Margaret had pleasanter memories of Devonshire than Marianne; having spent the latter part of her childhood there, she took much pleasure in visiting and looked forward to seeing the park and woods again. She had intended to stay with her mother at Barton Cottage, but finding her still in charge of the household at Barton Park, accepted Sir John Middleton’s invitation to stay at the manor house.
Mrs Dashwood was delighted to see her youngest daughter looking so well, and so was Sir John, who was sufficiently recovered from his wife’s death to tease Margaret at dinner about a certain gentleman, who had missed her when he was down at Barton Park some weeks ago. When Margaret pretended not to know whom he meant, Sir John was supported by her mother.
“Sir John means Mr Andrew Barton, my dear; he was here for dear Lady Middleton’s funeral and stayed on for a few days to call on friends in the neighbourhood. He particularly asked after you and was disappointed to learn that you had been down, but had to return to Oxford to keep an important appointment,” explained Mrs Dashwood, trying tactfully to indicate that she had provided her daughter with a plausible excuse. Margaret looked at her mother and nodded gratefully, appreciating her help, but it appeared that Sir John and Mrs Jennings were not to be satisfied so easily.
The latter was determined to discover what had caused Margaret to leave before the funeral. “Come now, Miss Margaret, what was this important appointment, hmmm? It cannot have been work surely; was it another beau?” she quizzed, fixing Margaret with her penetrating gaze, and when Margaret said quite spiritedly, “It most certainly was not, Mrs Jennings, I assure you,” her son-in-law chimed in, “I’m very glad to hear it, Miss Margaret, because if that were the case, poor Barton would be quite desolated.” He then looked directly at Margaret and declared, “You must know the young fellow is hopelessly in love with you. He has told me, more than once since you met last December, that he has not met another young lady who has so enchanted him, and I assure you he is quite serious; he means to propose to you at the earliest opportunity. Considering that he can have the pick of the young ladies in London, that is a very particular compliment, wouldn’t you agree? I have told your mama that he is an excellent match for you, if you will have him; he has at least five thousand a year and two fine houses in London and Bath, with the prospect of a share in a great estate in the north of England when his father dies, which may not be long, considering he is almost eighty and suffers badly from the gout and a few other ailments besides.”
As Margaret listened, Mrs Dashwood observed her daughter, hoping to see some flicker of interest on her countenance, and Mrs Jennings sat literally open mouthed, agog for some response. But, to their general disappointment, she shook her head. “I am sorry, Sir John, I have no wish to marry Mr Barton—”
“Why ever not?” interrupted Mrs Jennings, loudly. “He is as handsome a man as ever I saw, with a fine upstanding figure and such charming manners. If I had an unmarried daughter, I’d have been perfectly willing to let him marry her—as I said to your mama the other day, he is a jolly good catch for anyone…”
“I have no doubt he is, Mrs Jennings, and I do not mean to disparage Mr Barton, I do assure you, but I am not interested in marriage to anyone at this time,” Margaret explained. “Besides I have just contracted to complete another year’s teaching at the seminary—and considering they sent me away to study in Europe at their expense, I cannot possibly let them down.”
Despite the various sounds of disapprobation emanating from Sir John and his mother-in-law, it was clear to everyone at the table that Margaret was unlikely to be moved by any of their arguments. Mrs Dashwood had said no more then, but afterward, when they were alone in her room, Margaret could not escape her mother’s inquisition. “I don’t mean to push you, my dear, but are you sure you are not making a hasty decision about Mr Barton? He is a respectable man and from an excellent family, you know. Are you not willing to consider?” she asked, and Margaret replied gently but with the kind of determination her mother recognised, “I am not, Mama, believe me, I have no wish to marry him or anyone else.”
“And there is no one else? No one you have given your word to? No young French gentleman?” At this Margaret laughed merrily. “No, Mama, none. I promise you,” she said, and Mrs Dashwood had to be satisfied, although, as she said later to Sir John and Mrs Jennings, “I really cannot make her out at all.”
