Expectations of Happiness (24 page)

Elinor was delighted. “Marianne would love that; she has never travelled beyond the south of England,” she said.

“Well, Brandon claims he has already promised Marianne that they would travel abroad in the spring, by which time Willoughby will have been quite forgotten,” said Edward confidently.

Elinor had seen the warmth of the colonel's affection for his wife when they had gone to his room earlier that day and watched Marianne smile when he'd reached for her hand and kissed it as she sat down to read to him. She hoped her sister's romantic heart, having twice learned its lesson chasing spurious passion, would find satisfaction in the kind of generous affection that a man with Colonel Brandon's genuinely good heart could give her.

***

They were preparing to leave on the following morning when Sir John Middleton arrived with the surgeon from London. Having greeted them all with great affection, he went directly upstairs to see his friend. He found the colonel sitting up in bed with his wife in attendance and declared that he was mighty pleased to see him in one piece.

After the surgeon had examined the colonel's injuries and declared that he was clearly on the road to recovery, Sir John said his piece. “You must stay here as long as you need to make a full recovery, Brandon. Indeed, I should like you to spend Christmas, which is almost upon us, at Barton Park, if that is agreeable to you and Marianne. I am sure the children will enjoy it better if there are lots of guests around, seeing it's their first time without their dear mama; what do you say?” and when Colonel Brandon looked at his wife, he added, “Marianne won't mind—she'll have nothing to do but look after your comfort, and she will have her mama here, too. What more could you ask, eh?”

When the couple smiled and said no more, he assumed that they had accepted his invitation, and went directly down to inform Mrs Dashwood of his plan. There was nothing Sir John disliked more than being bored and alone, and nothing pleased him more than having friends and good company around him. Having the Brandons with them at Christmas would be a good start.

Satisfied that matters at Barton Park were settling down well, even as the level of noise rose with the arrival of the master, Edward and Elinor felt able to say their farewells and return to the quiet and peace of their home at the parsonage at Delaford and their two boys, who had missed them very much. Their Christmas would be quieter but no less happy; they were looking forward to Margaret's arrival very soon.

***

The sleet and rain gave way to snow as Christmas approached, and with it came a little wintry sunshine. Christmas at the parsonage was a traditional one with preparations afoot for a customary family dinner. The goose had been plucked, the ham cooked, and the puddings boiled well in time, and the house was adorned with garlands of holly, while at the church, the choir practised relentlessly for their biggest annual performance. Edward, who was not particularly musical, had surrendered the choice of hymns and carols to his wife and the verger, who had chosen well; none were too difficult for the choir nor too esoteric for the congregation to sing with the usual degree of enthusiasm.

Into the midst of these preparations, Margaret arrived, laden with presents for them all and plenty of stories about her sojourn in France and the very special delights of Provence. She was welcomed with warm affection by both Edward and Elinor and then hugged again and again by their two sons, John and Harry, for whom she had brought many special treats.

Having left her friends Claire Jones and Nicholas Wilcox to spend Christmas together, Margaret was glad indeed of the familial warmth and kindness that surrounded her in her sister's home; it took away some of the chill of loneliness she had endured since being back in England, leaving Daniel Brooke behind in France.

In the weeks since her return, she'd written him two letters and received one; they had all crossed in the post, which meant nothing they wrote related to anything they had written to one another before. Her first had been for the most part an expression of thanks for all he had done and the time he had spent helping her learn and love the delights of Provence; her second had been short and simply said how much she missed him and how she hoped to see him again, soon.

When his had arrived a few days later, she had hoped it would be a response, but he had not received hers, so it was a somewhat disconnected series of paragraphs, about one thing and another, of which the line that meant most to her was a sentence at the end recalling with pleasure their journey to the abbey at Le Lac du Sainte Germaine in the mountains. If he remembered it so well, she thought, he must also remember what they had said to each other. It was very small consolation, but it was all she had. He had concluded by wishing her a blessed and peaceful Christmas with her family, and Margaret had read and re-read it and carried it around in her pocket like a talisman.

