Expectations of Happiness

by Rebecca Ann Collins

  Marianne was tired and hungry but could not eat as they waited for the carriage to return with the young Percevals and Hawthornes. She had no fears for them; Willoughby had assured them they were safe. Rather, she was contemplating what was to follow—the prospect of being conveyed in Mr Willoughby’s carriage with only Miss Peabody for company. As he had outlined his plan, she had listened passively, unable and unwilling to make any comment, so as not to arouse any suspicion that they had once known one another intimately. It was best, she thought, to say nothing and accept his help as the Percevals clearly wanted to do, because for her, there was no alternative.

  Sometime later, the Percevals’ carriage arrived and the six young people tumbled out, looking somewhat the worse for wear; the girls complaining of cold and demanding hot food, the young men cursing the lame horse, while making directly for the bar. Mr and Mrs Perceval, though keen to get away, had to ensure they were all satisfied before they piled into the carriage and left. Messrs Andrew and Joseph Hawthorne, determined not to be left behind, had persuaded their tired hosts to leave Wilson, the Percevals’ manservant, to watch over Miss Peabody and Mrs Brandon while they awaited the return of Mr Willoughby, thereby providing Marianne with a clear contrast between their selfishness and Willoughby’s concern for their comfort and his keenness to help.

  They did not have very long to wait after the Percevals had left. Willoughby was as good as his word and arrived within the hour with a very comfortable, enclosed carriage drawn by two handsome horses, complete with a driver and an outrider. He apologised if he had kept the ladies waiting, seemed a little surprised that the rest of the party had all managed to accommodate themselves in the Percevals’ carriage, invited Wilson to climb onto the box beside the driver, and helped Miss Peabody and Mrs Brandon into his vehicle with care, ensuring they were provided with rugs to keep them warm on the journey, before entering it and seating himself opposite Marianne. He did it all with such élan, Marianne thought, it was as if he spent every day of the week rescuing stranded travellers and returning them safely to their homes.

  And all the while, she was struck by the fact that he had assiduously avoided revealing any previous connection between them, treating her with the same effortless but formal courtesy he extended to all the others. Only in the very first moment of recognition, when they had confronted each other as they stood looking out across at Glastonbury Tor, had he been clearly shaken; however, it appeared he had recovered quickly from the shock and was as determined as she was to maintain a perfectly plausible demeanour for the benefit of the rest of the party. For this she was particularly grateful.

  As the carriage rolled out of the yard and onto the road, she hoped it would continue thus, so that she might consider this chance encounter a providential opportunity that had proved to both of them that they were now able to regard their past association with a degree of equanimity; certainly in her case, without bitterness or pain.

  Some part of their journey had passed when Marianne noticed that Miss Peabody had fallen asleep and her head was lolling heavily to one side. She tried to use a cushion to prop her up, but Willoughby, seeing the problem, rose and, taking out a rolled-up rug from under the seat, arranged it so as to provide Miss Peabody with some support. Marianne thanked him and he said he was sure they were both very tired—it must have been a long day. He hoped, however, that it had been an enjoyable experience, he said. Marianne admitted that it certainly was that, but added that she was sorry they had not made better use of the day.

  “I had hoped we would have more time at Glastonbury, rather than spend most of it at the inn and the picnic; I was keen to see more of the ruins and learn some more of the history of the place. I had read a good deal about it, but I fear my companions were not sufficiently interested…” she broke off, conscious suddenly of his keen attention and fearing she had said too much. But Willoughby was the soul of tact and discretion; maintaining the pretence that he had throughout the evening, he asked, as though she were a complete stranger, “Have you never visited Glastonbury before?” And when she answered, “No, nor am I familiar with Somersetshire,” he responded with a level of natural politeness that she could not fault, “And yet you live just across the border in Dorset. Mrs Brandon, I am sorry to hear that. There are many beautiful places and much to admire and love in Somerset. I hope you will find time to visit again, and you must certainly see more of Glastonbury, which is a place of special significance. For my part, I spent much of my childhood here and know it well. To my way of thinking it is one of the finest counties in England; there is so much history here—sites that go back to Roman times, and a wealth of Saxon history, dating back to the seventh century—so many great abbeys and churches, I cannot begin to tell you. Mrs Brandon, if you have an interest in the history of England, then Somerset has much that will interest you,” he said.

