Expectations of Happiness (15 page)

After dinner, claiming she was rather tired, Marianne politely refused coffee and retired to her bedroom, where she changed quickly into her nightgown and slipped into bed, content to have the chance to let her own mind wonder at what tomorrow might bring. Unlike the Misses Perceval, she had no plans for fun or conquest, but she could not help thinking of Willoughby and how it might have been, had she not been married to the colonel and he had returned to find her. How might she have responded then? It was an intriguing question.

Nothing in Marianne's life had engrossed her thoughts and feelings as intensely as had her love affair with Willoughby, and though she had not admitted it even to herself, she had never stopped craving the high intensity of emotion she had known during that brief liaison. In him she had found not just a young man of passion and flair, to enhance the appeal of his good looks; he had also been possessed of the ability to engage her heart in everything they did. They talked, read, and sang together so well, she could imagine no other man in whose company she would wish to spend the rest of her life. Like a little girl who lays her head on her pillow after reading a favourite fairy tale, hoping to dream of Prince Charming, Marianne had not entirely emancipated herself of the beguiling dreams she had once cherished. As she went to bed, they returned to fill her mind and she willingly surrendered to them.

***

In France, the little party of English travellers had spent most of their first week in Aix-en-Provence and its environs. In the village of Saint Remy and the ancient ruins of the Roman town of Glanum in the foothills of the Alpilles mountain range, Margaret had been both delighted and astonished by the beauty of the area and the antiquity of the sites. Absorbing the historical information and the diverse traditions of the region, she had been equally struck by the depth of Daniel Brooke's knowledge, as well as the ease with which he communicated it to the rest of their party, as though he were telling a story, without any element of loftiness or condescension. What rich pleasure it would have been to have had the opportunity to study with such a teacher, Margaret thought.

As the fine weather held, they travelled north to spend a few days touring one of the finest towns in France: Lyon. Margaret recalled that she had read accounts of excited English travellers in the eighteenth century, making the journey by river craft down the Rhône from Lyon to Avignon. When she mentioned it, Mr Brooke seemed both surprised and pleased by her knowledge and took the time to explain the historical significance of both towns, promising that she would be able to see many places of interest in Lyon. When she asked if they could possibly do the return journey by river, he said quietly that he would not recommend it—especially not in late October. “Now, if it were summer that would be an ideal way to travel down to Avignon. There are many pleasure craft that take touring parties down the river; it can be a very pleasant experience, since one has the advantage of an open boat, which enables one to enjoy the prospect on both sides of the river, and much of the country is very pretty indeed,” he explained. “However, it would not be as comfortable at this time of year.”

When she said she wished it were possible to make such a journey, he mused, “Well, perhaps if you were to return next summer, Miss Dashwood, it might be arranged,” and Margaret looked up at his face to see if he was speaking in jest, but he looked entirely serious. “Do you mean that?” she asked, and seeing a look of some uncertainty cross her countenance, he went further. “Indeed I do, Miss Dashwood; I spend much of every summer in this part of France. I have often travelled down the river by boat, and were you to return in summer, it would not be at all difficult to accommodate your wishes.” Margaret smiled and said nothing, but decided that it was an offer worth considering.

Arriving in Lyon, the ladies had been pleasantly surprised to find the streets clean, with many excellent inns and rest houses. Having visited Paris often, Margaret said she thought the inns seemed every bit as good and the streets were cleaner and less crowded. So completely satisfied were they with their accommodation and meals, a decision was made by the entire party that they would spend at least two more days exploring Lyon and its surrounding countryside. They had been assured that there was much to see—many places of antiquity and artistic merit which Margaret looked forward to seeing, with a companion who appeared to take particular pleasure in encouraging and satisfying her interest.

It was during these days in Lyon and later at Arles and Nîmes that she began to realise that what had been an invigorating meeting of minds was gradually developing into something far less familiar to her. Excited by his intellect and knowledge and intoxicated by all she was learning from him, she had begun to experience other feelings—some unfamiliar though quite pleasing and others so sharp they caused her some disquiet each time she became aware of them. She had initially noticed that Daniel Brooke addressed her as Miss Dashwood throughout the last fortnight, even though Nicholas Wilcox had used her name soon after they began their holiday. However, recently it seemed that on some occasions, when their friends had wandered away to look at some other attraction and they were alone together, usually when he wished to draw her attention to something of particular interest, he would call her Margaret and would do so quite naturally, just as he would take her hand to assist her up and down steps or in and out of vehicles without fuss or awkwardness. While there had been no trace of familiarity or boldness, there was a sense of friendly intimacy that she enjoyed. She had smiled once or twice to acknowledge it and also to let him see that she did not object, but it had made little difference; when they were all together at a meal or in a carriage—she was Miss Dashwood to him again.

