Expectations of Happiness (18 page)

They entered the church, with its ancient carved door, and stood in the cool stone-flagged nave looking up at the circular window, its image of the Christ child and his mother, constructed of myriad slivers of translucent stained glass, and she was glad they had come. Candles flickered below the altar and a few women knelt in prayer in the pews—the ambience of devotion filled the ancient space in which they stood. This place, Margaret thought, she would remember all her life.

As they walked through the grounds of the abbey and passed into the old orchard with its gnarled trees, he warned her of the rocks that jutted through the rough tussocks of grass and took her arm to help her avoid them. Beyond the orchard lay the meadows, where he had promised there may yet be some wildflowers left, and indeed there were, in little sheltered patches of soil, pushing out from under fallen branches or clustered beside piles of stones—purple lavender, pink rock roses, and yellow gorse, sturdy survivors of the late autumn cold.

“There, I did tell you there may yet be some wildflowers left, you are a lucky girl,” he said softly, and Margaret's eyes filled with tears as she gazed on them, trying to fix this moment in her mind; she could not recall another like it in all her life. When she looked up at him to thank him for bringing her back to this lovely place, she could not speak, for she knew in that moment, that for her everything had changed. She knew she loved him, but she had no knowledge of his feelings, and there was nothing she could do about it. She tried to speak, to make some comment on the scene, but could not find the words.

It was a place of such enchantment, she could have stayed there for hours, but she heard him say, “Perhaps we should get back to the inn and get some food, you will soon be hungry,” and she agreed, although food was the last thing on her mind.

When they reached the inn, with its rough stone and wood exterior and its mullioned windows, they noticed more vehicles and horses tethered in the yard. Some of the young men who had been out on the water, had returned and were seated at tables outside, together with a few young women, partaking of food and drink, while a family with several small children were having fun, squabbling over their meal.

Daniel found her a seat at a table inside, beside a window looking out toward the lake, and went to see the innkeeper. Margaret watched as a young couple walked up from the foreshore, clearly in love, reluctant to break apart. As she sat looking at the lake, which was still shining, jewel-like, in the afternoon sun, Margaret wondered at her situation; she asked herself, had she really fallen in love or was this just an ordinary response to being with a thoughtful, handsome man in a setting of heart-wrenching beauty? That, in itself, was for her an unusual experience, but, she argued, “This is not a conclusion I have reached after a logical discussion about what I wish for in someone I love, nor is it the consequence of a man declaring that I am his ideal of a woman he wishes to love—neither is true. Indeed nothing he has said or done may be construed as an indication that he has any tender feelings for me, apart from a kind concern for my well-being. This has come about without my seeking it, almost in spite of myself,” she thought.

Indeed, it had happened when she was least expecting it, yet she was completely involved; her mind, her heart, and her body had all responded to him, and for Margaret, who had never been in love before, it was a unique, all-encompassing, and irrevocable experience.

When Daniel returned, he apologised and said he hoped she would not mind, the food was of a rather simple peasant style and he was taken aback when she smiled as though he had promised her a banquet and said, “I think I should love a simple peasant-style meal.” He laughed and said, “That's good then, and there is plenty of it, so we shall not go hungry. They are very good folk, they have even attended to the horse.”

While they waited for their meal, some of the young men and ladies left on horseback, meaning, no doubt, to explore the trails in the woods above the lake. Others, less inclined to such energetic pursuits, preferred to relax in the warm comfort of the large parlour, with more wine and cheese. Watching them, Margaret enjoyed their contentment as though it were her own.

Their meal was of fresh baked bread and soup with a large, hot, and hearty rustic casserole of meat and root vegetables, with farm-made butter, cheese, wine, and a bowl of fresh fruit. Margaret was not dissembling when she said that it was one of best meals she had eaten and she would remember it and this beautiful place forever. Daniel smiled at her enthusiasm and when they had finished their meal, asked if she was ready to take a walk along the lake's shore. She nodded, rose to join him, and they moved to the door.

