Expectations of Happiness

by Rebecca Ann Collins

  Regarding her with some concern, he asked, “And you do not feel constrained to question any aspect of my conduct?”

  To which she smiled and replied, “Which part of your conduct must I question? That you were faithful and caring toward your ailing wife for several years? Or that last autumn you fell in love with my sister? I am aware from what Margaret has told me that throughout her tour of Provence, you made no direct approach to her—”

  This time it was his turn to interrupt, “Indeed I did not; I tried at first to discourage her interest in me, but Margaret is very hard to resist, and when it became apparent that she was developing a particular partiality for me, I had to tell her the truth, so she should not be hurt later. I admit I had already fallen in love with her and it was too late for me, but, Mrs Ferrars, please believe me, I did not encourage her affection, nor make her an offer of marriage that I had no right to make while Helène lived. It would have been unpardonable!”

  Elinor nodded. “I know and I commend you, even though I know it was very difficult for Margaret. She is young and knew only that she loved you; it was entirely right that you made her no offer of marriage until you were free to do so. But, since circumstances have changed and you are both free to do as you wish, I cannot see any impediment.”

  He had one more question. “May I ask—and forgive me, this may seem an impertinence—does Reverend Ferrars know?” he asked, and Elinor read the anxiety in his eyes and answered kindly, “He does not, not at the moment; but I will explain the circumstances to him, in time, and knowing my husband to be a compassionate man, I am sure his view will not be very different from mine. But no other member of my family will hear of it from me. I give you my word.”

  He thanked her then and left to write his letter.

  ***

  Later that afternoon, Daniel and Margaret walked in the Delaford woods, where she showed him some of the places she had frequented as a young girl, often spending many hours alone among the splendid stands of trees that were the pride of Colonel Brandon’s estate. In a particularly beautiful grove of oaks, which stood beside a clear running stream, they spent some quiet hours together while he told her of his conversation with Elinor.

  “Your sister is one of the wisest people I have met and perhaps the kindest, as well,” he said, and she agreed as he went on, “I had to confess that I had fallen in love with you, but could say nothing because I had no right to do so and indeed, I tried to discourage you because I feared—” She put her hand up to his lips to stop him then and said gently, “I know, Daniel, and that is why I knew I could trust you and love you without reservation. Elinor knows that, too, because I told her many months ago, before you returned from France.” It was the kind of innocent sincerity that he had found irresistible.

  He told her then, how very early in their acquaintance he had been attracted to the spirited young lady with the lovely open countenance and an insatiable thirst for learning.

  “It was hard to believe that you were real! I had not met anyone with so much energy and such a genuine desire to learn, much less a charming, intelligent young lady with such a passion; there are no ladies at Oxford, you know, and to a scholar and a teacher like me, it was quite seductive,” he admitted, opening himself to her inevitable question.

  “And when did you discover that you wanted to love me as well as teach me?” to which he answered without hesitation, “Almost at once; you were such a delight to teach, Margaret, and very easy to love,” which declaration pleased her very well.

  She told him then of her plans to use even more of what he had taught her in her new book. On his return from France, Daniel had brought her a gift: a beautifully illustrated little book of the songs of the medieval troubadours of Provence, who were credited with writing some of the most poignant and sensual love songs ever written. Since they were almost all written in the Provençal dialect, which was the language used by troubadours of the era, Daniel had translated them into modern French for her and Margaret had been deeply touched by their exquisitely moving lyrics. It had stimulated her own interest in the troubadours, and she planned to include them in her book on travels through Provence.

  But, curious as to why he had not spoken of them when they were travelling in Provence last autumn, she asked, “Why did you not mention them? Did you not think I would be interested in the troubadours’ songs?” He looked directly at her and said, “I think, Margaret, you know the answer to that question.” And when she looked genuinely puzzled, he said, “How should I have introduced you to the love songs of the troubadours, while trying to pretend that I was not in love with you? It was hard enough when we were only visiting abbeys and churches and talking of sacred music.” She smiled then and said, with an unusual archness of tone, “And were you trying also to keep me from falling in love with you?”

  His voice almost broke as he replied, “Indeed, I was, although I was not so vain as to believe it was the case; you are so much younger than I am… nevertheless, there was a risk and it would have been quite unconscionable, in the circumstances, to promote it.”

  Margaret said softly, “I do understand and I am delighted that now you have given me a whole book of these beautiful love songs; but, Daniel, if I am to write about them, I shall need you to read them to me and tell me more about them and show me where they were composed and by whom. Will you?”

  “It will be my greatest pleasure, and I shall read them to you as often as you wish,” he said and promised that when they returned to Provence, after they were married, they could spend as much time as she wished on the troubadours and their exquisite lyrics, a pledge that brought tears—tears that could now be swiftly countered with the promise of happiness to come.

  ***

  After a few more splendid days at Delaford, spent in the happiest way possible, with the family at the parsonage and their friends Dr Bradley King and his wife, Daniel and Margaret returned to Oxford to make their plans, leaving Edward and Elinor to ponder a number of interesting propositions. It had been a special pleasure for them to see how well Daniel Brooke was accepted by Dr King and his wife. Helen King had congratulated Elinor on her brother-in-law to be, saying that Dr King had declared him to be a most remarkable scholar in his field. To Elinor he was all those things, but most importantly, he was the man with whom she hoped her sister would find true contentment.

