Expectations of Happiness
Page 31
Through the last six weeks of spring, Margaret had let her mind slip out of its constant awareness of the perilous circumstances in which she and Daniel lived from day to day. It had not seemed right to spend each day contemplating, even anticipating, the death of an innocent if unfortunate young woman, who, through no fault of her own, had been destined never to enjoy the simple pleasures of a happy marriage with a loving husband and children. “Which is why I allowed myself to live each day as it dawned and go to bed each night giving thanks for the day,” she explained, “trying to ignore the melancholy circumstances of our lives, disregarding the fact that I knew the news would come one day and we would have to face it.”
Elinor tried to comfort her. “But, my dearest girl, you had both faced it already; Daniel in explaining it to you when he told you in Provence about Helène, and you when you told him you loved him and would stay with him; you both knew what was to come. Of course when it did happen, it was going to be a shock; but it is not something you were unprepared for.”
Margaret agreed that it was not; yet she could not bring herself to admit that as she had waited these months since he had returned from France, it had been always in the knowledge that no matter how deeply they loved one another, nothing could come of it until Helène was dead. “We never spoke of it, but we both knew it; each time we met, each time we confessed that we loved one another, we knew. The sadness was always there, even on the best days, and though I never met her, I knew he had loved her dearly and it was unbearable to contemplate her death,” she said, and the tears came again.
There was something Elinor needed to know, yet was reluctant to ask. It could account for the inordinate degree of grieving that was afflicting her sister. She feared that asking might distress or even anger her, yet decided she had to know. “Margaret, you may tell me to mind my own business and refuse to answer, but I recall you told me that Daniel had suffered much and needed comfort and that when he returned to England, you would go to him. Did you?”
Margaret did not resile from her words; she looked at Elinor directly and said, “He came to me; and yes, I did tell him I love him and would not leave him—he needed to know that. And, yes, before you ask, we have been to the cottage in the Cotswolds, which I love. But, if you mean have I made love with him, then the answer is no, I have not. I do not say that to pretend that I am some pure spiritual creature, who feels no passion, because I am not. I admit I have desired it, because I love him dearly, but I was not comfortable with it, while his wife lived. And, to be fair to Daniel, he has never attempted to draw me into such a situation, either. Indeed, he has been even more particular about it than I am.”
Elinor breathed a quiet sigh of relief and gave thanks in her heart, for she had feared that Margaret’s excessive grief had signified a deeper anxiety. To learn that this was not the case, to be assured that her sister had taken a decision that Elinor could, in her own right, defend and support, in a manner that would not have been possible for her to do had they been living together as lovers while Helène lived, was a source of deep comfort to her.
Pouring out a cup of tea and seeing Margaret dry her tears eased some of the strain and she said, “You have been strong, Margaret, strong and compassionate, and no one could ask more of you. Now, I would ask you to think only of the future; think only of how you must help Daniel restore his life—which has indeed been held in abeyance for many years while he dealt bravely and mostly alone with the consequences of a tragedy that was not of his making. If your love can help him regain his enthusiasm for a full and happy life, I think you can be well satisfied. Do you not agree, my dear?”
Margaret looked a little uncertain, “Do you believe I could?” she asked, and her sister’s response was unequivocal, “My dear, of course I do. I have no doubt that you, who have dealt so creditably with the most painful part of this situation, will have little difficulty in convincing a man whom you love, and who loves you dearly, that despite the grief he has suffered in the past, the future is well worth striving for. As for you, my dear sister, you are not yet twenty-two years old. Most of your life is ahead of you; with your book coming out soon, your work, and Daniel beside you, what more can a bright young woman ask? Sir John always said you were the most promising Miss Dashwood, because you were intelligent and keen to learn. Come now, when shall I see that optimistic young sister of mine smile again, eh?”
Margaret smiled then and recalling that her brother-in-law Edward knew nothing of Helène, she asked, “What shall we tell Edward? Will he not wonder why I am here?” Elinor was dismissive. “Of course not, why would he? He will assume you are visiting us. Will you stay a few days?” Margaret nodded. “The school believes I am visiting a sick relative, so I can stay a day or two.” Elinor laughed and hugged her. “One of those little white lies you used to worry about when you were a little girl! Never mind, this one at least is in a good cause,” she said as Margaret washed her face and tidied her hair, before they went downstairs together to await Edward’s return.
***
Two days later, Margaret returned to Oxfordshire to find that Claire and her husband, Mr Wilcox, had returned and were setting about moving his things into the cottage. Before Claire’s wedding they had spoken briefly of it, and Margaret had been left with the impression that they would have no objection if she stayed on, since there were two large bedrooms upstairs. But Margaret had always felt that she would be in the way of the newly wedded pair, and besides, she knew that her own desire for privacy would soon make the arrangement less agreeable. Unwilling to jeopardise her friendship with Claire on account of some petty domestic inconvenience, Margaret had determined that she would look for another place to stay.