Writing in her notebook at the end of a long and satisfying day, Margaret recorded her changing feelings.

It has been over two weeks now since we arrived in Marseilles, and I cannot believe how swiftly and with what ease I have come to regard Daniel Brooke as one of the most remarkable men I have met in all my life. It is an experience quite unique to me, for I have rarely spent so much time in the company of one person. (This comes about because Claire and Mr Wilcox are increasingly inclined to spend as much time as they possibly can together. Although she has not said anything to me, it is become clear that they are very much attracted to one another—Nicholas is particularly keen, I believe, and will, if she will only let him, soon become deeply besotted with her.)

As to my own situation, I cannot say what Mr Brooke thinks of me, except he is exceedingly generous with his time and patient in his answers to every question I ask, so that I have to conclude that he is a dedicated teacher who appears to enjoy imparting knowledge. He accords me a degree of respect that I love, letting me state my views without patronising or contradicting me, which, knowing he is a scholar of some distinction, makes me feel very honoured. Apart from my dear brother-in-law, Edward, I have not known any other man of that age (I assume, and Claire agrees, that Daniel Brooke must be at least thirty or thirty-two, perhaps) who exhibits such generosity of spirit in his willingness to share his time and knowledge with others. It is both remarkable and touching, when one considers how little respect is accorded to the intelligence of women by most men about town.

Furthermore, he is kind and concerned, making every allowance for my safety and comfort as we travel about the place, without conceit or condescension. Unaccustomed as I am to such partiality from a gentleman of his age and reputation, I will acknowledge that it is an intensely pleasurable experience, such as I have not known before. Because I am determined to be sensible and not to let myself imagine that a situation exists which plainly does not, I shall not let myself believe that I am falling in love with him. However, I must confess that were I to permit myself to set foot along that path, it would not be difficult at all, for he is indeed a man of very endearing qualities.

Tomorrow we return to Aix-en-Provence, and I wonder what our last week in the south of France will bring. We have been promised a few more days of this wonderful autumn weather before the arrival of the Mistral, and we must make the most of it.

Concluding her entry, Margaret put away her notebook, extinguished the lamp, and went to bed. There had been some talk in the village of the weather changing—it was said the Alpine winds could begin to blow anytime now, and the temperate, salubrious Mediterranean would be assailed by their icy blast. But Margaret felt only the warmth of anticipated happiness.

The journey to Bath was accomplished with what seemed like the greatest of ease, with their transport and accommodation both meticulously organised by Mr Willoughby.

The Percevals and their servants travelled in their own carriage, and the two Hawthorne boys rode alongside of them, thus allowing Mrs Brandon and Miss Peabody to be conveniently accommodated within Mr Willoughby's vehicle, while his manservant sat on the box. Throughout the journey, Mr Willoughby was assiduous in his efforts to ascertain that the two ladies were comfortable and well informed of all the sites and scenes that were able to be viewed from the windows of their carriage. As they passed through parts of the Somerset countryside, with which he claimed complete familiarity, having spent much of his life in the county, he gave them accounts of historic places where ancient battles had been fought and settlements made, with the aplomb of a historian. Miss Peabody was most impressed—she had no idea Somerset was such an important county, she declared, only to be told, in the politest and most respectful manner by Mr Willoughby, that Somerset was one of the most historically significant counties in England.

Marianne, who'd heard a good deal of the same information on another occasion, had not forgotten, and while she listened with interest, she could not help being favourably impressed by the way in which he would use his knowledge to move and astonish those in his company. Perhaps, she thought, he wishes to make it plain to me that he is not just attempting to influence my opinion of him, else he would not pay so much attention to Miss Peabody's enquiries as well. As they approached Bath and Mr Willoughby was giving them an account of the unique hot springs that gave the city its reputation, Marianne, not wishing to give the impression that she was indifferent to the significance of the historic city, asked, “And when did the Romans discover these hot springs?”—aware from her own reading that the bath houses had been constructed over two or three centuries of Roman occupation. He answered without hesitation, “Ah, but they did not, Mrs Brandon,” he said, with a knowing smile. “Indeed they have long claimed to have done so, but scholars of Celtic history will tell you that the hot springs of Somerset were the centre of a Celtic shrine long before the Roman invasion of Britain. The Romans dispatched the defeated Celts to the mountains, occupied the site, and built a temple to the goddess Minerva on the spot.” Miss Peabody made sympathetic noises about the poor defeated Celts, but Marianne was fascinated as he went on to tell them more about the depredations of the Romans and their evil Emperor Claudius. It seemed to her that Willoughby had extended his interests and knowledge, making him an even more fascinating person now than the young man she had met those many years ago in Barton Park. She would never have thought him to be a student of history, and yet here he was giving them facts and dates aplenty. In her readiness to credit him with enhanced learning in the intervening years, Marianne had clearly forgotten that even when they first met, Willoughby had proved to be a quick learner when it came to her particular interests and had matched every one of her enthusiasms with great zest and energy. It was a talent he used to good effect, then as now.