  As they retired to bed that night, Elinor turned to her husband and said, “I do like Daniel, don’t you?” to which he replied, “I do indeed, my love—he is an authority in his field, but, happily, he is also a thoroughly modest, amiable fellow. But you do realise they are already lovers, do you not?” Completely taken aback, she said nothing for a minute, then asked, “However did you deduce that?” He laughed and replied, “It wasn’t difficult. They hardly leave each other’s side, if it can be helped, and I did observe a particular closeness between them, which must signify a level of intimacy in their relationship. Do you not agree?”

  “Do you disapprove?” asked his wife, a little nervously, and Edward put away his book before responding, “It is not for me to approve or disapprove; Margaret and Daniel are mature enough to make such decisions for themselves. I asked if you had noticed, because I had hoped Margaret had confided in you and that you had counselled her,” he said, and she realised how deeply he had considered the matter, with Margaret’s interest at heart. Elinor admitted that she had advised her sister, but had tried not to be overbearing or censorious about it, which her husband assured her she could never be.

  But Elinor too had a question to resolve. “I did wonder why it was that I was willing to accept Daniel so readily, to believe the best of him on such short acquaintance, and yet I was always wary of Willoughby. Even when he was presenting himself at his best, visiting our home at Barton Cottage and wooing Marianne like a gentleman of honour throughout that summer, I had certain reservations about him, for which I was severely censured by Mama and Mar
ianne. Why do you suppose my responses were so markedly different, Edward?” she asked and his answer gave her the explanation in simple terms.

  “Because, my dearest, as you have correctly judged, Daniel Brooke is quite clearly a man one can trust; he is open and forthright, a man who is a gentleman and a scholar. Whereas Willoughby—well, as we have seen many times over, he is a fraud, a pretentious nobody, a contemptible deceiver.”

  There was no more to be said.

  ***

  Two letters brought more surprises for Elinor the following week.

  One from Marianne, posted in Paris, informed her sister that Colonel Brandon and she were extending their tour to take in a couple of other cities in France and would therefore not be back at Delaford until the middle of June. In a brief paragraph, Marianne said again that they were both enjoying their holiday in France very much and declared that she was happier than she had been in years.

  Relieved, Elinor turned to her other correspondent, whose exceedingly expensive perfumed note paper was quite new to her. It bore a London postmark, and the writing was unfamiliar, too. “Who can it be?” she thought as she broke the seal and opened up two sheets of paper, closely written in a very cultivated hand. Turning swiftly to the second page, Elinor looked for the writer’s name and was bewildered to see that it came from Fanny Dashwood, wife of their half brother, John.

  Elinor’s reaction was due chiefly to the fact that in all the years that Fanny had been married to John Dashwood, she had never found it necessary to write to her or her sisters. She recalled a very brief formal note written on black bordered notepaper, received by her mother on the death of her husband, but no more. Any further communication between them had been through Fanny’s husband, John, or Edward, who was Fanny’s younger brother.

  This sudden compulsion to write a letter two pages long must have been provoked by some quite portentous event, thought Elinor, as she began to read. Fanny wrote:

  Dear Elinor,

  I trust that Edward and you are well and enjoying the benefits of country life, albeit in a county far removed from where you grew up and many miles from London. We remind ourselves daily of our great good fortune that we live in salubrious Sussex and can travel to London within a couple of hours if we choose.

  However, it is not to discuss such trivialities that I write, but to ask if you can either confirm or deny a most disturbing rumour that has been circulating in London this last week. I had it first from my brother Robert, whose wife, Lucy, had heard it when they were dining with Mrs Jennings and the Palmers, and if the truth were told, I gave it no credit at all. Both Mrs J and Lucy are wont to listen to any story and repeat it ad nauseam, without ascertaining its veracity.

  However, two days later, to my amazement, my husband, John, returned from his club with the very same tale, which caused me to take some notice. It concerns Sir John Middleton of Barton Park—who, I recall, is related to your mother’s family—he is a widower now since the untimely death of his wife last year. Well, the news around town is that he plans to marry again, although no one knows who the lady is. Elinor, it really does not signify whether Sir John Middleton remarries or not, but we are from time to time invited to receptions at his house in London and occasionally to a weekend shooting party at Barton Park. If we are to continue the acquaintance, I should very much wish to have some information about the person who is to be the next Lady Middleton, before I am called upon to accept or refuse the next invitation. I wonder if I could prevail on you or perhaps on Mrs Dashwood, since she lives on the estate, to undertake some discreet enquiries and discover the details of the lady’s name, age, family antecedents, etc., etc.

  I often find that butlers and valets are usually well informed on such matters.

  The writer carried on for another sentence or two, but Elinor could not be bothered to continue reading. She put it down, still puzzled by the rumour, but far more disgusted by the snobbery and furtive curiosity of her sister-in-law, who had hoped to recruit her or her mother to obtain information about Sir John Middleton’s private affairs from members of his household staff.