She began by asking other teachers at the school and soon discovered that there were several householders who took in lodgers, but there was always a price to be paid, in that most of them were widowed or single women, whose curiosity about their lodgers often got the better of them. Some had strict rules about visitors, while others were inveterate peddlers of gossip into whose care Margaret was not prepared to deliver her life.
It was on a day when she was beginning to worry whether she would ever find a suitable place that Mr Mark Armitage had arrived bearing suggestions for a new cover design for her book. She had to tell him that she would not be at the cottage much longer and was looking for new lodgings. They were by now on sufficiently friendly terms to allow her to ask if he knew of a respectable family, who might have room for a lodger who would give no trouble at all and would pay well for the service. He promised to make enquiries, and indeed, he returned on the very next day with what appeared to be an ideal solution.
His sister was married and lived a mile out of town along the Cheltenham road, he said, and she had two rooms which might be used together as a bedroom and study. She was happy to let them to a lodger, but it had to be a lady, because she would not consider having a man in the house on account of the fact that her husband often went away on business. “A single lady, who would be no trouble and could pay regularly, would suit her very well,” he said. Pleased to be so easily suited, Margaret agreed to go with him that evening to meet his sister, Mrs Hopkins, who turned out to be a pleasant young woman with a couple of well-behaved little girls.
She gave them tea and crumpets and took Margaret upstairs to see the rooms, which were themselves very neat and comfortable, and when she named the price she expected, Margaret was surprised indeed at how reasonable it was. Not wishing to waste any more time, she paid for a week in advance, thanked Mrs Hopkins and her brother, and returned feeling she had done very well indeed.
On the Saturday following, she moved her things in with the help of Nicholas Wilcox, who obtained for her the services of a carter. Her friends were sorry to see her go but understood her need to find a more permanent place to stay. “Promise you will come and visit?” Claire pleaded, and Margaret promised. She did not know for how long she would need to stay with Mrs Hopkins, b
ut she was glad to have a place of her own.
Mrs Hopkins, who had her own children to care for, proved far more easygoing and less inquisitorial than most landladies, which suited Margaret well. She needed time and space in which to think and work, and she felt Mrs Hopkins would surely provide that. She was grateful, too, to young Mr Armitage for his help and said so.
Daniel Brooke’s absence gave Margaret an opportunity to work on her book, and with the enthusiasm and energy that Mr Armitage brought to the work, it was proceeding very well indeed. They would meet once or even twice a week, he to consult and suggest changes where they were needed and she to approve or resist them. Unfamiliar with the workings of the publishing industry, Margaret was not aware whether all this to-ing and fro-ing was a regular part of their processes or not, but she was exceedingly pleased to be so well served.
Mr Armitage would even turn up on a Sunday occasionally, and since it was his sister’s house, there was nothing particularly surprising about it, Margaret thought, until one day, when after he had left late on a Sunday evening, Mrs Hopkins remarked that they had been seeing a great deal more of her young brother recently. “We have you to thank for that, Miss Dashwood; since you came to stay, we see him far more often than before. He thinks the world of you, I know; he regards you as one of the best writers he has met and a fine young lady as well,” she said with a funny sort of a smile that seemed to suggest that young Mr Armitage was developing a partiality for his client, which his sister appeared eager to encourage.
Initially, Margaret was not inclined to take the hint too seriously, for Mr Armitage could not have been much older than herself. He was of an age when young men are susceptible to such afflictions but are equally able to shake them off like a cold in summer, without serious damage. Nevertheless, she did feel the need to take some precautionary measures against a sudden surge in his interest, if only to ensure that she did not lay herself open to a charge of encouraging his youthful ardour.
She wondered about the wisdom of hinting to Mrs Hopkins, in the hope that it would be tactfully conveyed to her brother, that there was already another gentleman in her life, but decided against it. She was disinclined, on two counts, to do so. There was her reluctance to do or say anything to anyone about Daniel without his knowledge, and she also feared that admission of the existence of another man might lead to a guessing game as to who it might be. Averse to being the subject of such speculation, she believed it would probably be simpler if she were to absent herself on Sundays, when Mark Armitage came to pay his sister what was primarily a social call.
***
Apart from a short letter following the funeral, in which he had declared his intention to visit the nuns at the convent in Provence where Helène had been cared for, there had been no word from Daniel, and it was now three weeks since he had left for France. She decided to visit Claire and Nicholas Wilcox on Saturday morning and found them planning a picnic—not an occasion on which Margaret wished to impose upon the couple.
Unwilling to be outwitted again—Mark Armitage had spent all of last Sunday at the Hopkins’s home, during which time he had paid her very particular attention—Margaret made an impulsive decision. Returning quickly to her lodgings, she packed a change of clothes, announced that she was going to visit her sister, and went, not to catch the coach to Dorchester, but the one that left soon after noon for Burford.
Arriving in Burford some hours later, after what had been a particularly pleasant drive through the now verdant landscape of West Oxfordshire, Margaret purchased some provisions and walked the rest of the way to the cottage. She was by now familiar with the lanes and landmarks, and taking a convenient route which left the road and cut through the beech wood, she arrived at the house around five o’clock, when the oblique rays of the setting sun were striking the windows and setting fire to the bunches of yellow blossoms that cascaded from the lattice on the western wall of the house. It was such a pleasing prospect, she sat awhile on the stone seat inside the gate and gazed upon it before rising to go indoors. Here at last, she could hope for the solitude she craved.