***
Two days later, Margaret left to travel to Delaford to visit her sisters, going first to the parsonage where Elinor and Edward welcomed her warmly and demanded to be told how she had spent her time since they’d last met. Comfortably ensconced in the parlour, enjoying tea and muffins with homemade jam, she spent the afternoon regaling them with stories of her work at the seminary and the plans she and Claire Jones had made for their tour of Provence in the autumn.
On that topic, there was indeed much to talk about: Edward had visited the south of France some years ago and said he thought Aix-en-Provence was a most interesting area, “with so many ancient Roman antiquities, early Christian monasteries and abbeys—one could see as many as would fill all of one’s time, if that was your wish,” he said. He did, however, recommend that they try to visit Lyon, which he described as “one of the pleasantest towns in France.” Margaret assured him that both places were on their itinerary, and indeed, Miss Jones had a friend, a regular visitor to the area, who would act as their guide. “He is a tutor at one of the colleges in Oxford and has promised to show us all the best places, which means we shall not be at the mercy of itinerant tour guides,” she said, and Elinor, who had never travelled outside of England and was rather wary, said she was very glad to hear it.
“Our friends Dr and Mrs King have travelled often in Europe and tell some amazing stories of local guides who are generally not to be trusted and will often tell the gullible traveller tall tales of miraculous relics of saints and healing springs, which have no foundation in fact at all. You are fortunate to be spared that sort of hazard. However, I shall look forward to receiving a letter or two with some account of your travels and the wonderful places you visit. You must promise to be very careful, Margaret, I know Mama will be worrying about you, and so will I,” she said, but Margaret laughed at her fears. “Have no fear, Elinor, I am sure I shall be quite safe; besides, Mama is far more worried about trying to marry me off to that impossible cousin of Sir John’s—Mr Barton, whom we met at the Middletons’ house in London. They spent most of yesterday singing his praises to me—not only is he rich and handsome, he has houses in Bath and London, his aging father has an estate somewhere in the North Country, and Mama believes he is a ‘respectable’ man!”
Edward laughed. “And is he not?” he asked, almost in jest. Margaret snorted in a most unladylike manner. “Indeed, he is not—I have no evidence of his own conduct, but he is a great admirer of the Regent and has many friends in that dubious circle. I cannot imagine that any man who keeps such company can be called ‘respectable.’ He once declared proudly—hoping to impress me, no doubt—that if he had wished to do so, he could obtain a place at court, as though that were some pinnacle of achievement Ugh! Can you imagine?”
Elinor, hearing the scorn in her sister’s voice, asked, “And was it Mr Barton you wished to avoid at Lady Middleton’s funeral? Was that why you wouldn’t stay?”
Margaret said softly, “Yes it was; I couldn’t tell you then, Elinor, I thought you would laugh at me; but now I am quite certain that had I stayed, he would have proposed. Sir John confirmed it yesterday, and then, no doubt he would have asked Mama and they would have all driven me quite mad. Even Mrs Jennings was determined that I should know what a fine catch he was! She claims she would gladly let him marry a daughter of hers, if she had one to spare! Well, she is welcome to him.”
Elinor and Edward laughed and Elinor said, “Mrs Jennings is very fortunate in both her sons-in-law—Sir John is not the brightest of men but he is generous and respectable, and
Mr Palmer, for all his so-called drollery and reserve, is essentially a very sensible gentleman.”
“And neither of them have anything in common with Prince George!” said Edward, and Margaret, believing she had found an ally in her brother-in-law, said, “For which I think we must all give thanks. The lurid tales one hears of the antics of the Regent and his band of merry men are quite outrageous.”
That night, after they’d enjoyed a very pleasant meal and Margaret had entertained them with more stories of her work at the seminary, Elinor took her up to her room, and as the sisters talked, she found herself confiding in Margaret her apprehensions about Marianne and the return to Somerset of Mr Willoughby. Margaret, who had never been as impressed with Willoughby’s pretensions as her sister and mother had been, was not surprised. “I do recall that Mama was most reluctant to condemn him, and when she heard of his remorse and the tale he had told you of being ordered by his elderly aunt and his bride-to-be to write those cruel letters to Marianne, she was quite ready to believe him and forgive at least some of his horrid behaviour,” she said.
