Expectations of Happiness (13 page)

Elinor tried to argue with her mother, “Do you really believe that will influence them, do you think it will restrain Willoughby—should he see an opportunity—from trying to re-engage her feelings for him? Remember that he hates Colonel Brandon with a passion and may well be tempted to use this as a means of avenging himself upon the man whom he blames for all his misfortune.” But Mrs Dashwood would not be persuaded.

“Elinor, you have been reading too many novels, I think,” she protested. “Why, I cannot believe you really think so ill of your sister. Did not Willoughby claim to you, when you met at Cleveland, that she was the love of his life? Why would he wish to destroy her? Even if I allow that we cannot count on Willoughby's sincerity, then surely you must believe that Marianne is quite without virtue, if you think she can so easily be tempted into a liaison that could destroy her marriage and every advantage she has at Delaford. Can you honestly tell me that you believe your sister is capable of such folly?”

It was an argument Elinor knew she could not win; clearly her mother would not countenance any interference in Marianne's life. Sadly, with tears in her eyes, she said, “I can only pray that you are right, Mama,” as she left the room and returned to her bed, feeling more helpless than she had been before they had set off for Barton Park.

***

Meanwhile, at Delaford, Marianne received a visit from the Perceval sisters, who came accompanied by Mr Willoughby in his open carriage. They came, they said, to ask if she was well and had suffered no distress after the expedition to Glastonbury. On this occasion, Willoughby had brought with him a very pretty sketch of the site at Glastonbury, with the ruined abbey perfectly rendered in watercolours by a local artist, against a distant view of Glastonbury Tor. He presented it to Marianne as a souvenir of her visit, and she was delighted with it, accepting it after some small show of reluctance. Later, he found a moment, while the two Perceval sisters were examining some of the artefacts in the library, to invite her to join them on another excursion, this time to the historic city of Bath.

Having given her some information about the city, he claimed to be organising a party to visit Bath, he said, and the Perceval family and their friends the Hawthornes were coming too; it was to be in a fortnight's time. Marianne asked for time to consider, which he gladly agreed to, and promised to call to hear her answer. But she, exercising some caution, said she would send him her answer by post, whereupon Willoughby gave her his card with the address of his country house in Somerset.

After her visitors had taken tea and left, Marianne took her souvenir of Glastonbury up to her room. She had at first decided it would look well in her studio, but upon further reflection, it looked too lovely to be hidden away up there, she thought, and propped it up on her dressing table. It was a charming piece of work, capturing the ambient atmosphere of the ancient ruins, and the more she looked at it, the more she recalled how Willoughby was wont to indulge her with similar gestures when they had first met at Barton Park. Each time he had brought her some little gift, it would help to confirm in her mind that she was special to him. She had been excited then by the promise of those thoughtful gestures and the warm feelings they had aroused in her, just as she was now.

Marianne was still in two minds about the excursion, though; she wanted to go, but was a little concerned. It was almost the middle of October, and Colonel Brandon was due back soon. While she had convinced herself that there was no harm in her joining a party of friends on an excursion to Bath, she was not entirely comfortable with the thought of explaining the presence of Mr Willoughby in the party to her husband. By the time she fell asleep that night, Marianne had not made up her mind.

The following morning was cold, and rain threatened. She was at breakfast when the post was brought in and there was a letter from Colonel Brandon. She opened it eagerly—it might tell her when he would be back. Following the usual affectionate enquiries about her health and happiness, he informed her that he would be delayed in Ireland by business that had to be concluded before the onset of winter. It would mean he would be home by the middle of November, he wrote, and while apologising for the delay, added that he had arranged that on his next visit, in the spring, she could accompany him and they could spend some time in Dublin, which he assured her was a fine city that she would like very much.

Marianne would never know what had prompted her decision; whether it was the colonel's letter, the annoyance of a further delay in his return, or just the inclement weather that affected her mood. Whichever it was, the prospect of spending a few days in the salubrious city of Bath seemed far more attractive than a week of wet weather at Delaford. She rose from the breakfast table, returned to her room, and on impulse, wrote a note to Willoughby, thanking him for the sketch of Glastonbury and saying she would be happy to join their party on the excursion to Bath. She called for the small carriage to take her into the village and posted the letter herself. And so, upon a whim, the die was cast.

