’s daughter had been married on Boxing Day, the fishmonger had been in a fight with a traveller from another village and he had been locked up by the local constabulary, which meant no one had any fish that week. And of course, she added with a twinkle in her eye, everyone in the village knew by now that Miss Jones was going to be married very soon to that lovely young gentleman from Oxford, Mr Wilcox.

  This last piece of information did alert Margaret, and she stopped Mrs Muggle in midsentence to ask who had told her and did she know how soon the couple were to be wed. Mrs Muggle declared that she had had it from Miss Jones herself, before Christmas, and indeed, she thought the wedding would be in February, because she believed they’d want to get it done before Lent. Margaret didn’t quite comprehend why this was so, but said, “Ah yes, of course,” and continued eating, as Mrs Muggle produced more buttered eggs and refilled her tea cup, while adding that she anticipated there’d be a bit more work for her at the cottage once the couple were married and settled there.

  Margaret was pensive. In the euphoric mood of the previous evening, this was one situation she had not anticipated. If her friend Claire and Nicholas Wilcox were to marry in the next month or two, where would they live? She knew Wilcox had rooms at a boarding house in Oxford, which probably meant he would move into the cottage when they were married. The cottage, though perfectly comfortable for two young women, was small and not constructed to offer much privacy and, thought Margaret, this must mean that she would have to find somewhere else to live. While not particularly frightening, it did add some uncertainty to the picture and cloud the bright prospect to which she had awakened an hour ago.

  But this was not a morning on which Margaret was going to be disaffected; she had in her pocket two letters that had brought her the best news she could have asked for. Daniel Brooke, the man she loved, missed her and was returning to England within the week, and a certain Mr Armitage was happy to publish her book and had offered to pay her twenty pounds for it! Nothing else mattered at the moment.

  She decided to take a good look at the clothes in her wardrobe and choose an appropriate gown to wear when she went to meet the perceptive Mr Armitage. If only Claire were here, she thought, she’d know what I should wear to a meeting with my publisher; but moments later she set that thought aside, as realisation came that henceforth, she would have to make most of her own decisions in matters of far greater import. She selected a simple gown in a soft cream fabric with an overcoat in deep green wool. It had been a gift from Elinor, who’d said it suited her well, and that was sufficient for Margaret. The colours certainly set off her striking honey-gold hair.

  Leaving Mrs Muggle to continue with her chores at the cottage, Margaret left to take the coach into town. She had decided that she needed a new hat, one that would impress Mr Armitage and please Daniel Brooke as well. If such a hat might be found somewhere in Oxford, then Margaret was in the right mood to purchase it.

  The milliners in town had hats aplenty, but they were all very expensive and some, replete with ribbons and plumes, were rather daunting; but, when she saw the pretty straw bonnet adorned with a cream rose and a wisp of silk, she had to go in and try it on. Once she had done that and the woman in the store had let her look in the mirror, there was no turning back. She paid up and returned with her prize, hoping, as she held the hat box on her lap, that both Daniel Brooke and Mr Armitage would be impressed by her choice.

  ***

  The return of Claire Jones and Mr Wilcox a few days later provided Margaret with an opportunity to obtain her friend’s advice before setting out for the offices of Fielding and Armitage. Claire, who had alternately encouraged her to submit her work and berated her for not doing so, was delighted when she read the publisher’s letter.

  “You will accept, of course?” she said, and when Margaret nodded, she assured her that twenty pounds was a very reasonable sum, considering that many publishers would not even contemplate publication of a lady’s work unless it was specifically for the edification of young wives or the education of small children. “They appear to believe that we are incapable of mature thought and feeling,” Claire grumbled, “and that our imagination is limited to domestic and childish matters.” Margaret said she hoped that Mr Armitage had not been misled by the title of her manuscript into thinking it was a children’s story, because if he had, he was in for a big surprise. Claire urged her not to be intimidated by Mr Armitage. “He is probably a fusty old fellow, with a large moustache, who will try to overwhelm you with facts and figures; just let him see you are not afraid of him. If they have offered you twenty pounds, it is because they know they can make a profit with your work,” she advised.

