Expectations of Happiness (21 page)

Unfortunately for Marianne, Edward and Elinor had left early that morning to travel to Barton Park, hoping to persuade Mrs Dashwood to return with them to Delaford. The maid, who answered the door at the parsonage, had no information to give her, except that Mr and Mrs Ferrars had left at an early hour and were not expected to return until the following day.

Finding herself alone with no one to confide in and no sympathetic listeners to hear her complaint, Marianne returned to Delaford Manor in a state of deep dejection. She proceeded to re-read her husband's letter, looking for some indication of when she might expect him to return, but in vain; indeed, he did not even reveal his destination. She had never interested herself in the exact whereabouts of Eliza Williams; she had assumed it to be in London or someplace nearby, and expected that her husband would send her word during the day, by express perhaps, apprising her of any progress he might have made in settling the problems of Miss Williams and her child. At least, she thought, he would send word as to the date of his return.

But as the day wore on and no message was received, she began to fret and wonder, and the more she pondered, the easier it became to blame Colonel Brandon for a whole array of afflictions, all of which she could link to his inordinate desire to pander to the unreasonable demands, as she saw them, of a young woman who was in a position to take advantage of his compassionate nature. The longer she waited without satisfaction, the more her sense of grievance grew, until it occupied her mind entirely and drove out all other reasonable arguments that may have acquitted her husband of fault.

***

It was late afternoon, and Marianne, weary of waiting for news, had asked for tea to be brought to her in the sitting room, when a brougham drove up to the door. Believing it to be Colonel Brandon or some emissary bringing a message from him, she ran into the hall to find Willoughby in the doorway. Though taken aback, unable to maintain a pretence of formality she did not feel, she took him into the sitting room, where the tears she had restrained all day filled her eyes and Willoughby, astonished at her state, but able to see that she was too vulnerable to protest, abandoned decorum and sat beside her on the sofa and offered her his handkerchief. “My dear Marianne, what has happened? Please tell me what is the matter? Has there been some bad news? Is there something I can do?” he asked.

He had said all the right words; he was concerned for her and eager to help. Marianne could not but pour out the entire unhappy tale, as he held her hand and provided, with gentle words and expressions, all the warmth and sympathy she craved. It seemed to her that Willoughby, in an instant, had sensed the extent of her unhappiness and by every word and gesture had indicated his desire to alleviate her anguish.

It did not seem to matter at that moment that this man had once caused her such humiliation and despair, she had wished she would die. Nor did she recall that his explanations of his actions had, at the time, seemed glib, self-serving, and unconvincing to Elinor and even to her mother, who had once been his staunchest advocate. Now, when she was alone and miserable, he had appeared, just as he had appeared when she had tumbled down the slope, twisting her ankle, in drenching rain at Barton Park, and by his swift action had saved her from the greater danger of pneumonia. She was grateful to him now as she and all her family had been grateful then; she recalled that young Margaret had dubbed him “Marianne's Preserver,” a title they had laughingly bestowed upon him throughout that idyllic summer.

When she had finished, having laid bare all her grievances, not so much blaming her husband, but expressing her deep displeasure at Miss Williams's ability to summon him to her side as and when she wished, Willoughby, shrewdly avoiding any overt criticism of Colonel Brandon, stoked the fire of Marianne's resentment by pointing out that some women were notoriously selfish by nature, and when they discovered a generous, kindly man, they would use him for their own ends. “I do not mean to suggest that Miss Williams is such a person, but I have known many friends who have been dragged down by such women, who seem to have some hold over them,” he said, as she sobbed and asked, “What shall I do, Willoughby? I know my husband is a kind, generous man and I am convinced he is being used by her. Surely, she must have some power over him; how else can I account for his behaviour? I expected him to return home to me after six weeks away in Ireland, yet here he is rushing off to London because she has got herself into some predicament and demands his help. Can you explain it?”

Willoughby offered up another pristine handkerchief and as she dried her eyes, he adroitly avoided making any criticism against Colonel Brandon, but made it clear that he could not have left her alone for six days, much less six weeks.

His mind was busy devising a plan that would enable him to take advantage of the situation, without appearing to do so. It had come upon him very suddenly, with no warning, and he was as yet unable to work out how best to proceed. All he knew was this was the best opportunity he would ever get to impress upon Marianne that he loved and cared for her and to persuade her to trust him again.