Elinor asked gently, “And were you not?” to which Margaret was swift to respond, “Indeed I was not. How could anyone, after what he had done, after the deception he had practised upon all of us and particularly after poor Marianne had almost died as a consequence? I did not know then about his dreadful betrayal of Eliza Williams, of which I learnt much later from Mrs Jennings. But Mama and Marianne knew of this, and yet they were ready to believe his story, which I took to be a pack of lies.”
Shocked, her sister said, “Margaret, my dear, you could not have known that.”
“Perhaps not in every detail, but think on this, Elinor, everything he did and said to Marianne was based on a lie; he was prepared to put not just her heart but her reputation and her life in jeopardy by his selfish actions—just as he did with Miss Williams. Do you not recall how ready he was to lead her into excessive behaviour, which I know you disapproved of—I heard you try to persuade her to be more restrained and wary, but she believed she could trust him and would not take your advice? It was only Marianne’s good luck that protected her from being led deeper into the mire, when Willoughby’s aunt uncovered his conduct by sheer chance and sent him packing.”
Elinor could scarcely believe her ears. Margaret had been not much more than a child at the time, yet she had clearly seen what was happening and had comprehended the danger her sister had faced. Growing up and seeing more of the world than either Marianne or Elinor herself had been exposed to, Margaret was now far more clear-sighted than either of them, and she did not mince her words. Perhaps it should have surprised Elinor that this young girl had more common sense than either her mother or Marianne, but knowing them all as she did, it did not. It gave her the chance to confide her own troubling thoughts and fears about Marianne as the two sisters talked late into the night.
Margaret could see that Elinor was deeply disturbed and asked, “Do you believe it is only the lack of any deep interest and a general boredom with life at Delaford that has brought about this malaise in Marianne? If that is true, can we not suggest some scheme, some good cause that might usefully engage her mind?”
Elinor looked forlorn. “If only it were possible; I have tried not once or twice but often to encourage her participation in the parish school, where I could use her talents in music and her love of poetry to benefit the children. I have suggested that she help with the church choir, and Edward has talked of the campaigns that he and Dr King are working on to collect petitions for the abolition of slavery—Mr Wilberforce has asked local communities to lend their support—and we thought Marianne might wish to be involved, but to no avail. She seems unable to summon up sufficient interest in any of these causes. I even went so far as to suggest to Colonel Brandon that he might wish to persuade her to join us when we attended a meeting at the church hall in Dorchester to draw attention to the plight of the climbing boys—the little boys who are apprenticed to chimney sweeps and made to undertake dangerous work when they are only five or six years old—but he seemed unwilling, too. I’m afraid I have failed utterly to do anything for her…” and here Elinor’s feelings got the better of her and tears coursed down her cheeks, causing Margaret to put her arms around her. “Elinor, you must not blame yourself; you’ve done all you can, and if Marianne will not be persuaded, you are not at fault,” she said firmly, but she knew that her sister would not be comforted. Elinor’s strong sense of responsibility would not let her slough off her concerns easily, despite the fact that Marianne was now a married woman; she would never forget how a few years ago, they had almost lost her.
The following afternoon, Margaret left Elinor and Edward to pursue their various parochial and family activities and set out to walk to Delaford Manor. As she made her way there, she pondered over the conversations she’d had with Elinor about Marianne and Willoughby, and it made her uneasy. Marianne was not very much older than herself, yet, from what she had learned from Elinor, it would seem that her sister still hankered after some romantic idyll, for which marriage to Colonel Brandon and her status as mistress of Delaford Manor had been no substitute.