  Despite some misgivings, Margaret’s frame of mind, as she went to meet Mr Armitage, was optimistic. Fielding and Armitage were an old firm of modest but well-regarded publishers situated in the main street between the offices of a solicitor and the popular tea shop on the corner. Her Mr Armitage turned out to be the son of one of the partners, responsible mainly for what might be termed the lighter side of the publishers’ list. Mr Samuel Fielding and his partner Nathaniel Armitage ran the business and handled the weightier tomes, which consisted of heroic trans
lations from the Greek and Latin classics, some academic and philosophical treatises, and similar momentous works.

  When Margaret walked in through the glass front doors, a supercilious-looking young man appeared and asked whether it was Mr Nathaniel or Mr Mark Armitage she wished to see. Since she was unable to say, she had to take out her letter and show it to the gentleman, who said in a patronising tone, “Ah, that would be Mr Mark Armitage, come this way.” Margaret followed him down a long corridor and was shown into a tiny office at the back of the building, where, behind a huge desk, piled high with bundles of paper tied up with string, sat a fresh-faced young man, who rose to greet her with the brightest smile she had seen in years. He was dressed in a rather informal fashion, sporting a floppy cravat tied in the style affected by many writers and artists of the day, and when he spoke, his voice was particularly pleasing. As for his words, they were music to her ears.

  “Miss Dashwood? I am delighted to meet you and even more delighted that you have agreed to accept our offer for your charming manuscript,” he said, and Margaret thought she had never met such an agreeable young man. He was certainly a pleasant change from the superior sort of person who had met her at the door.

  When they were seated, he began by asking her about Sussex, where he had never been, inviting her to tell him of its delights, adding that he had enjoyed very much her account of life at Norland Park. He then proceeded to explain the terms under which they would publish her book. She asked a few pertinent questions about payments, which he answered precisely, they signed a couple of documents, witnessed by his clerk, and their business was settled. Thinking they were done, Margaret rose to leave, but was surprised that Mr Armitage seemed keen to meet again to discuss the actual design and production of her book. She had not expected to receive this degree of attention and agreed to return on another occasion; however, she said, she would soon begin work at her school and might not be free to see him for a while.

  At this, he looked disappointed and said, “Miss Dashwood, if it is too inconvenient for you to come to us, I could arrange to meet you at a place and time convenient to you,” which Margaret found quite astonishing. She did not know quite how to deal with this unexpected suggestion and used the excuse that she could not make an appointment immediately, since it would depend on her working hours at the school, whereupon he wanted to be told what subjects she taught. Having satisfied his curiosity, Margaret promised to advise him when and where she could meet him. He bowed and agreed, promising to bring her their plans for the publication as soon as they were ready. He then accompanied her up the long corridor to the front door and out into the street, where he insisted on waiting until a vehicle arrived to convey her, handed her in, and closed the door, before waving her on with the cheeriest of smiles.

  It was an altogether unusual encounter for Margaret. Far from being a fusty old publisher with a great moustache, who would try to intimidate her, young Mr Armitage had proved a very pleasant surprise. Never before had she met such a genuinely cheerful young man.

  Returning home in time for tea, she found a letter from Elinor, with news of Colonel Brandon. She wrote:

  Mama writes to say that Doctor Richards is very pleased with Colonel Brandon’s recovery; his leg is healing very well and he is in excellent spirits and so, I believe, is Sir John Middleton, who is exceedingly happy to have both the colonel and Marianne for company. Mama says it is like old times again: Marianne sings or reads to them after dinner, and Sir John tells everyone he meets how fortunate he is to have such good relations and friends around him.

  Mama says that Colonel Brandon and Marianne plan to go to Europe in the spring, which will be very good timing indeed, because the most recent gossip from Mrs Palmer is that Willoughby’s wife’s application for a divorce is expected to come up for hearing before the Consistory Courts at about the same time and will no doubt be a subject of much gossip. His wife’s parents are influential in church circles, we are to understand, which should favour her cause. I am told his exposure here has meant that he has no friends left in this part of the country. My friend Mrs Helen King has also had some similar information from his cousins, the Clifts, who are far from pleased with his recent behaviour, so it does appear that he is about to reap the whirlwind both socially and financially. There is even talk of Combe Magna being put up for sale!

  My dear Margaret, we must be very thankful that Marianne was saved, by the merest chance, from being drawn back into his nasty web. It would have been a disaster from whose consequences none of us would have been spared.