As they drove into Bath, he gave instructions to the driver and, turning to Marianne, said quietly, “There are those who believe that King Arthur fought and won a great battle here, before he set up his court at Glastonbury.” Then, looking directly into her eyes, he reminded her, “And I am sure you will recall, Mrs Brandon, that it was at Glastonbury the great traditions of chivalry and romance were laid down in England, by King Arthur himself.” He spoke as though his words were meant only for her, and sensing this, Marianne dropped her eyes, feeling for the first time that perhaps he
was
trying to remind her of something else they had shared. She was unsure if she wished to follow where he was leading her, but she could not deny the excitement of the moment.

The carriage drew up before an elegant Georgian building in Camden Terrace, where Willoughby had taken several suites of rooms for their entire party for the next three days. Escorting the ladies in, he handled all the arrangements with swift efficiency and had their trunks carried up to their rooms, while he promised to await the arrival of the second carriage, bearing the Percevals. It was travelling somewhat slower than his own, he said, urging the ladies to retire to their rooms and partake of the refreshments he had ordered for them.

Miss Peabody and Marianne found themselves in a handsome sitting room with windows that looked out across a wide street to a park beyond; two bedchambers led out from doors at either end of the sitting room, both appropriately equipped for comfort and convenience. Miss Peabody was amazed at the luxury, claiming she had never been in such a place before and wondering aloud what it must have cost. Marianne, who knew better than to speculate about the cost, simply wandered in and out of the rooms, thinking that Willoughby's new affluence had only enhanced what had been to her one of his most endearing traits—his generosity. Recalling his desire to bring her gifts, including, on one occasion, a specially trained horse, which to Marianne's chagrin, Elinor had insisted they could not afford to keep, Marianne's mind played upon their present circumstances and sought to see them in the best possible light. He was trying to make amends, to demonstrate that he had learnt from his past mistakes, she decided charitably, permitting herself thereby to enjoy, without guilt, his favours and his company, which she had to confess were very pleasing.

A discreet knock at the door and two footmen were admitted bearing trays of refreshments—cold meats, pastries, and fruit, as well as tea for the travellers. Miss Peabody gave a cry of delight and sat down to enjoy the feast, while Marianne still walked about the rooms, amazed by the luxury of it all, and was only persuaded to take some tea when her companion poured out a cup and begged her to try it. “It is an excellent brew, do try it, Mrs Brandon—the finest India, I am certain,” she cried, and Marianne obliged, if only to stop her urging.

Some half an hour later, the rest of their party arrived and were similarly accommodated in their rooms, while Mr Willoughby, it was revealed, still playing the perfect host, had set out to get them tickets for a musical entertainment at one of the theatres in the city.

The Percevals could scarcely open their mouths without praising him for his organisation of the excursion to Bath and all he continued to do to make their stay comfortable and memorable. While their daughters concentrated upon the food, as more trays were brought in and laid upon the table, Mr and Mrs Perceval sang the praises of their new friend.

“I must say I have never met such a generous young fellow—so full of courtesy and concern, he cannot do too much to ensure that we are all satisfactorily served,” said Mr Perceval, and his wife echoed his sentiments, then added, “My sister, to whom I wrote mentioning Mr Willoughby's kindness to us when we had the problem with the horses at Glastonbury, says he is well liked wherever he is known, he is such a generous and amiable young man. She lives not far from his country house in Somersetshire and says she cannot think what on earth his wife was thinking of when she decided to seek a separation from him. She must be exceedingly hard to please, my sister says.”

Quite clearly, the Percevals had no notion of the pecuniary circumstances of their host, whose largesse depended entirely upon the vast fortune his wife had brought him at their marriage.

Hearing their words, Marianne, astounded, could say nothing; presently, she rose and asked to be excused, claiming she wished to rest awhile. The Perceval girls declared that they were far from tired and intended to accompany the young Hawthornes on a tour of the Grand Terrace and Milsom Street shops that afternoon. Mr Willoughby had told them the shopping in Milsom Street was very good, they said. Marianne smiled and said she had no liking for shopping, urged them to enjoy themselves, and retired to her room.

There, it was not fatigue or the prospect of a visit to the theatre that evening that occupied her mind, but the vital snippet of news, so carelessly thrown about by Mrs Perceval, that Willoughby's wife had sought a separation from him. It absolutely consumed her thoughts. Her active imagination would not rest until she had worked out at least half a dozen possible explanations—almost all of which were favourable to him and not to his wife—for the situation in which Willoughby was now placed.