Arriving at the manor house, Margaret was shown into a large room upstairs, with windows looking out over the surrounding park and drive. There she found her sister, reclining upon a gracious chaise-lounge replete with several satin cushions, a rug over her knees, clearly deep in a reverie—much like a lady in a French painting she had once seen. Marianne greeted her with a lovely smile but did not rise, making it necessary for Margaret to go to her and embrace her as they exchanged greetings. Clearly she was expecting her, Margaret thought—there were plates and cups and things on a low table laid out for afternoon tea—and yet Marianne appeared in no hurry to order refreshments, until Margaret, thirsty from her walk, asked if she might have a cup of tea. While the maid hurried to get it, Marianne revealed that she was expecting some visitors. The Misses Perceval, to whom she had been introduced by Robert and Lucy Ferrars, were visiting friends in the area and had sent a note that morning promising to call and she had asked them to stay to tea, she explained.
Margaret, not wishing to reveal that she had heard of the Percevals from Elinor, for fear that Marianne might suspect she had been the subject of discussion and resent it, merely nodded and said she was sorry she wasn’t better dressed to meet the visitors, having just walked across from the parsonage, but Marianne waved away her worries. “They are not likely to notice such things—they are very modern young ladies. I’m sure you will like them very well, Margaret,” she said, causing Margaret to wonder what Marianne meant by “modern young ladies.”
When the two ladies arrived some little time later, Margaret was even more confused, for she could see little in the Misses Perceval—Maria and Eugenie—that could be termed “modern” to her way of thinking; as to the possibility of her liking them very well, as her sister had predicted she would, there was neither the time nor the inclination on either side to do more than meet and greet each other. The Misses Perceval showed not the slightest interest in Margaret. They had arrived to invite Marianne to join them on an expedition to Glastonbury.
There was no mistaking Marianne’s excitement as she heard of their plans, and by the time Margaret rose to leave, since she had promised to be back at the parsonage by six, it was quite clear that Marianne had agreed upon a day and arrangements were afoot for the journey. Glastonbury was in Somerset, and Elinor had told her that Willoughby was spending the summer there. The notion that Marianne was going to Glastonbury with the Percevals left Margaret experiencing a frisson of unease as she walked home in the late evening light that poured through the great old trees, making huge indigo shadows on the grass.
Approaching the parsonage, she saw her sister and brother-in-law walking in the shrubbery, close in conversation, and wondered if she should avoid adding to their disquiet by revealing what she knew of Marianne’s plans. She feared that Elino
r might panic and decide to visit Marianne and counsel her against going, increasing her resentment.
However, after she’d had time to think some more, while she bathed and dressed for dinner, she decided that Elinor had to know, if only that she could be prepared for any consequences that might flow from it in the future. But, she decided, she would beg her not to approach Marianne, thus avoiding a possible rift between the sisters.
Having prepared herself for the task, Margaret went down to dinner to find her sister looking unusually worried, and even Edward appeared not his usual calm self. While neither of them said anything during dinner with the servants around, once they had withdrawn to the parlour and Edward had taken to his chair by the fire with a book, Elinor joined Margaret on the sofa and invited her to come upstairs with her, confirming the impression that she had some grave news to impart.
Seated in the alcove of a small, well-lit room that Elinor reserved for her reading and sewing, Margaret heard a tale that added considerably to her concerns about Marianne’s expedition to Glastonbury. It seemed that while she was away at Delaford Manor, Elinor and Edward had been visited by their friend Mrs King, who had brought them some information that greatly increased Elinor’s anxiety. Mrs King, who’d had some previous knowledge of Marianne’s unfortunate affair with Willoughby, had heard that Mr Willoughby was in Dorset, staying with his cousins the Clifts. Her informant, a Miss Henrietta Clift, had declared that Willoughby had become bored with being on his own at his place in Somerset and had been delighted to accept the hospitality of the Clifts and, being an active sort of fellow, he was said to be organising a party to Glastonbury that weekend.
Elinor took Margaret’s hand and said, “At least, that means he will be out of the county for a couple of days with his cousins and I need not worry about the possibility that he may encounter Marianne in town. Besides, she doesn’t go into Dorchester alone, so there may be no immediate danger, but I cannot help worrying about her. I fear for her, as long as he is in the neighbourhood.”
Expectations of Happiness Page 7
