Expectations of Happiness (20 page)

The next piece of information, however, was not anywhere as amusing as the first, although Mrs Jennings recounted it with a good deal of cheerfulness. “Mr Willoughby—I am sure you all remember him,” she said as they proceeded to consume the trifle and syllabub, “and of course, we all know how rich he became after marrying Miss Grey with her fifty thousand pounds—well, he may have to fight to keep his fortune, if his wife has her way. It is being said that Sophia Willoughby has instructed her lawyers to seek a judicial separation with a view to obtaining a divorce on the grounds of adultery.” She was very satisfied by the effect her statement had upon the rest of the diners, their silence denoting their sense of shock, as she went on, “Were she to succeed, I understand she may be able to recoup at least half of the money she brought into the marriage. If he does not pay up—and one wonders how much of it he has already squandered—I understand the court can compel him to do so.”

Elinor did not wish to reveal her prior knowledge of the story, but Mrs Jennings added for good measure, “Mrs Ferrars, we were speaking of this matter, Charlotte and I, on our journey here, and I said to Charlotte, ‘Although we felt very sorry for Miss Marianne when the business with Willoughby ended so badly for her, it is quite clear now that she has had a fortunate escape.' If Sophia Grey could not hold him with her many thousands of pounds, Miss Marianne would not have had a chance. After a few years of marriage and a couple of children, he would have been off on the hunt again. What do you say, Mrs Ferrars, am I not right?”

Poor Elinor could barely speak, so mortified was she by the recollection of that dreadful time, and it was to the credit of the two gentlemen that the topic was changed and she was released from the obligation of having to answer what was clearly a rhetorical question. None of them had any doubt of the answer.

Earlier that evening Edward had been recounting to Mr Palmer some of his efforts on behalf of the abolitionists, and his guest, clearly bored with the gossip that his mother-in-law and wife were indulging in, put a pointed question to his host about the campaign, thereby ensuring some respite at the dinner table from domination by Mrs Jennings. “Is your group committed to complete abolition of slavery?” he asked, to which Edward replied, “Indeed we are, Mr Palmer, and we mean to get as many petitions as possible and submit them to Mr Wilberforce, who continues to press for total abolition in Britain and all her colonies. Unfortunately, the Act passed in 1807—the Slave Trade Act—only prohibits the shipping of slaves from Africa to the colonies in the Caribbean; it does nothing for the poor wretches who are already enslaved there, working for mainly British businessmen and plantation owners. Where do you stand on this question, Mr Palmer?” Edward asked.

Mr Palmer, whose politics were of the Whig persuasion, put down his glass, nodded sagely, and said, “I am with you, Ferrars, it is a most pernicious practice.” Edward looked pleased and said so, but since neither Charlotte Palmer nor her mother had very much to say on the subject, they fell silent, while Elinor, who took a lively interest in her husband's work for the campaign, participated eagerly in the discussion that followed. When the ladies rose and withdrew to the parlour, Elinor feared her two companions would return to the subject of Willoughby, but, much to her relief, both women claimed that they were exceedingly tired after their long journey and chose to retire early to their rooms.

***

The Palmers stayed three more days at Delaford parsonage, during which time the ladies expressed a desire to call on Marianne at the manor house. Mr Palmer had already accepted an invitation from Edward to meet his friend Dr Bradley King, leaving just the ladies to make the visit. Elinor went with them, having first sent a message over to her sister to advise her of the impending visitation. She hoped by doing this to give Marianne time to prepare herself for the arrival of two women she had never suffered gladly. On their arrival around midmorning, however, Elinor was relieved to find that her sister and her servants had been busy preparing for their visitors, who were duly invited into the morning room, where their hostess, elegantly gowned and coiffed, greeted them with a degree of affability that Elinor was surprised to witness.

Trays of refreshments were carried in and tea was served in the finest china available at the manor, as Marianne played hostess with aplomb. Elinor could see that Mrs Jennings and her daughter were very impressed.