When she, having regained some of her composure, offered him refreshment, he politely refused, making a curious excuse that his horses were tired from a long journey and he had to get them back to Combe Magna before dark; but, he promised, he would return the following day, by midafternoon. He would make enquiries, he said, about Miss Williams's situation and return with some information for her. However, as a precaution, he asked that she send him a message if her husband returned in the meantime, so as not to embarrass them. “I should not wish to cause you any pain, which is very likely to eventuate should I arrive and find him here. It is unlikely that he would appreciate my appearance.” Marianne agreed then to send a servant with a message, to meet him at the inn by the bridge that carried the road into Dorchester, if Colonel Brandon had returned overnight, in which case, he was to abandon the visit.

***

While Marianne went to bed and slept a little better that night with the dubious satisfaction of having garnered the sympathy of Mr Willoughby, her husband had travelled post haste to London and appeared at the door of the house of Sir John Middleton, in a state close to exhaustion. His friend, shocked and astonished at the colonel's condition, hurried to get him indoors and settled in front of the fire in his sitting room with a drink in his hand, before he would let him speak. Sir John, who was an intimate friend of Colonel Brandon, could not imagine what could have caused such a perturbation in the mind of his friend as to bring him to London in such a state.

Fearing that it must have something to do with the health or well-being of his young wife, he asked, “Good Heavens, Brandon, I had thought you were in Ireland. What brings you here at this time of year and in such a parlous condition?” His friend, having gulped down his drink and accepted another, began to provide some of the details of his story; clearly desperate, he said, “I came at once, I had no time to lose; I must have your advice on this matter.”

But Sir John insisted that he must eat first before they could discuss what might be done, and even though dinner had long been over, ordered that a place be laid at the table and some hot food be provided for his guest.

After the servants had withdrawn, the colonel, who had been somewhat reticent in their presence, proceeded to give a full account of the circumstances that had brought him to London. Sir John listened with unusual patience. He already had some but not all the knowledge necessary to interpret his friend's actions, but as the tale unfolded, Sir John realised that his friend was enmeshed in a tangle of difficult emotional relationships and practical problems that had to be resolved forthwith, if a far worse tragedy was to be avoided.

“And what have you accomplished so far?” he asked, and was told that Miss Williams and her child had been located and lodged temporarily with a neighbour, whom Colonel Brandon had paid handsomely for the service, but it was not a satisfactory or permanent arrangement. “I am reluctant to leave them there, where those who have used her so callously can continue to find her and lead her astray again. I need to discover some place, well away from London, where she and her child will be safe and where she can find something worthwhile to do, to keep her occupied,” he explained.

When his friend looked rather dubious, he added, “I regret to say, Sir John, that Eliza is neither well educated nor accomplished, not because she lacks the ability, but because no one has taught her and no one has given her an opportunity to learn. I have previously suggested that she take up a position as a helper in a school, where her child may learn, while she works to assist the staff, but she will not agree. She feels ashamed of her lack of learning and wishes not to expose herself to ridicule. Sadly, she is also somewhat wilful, which is not unlike her mother used to be, and is difficult to persuade. But I cannot leave her here again, at the mercy of those who will destroy her and her child,” he said, sounding desperately unhappy.

“Then what do you propose?” asked Sir John. “Have you thought of taking her into the country perhaps?” but Colonel Brandon shook his head. “I have, but I cannot have her at Delaford, Marianne will not agree; I sense that she is already impatient with me for spending so much time on the welfare of Eliza and her child.”

Sir John comprehended the problem. “Perhaps not at Delaford. I can see that Marianne would resent such an arrangement, wives generally do. But what if you were to rent Barton Cottage for them? It is vacant at present,” and when the colonel looked puzzled, he explained, “Mrs Dashwood, who as you know is my cousin, has been managing the household at Barton Park for me these last few months and I have invited her to use one of the guest suites; it suits her convenience in the circumstances. This means the cottage is unoccupied at the moment, and if you were to rent it for Miss Williams and her child, it may prove to be a solution that could suit everybody. What do you think?”

Colonel Brandon was so overwhelmed by the generosity of Sir John's offer that his eyes filled with tears. “Do you mean you would have no objection, even though you are aware of her past problems?” he asked, and his friend slapped him on the back. “Really, Brandon, you must take me for a fool. Of course I am aware of her past problems, but I am also well aware that you take your duty to her seriously, and I am happy to help you in this regard. If Eliza can be persuaded to move to Devonshire, where a quiet, decent life is available to her, there is a chance she and her child may yet survive and make something worthwhile of their lives. After all, you cannot spend the rest of your days racing around England rescuing her each time she gets into trouble. I am not surprised that your wife is getting impatient; what did she say on this occasion?”