  When Edward returned, she showed him his sister’s letter and was gratified to hear him roundly condemn her. “I cannot imagine why Fanny is concerned; Sir John is nothing to them, and whom he chooses to marry is entirely a matter for him. As for trying to get you to discover his secret, I hope, my dear, that you have given her short shrift. It is none of our business, nor should it be of hers,” he said and threw the letter down on the table in the study before going upstairs to change for dinner.

  “My sentiments exactly,” said Elinor as she followed him up the stairs, pleased at his response, “and I do not intend to do anything at all about Fanny’s request. If she wishes to discover whom Sir John plans to marry—and I suppose there may be some truth to this story, seeing that it is gaining currency in London, where Sir John has many friends—Fanny can ask him herself.”

  Edward laughed. “And I must admit that I would not put it past her to do so. Fanny has become so consumed with matters of family prestige and social status, she fails to see how ridiculous she looks. You are right, though, the story, which sounded rather farfetched when Mrs Jennings talked about it the other day, does appear to have gained some ground. I wonder who the lady could be. But, whoever it is, as I said before, it is none of our business,” he concluded.

  “Amen to that,” said his wife, and that, they thought, would be that.

  On the very next day, however, it became their business in no uncertain terms.

  ***

  Edward Ferrars, when he was a very young man, had often had cause to wonder whether he belonged at all in the strange mix of characters that constituted his family. He’d had very little knowledge of his father, having been sent away to school at a very early age; his mother had always seemed remote and unfeeling; his sister Fanny was recognisably grasping and uncharitable; while his brother Robert had grown up spoilt and selfish.

  That Edward had never satisfied his family’s ambitions for him, refusing to consider careers in the military or in Parliament and insisting on becoming a clergyman had set him apart from them, and with his marriage to Elinor Dashwood, that separation had been complete.

  A letter received from his brother, Robert, was not therefore as astonishing to him as it might have been had their relationship been closer. In it, Robert disclosed that his wife, Lucy, had heard of the imminent remarriage of Sir John Middleton from Mrs Jennings and had been somewhat put out by the news, because there had been plans afoot (Edward assumed these were plans initiated by either Lucy or Mrs Jennings or both) to promote a match between Sir John and Lucy’s elder sister, Anne, who was as yet unmarried and well on the way to being a regular old maid. Mrs Jennings had been angling for some time to obtain an invitation for Miss Anne Steele to Barton Park, and while none had been forthcoming, she was hopeful it could still be arranged for next Christmas. Robert asked if Edward knew or could discover through the good offices of his wife or his mother-in-law, Mrs Dashwood, who was Sir John’s cousin, whether there was any truth in the rumour. He wrote:

  If you could, my dear brother, I would consider it to be a great favour, since it would enable me to extricate myself from the unending chatter that this tale has aroused in the family and enjoy some peace and quiet, which at present I can only find at my club.

  Greatly diverted by this request, Edward was about to take his letter out to the garden, where Elinor had spent most of the afternoon, attending to her roses. He was sure she would be as entertained by Robert’s concerns as he had been, but before he could share it with her, he saw the carriage from Barton Park coming up the road and stopped to alert Elinor, who stood up and brushed twigs and leaves from her skirts and took off her gardening gloves, as she prepared to receive their welcome though unexpected visitors.

  Alighting from the carriage was Sir John Middleton himself, who then assisted Mr
s Dashwood out and ordered his servant to attend to the luggage. As Edward and Elinor looked on, uncomprehending, the man unloaded two trunks and carried them into the house, where they were placed in the hall, while Sir John—who seemed to be in remarkably good humour—and Mrs Dashwood greeted them with great affection.

  As they went indoors, Elinor was still wondering what it was all about; she’d had no message from her mother about their intention to visit, nor had Edward heard from Sir John. And what of the two trunks? They obviously contained her mother’s belongings; could it be that all the stories were true? Sir John was getting married and he’d brought Mrs Dashwood back to them, because she was no longer needed to manage his household at Barton Park? As the thought crossed her mind, Elinor glanced at her mother and discarded it instantly, for Mrs Dashwood did not have the appearance of one who had been summarily evicted from her preferred accommodation at all—indeed, she was all smiles.

  They had moved into the sitting room, and Elinor was about to send for the maid to order tea, when Sir John said, “I think we must have something a little stronger than tea, Edward—a glass of sherry, perhaps, if you do not have any champagne to hand.”

  Edward and Elinor exchanged glances, Sir John laughed heartily, and Mrs Dashwood smiled. There being no champagne to hand at the parsonage, Edward was quick to get out the best sherry, and when they had their glasses filled, Sir John said, “Well now, Edward and Elinor, you are the first to know that my dear cousin Mary, your beautiful mama, has done me the great honour of accepting my proposal to become my wife.”

  He smiled and continued, “Needless to say, this has made me very happy indeed, and we thought we had to come over directly and tell you ourselves, because it just would not do if someone read it in The Times tomorrow and told you of it. Besides, we had to bring some of her things over, because, as I am sure you would agree, it would not be seemly, now we are engaged, for the lady to remain under my roof, as it were, until we are married.”