End of Part Two

Arriving at the Port of Marseilles on a damp, foggy morning, Margaret wondered how anyone could suggest that this weather was preferable to autumn in England. They had left Plymouth in bright sunshine and the voyage had been pleasant enough—except for some high rolling seas as they crossed the dreaded Bay of Biscay—but once in the Mediterranean, conditions had seemed to improve until last night, when it had started to rain. Several passengers had declared that this was most unusual—it never rained here at this time of year, they'd said.

“Just our luck,” Claire Jones had observed ruefully as they stood at the ship's rail, looking out at the dreary scene. “Trust us to sail into unusual weather.” Margaret had been silent, not wishing to throw a wet blanket (now there was an appropriate image, she thought) over the start of their holiday. They had both looked forward to this so much—she was reluctant to say anything that would spoil it right at the very beginning. They had gone out on deck, relieved that the rain had eased to a light drizzle, allowing them to disembark; but they still had some time to wait, while all manner of creaks and groans went up around them as the vessel was carefully manoeuvred into place at the dockside and the ladders lowered.

Claire was looking out for her friend Mr Wilcox, who was meeting them. She had sent him all the details of place, time, name of vessel, etc., and was confident he would be there. “Nicholas is very reliable—he will be there rain or shine, have no fear,” she declared, and Margaret prayed she was right, because neither of them had any knowledge of Marseilles and its busy environs, and if he did not appear, they would be quite lost. Margaret had travelled in northern France—Paris she knew well and loved—but the south was a mystery to her. When they had first thought about Provence, it had seemed like fun, and Claire had told her that Mr Nicholas Wilcox, her friend, who tutored for one of the colleges in Oxford, travelled regularly to the south of France and knew Provence well. Mr Wilcox had travelled ahead and made all the arrangements and reservations for them—and here they were, on a damp morning, in Marseilles.

“There he is!” cried Claire, pointing to a cluster of people on the wharf, standing at some distance from the vessel. “I told you he was dependable, dear old Nicholas, I knew he would come.” She waved vigorously and called out his name, and suddenly, he seemed to recognise her under her hat and shawl and waved back. Margaret was greatly relieved; thank God for Mr Wilcox, she thought as they made their way carefully down the ladder, while various passengers called out cautionary words of advice from the deck above. It was good to be on terra firma again, thought Margaret; she had not suffered sea sickness, as had many other passengers, but she disliked crowds and was happy to be off the boat.

They moved away from the quay, and Mr Wilcox approached; with him was another man, somewhat older, tall, good-looking and rather more formally attired than his companion. He was introduced to the ladies by Mr Wilcox as “Mr Daniel Brooke, my very good friend and colleague from Oxford, who is a regular visitor to Provence.” Mr Brooke bowed and greeted the ladies and suggested in a quiet voice that they should be shown into the vehicle that waited for them, so they would be out of the continuing drizzle, while Wilcox and he collected their luggage. Both Margaret and Claire thought this was a very good idea indeed.

As they waited for the men to return, Claire said, “I wonder who he is; Nicholas hasn't mentioned him before. He is very handsome, is he not, Margaret?” Margaret had to agree, but added that he did seem rather quiet. “Almost reserved compared to your Mr Wilcox. I cannot believe that he is here on holiday; his countenance looks far too grave for one who is pleasure bound,” she said, and her friend laughed, “Oh Margaret, isn't that just like you! You've made your mind up about the poor man, just because he looks more serious than Nicholas!”

“Well no, I have not,” Margaret protested. “He may well be a perfectly happy man; perhaps he has just woken up with a headache or maybe it's the bleak weather that makes him seem melancholy, I cannot tell. But do you not agree that he looks a little sombre, like he has weighty matters on his mind? Perhaps he is here to study something grave and historical,” she mused.

Miss Jones was unconvinced. “It must be the writer in you, Margaret; you detect character traits within minutes of meeting people. I do recall that you told me very soon after you met Nicholas that he seemed to be a young man with a naturally cheerful disposition, with the look of someone who would take on any task if fun could be guaranteed.”