  Marianne nodded and confessed that while she did not have a great knowledge of it, she was keenly interested in history. He needed very little encouragement then to relate several tales of Somerset and the history of the West Country, which he said he had known from childhood, and as she listened, she recalled again their first meeting in Devonshire all those years ago, and how easily they had been able to slip into conversation on their favourite topics. She wondered if he remembered too and was sure he did—but she was afraid to say anything that might make it seem as though she was trying to remind him of those days. Which was why she remained mostly silent, as Willoughby spoke with rising enthusiasm of the attractions of his county, quoting writers and poets and leaving her in no doubt that he remembered well her enthusiasms. Quite clearly, while he was maintaining the pretence of having met her that afternoon, his memory of her was very clear. Yet determined not to be the first to breach the unspoken bar, partly because she had no idea how she would deal with the consequences, Marianne let him continue as though they were strangers, indifferent acquaintances, thrown together by chance.

  Their journey ended when the carriage reached the lane into which they drove and the manservant Wilson was heard directing the driver to the Percevals’ house. When the vehicle stopped, Wilson leapt down from the box to open the door, and Willoughby helped the ladies out and escorted them to the entrance, where a sleepy maid opened the front door and waited to assist them. Clearly the rest of the party had long gone to bed.

  Miss Peabody, roused from sleep and obviously waiting only to fall asleep again as soon as possible, thanked Mr Willoughby rather perfunctorily and left it to Marianne to convey more fully their appreciation for all he had done to assist their party that day. She could not say it without a degree of heartfelt gratitude, which, for her personally, included his particular care not to embarrass her in any way at all. “I thank you very much, Mr Willoughby, for your very kind assistance to our party; I cannot think how we should have found our way home without your help. I am sure I speak for all of the party,” she said, and as she extended her hand, he took it and, raising it to his lips, replied, “It was entirely my pleasure, Mrs Brandon,” before wishing her good night as he left to return to his carriage. She stood at the door and heard him exchange some words with Wilson regarding the stranded carriage and horses, before driving off into the night.

  As Marianne followed the maid up to her room, many thoughts assailed her. It had been a day like no other in her experience; not only had she been shocked to hear Willoughby’s voice addressing her and turned to see him regarding her with an even greater degree of surprise than she had felt, but then, what had been a chance encounter had developed into a series of incidents and meetings that had opened up a veritable Pandora’s box of memories, which she had hoped had long been set aside.

  At each point in the evening, she had feared that something she said or he did might shatter the fragile pretence they had both maintained, without ever saying a word; but nothing untoward had occurred, and for this she was exceedingly grateful to him. She could not decide whether it was kindness,
simple courtesy, or his own convenience that had caused him to spare her any embarrassment, and expected that she would lie awake through the night, puzzling over it. But, contrary to her expectations, once she had changed into her nightclothes and crept between the sheets, sheer weariness overwhelmed her and she fell fast asleep.

  ***

  Marianne awoke the following morning surprised that she had slept so soundly. It was Sunday, and when the maid brought in her tea, she asked the time and was amazed at the lateness of the hour. The girl assured her that no one had risen early that day, except Miss Peabody, who had gone to church.