At that moment, a gust of wind swept down from the surrounding hills, and the wooden shutters on the windows clattered and clashed, making a great noise. Surprised, they walked onto the porch and saw that the blue sky of the morning was now as grey as charcoal, and big lumpy clouds hid the tops of the wooded hills above the lake. In the time that they had been taking their meal, the weather had changed, and the lake that had been still as a silken sheet was being whipped up into waves, which slapped and broke upon the foreshore. It was certainly no time for a walk. A few guests looked apprehensive and some decided that it was time to be gone, while others stayed on, in no hurry to leave.

Daniel went to consult the innkeeper and returned with the grim news that the wind would probably get worse and was unlikely to abate for several hours, by which time it would be dark. “He says it will blow itself out overnight; I am sorry, Margaret, it seems we shall have to wait it out, it will be far too hazardous to try to drive back into town.” If he had expected her to be put out or protest or even to grumble just a little at the inconvenience, he would have been surprised. She did not. Determined that he should not find her wanting, Margaret set out to be perfectly amenable and merely shrugged her shoulders and said that it would certainly not be sensible to travel in the little covered gig in this weather—and he smiled when she added that it would not be very kind to the horse either. She pointed out that there was a great fire burning in the parlour, and declared that she would be perfectly happy to sit it out in there.

If Daniel
was
surprised by her calm response, he did not show it, and having accompanied her into the parlour, where the innkeeper had put more wood on the fire, he went to make arrangements for the stabling of the horse and vehicle. When he returned, he found her comfortably tucked into an old-fashioned divan, while the squabbling family were arguing whether they should leave immediately or take a room upstairs for the night. In the end, they decided to stay the night, and the innkeeper's wife took the children upstairs while their parents remained in the parlour, enjoying the rest of the wine.

It was going to be a long night, and it appeared they had all accepted the practical realities of their predicament; no one sought to bemoan their circumstances or complain, there being nothing to complain of but the volatile mood of Nature itself.

Daniel spent some time at the bar talking with the innkeeper; they were speaking in the local Provençal tongue, which meant Margaret could hear but could not comprehend a word of their conversation. Meanwhile, the innkeeper's wife brought Margaret a thick knitted rug and a mug of hot chocolate laced with brandy, both of which were accepted gladly.

As the evening wore on, the winds grew stronger and rattled the shutters until the old inn felt more like a ship at sea, creaking and shuddering with each gust. The innkeeper offered them more food, most of which they refused, having eaten well, but his offers of cheese, wine, and hot coffee were gratefully accepted. There remained only a few stranded travellers like themselves, dozing in the chairs around the room. Daniel had seated himself in a chair a few feet from the divan where Margaret sat curled up under her rug, a dark shawl around her shoulders, her hair glowing in the firelight, as she watched the sparks fly up the enormous chimney.

“Are you cold?” he asked suddenly, and she replied at once, “No, not at all. It feels just wonderful; I know you will laugh at me for saying that I am enjoying this, but it's true.” He did laugh, but said quickly, “Indeed, I will not laugh at you, Margaret, and you do look as though you are enjoying the experience; I suppose it will be an adventure, eh? Something to tell your family and friends back in England—the unexpected stormy night stranded in an old Provençal inn…”

She had to interrupt him and say, “Please don't say that, Daniel—it makes me sound like another silly young traveller from England, with naive notions of adventures in Provence. I did not come to Provence for adventure, I wanted to learn something about the country and I
have
learnt so much, thanks to you; even today has been such a wonderful experience. I wanted to tell you how grateful I am that you have spent so much of your time with us, explaining things and answering all my foolish questions, it is so generous and kind… and I do not want to go away leaving you here thinking that I was ungrateful because I am not, really.” She knew that she was saying too much and wanted to stop, but she could not and she rushed on, trying to tell him everything, but he drew his chair closer to hers and said, “There is no need at all for you to be grateful, Margaret. I have enjoyed it too.” She stopped speaking then, and the tears she had held back so bravely coursed down her cheeks.