Earlier, as they had prepared to leave the parsonage, Elinor had steeled herself to make an earnest request that they would not mention Mr Willoughby or the state of his marital affairs in the presence of her sister. To her relief, both Mrs Jennings and Charlotte Palmer had agreed that it would not be appropriate, although the reasons they adduced for their restraint were puzzling. Mrs Jennings had declared that “it would not do to remind the dear girl of the misery he had put her through,” while Charlotte had giggled and added that “nor would it be wise to let her think that Willoughby might be free again, if his wife were to succeed in obtaining a divorce!” Shocked though she was by the sentiment, Elinor restrained herself, thanked them for respecting her wishes, and prayed silently that Marianne would, by her general demeanour, demonstrate to the ladies that she was content and happy in her marriage to Colonel Brandon.

And it was exactly what transpired, as they took tea, walked about the house, admired the garden, and talked for an hour or so of very little that was of any consequence. By the time they were ready to return to the parsonage, it appeared as though Marianne had completely convinced Mrs Jennings and Mrs Palmer that she was perfectly content in her role as lady of the manor. As they stood in the hall, about to leave, Mrs Jennings asked, “And when do you expect dear Colonel Brandon home?” to which Marianne replied with a smile, “We expect him any day now, Mrs Jennings, he is returning a week earlier than expected. Indeed, Cook is planning a celebratory dinner to welcome him home.” Whereupon Mrs Jennings responded with a great laugh and characteristic vulgarity, that she was sure the colonel would be looking forward to something more than a celebratory dinner on his return, adding with a wink and a nudge to her daughter, “Just ask my Charlotte, she knows all about it, Mr Palmer returned from two weeks shooting in Scotland, and though it is not plain to see as yet, Charlotte is in the family way again. So you mark my words, after six weeks away in Ireland, your dear husband will be looking forward to much more than a good dinner, and you, my dear, may have some happy news for us in the new year.”

While Charlotte Palmer and her mother alternately shrieked and roared with laughter, Elinor winced and saw Marianne's face flushed with embarrassment, but neither of her visitors seemed to notice, and they left with more laughter and warnings of the consequences of the imminent return of her husband from Ireland, urging her to enjoy the fun while it lasted.

***

Elinor's relief was great when the Palmers finally departed, for though they had been little trouble to her in a practical sense, their presence, intruding as it did upon the usual calm and quietude of her home, had prevented discussion of certain matters with Edward. She had wished particularly to tell him of her continuing unease regarding Willoughby's presence in the neighbourhood and his contact with her sister, an unease whose intensity had increased considerably since the revelations from Helen King and Mrs Jennings that his wife intended to apply for a divorce.

On the evening after the Palmers' departure, Elinor sensed that Edward was in a sufficiently amenable mood, with no parish duties and his sermon for Sunday completed well in advance, to let her take up the subject. It was a matter that had concerned her deeply, and yet she had tried not to trouble him with it unless and until there was something seriously worth talking about. Recent events and information appeared to her to provide an opportunity, and she decided to take it.

Once the boys had been read their bedtime story and put to bed, Elinor went to sit beside her husband on the sofa by the fire and he, sensing her need for comfort, put an arm around her and said, “I know how tired you must be, my dear, and yet you never complain of it. I wish I could do more to help. I would if you would only ask.” Elinor knew he was thinking that her fatigue was the consequence of managing their rather trying guests over the past few days; she smiled and said, “Thank you, my love, I know you would, but it is not the Palmers and Mrs Jennings who have me in this state; I wish it were, because it would then be just a transitory feeling of weariness, which I confess Charlotte and her mother seem to bring upon me—nothing that a long lavender-scented bath and a good night's sleep would not cure.”

Her unexpected response caused her husband to sit up and look at her seriously, “Dearest, what else is it? You are not unwell? Tell me, Elinor, have you been feeling ill and keeping it from me?” She was quick to deny this and reassured him at once. “Not at all, Edward, you know me better than to think that. I am too sensible to conceal an illness, and if I had been feeling unwell, I'd have sent for Doctor Richards and had him prescribe some potion or other—not that they do much good—but I would not neglect it, because I know I need to look after my health for all our sakes.”