  Margaret took her letter up to her room and re-read it slowly. She was relieved too, although she had not been as fearful as her elder sister. She had known before Elinor of Marianne’s meetings with Willoughby, and while she’d had concerns about her sister’s propensity for self-delusion, she had been far less certain that Willoughby had it in him to do more than indulge in the ephemeral pleasures of dalliance with her. He was no Casanova, she had decided. Writing in her notebook, Margaret was quite candid in her estimation of both.

  Now that it has come out that he kept a tawdry mistress, who followed him around the country, it seems even more certain that Marianne was in greater danger of doing her marriage harm by her own precipitate behaviour, than being led down the primrose path to perdition by Willoughby. I cannot see him as some Regency rake—more a petty deceiver of gullible young women, like poor Eliza Williams and our foolish Marianne, who are taken in by his false charm. Had Marianne been once again deceived into trusting him, the person most injured by her conduct would have been Colonel Brandon, and we must indeed be thankful that it did not eventuate. There would have been a tragedy and much undeserved suffering.

  Margaret was pondering albeit in a whimsical manner, whether it might not make an interesting plot for a novella—a cautionary tale of romance and intrigue that might interest Mr Armitage—when Mrs Muggle struggled up the steep stairs to advise that a gentleman was at the door asking for her. “Who is it, Mrs Muggle?” she asked in a whisper; Margaret was not in a mood to meet strangers. Mrs Muggle did not know. “He did not say, miss, he’s very tall and dark, looks foreign… He has a beard…”

  She did not get much further, for Margaret had leapt out of her chair and raced down the stairs and into the arms of Daniel Brooke, who was still standing in the open doorway with a brisk breeze blowing through the hall. Breaking out of his embrace, she shut the door, dragged him into the parlour, and stoked up the fire. “You’re freezing, how long have you been standing out in the cold?” she asked and was appalled to learn that he’d been walking up and down the street for the best part of an hour, trying to decide whether he should call at the cottage, wondering if she would be alone or whether Miss Jones would be home and his sudden appearance might be an embarrassment to her.

  Margaret went to the kitchen to get a pot of tea, which she brought in and dispensed, lacing it with brandy, insisting that he drink it before she would let him speak another word. She was shocked to see how gaunt he looked, and the beard made him seem older and even more serious than before. It was clear to her that he had endured a great deal of anguish.

  As he finished the tea, she re-filled his cup and asked, “Why did you not send word that you were back in England?” and he, cradling the cup between his palms to warm them, replied, “I did, when we reached Dover. I had to travel overland to Calais and cross the channel on the packet; I could not get a place on the boat at Marseilles. I was fortunate enough to meet a colleague, who was travelling direct to Oxford and offered me a seat in his vehicle. We arrived yesterday; my letter is probably still on its way to you.”

  When Daniel had finished his second cup of tea, she was eager for news, but afraid to ask. Seeing the unspoken question in her eyes, he said quietly, “Helène is very weak; they are not confident that she can return to the convent in Provence. She will probably remain in Nice, but they have promised to send me word if she worsens. When th
ey do, I shall have to go at once.” His voice was strained, as though it hurt to speak, and she felt tears sting her eyes.

  “Of course, I understand,” she said softly. “And are you staying at the college?” she asked. He replied, “Just for a day or two, but I am going to the Cotswolds and I think I will stay there until the new term begins. I have shipped a lot of my things and need to arrange for their collection and storage when they arrive.” He was silent for a moment, then his voice quickened suddenly and he asked, “Margaret, would you like to come down to the cottage for a few days? I should like very much for you to see it. It is peaceful and quiet, I enjoy working there… Perhaps you might like to bring some of your work along, too. Have you started your new school term?”

  Before she could give him an answer, Mrs Muggle knocked and put her head round the door; it was time for her to leave and she had to be paid. Margaret went out of the room and took some time paying Mrs Muggle and shutting the front door.

  When she returned, Daniel was standing beside the fire. It was no use at all to deny how much they had needed one another; she went to him and was enfolded in his arms and held as though he never wanted to release her. For herself, she wished he never would let her go. When he spoke, his words were unequivocal. “You know how dearly I love you, Margaret, so you must also know that I will do nothing to offend you, I give you my word. But I do long to have you with me, to hear you talk and laugh and see you smile, as you did in Provence, where you brought me new energy and spirit, when I was feeling drained of life and hope. I have missed you these long weeks and longed for your company; will you come with me?”