She had learned from Daniel that one should bring in the wood for the fires and prepare them well before dark, which she proceeded to do at once. That done, she heated up the water for her bath, which she now took regularly in the laundry, changed into her nightclothes, and put the kettle on for tea.
It was a long evening, with the twilight hours lengthening as summer approached, and although she was tired after her journey, Margaret did not wish to retire upstairs and spend sleepless hours in bed. She carefully locked both doors, read until the candles were exhausted and the fire was ready to be doused, and fell fast asleep on the couch. She remembered thinking just before she fell asleep that Daniel was right, it was a very comfortable couch indeed. When she awoke, it was dark and, struggling to light her candles, she gave up and decided to spend the night on the couch. Her bedroom would probably be too cold for comfort anyway, she thought, as she snuggled under the big knitted rug that held pleasant memories for her and went back to sleep.
***
Margaret was awakened early on the morrow by the dawn song of hundreds of birds, calling in the woods and in the trees around the cottage. One in particular, a blackbird, whose singularly melodic aubade belied his dour appearance, always brought a smile to her face and she rose and went to look for him in the garden. It was a picture of Nature’s bounty, with every tree and shrub growing in such profusion, laden with blossoms and new fruit, which would swell and ripen through the year to provide a bountiful harvest. The blackbird sat atop the clothesline, singing his heart out. If only, she thought, if only life could always be like this.
But she was sensible enough to know that it could not, and having had breakfast, she set to work to get the rest of her tasks done. She knew Daniel’s routines well and followed them exactly; cleaning out the fireplace and tipping the ash into the vegetable patch, letting the water out of the boiler and filling it up with fresh water from the well at the bottom of the garden, and collecting sufficient kindling to light the fires again at night. She worked cheerfully, weeding and clearing out the rows where she hoped they could plant beans, conscious of the sense of freedom the cottage had given her and grateful that Daniel, even in a moment of great strain, had been thoughtful enough of her needs to give her a key before he left. It was a gesture typical of his considerate nature, she thought.
Several times through the morning, she had stopped to think of him, and wonder what he might be doing. She recalled, with a little personal bravado, that last night she had slept at the cottage alone for the first time, but had felt no fear at all. Indeed her feelings had been of singular security and contentment.
Toward afternoon, she grew a little weary with the work and lay on the couch, the tiredness together with the quietude of the time, when the birds seemed to rest their voices too, caused her to fall asleep. When she awoke, it was unusually dark. She went to the window to look out and saw that the sky had clouded over; the blue expanse of the morning had been replaced with a mass of low-hanging clouds that completely hid from sight the hills on the horizon. She made herself a cup of tea, and before she could finish it, a low rumble of thunder began in the mountains and gradually reverberated around the valley. There was lightning too, still at some distance, but it was a sign that a storm was on its way.
Racing to get her linen off the clothesline, she almost tripped and cried out, “Please, God, not a thunderstorm—it’s the one thing I cannot cope with alone.” Putting down her basket in the kitchen, she ran upstairs to close the bedroom windows; it had been such a beautiful morning, she had opened them all to let in the fresh air. She shut and bolted them, rushing from one to another, recalling Daniel’s dire warning that, if you left a window open in a storm, you would have a flood, because the water would beat in at the window and trickle down the walls and through the floor boards! She was not going to let that happen.
Running down stairs, she opened the front door and there, coming in the gate, his head bowed against the rain that was heavier now, was Daniel. Margaret called out his name, and as he came up the steps, he looked up, saw her, and dropped his things in the porch.
Stepping inside the door, he reached for her and embraced her as she wept with relief. They said little, but released from the restraints they had placed upon themselves for months, they could at last express their deepest feelings and the sweetness of the moment was beyond imagining.
Daniel had been so astonished to see her in the doorway, he followed her around as though he expected her to vanish from his sight, and each time she stood near him, she would put out her hand and touch him as if to reassure herself he was really there. The rain came down heavily and completely ruined the old straw mat, but no one noticed its untimely demise.
***
That night, as they sat before the fire on the couch, saying all those things that lovers suddenly discover they have to say to one another, things which had been hitherto left unsaid, Margaret’s spirits rose to a new level of lightness as she told him of young Mark Armitage and her reason for escaping to the cottage.
He laughed then and teased her. “You could have put him out of his misery. Why did you not tell him you were already spoken for?” he asked, to which she replied quietly, “How could I? I was not sure that I was; we had not spoken of it,” to which he replied, “Because, my darling, I could not speak of it, I could not ask you, not morally, not legally; I had no right while Helène lived to make you an offer of marriage. Nor did I wish to invite you to participate in what would have been an adulterous relationship.” A little startled by his forthright words, she was silent and he thought he saw tears in her eyes, which required some very particular reassurance on his part, reaffirming his love for her, that occupied them for quite some time, albeit very pleasantly.