Edward was obviously relieved. “Thank goodness for that; well then, what is it that is worrying you? Elinor, you are not still anxious about that scoundrel Willoughby, are you? I did note that you looked rather shocked at the news that his wife was seeking a separation, but why are you astonished? Willoughby never cared for Miss Grey, he clearly married her for her fortune, and being the kind of man he is, bereft of all principle, bent only upon his own pleasure, it is not at all surprising that the marriage should fail. Why should that cause you to worry?”

Elinor sat up very straight and looked into his eyes as she spoke; she wanted Edward to understand clearly that her anxiety was not based on her knowledge of Willoughby and his marital problems alone. “Edward, I know that when I have spoken of this matter previously, you have tried, with the best of intentions, to reassure me, to tell me I was being too anxious, that there was no evidence of any danger to my sister from Willoughby's presence in this area, and I have wished that was the case. However, in recent months, indeed since Margaret was here before she went to France, there have been several occasions on which I have seen and heard things that have filled me with disquiet, and while I have not wanted to trouble you with constant repetition of my concerns, I can ignore them no longer. I need your advice.” Edward could see from her countenance that her worries were too serious to be relieved with simple words of comfort.

Elinor continued, “The rumour—and I accept that coming from Mrs Jennings it can rate no higher than that—that Willoughby's wife is attempting to separate from him, indeed is already living apart from him and may seek a divorce, has only added another element to my fears, that of Willoughby's own situation and his lack of responsibility. If he is no longer restrained, even as a mere formality, by the bonds of marriage, what does he have to lose? Why would he not try his best to re-engage Marianne's feelings, knowing that she was so besotted with him once, she was willing to throw everything, including her own reputation, to the winds for him?”

“And what is this evidence that you have seen and heard? Does it involve Marianne?” he asked, and she nodded and with great determination, held back her tears as she told him of what she and Margaret had learned and the information she had gathered from her friend Helen King. She spoke quietly, undramatically, attempting to convey her fears without hysteria, pointing out that it was her uncertainty that Marianne was happy and content in her own marriage that was at the core of her concern. “If I were as certain of her contentment as I am of my own happiness with you, I would not care if Willoughby were living next door, but I fear I cannot, I do not have that certainty.”

Edward's expression had changed as she spoke, reflecting his response to her words; he could no longer speak lightly. “Dearest Elinor, I am sorry, I feel I have not taken your anxieties seriously enough, and I fear I have allowed you to carry the burden alone for too long. Perhaps it is because I have wished to believe that Marianne and Brandon are as contented as we are, but I realise from what you have said that things are not always as they seem or as we wish them to be. However, there is little we can achieve by worrying. Perhaps we should visit your mother tomorrow, and if I were to speak seriously with her about this matter and ask for her help, she might be willing to consider returning to stay with Marianne until Brandon returns, which I am reliably informed is to be very soon. In fact, I met his steward the other day when I was walking with Mr Palmer in the Delaford woods, and he claimed that the master was expected back any day now. What do you say to that?”

Elinor, happy to have finally captured his undivided attention on this matter for the first time and convinced him to take it seriously, was content to agree to his plan. She hoped that Edward, for whom Mrs Dashwood had warm affection and respect, might well convince her of the need to return with them to Delaford.

Elinor's fear that Marianne might be unwittingly drawn into the scandal of Willoughby's divorce was a potent one, and it was possible that their mother's presence at Delaford might, by inhibiting Willoughby's visits to Marianne or her meetings with him, help avoid such a debacle. Eager to credit her husband with alleviating her distress, she agreed, “I think that may help, my love, if
you
can convince Mama that Marianne needs her more than Sir John Middleton does,” she replied, and they laughed together as he promised to try his very best. By the time they retired to bed, Elinor felt a small part of the burden of care had rolled off her weary shoulders.