Colonel Brandon looked rather sheepish as he replied, “I do not know, I have not seen her; I sent her a note explaining the circumstances…”

Sir John thumped the table. “Brandon, you are a greater simpleton than I took you for! Do you mean to say that after spending six weeks away in Ireland, separated from her, you did not even visit your wife at home, before taking off on this mission to rescue Miss Williams?” he thundered, outraged at his friend's naiveté.

“Indeed, I had to, Eliza's letter was a desperate plea for help, and I hoped Marianne would understand—” but his friend cut him short. “Brandon, you are an idiot. I should not be at all surprised if you find your wife in a very bad mood when you return to Delaford, and I would have to say that I would not blame her! Now, if you agree to rent Barton Cottage, then tomorrow, after you have had a good night's sleep, you will collect Miss Williams and her child and bring them over here. Then
you
will leave at once for Barton Park and take a letter from me to Mrs Dashwood, who will give orders for the cottage to be made ready for the new tenants, after which you will go directly to Delaford and your wife and make suitable amends for your conduct, which I must say has been most derelict. I cannot imagine what Marianne will say, but we must hope for your sake that she will forgive you, if you treat her right,” he declared with a twinkle in his eye. “Meanwhile, I shall arrange for Miss Williams and her child to be conveyed, in the company of one of the older women on our staff, to Barton Park and thence to the cottage. There is a caretaker there and his wife, who will help with the housework, and Mrs Dashwood will make a maid available to help her settle in,” he explained.

He made it sound so simple, Colonel Brandon was speechless for a moment; then he tried to thank his friend, but Sir John would not let him. “Oh, do go up to bed and get some sleep, Brandon, you look all done in and you have a busy day tomorrow,” he said and sent for a manservant to show the colonel to his bedroom.

Mrs Dashwood had not had a very satisfactory day. She dearly loved her son-in-law Edward Ferrars, and even though she found her eldest daughter Elinor to be what country people might call something of a worrywart, she always respected Edward's concerns. This is why she was feeling particularly unhappy at having had to refuse to agree to his request that she return to Delaford and spend some time with Marianne until Colonel Brandon returned from Ireland. Edward had put his arguments clearly and logically, but Mrs Dashwood had not been able to agree. She had decided that Marianne and her husband must work out their problems and had felt that Colonel Brandon would not thank her for becoming involved in their lives. Nor was she convinced that Willoughby posed a threat to the Brandons' marriage.

“I cannot believe that Marianne is in real danger from Willoughby. She may have some romantic notions, but she is unlikely to allow herself to be run away with, Edward, and while I do applaud your kindness in taking such an interest in her well-being while the colonel is away, I do not think my presence at Delaford Manor will help. Besides, Sir John is due back at Barton Park next week; however shall I explain my sudden departure to him without revealing all this business about Marianne and Willoughby, which will only make matters a lot worse?”

Despite their own fears, Edward and Elinor had to agree that it would not do to have Sir John Middleton and others in his circle privy to the re-emergence of Willoughby in Marianne's life. For all his kindness and generosity, Sir John was not renowned for his discretion in such matters. The very thought of the story being picked up by Mrs Jennings and Charlotte, or Robert and Lucy Ferrars, and purveyed among the families, sent a shiver of apprehension down Elinor's spine.

They had, therefore, returned disappointed to Delaford, leaving Mrs Dashwood feeling somewhat downcast. She loved her daughters, but having seen both Elinor and Marianne married to exemplary men of reasonable means and good character, she had emancipated herself from the maternal desire to entangle herself in their lives. She knew Marianne was unhappy that she and the colonel had no children, but that again was something Mrs Dashwood acknowledged was beyond her capacity to assuage and hoped that Colonel Brandon would find other ways in which to engage and occupy his young wife.

Saying farewell to Edward and Elinor, she had felt helpless and had wished she could have said more to alleviate their obvious anxiety, but in the end, deciding there was little more she could have done, she lay back in her favourite chair by the fire in the sitting room and fell fast asleep.

Mrs Dashwood was awakened by the sound of a carriage in the drive and went to the window. She was both astonished and afraid when she saw Colonel Brandon alight from a hired vehicle. Astonished because she had thought he was still in Ireland, and afraid that he was here alone because there was bad news about Marianne; her relief was great when he greeted her affectionately and handed her Sir John Middleton's letter.