  Feeling a little reassured by this information, Marianne dressed and went down to breakfast, to find only Mr and Mrs Perceval at the table. They greeted her, asked if she had slept well, and proceeded with their breakfast. It was past ten o’clock when the Misses Hawthorne appeared and word was sent to the kitchen for more tea and fresh toast. The Percevals’ daughters were as yet asleep when a vehicle drew up at the gate and voices were heard outside. A maid opened the door to admit Miss Peabody, who entered the breakfast room and informed Mr and Mrs Perceval that Mr Willoughby was waiting in the parlour. He had passed her as she walked back from church, she said, and had stopped to give her a ride home. He was waiting to speak with Mr Perceval, she said as she sat down to breakfast, still singing the praises of Mr Willoughby and his great goodness.

  “He is a most courteous and charitable gentleman; he has had the two horses stabled at his place and awaits your instructions regarding the repairs to the carriage,” she added, pouring out her tea. Mrs Perceval exclaimed at the gentleman’s kindness, and her husband was no less astonished. “My very word, that is jolly decent of him, to have gone to all that trouble,” he said as he left the table and hurried into the parlour to greet his visitor.

  Marianne could hear him as he proceeded to thank Willoughby, and then there was Willoughby’s response in that unmistakable voice—soft-spoken, without fuss, claiming that he had only done what any good neighbour would have done—he could not have left the poor horses stranded without feed or water, so he’d sent a farrier and one of his grooms to look to their needs. There were further discussions about the repairs to the Percevals’ vehicle, and not long afterward, they heard the front door close and Mr Perceval re-entered the breakfast room to announce that Mr Willoughby would be back in about an hour to drive Mrs Brandon and the Misses Hawthorne to their respective homes, which Mr Perceval considered a huge favour, since their own carriage was unavailable.

  “It is very good of him to offer, and I hope it will suit you, Mrs Brandon—I know you wish to be back at Delaford this afternoon. As for Miss Harriet and Miss Hannah, I know your mama will not mind, because Mrs Brandon will be there with you, and of course your brothers can ride with you as you go. I realise that Mr Willoughby is not known to your family, but I am sure there can be no objection—he seems a jolly decent fellow. I cannot begin to thank him for all he has done, I cannot imagine how we should have got on without his help,” he said, and sat down to have more breakfast.

  The Misses Hawthorne made no objection to the arrangement, and Marianne could hardly have protested, so she said nothing at all, although she was more than a little shaken at the thought that once the Hawthornes had been conveyed to their home—a few streets away—Willoughby would be driving her all the way to Delaford. For the first time, they would be alone together, and she could not deny some feelings of unease.

  Chapter Nine

  Meanwhile, at the parsonage in Delaford, Elinor had awakened to a Sunday morning like no other. Edward was away, and the curate from another parish would be arriving to conduct the morning service at ten. It would be a grave discourtesy if she did not attend and invite him to morning tea afterward. Yet, it was one day when presenting herself at church was not her priority; rather, she was keen to discover if Marianne was back at the manor house after her expedition to Glastonbury. Going into Margaret’s room, she found her awake, sitting up in bed, taking tea. When Elinor explained her problem, Margaret declared that she had no particular desire to go to church and could quite easily walk over to the manor house and inquire if their sister was at home.

  “Would you? Oh Margaret, what would I do without you?” cried Elinor, and Margaret felt deeply sorry to see how disturbed her sister was about Marianne.

  “Elinor, of course I shall; but you must not take this so much to heart, you cannot worry about everything Marianne does or does not do, you will make yourself ill. Let me discover if she is home, and if she is, I’ll persuade her to come back with me to the parsonage and tell us all about the Percevals and the trip to Glastonbury. Wouldn’t you like that?” asked Margaret.

  “Indeed I would; that would mean Marianne is quite safe—at least as far as we can tell. It will be such a relief to know that nothing untoward has occurred. I know I ought not to worry but, Margaret, I cannot trust Willoughby and, sadly, I have not sufficient confidence in our sister to believe that she will resist him. With Colonel Brandon away for some weeks in Ireland, I cannot help but fear for her.”