Marianne was busy preparing for a visitor when the letter was delivered. Miss Eugenie Perceval was coming to tea, after which the two friends had arranged to drive out to attend a church function, organised by the eldest of the Perceval girls, who was married to the rector of a small parish in Somersetshire. Eugenie was to sing at the concert and had persuaded Marianne to accompany her at the pianoforte, on account of her elder sister Maria being taken ill with a severe cold.

The letter Marianne had received was from Colonel Brandon. She had assumed he was writing to confirm the precise date and time of his arrival; she knew already that he was returning early from Ireland, which was why Marianne did not open the letter immediately, leaving it on her dressing table to be read at leisure when she returned home later that evening. Marianne enjoyed pleasing an audience and looked forward to the concert; it would give her an opportunity to use the performance skills she had acquired and excelled at as a young girl.

She dressed with care, in a stylish lilac silk gown and a cloak of deep blue velvet, and waited for Eugenie. When she heard the carriage turn into the drive, she delayed a few moments before going downstairs into the sitting room, where, to her astonishment, she found Eugenie Perceval and Miss Peabody with none other than Mr Willoughby. Nothing had been said previously of his attendance at the function, and Marianne's face betrayed her surprise, as he rose to greet her with his usual suave charm, while Eugenie hastened to explain that Mr Willoughby had been visiting them and had kindly offered to convey them to the concert in his carriage.

“Papa was pleased because he needed the carriage this afternoon to attend a business function in town, so it was very kind of Mr Willoughby to offer,” which caused the gentleman to protest that it was no kindness at all, the pleasure of driving not one but two lovely ladies was all his. Marianne felt a little ill at ease, but the feeling lasted only a very little while, as she discovered the pleasure of their company, pleasure that required little more than basking in Willoughby's alluring flattery while indulging in the most undemanding social chitchat that young Eugenie Perceval could produce. Occasionally, when she said something particularly silly, Willoughby would smile and his eyes would seek Marianne's as if to enjoy a private joke.

The drive was pleasant enough, but Marianne wondered whether Willoughby had deliberately manoeuvred himself into the situation in order that they might be together again; but, she told herself, surely he must have known that with Eugenie and Miss Peabody present, he could say or do little to advance his cause.

While this was indeed a perfectly logical thought, Marianne had perhaps forgotten that Willoughby was a particularly persistent opportunist and would not let such a chance pass him by if he thought he could make something of it.

The arrangements for the function proceeded sufficiently smoothly to let Marianne believe that she had done her friend a favour, for while Miss Perceval had a pleasant enough voice, she would have been seriously disadvantaged without the support of a sympathetic accompanist. The applause that followed their appearance and the demand for an encore proved her right. Marianne had arranged with Eugenie that they would do a simple English ballad if an encore was requested, and when it was, they launched into it with ease and the young performer was rewarded with generous applause.

Afterward, as Marianne sat in an alcove watching the rest of the concert, Mr Willoughby arrived at her side to praise her contribution and declare that without her accompaniment the singer would have been lost indeed. “Miss Eugenie has a very pretty face and an appealing manner, but I do not believe anyone would contradict my contention that her voice lacks strength and range, both of which were amply supplemented by your most excellent accompaniment,” he said, noting that she glowed with pleasure at his words.

It was the type of remark that Marianne should have recognised as typical of Willoughby, couched as it was in words that were calculated to win her approval, but she had already begun to credit him with a transformation of character that prevented her from comprehending his true intent. And, without the support of Elinor, who had been at her side throughout the agonising days and weeks after her betrayal by Willoughby, Marianne was increasingly inclined to accept him as he presented himself to her: a man of good intentions, whose past errors were the consequence of misfortune or the malice of others, rather than his own weakness and poor judgment. In her heart she had almost forgiven him, because he had made it clear that he had loved her then and would love her still if she would only let him. To Marianne's romantic nature this was a potent appeal.