On Christmas Eve, as Edward went to the church to prepare for the Christmas vigil, Margaret sought out her sister. Elinor was wrapping up the presents for her servants and preparing hampers of food for their families. She carried on with her work, chatting happily, regaling her sister with the tale of Colonel Brandon's accident and the arrival of Miss Williams and her daughter to stay at Barton Cottage. “It is typical of Sir John, of course; Mama says he had simply told Colonel Brandon that Eliza and her child would be safer in the country and offered them the cottage. Do you not think that is very generous of him?” she asked, and Margaret had to agree that it certainly was.

Seeing her sister busy, contented, and obviously happy in her home, Margaret could not help the little pinpricks of envy that assailed her. Why, she wondered, had she not been able to fall in love as Elinor had done with a man who was free to love and marry her? Why was her love to be thwarted by cruel circumstances neither she nor Daniel could have foreseen or controlled? With these thoughts came uncharacteristic tears, and Elinor, seeing them, asked in some alarm, “Why, Margaret, my dear, whatever is the matter? Have I said something to upset you?” at which the tears fell faster and Margaret had to retreat to her room, where Elinor followed her soon afterward, bringing with her a most welcome cup of tea.

Elinor had sensed not long after her sister's arrival that all was not well. Even though Margaret had appeared cheerful and ready to participate in their celebrations with her usual enthusiasm, her sister had noted a certain lack of
joie de vivre
. She had put it down initially to weariness after the journey in a vehicle that Margaret had declared was full to overflowing with people and their animals! “I counted three geese, two ducks, and a sack of rabbits—I could not say how many,” she had told them, “all travelling happily, unaware that they were soon to be a part of someone's Christmas dinner.”

But this morning, she had been rather pensive at breakfast and now this. Elinor was concerned. Margaret was the most stable member of her family; she was dependable, warmhearted, and for the most part predictable in a way that Marianne had never been. To find her in tears was exceedingly discomposing, and Elinor hoped to discover what had caused it. She had noted that no mention had been made of Daniel Brooke and wondered if there had been a falling-out, perhaps? She waited until Margaret had finished her tea and asked, “What is it, my love? Is it about Mr Daniel Brooke?” and that brought on a veritable flood.

It was a random question, asked only because Elinor could think of no other person who could have been the cause of her tears. From Margaret's letters Elinor had gathered that Mr Daniel Brooke had become quite important to her sister; she wrote of him in special terms, admired his learning and his great knowledge of the history of France, and marvelled at his willingness to spend time with them guiding them through so many places, which, without him, they would never have appreciated fully. She had written of his kindness and his humour and other estimable qualities besides, all of which had ensured that Elinor regarded him as a special person for whom Margaret had developed feelings of gratitude and affection. And yet, in the last two days since her arrival, though she spoke often of Claire Jones and her engagement to Mr Wilcox, she had said nothing about Daniel Brooke.

Fearing that their friendship may have ended, Elinor asked, “We had hoped to meet him one day; did he not return to England with the rest of your party?” Margaret shook her head violently and blew her nose before replying, “He did not, and I do not know when he will.”

“But why?” asked Elinor and was stunned into silence when she replied, “Because he has stayed on in Nice, where his wife is in the care of an order of nursing nuns. She is dying of some dreaded disease—tuberculosis, I think—and he will not leave her there alone.”

Margaret saw her sister's face drain of colour, her eyes fill with tears as she put a hand to her mouth as though to stop herself from crying out. It was as if she was thinking, “Not another case of deception… not another false lover,” and Margaret, reading her thoughts, cried out, “No, Elinor, you must not think that—he did not deceive me, he told me himself of the true circumstances of his life. He is not to blame, I am. Even after I knew, it did not stop me falling in love with the only man for whom I have ever felt anything deeper than passing friendliness.”