He was concerned and thoughtful; practical, too, producing first a clean handkerchief and then a mug of coffee, and waiting until she was calm, before he spoke. “Margaret, there is no need for gratitude, because I have enjoyed very much showing you Provence, telling you its stories, and answering your questions, which have never been foolish or naive. At no time have I considered you another silly English traveller. You were always so keen to know things, so eager to learn, so easy to teach—it has been my great pleasure. So have no fears on that score at all.” She looked at his face, and seeing what was clearly a sincere reassurance, she smiled. Then, in a quiet, serious voice, he said, “However, there is something else you must know before you return home, and it is possible that it may cause you some distress. It concerns not Provence or your travels, but myself, and I cannot send you away in ignorance lest you hear of it from someone else and be angry with me for keeping the truth from you.”

This time, he did not smile, nor did she, for she knew in her heart that whatever it was he was going to tell her, it could bring nothing but pain. She wanted to cry out and say, “Please do not tell me, I have no wish to know,” but she knew well enough that she had to know and he was going to tell her, because he must have sensed something of her feelings for him and he would not let her return to England in ignorance of the truth. Neither his honour nor her love would permit it.

Margaret wiped her eyes and sat up straight to hear what he had to say. Daniel drew his chair closer and sat facing the fire, and Margaret, looking at him in the firelight, saw signs of strain upon his countenance that she had not noticed before, or if she had, she'd misconstrued as fatigue. This time there could be no mistake: There were deeply etched lines of anxiety, and a look of despair in his eyes. As she listened to his voice—quiet, undramatic, but grave in its import—she understood the reason.

He told a tale of such sadness that she could not restrain the tears as he spoke, explaining that some years ago, when he was a young student, he had, while travelling in this part of France, met and fallen in love with a young French girl: Helène. They had been married in a village church and had lived happily for a few years until their first child had been stillborn. The toll it had taken on his young wife had been severe, and she had spent several months in a special sanatorium where she had been cared for by the nuns. When she had recovered, they had resumed their life together. Their second child had been born healthy, but had lived not even a year, dying suddenly of a respiratory illness. The double tragedy had destroyed Helène's mind, and despite his efforts and those of the doctors and her family, she had never recovered. Her life was now one of a simple child, whose only comfort was to coddle and nurse a rag doll she carried everywhere and took to bed with her.

Being of the Catholic faith, Helène was being cared for by a group of nursing nuns at a convent some miles outside Aix-en-Provence, and he visited her often but could bring her little comfort, since her mind was so confused, she could neither recognise him nor recall any part of their life together. She had grown weak and, as a final cruel blow, had recently been diagnosed with tuberculosis and the nuns had told him they were sending her to a hospice at a convent near Nice for the winter, away from the bitter alpine winds.

Seeing the shock and sorrow on Margaret's face, Daniel spoke gently, “No one except for one or two dear friends at my college in Oxford know of this; I have decided, however, that I must reveal the truth of my circumstances to you, only because—and I beg you, Margaret, to forgive me if I have misunderstood your feelings—because in these last few days I have sensed a certain partiality, almost akin to affection in your demeanour towards me, and though I have tried to avoid giving you any encouragement, I feared that if you left without learning the truth, you may well feel deceived.”

Margaret had heard everything he had said without a word, but could hold back no longer. “No, never deceived, Daniel; sad and grieved certainly, but never deceived. I will not permit you to take the blame, although I will confess to mine. You have not misunderstood my feelings, you are right. I have come to regard you with affection, with great affection, and if there has been deception, it is self-deception on my part, because I hoped it could be so. I have nothing to complain of in your conduct, which has always been honourable. I have been foolish, believing that because we seemed to get on so well and found so much to enjoy together, that it was possible for us to be…” and here she had to stop, because the tears came again.