Seating himself beside her, as they watched the other performers, whose skill or lack of it was of no consequence, Willoughby had proceeded to use his eloquence and charm to persuade Marianne to accept an invitation to Combe Magna. “I have asked the Percevals and the Hawthornes to dinner next week, and I had hoped that you might join us. Surely, there can be no criticism of your attendance if you should come as one of the Percevals' party. They are your friends and aware that your husband is away in Ireland; they have asked you to join them. What can be more natural?” he had said, but Marianne, as yet unready to abandon the last restraint she had maintained against his pleas, had steadfastly refused.

“I do not believe it would be right; besides, were it to be discovered by my sister Elinor, I should be roundly condemned. She would see it as conduct lacking in both decorum and loyalty,” she had said, and he had protested that she should by now have emancipated herself from the narrow confines of her older sister's regulation.

“Indeed she would, but she is a parson's wife and you are an independent person, Marianne, a married woman with a mind of her own. I recall that at seventeen you were more prepared to challenge your sister's strictures upon your actions. I did not expect that at twenty-five you would be less willing to do so. Consider this: You are not being invited to participate in something unseemly or scandalous; attendance at a sedate dinner party in the company of a very respectable family with whom you are friendly cannot be regarded as imprudent by any but the meanest of minds, and since
they
will assume evil in anything at all, their censure is not worth considering. Do you not agree? My dear Marianne, do not tell me that you are so fearful of criticism that you have lost that fire, that exciting spirit I admired and loved so much,” he had implored, but she had remained resolute.

On the journey home, Marianne was glad of the company of Eugenie Perceval and her chaperone Miss Peabody in the carriage, for she had been apprehensive that had she been alone, Willoughby would have persisted with his efforts and she had begun to wonder how long her resistance could hold out against his remonstrations. Despite her best intentions, she had found it hard indeed to contradict the persuasive arguments he had adduced, resorting finally to a silence that she hoped would convey her refusal more clearly than words. Claiming to be very tired, she had asked that they proceed first to Delaford Manor, hoping this would indicate to Willoughby that she was unwilling to be persuaded by him. Miss Perceval, grateful for her invaluable help that evening, agreed at once. Sadly, it seemed Marianne, unable to fully understand her own situation, was incapable of withstanding the power Willoughby had over her.

***

Once upstairs in her bedroom, Marianne undressed, changed into her nightgown, and sent her maid away before opening the letter from Colonel Brandon, expecting to read a loving message which told her how much he missed her and when they would be reunited. Having steadfastly resisted Willoughby's charm all evening, she had prepared herself to respond with warmth and affection to her husband's sentiments, enabling her to feel some degree of satisfaction at having refused Willoughby's invitation. She had confidently expected that the letter would affirm her husband's love, of which she could have no doubt at all, thereby confirming the moral certitude of her own decision.

However, when she read the colonel's letter, it did nothing of the sort. Indeed, within moments of perusing the single page of writing, she had thrown it across the room as she flung herself onto her bed in tears. Colonel Brandon wrote:

My dearest Marianne,

It is with a great deal of reluctance and a very heavy heart that I write this, for I have this day received some very unhappy news, which prevents me from returning directly to Delaford and you, as I had earlier planned to do.

This morning I received a letter from Eliza Williams, apprising me of the grave situation in which she and her young daughter find themselves. It would appear that she has been tricked into a situation, which has resulted in their losing the cottage I had arranged to lease for them and they are in danger of being evicted or worse, being incarcerated in a debtor's prison, unless someone can be found to pay her debt. As you know, my dear Marianne, there is no one apart from myself who can do this for Eliza, for she is quite alone in the world, being bereft of friends and relations. There is also the matter of her child, who is far from well and is likely to be seriously afflicted by this situation. I know you will understand the need for me to hasten to help them and will not begrudge them my assistance at this difficult time.