  Margaret, realising that the best thing she could do for her sister was to ascertain if Marianne was safely back from Glastonbury, went down to breakfast, and, having seen Elinor leave to attend church, set off to walk across the woodland to Delaford Manor. It was an unusually still morning, with soft swirls of mist drifting gently through the trees, and as she walked, Margaret could not resist the feeling of nostalgia for her childhood, when she, as the youngest in the family, had been allowed a good deal of freedom in organising her life. She’d had very little supervision and even less responsibility as their mother, concerned with their father’s health and, later, the well-being of her two elder daughters, had largely left Margaret to her own devices, which meant she had spent many hours wandering through the meadows and woods of the Norland Estate.

  And it had done her no harm at all, she thought, as she crossed the lane that ran along the boundary of the manor and entered the garden, where a large lilac tree was just coming into bloom. The lilac reminded her of the cottage in Oxfordshire and the need to go down to the post office in the village and send a message to her friend Claire, advising that her return would be delayed.

  As she walked up the drive, a young man on horseback rode past her and delivered a message to the maid who opened the door. By the time Margaret reached the entrance, the maid, Molly, had seen her and was waiting at the door for her. When she asked, “Is Mrs Brandon home from Somerset?” the girl replied, “No, ma’am, and the man who brought this said Mrs Brandon had been delayed on account of an accident to the vehicle in which they were travelling. I hope it is not bad news, ma’am,” the girl cried, clearly concerned for her mistress.

  Margaret snatched the note from the maid. Seeing it was not addressed to anyone in particular—just directed to Delaford Manor—and since Colonel Brandon was away, Margaret assumed it would not signify if she opened it. As she tore it open, she saw written in a bold hand the information that Mr Perceval regretted to advise that Mrs Brandon’s return to Delaford would be delayed until later that afternoon, because a minor accident had damaged his carriage. It continued:

  Be assured however, that arrangements have been made for all our guests to be conveyed safely to their homes later today, through the kind offices of a very generous neighbour—Mr Willoughby of Somersetshire.

  Margaret stood in the hall, stunned, until Molly asked, “Is the mistress all right, ma’am? Does it say when she will be back?” Conscious of the need to reassure the girl, who would undoubtedly convey the information to the rest of the staff at the manor house, Margaret hastily said, “Oh yes, Molly, it seems the Percevals’ carriage has been damaged in an accident and they have arranged to have their guests, including Mrs Brandon, conveyed to their homes by a neighbour. She should be here this afternoon. I shall return to the parsonage now and give the news to Mrs Ferrars; but, Molly, when my sister does return, woul
d you please make sure that she sends a message over to the parsonage to let us know she is home safe and well? Mrs Ferrars will be waiting anxiously for the news.”

  Having received assurances from the maid, Margaret tucked Mr Perceval’s note into her pocket and set off for the village, where she sent an express off to her friend Claire Jones advising that she would be returning on the Tuesday morning coach from Dorchester. It was quite clear to Margaret that Elinor would need company at least until she was sure all was well with their sister; she was likely to be even more apprehensive, now that it had been revealed, contrary to their expectations, that Mr Willoughby may have been one of the party that went to Glastonbury. Either that or he was a friend of the Percevals, who had been called upon to assist them with transporting their guests. What Elinor would make of it Margaret was uncertain; whatever it was, she was sure her sister would have even less peace of mind than before.

  Returning to the parsonage, she found Elinor in the parlour, entertaining the curate to tea. He was a thin, febrile-looking young man with a strangely deep voice and a great fondness for Elinor’s fruit cake. Margaret was impatient for him to be gone. When at last he departed, having delayed his exit as long as possible while he thanked Mrs Ferrars for her kind hospitality, Margaret rushed downstairs and indicated to her sister that she had important news.

  Elinor was calm, cheerful even, as she gathered the tea things onto the tray and carried them into the kitchen. “Was Marianne home? Did you see her?” she asked, and when Margaret shook her head and indicated by rolling her eyes that she thought they ought be going outdoors for a talk, Elinor’s expression changed.