Silently, Elinor put her arms around her sister and held her close. “My darling girl, I am sorry. And yet, I am glad too that you can say that he did not deceive you, for there is nothing that brings greater anguish, as we know with Marianne. I am grateful that you have been spared that, at least.” Then looking at her, she asked, “What will you do?”

Margaret took a little time to answer, and spoke softly when she did, not because she was unsure of her response, but because she wished to spare her sister's feelings. “I am not entirely certain when he will return, to England, but whenever he does, probably in the new year when he must return to his college at Oxford, I shall go to him. He has suffered much, Elinor, and needs some comfort. He knows how I feel; I hope he will let me comfort him.”

Elinor did not respond as Margaret had expected; she was shaken, certainly, but she expressed no outrage. Instead she asked, “Are you quite sure Margaret?” and Margaret replied with a degree of certainly that surprised her sister, “Indeed I am. Ever since he told me—and he did so with the clearest objective of warning me not to fall in love with him—ever since then, I have known that I must go to him. I have never felt so deeply nor cared so well for any person before, apart from my own family, and knowing how much he has suffered, I must go to him.”

Seeing her determination, Elinor, rather than censure or dissuade, asked a practical question, “Where will you stay?”

“He has a cottage in the Cotswolds,” Margaret said simply, as though that was all that mattered, and in truth it was, for apart from her determination to go to Daniel when he returned to England, she had made no other plans. It was plain, Elinor thought, that her young sister's feelings were so deeply engaged, she had paid no attention to any other consideration. The practical realities of life in the community appeared to have faded into insignificance.

Elinor's eyes were full of sympathy, but her voice was grave as she strove to counsel her. “You do know it will not be easy, Margaret; there will be those who will gossip and others who will condemn you, once it is known. Do you think you are prepared for that?” Margaret's usually gentle face was stern as she responded, “I am. I have no fear of the censure those others, who mean nothing to me, may bring against me. My only fear is that he, in some noble act of renunciation, will send me away and try to endure this pain alone, as he has done for years already. I fear he will say that I must not sacrifice myself to care for him.” Elinor, understanding her feelings yet dreading the consequences of her sister's impending actions, held her hands but could find no words to console her. She wondered how well prepared Margaret was for the kind of condemnation she would surely face in a small rural community.

But it seemed that Margaret was not seeking consolation; her mind was made up, she had decided upon her course of action and was ready to face the consequences. She spoke reasonably and without emotion. “Elinor, I cannot ask you not to tell Edward, I know you have no secrets from him; but please do not say anything to Mama or Marianne. It would kill me to have them ask me questions and give me the benefit of their opinions. I will tell you my plans and send you word of where I am, when the time comes.”

The sisters clung together, and when they broke apart, Margaret said, “Thank you for not preaching at me, Elinor, or berating me for what I plan to do. It would not have changed my mind, I love him too much, but it would break my heart to have you turn against me.”

Elinor kissed her cheek and said, “I could never turn against you, you know that. But I will admit that I am very afraid of what you may have to face. Please promise me that you will think very carefully before you take such a step. I should hate to see you throw away all you have achieved from study and hard work—you, with all your life ahead of you, more than Marianne or myself, have much to lose.”

Margaret promised and thanked her sister again; but Elinor could not but feel a deep anxiety for her. Spirited and intelligent, Margaret had been the one who combined both good sense and a gentle sensibility; Elinor would pray that it was not all to be squandered on a passionate affair. Without the advantage of knowing Daniel Brooke, she could not judge if Margaret's love would bring her happiness or misery.

The sound of carol singers at the gate took them to the window, and seeing the children with their lanterns and candles, the sisters went downstairs together to greet them. Harry and John ran out to join them, and the housekeeper brought out a basket of goodies for the singers, who crowded into the hall, glad of the warmth and the welcome.