Margaret laughed out loud. “I did and was I not proved right? Just look at him, he is undaunted, admit it.” And Miss Jones had to confess she was right. The two gentlemen were seen returning with the ladies' luggage, and their conversation ceased as their trunks were stacked on the back of the carriage, and presently, they drove away from the dockside toward the town, where Mr Wilcox had made reservations for the ladies at a small hotel.

“We thought you would like to stay overnight in Marseilles and travel to Aix-en-Provence tomorrow. There are a few interesting places to be seen here, before one moves north,” Mr Wilcox said, and his friend explained, “Particularly if the recent history of France interests you, although it is a very ancient sea port. Bonaparte, escaping from Elba in 1815, landed not far from here and began his march up toward Waterloo, collecting quite a big army as he went.”

Claire laughed, “Not a particularly successful campaign, was it?” and Mr Brooke nodded and almost smiled as he responded, “No indeed; he had hoped at least to recapture some part of his lost empire, but…”

“The Duke of Wellington had something quite different in mind,” Margaret completed his sentence. That made him laugh for the first time since they had met, and she noticed what a difference it made to his countenance, as his eyes brightened and he asked, “I understand you are a teacher, Miss Dashwood, are you a student of history as well?”

Margaret was a little taken aback, but answered promptly, “I am indeed and of all things ancient and intriguing—they do fascinate me. I have made many promises to my pupils to return with tales of historical places and people sufficient to fill their notebooks and their dreams.” Mr Brooke seemed to approve, “Then you will definitely enjoy your time in Provence, which is replete with things ancient and fascinating. But Marseilles is also the home of the revolutionary French national anthem—‘La Marseillaise,'” and seeing Margaret's eyes widen with interest, he added, “It is an old part of France and, by its very situation on the borders of Italy and Switzerland, lies right in the path of many historic changes since the third century before the birth of Christ.”

Claire Jones noted that Margaret was absorbing everything he said. “You are very fortunate, Margaret, Mr Brooke's knowledge of Provence is clearly extensive and you might learn a great deal from him,” she said smiling, before adding, “Margaret plans to be a writer, Mr Brooke, she will certainly benefit from your special knowledge.” At this information, Mr Brooke looked at Margaret and nodded, but said nothing, and when she asked, “Have you made a special study of this part of the country, Mr Brooke?” she thought he seemed to close up a little, as though unwilling to answer the question directly. His friend Wilcox was more forthcoming though. “He certainly has; Daniel travels to this area regularly and has been spending a part of his sabbatical year here. I do believe he intends to publish some learned tome about the history of Provence.”

“Do you?” asked Claire, curious as usual, and again, Margaret thought she noted a flicker of what might have been resentment cross his countenance; clearly he wasn't prepared for such probing questions from two women who were complete strangers to him. However, he did answer her quite politely, “I do have some plans, Miss Jones, but I am not certain if, with my work at the college, I will ever have sufficient time to bring them to a satisfactory conclusion.” It was almost as though he wanted to conclude the discussion and move their conversation on to other matters, and Margaret thought he looked rather relieved when their vehicle stopped in front of the hotel, where the ladies were to stay the night. They alighted and found to their delight that it was a rather informal little place, maintained by a cheerful family that rushed out to assist with their luggage and escort them indoors.

It was then, as Mr Brooke gave instructions to the driver of the carriage, that they discovered their travelling companion spoke excellent French, not of the scholarly variety one learned from French mistresses at ladies' seminaries, but the common or garden vernacular of the Provençal district. Margaret and Claire were quite astonished, but Nicholas Wilcox seemed to regard it as nothing extraordinary, since, as he had pointed out to them before, Brooke spent almost all his vacations in this part of France. Margaret remarked that they were very fortunate indeed to have him in their party, and Claire agreed, adding, “I do wonder what it is that makes him so passionately attached to this particular part of the country; it must have a very special attraction for him.”