Having hastened to get him out of the cold hallway into the comfort of the sitting room, where a fire burned in the grate and refreshments were to hand, Mrs Dashwood urged him to help himself while she sat down to read Sir John's letter. The colonel, unsure of her response to Sir John's suggestion that Eliza Williams and her daughter be accommodated at Barton Cottage, poured himself a drink and sat nervously on the edge of his chair, while she perused the letter once, then looked up at him with a puzzled frown, and read it again, before saying, “Well, Colonel Brandon, it looks like you have been just in time to avert another disaster, and if I understand Sir John, he is of the opinion that it will be better to have Miss Williams and her child here at Barton Cottage, away from the perils of London. He asks if I would mind letting her use the cottage; well, I probably would have been a little put out, except for the fact that Sir John has very kindly offered me the use of the excellent suite of rooms that Mrs Jennings used to have when she stayed here, and I have just had it all arranged to suit my purposes; so I suppose I cannot say that I should have the cottage as well, could I, now? That would be really selfish, would you not agree, Colonel?” she asked with that rather naive simplicity he had always recognised in her.

Colonel Brandon did not know what to say, except to ask if that meant she would not object to having Miss Williams and her child living at Barton Cottage. To which Mrs Dashwood, regarding him with a look of some bewilderment, said, “Why should I object? If Sir John, in his generosity wishes to offer the poor girl a place where she may live a quiet, decent life, away from all that commotion in London, where, if all I hear is true, a young woman without the protection of a husband or family is likely to be in grave danger, then why should I object? Indeed, Colonel, I shall be more than happy to do as Sir John has suggested and have the cottage made ready for them. Sir John writes that he expects to send them down here in a day or two. I will ensure that the cottage is ready and the housekeeper arranges for one of the maids to be made available to help them settle in.”

Overwhelmed by the kindness and generosity of both Sir John and Mrs Dashwood, the colonel thanked her profusely, and then made his next request. Sir John had suggested that Colonel Brandon could borrow a horse from the Barton Park stables and ride on to Delaford directly, instead of waiting for the coach on the following day. Mrs Dashwood urged him to partake of a meal first, but the colonel was determined to reach Delaford as soon as possible and make his peace with his wife. Sir John's words of warning had alerted him to a problem he had not anticipated and he wished to put it right. He insisted on leaving directly and Mrs Dashwood did not argue; she sent for the groom and asked him to take the colonel to the stables so he could choose a horse.

Not long afterward, Colonel Brandon, having thanked her again and again, rode away into the gathering darkness, while Mrs Dashwood was left feeling quite pleased that whatever problems had hitherto afflicted Marianne should soon be resolved.

***

On the day following, Elinor and Edward, having reviewed their wasted journey to Barton Park, were consoling themselves that they had tried their best to find some solution to the problem of Marianne and Willoughby. They could not agree with Mrs Dashwood's placid assessment of the situation, and were very aware of the hazards posed by gossip in the neighbourhood.

They were in the sitting room enjoying a cup of tea, when Elinor brought out Margaret's latest letter. It had been received that morning, and she had been awaiting Edward's return from his parish work to tell him the news. Margaret wrote that she would be arriving to spend Christmas with her sister and brother-in-law at the parsonage. Her letter was all about their last days in Provence and, particularly, the news of her friend Claire Jones's recent engagement to Mr Nicholas Wilcox. Margaret wrote:

They have known one another for years but have remained just friends for all of this time; I am convinced that it was the irresistible ambience of Provence in the autumn that finally pushed them into realising that they were in love. I have asked Claire many times when she knew, but she will only confess that when it did happen, she knew without a doubt that Nicholas, whom we all know to be a dear, good, kind man, was the man with whom she wanted to spend the rest of her life! They are so obviously happy together, one has to believe that they are genuinely deeply in love!

Elinor sighed, “Happy, fortunate Claire! Oh, if only Margaret would also discover that she loved a good, kind man and settle down too, I shouldn't worry so much,” she said, and her husband laughed at her. “My dear Elinor, I do not believe young Margaret will be rushed into settling down with a good, kind man, not unless she loves him and believes that he genuinely cares for her. I am convinced that your young sister was deeply affected by what occurred with Marianne and Mr Willoughby, even though she was but a child at the time. It must have been quite a shock to watch a young man, with all the accoutrements of a gentleman, court her beautiful sister all summer, then deceive her family and betray her, because he chose wealth and the trappings of affluent society above love,” he said. Elinor listened as he continued, “While she may not have said anything at the time, it is quite likely that Margaret's own attitude to young men was influenced by what happened that year; do you not agree, my dear?” he asked, and Elinor, who had not given the subject much thought, had to admit that it was possible.

“Margaret knew hardly any young men then. Willoughby was perhaps the first new male acquaintance she had made in a year, and no doubt his conduct that summer shocked her. It is possible that you are right, it may well have shaken her trust in young men, because she has never shown any interest in anyone these many years. She loves and respects you and is in awe of Colonel Brandon—chiefly on account of his age, which from her perspective must appear great—but she has rarely mentioned any other man, not until this holiday in Provence, when she has written quite often and with some degree of enthusiasm about Mr Daniel Brooke, who was their guide around the churches and abbeys of Provence. I wonder if he may turn out to be different, someone she could trust.”