Reading this, Marianne had cried out, “Oh, but I do, I most certainly do, because it is almost six weeks that you have been away in Ireland, and I had hoped that my husband's first thought would have been of me, here, alone, waiting for him to return. But no, it seems it is more important that he should race off to save the damsel in distress, who seems unable to manage without his help for two months together.” She did not even bother to read the rest of his note, in which he begged her forgiveness, promised to hurry back to her as soon as he had settled Eliza and her child in a place of safety, concluding with his warmest affection, etc.

Marianne had for some time been rather impatient with her husband's continuing concern for Eliza Williams and her child, even though she had at first charitably conceded that he had a duty to protect them. Now, her mind dwelt upon what Mrs Jennings had said of Miss Williams many years ago; that she was a “very, very close relation of Colonel Brandon… so close as to be shocking to the young ladies,” adding under her breath for Elinor's ears alone, “Indeed, she is his natural daughter!” It was something Marianne had wheedled out of her sister, and then, she had been prepared to believe it, without prejudice to the colonel, because he had meant nothing to her at the time and Willoughby had been the centre of her world.

Later, she recalled, following the anguish of Willoughby's duplicitous behaviour, Elinor had told her of a long talk she'd had with Colonel Brandon, in which he had told her of a girl, Eliza, who was his cousin, whom he had loved when they were both very young, but had not been permitted to marry. There was a long, tragic tale of her misadventures, which included her abuse by a cruel husband and various other men, leaving her with a daughter born out of wedlock, also named Eliza, who was the very Miss Williams referred to by Mrs Jennings. This Eliza Williams, Colonel Brandon had claimed, had been seduced by Willoughby—a claim Marianne was only willing to believe because Willoughby had admitted as much to her sister Elinor, in the harrowing interview he'd had with her at Cleveland House, while Marianne had been lying desperately ill upstairs.

While accepting Willoughby's part in the destruction of Miss Williams, Marianne had never sought to interrogate Colonel Brandon about his relationship with young Eliza or her mother, either before or after their marriage, being content to regard it as an unhappy episode from his youth, which had no bearing upon their present life. Nor had he attempted to explain any part of the situation to her, presuming perhaps that her sister had done so already, except to make clear that he had a degree of responsibility for the welfare of Miss Williams and her child because of their familial connection.

It was something Marianne had never queried, but if she were to be honest, she would have to admit that, over the years of their marriage, there had been some moments of annoyance, even aggravation, at the frequency with which Miss Williams seemed able to call on the colonel's assistance, often at the most inopportune of times. Yet, he never seemed able to say nay, and was always ready to rush to her side to extricate her from some dire predicament into which she had fallen, most often as a direct consequence of her own wilful actions.

This time, it seemed to Marianne that once again Miss Williams had succeeded in intruding into their lives, spoiling what should have been his homecoming, returning after some six weeks away, to his wife. Sheer vexation allowed Marianne to contemplate that perhaps Mrs Jennings was right after all. Surely, she argued, Mrs Jennings, who knew the colonel very well and had no reason to slander him, would not fabricate such a tale about him?

And Elinor had only the colonel's word that Eliza's mother, his cousin, whom he had, by his own admission, loved dearly, had been seduced by some unknown man who had fathered her daughter. It may quite easily have been the colonel himself, Marianne contended, which would make young Eliza Williams his natural daughter. It would certainly account for a sense of guilt that might well cause him to rush to assist her on every occasion, she argued.

With all these reflections swirling around in her already confused mind, Marianne could hope for very little sleep; what was worse, she awoke the following morning, even before daylight, with a headache and the same feeling of overwhelming misery she had taken to bed the previous night.

Within a few minutes of rising from her bed, she rang the bell to summon her maid and asked for a bath to be prepared and her gown to be laid out. When she had finished her tea, she dressed, went downstairs, and ordered that the small carriage be brought round to the front door. Marianne had decided that she would visit Elinor at the parsonage and show her Colonel Brandon's letter, hoping that her sister and perhaps even her brother-in-law might prove sympathetic.