The gentlemen had lodgings elsewhere in town and, having ascertained that the arrangements were to their satisfaction, left the ladies to settle in. Their hosts had prepared what must have been a late breakfast, but was so substantial, with a variety of rolls, cold meat, cheeses, fruit, conserves, and coffee, that it filled them as well as a complete luncheon would have done. Thereafter, they retired to their rooms—which as it turned out was one big room with two very comfortable beds with a large painted screen between them. Both ladies were so weary with days spent at sea in cramped quarters with swaying bunks, they changed out of their travelling gowns and fell into bed and slept for many hours, with no sense of time, until one of the children knocked on the door and announced that the gentlemen were downstairs.

“Good Lord, it's past four o'clock—we've been asleep for hours and hours!” Margaret exclaimed, leaping out of bed. “Whatever will they think?” but Claire was unconcerned and sent a message down by the girl that the ladies would be down directly. They looked out of the window and found that it had stopped raining and the sky was clear and blue above the town. It was almost half an hour later that they descended the stairs and found just Mr Brooke waiting patiently for them in the parlour. He informed them that Nicholas had gone ahead to get tickets for an entertainment, which he thought they might see before dinner. “Nicholas thought you might enjoy the show—it's a conjurer with a reputation for performing some very intriguing tricks,” he explained, with a smile. “I must warn you ladies that the audience can be quite noisy and outspoken,” he said, as they went out together and walked down to the old playhouse where Mr Wilcox awaited them.

It was a very memorable performance indeed, with the conjurer putting on some quite amazing illusions and the audience expressing its opinion quite audibly throughout, until the last episode of the vanishing lady. Clearly keeping his best trick to the last, the conjurer left them all confounded and arguing as they left the theatre. How had it been achieved? What had they missed? Where was she hidden? Claire and Margaret argued all the way to the cafe, where they had dinner, after which the gentlemen accompanied them to their lodgings, still arguing, and there they parted for the night, having agreed to meet after breakfast on the morrow.

“Well, that was a most satisfactory first day of our holiday, was it not?” asked Claire as they changed into their nightclothes and prepared for bed, and Margaret agreed completely that it could not have been better. Despite starting off with a damp and dreary morning, the day had improved steadily, concluding with a most entertaining and convivial evening.

As she fell into a deep sleep, Margaret thought how very pleasant it had been to have arrived in a new place one had never visited, met people one had never met before, and to find them all so thoroughly agreeable.

***

Margaret was awake almost at dawn; it was impossible to sleep late, because of the cacophony of cries from the gulls and other birds around the area. Looking out of the window, she declared, “Now that is certainly the kind of dawn one expects to wake up to in the south of France. Claire, do come and look at this sky,” she called to her sleepy companion, who was barely awake. Tumbling out of bed, Claire joined her at the window, and they looked out together on a sky that appeared to have been painted in tones of gold and rose against a dark indigo back cloth, which lightened as they watched into smoky blue-grey and finally, almost reluctantly, blushed deeply pink as the sun came through. The morning had broken perfectly; both women had been silent as it happened and they looked at one another and smiled, before returning to their beds. It was too early for breakfast, but a knock on the door heralded a maid with a pot of hot coffee, two large cups, and lots of cream and sugar.

Later they dressed and went down to breakfast, after which their companions arrived to take them to the infamous “Gulf of Napoleon” and some other places of interest before Mr Wilcox asked if they were ready to move on to Aix-en-Provence, where, at his friend's recommendation, Nicholas had taken rooms for the ladies in a private house rather than a hotel. It was possible, he explained, to find quite good accommodation since this was the end of summer, and Daniel Brooke believed that it would be safer for ladies alone, since they would have the security of a family around them, rather than strangers. Both Claire and Margaret said that sounded like a very good idea, and Margaret thought it was very kind of Mr Brooke to be concerned for their safety and said so.

That afternoon, they collected their luggage, paid their bill, reluctantly said their goodbyes to the family that had looked after them so well, and journeyed on to Aix-en-Provence. As they approached the town, Margaret told them her brother-in-law Edward Ferrars had visited it a few years ago and had said it was quite definitely not to be missed. At the mention of his name, Mr Brooke, who had been silent for most of the journey so far, except to point out geographical features on their route, asked, “Did you say Edward Ferrars? Do you mean the Reverend Edward Ferrars, who took orders some years ago?”