So engrossed in their conversation had they been, that they had not heard the sound of an approaching horse on the path and it was only when the maid went to answer the doorbell that Elinor was alerted to the arrival of a visitor. Expecting it to be someone with a message from the manor house, Elinor did not rise from her chair until the maid came in with a note, hurriedly written in a shaky hand—it was from her mother. It said, without any preamble, that Colonel Brandon had been in an accident while riding back to Delaford last night. His horse had returned riderless to the stables, and a search party had gone out at dawn, finding the colonel some miles from Barton Park. He had suffered a broken leg and concussion and had been brought back to Barton Park, where he was being attended by the Middletons' doctor. He was still in a lot of pain and was asking for Marianne. Mrs Dashwood urged Elinor and Edward to go directly to the manor house and bring Marianne to Barton Park as soon as possible.

Elinor leapt up and showed the note to her husband, who was quite bewildered. They'd had no idea that Colonel Brandon was back in England, much less that he was at Barton Park and riding back to Delaford on an icy winter's night. “I wonder what he was doing riding around in the kind of weather we have been having this week. He must have been in a great hurry to get here,” said Edward, and Elinor was equally confused.

“I cannot understand how he came to be at Barton Park at all; I believe Sir John is still in London,” said Elinor, puzzled that Marianne had said nothing about her husband's return. “When we last spoke, she seemed certain that he would be back from Ireland earlier than originally expected, but I've heard nothing since.”

“Well, my dear, I suppose we had better go over to the manor house at once, if we are to start for Barton Park before dark. No doubt Marianne would wish to go prepared to spend some days there,” said Edward as they made ready to walk across to the manor house with the bad news.

Elinor was nervous; she could not predict how Marianne would respond to the news. Her sister had been behaving quite oddly of late, and she wondered again why neither she nor Edward had been told of Colonel Brandon's return from Ireland. Was it possible, she thought, that he had arrived home and they had quarrelled? Had the matter of Willoughby and Marianne's meeting him been raised? Was that why he had ridden off to Barton Park to consult his friend? Why had the colonel not come to them? He had always treated her as a trusted friend, and she knew he had a high regard for Edward. Myriad possibilities, none of them very logical or satisfactory, occurred to her as she hastened to get her warm cloak, scarf, and hat and give instructions to the nurse about the children, before leaving for the manor house.

***

Marianne had spent a wretched day waiting for either a message from her husband or a visit from Willoughby. The latter was, she had assumed, the more probable, since it was unlikely that Colonel Brandon would be able to conclude the business of Eliza Williams and her child expeditiously; she knew from past experience that Miss Williams was almost always strongly opposed to any scheme to remove her from her familiar surroundings. It would take the colonel two or three days at least to make suitable arrangements for her before returning to Delaford. She was vexed by the lack of any new message from him.

By early afternoon, she had grown even more disgruntled with Colonel Brandon and longed for Willoughby to arrive, as promised, with what she hoped would be a solution to her dilemma. She had not stopped to consider what he might propose or how she should respond, but believed that he, because he loved her, would put her interest first.

When she heard the carriage coming up the drive, she assumed immediately that it was Willoughby, and taking a quick look in the mirror that hung above the fireplace, she went out into the hall expecting to see him. Instead, she found that the maid had admitted Mr and Mrs Perceval and their elder daughter, Maria, and the expressions on their faces did not suggest that they had come with good news. Confused, Marianne even forgot her usually good manners and asked in a somewhat irritated voice, “Mr and Mrs Perceval, Maria, what on earth brings you here at this time?” It had occurred to her that if Willoughby were to arrive whilst they were there, she would be hard put to explain his presence. But the Percevals were clearly too troubled to be offended by her brusque question and Maria answered politely, “Mrs Brandon, we are sorry to intrude, but we have had some alarming news which we wished to communicate to you as soon as possible.”

Marianne's cheeks flushed as she realised her error and said, “Indeed? And what news is that? Please do come into the sitting room and tell me about it.” But the Percevals declined her invitation and Mr Perceval spoke quietly, “Mrs Brandon, we do not think it would be wise to discuss it here, if we were to be overheard by any of your staff, it might cause you embarrassment and we think it would be best if you came with us to our home, where we may speak privately. My younger daughter, Eugenie, who knows nothing of this matter, has gone with Miss Peabody to spend a few days with her sister in Somerset.”