Any one of the resolutions she could think of would provide him with a plausible reason for spending so much of his time in Somersetshire, and putting so much effort into making new friends, for it was surely unthinkable that he would be able to continue within the same circle of acquaintances they had made during the years of their marriage. This would certainly excuse the extravagance with which he courted the Percevals and attempted to ensure their comfort and satisfaction, she thought, in case one had wondered if he was showing off just a little. That aspect, Marianne decided, could now be explained away quite satisfactorily.

Having spent most of the afternoon constructing scenarios that would excuse—nay justify—Willoughby's present behaviour, she did finally fall into a light sleep, from which Miss Peabody came to rouse her when it was time to dress for dinner and prepare to go out to the theatre. She was most excited. “Mr Willoughby called to say he had obtained tickets for an excellent concert; it is all arranged—we are to dine downstairs at seven and leave for the theatre at eight,” she announced, with the kind of extraordinary animation one sees in someone to whom such excitement is rare indeed. Marianne could not help pitying Miss Peabody—she was quite certain she must be forty at least, and it did seem she'd had very little enjoyment out of life and grasped every opportunity with fervour.

When they all met in the dining room, Marianne was glad she had brought one of her best gowns—the Perceval girls were attired in satin gowns with elaborate trimmings and had fur-lined capes to protect their bare arms from the cold, and the Hawthorne boys looked very debonair in formal evening dress, which one hardly ever saw in Dorset. Marianne had not known they would be attending a concert, but had decided that it was worth packing an elegant blue velvet gown, which set off her figure and suited her colouring so well, each time she wore it she had received many compliments. This night was no exception, for everyone at the table noted how well she looked, and both Mr Perceval and Mr Willoughby took time to tell her so. Marianne was well pleased.

The concert was well attended and deserved to be, for it was a veritable musical feast—with a chamber group, two pianists, and two singers of considerable talent, all as determined to delight their audience as the audience was to be delighted.

Their seats were in two groups—a complete half row was occupied by the Percevals and Hawthornes; to one side were three more chairs, and once again, it fell to Mr Willoughby to arrange for all his guests to be seated and then to discover that he had the seat between Miss Peabody and Mrs Brandon. Marianne did not wish to speculate whether he had deliberately arranged it so, but was happy to accept that as their host, he must ensure that the rest of the party had their seats first, although it was apparent that their seats were in no way inferior to the others. Miss Peabody, who confessed to being something of an enthusiast when it came to singing, having taken lessons herself, she told them, was absolutely delighted with the placement of their seats and thanked Mr Willoughby many times, at the beginning of the concert, the end, and in between items. She was sure that she'd never had such good seats ever before, she said.

At one point in the entertainment, when there was a short interval, Miss Peabody had to accompany her cousin, Mrs Perceval, to the cloak room, leaving Marianne with Mr Willoughby. As they walked about the room, she was at first reluctant to break the silence, but when he did, asking her opinion of the performances and offering some comments of his own, she found no difficulty in entering into a discussion about some of the items on the programme. However, when he chose a particular duet—Ben Jonson's pretty “Song to Celia”—as the one he favoured most, she knew he had done so to remind her that it was one they had often sung together at Barton Cottage. It had been a favourite with Mrs Dashwood, too.

The room was rather warm, and he invited her to step out onto the adjacent balcony overlooking the garden, where various men and ladies were promenading and talking quite excitedly, and there they stood and watched the passing scene, without saying a word, until they were summoned within to take their seats. It was then, as she made to go indoors, he said, “Mrs Brandon—Marianne—I must speak with you. Please have no fear that I will embarrass or discompose you in any way—nothing could be further from my thoughts—but I must speak with you. Will you permit me, please, to find some time in the course of these three days to speak privately with you?”

Marianne should have been prepared for such an overture, but she was not, having believed that Willoughby was being particular to avoid any reference to their past association. But she was not inclined in her present frame of mind to deny him and so said, with a fair degree of dignity, “Mr Willoughby, as you are aware, our friends the Percevals have no idea that you and I have known one another before our recent meeting at Glastonbury. I should prefer that they continue in this belief, which makes it difficult for me to grant your request. However, if you can arrange it discreetly, without placing me at risk of becoming the subject of gossip, I am willing to hear what you have to say.”

His immediate response was one of deep gratitude and complete acquiescence with the terms she had set, as he promised to make such arrangements as were necessary, taking every precaution to shield her from any suspicion. As they returned to their seats, Miss Peabody came to join them, and she was so busy praising everyone and everything she had seen, she failed to notice the change of mood in both her companions. Mr Willoughby and Mrs Brandon remained very quiet for the rest of the evening, and while Mrs Brandon looked a little flushed, the gentleman wore an expression of heightened excitement that, in truth, had nothing at all to do with the excellent quality of the concert.