Expectations of Happiness (26 page)

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The return of Claire Jones and Mr Wilcox a few days later provided Margaret with an opportunity to obtain her friend's advice before setting out for the offices of Fielding and Armitage. Claire, who had alternately encouraged her to submit her work and berated her for not doing so, was delighted when she read the publisher's letter.

“You will accept, of course?” she said, and when Margaret nodded, she assured her that twenty pounds was a very reasonable sum, considering that many publishers would not even contemplate publication of a lady's work unless it was specifically for the edification of young wives or the education of small children. “They appear to believe that we are incapable of mature thought and feeling,” Claire grumbled, “and that our imagination is limited to domestic and childish matters.” Margaret said she hoped that Mr Armitage had not been misled by the title of her manuscript into thinking it was a children's story, because if he had, he was in for a big surprise. Claire urged her not to be intimidated by Mr Armitage. “He is probably a fusty old fellow, with a large moustache, who will try to overwhelm you with facts and figures; just let him see you are not afraid of him. If they have offered you twenty pounds, it is because they know they can make a profit with your work,” she advised.

Despite some misgivings, Margaret's frame of mind, as she went to meet Mr Armitage, was optimistic. Fielding and Armitage were an old firm of modest but well-regarded publishers situated in the main street between the offices of a solicitor and the popular tea shop on the corner. Her Mr Armitage turned out to be the son of one of the partners, responsible mainly for what might be termed the lighter side of the publishers' list. Mr Samuel Fielding and his partner Nathaniel Armitage ran the business and handled the weightier tomes, which consisted of heroic translations from the Greek and Latin classics, some academic and philosophical treatises, and similar momentous works.

When Margaret walked in through the glass front doors, a supercilious-looking young man appeared and asked whether it was Mr Nathaniel or Mr Mark Armitage she wished to see. Since she was unable to say, she had to take out her letter and show it to the gentleman, who said in a patronising tone, “Ah, that would be Mr Mark Armitage, come this way.” Margaret followed him down a long corridor and was shown into a tiny office at the back of the building, where, behind a huge desk, piled high with bundles of paper tied up with string, sat a fresh-faced young man, who rose to greet her with the brightest smile she had seen in years. He was dressed in a rather informal fashion, sporting a floppy cravat tied in the style affected by many writers and artists of the day, and when he spoke, his voice was particularly pleasing. As for his words, they were music to her ears.

“Miss Dashwood? I am delighted to meet you and even more delighted that you have agreed to accept our offer for your charming manuscript,” he said, and Margaret thought she had never met such an agreeable young man. He was certainly a pleasant change from the superior sort of person who had met her at the door.

When they were seated, he began by asking her about Sussex, where he had never been, inviting her to tell him of its delights, adding that he had enjoyed very much her account of life at Norland Park. He then proceeded to explain the terms under which they would publish her book. She asked a few pertinent questions about payments, which he answered precisely, they signed a couple of documents, witnessed by his clerk, and their business was settled. Thinking they were done, Margaret rose to leave, but was surprised that Mr Armitage seemed keen to meet again to discuss the actual design and production of her book. She had not expected to receive this degree of attention and agreed to return on another occasion; however, she said, she would soon begin work at her school and might not be free to see him for a while.

At this, he looked disappointed and said, “Miss Dashwood, if it is too inconvenient for you to come to us, I could arrange to meet you at a place and time convenient to you,” which Margaret found quite astonishing. She did not know quite how to deal with this unexpected suggestion and used the excuse that she could not make an appointment immediately, since it would depend on her working hours at the school, whereupon he wanted to be told what subjects she taught. Having satisfied his curiosity, Margaret promised to advise him when and where she could meet him. He bowed and agreed, promising to bring her their plans for the publication as soon as they were ready. He then accompanied her up the long corridor to the front door and out into the street, where he insisted on waiting until a vehicle arrived to convey her, handed her in, and closed the door, before waving her on with the cheeriest of smiles.

It was an altogether unusual encounter for Margaret. Far from being a fusty old publisher with a great moustache, who would try to intimidate her, young Mr Armitage had proved a very pleasant surprise. Never before had she met such a genuinely cheerful young man.

Returning home in time for tea, she found a letter from Elinor, with news of Colonel Brandon. She wrote:

Mama writes to say that Doctor Richards is very pleased with Colonel Brandon's recovery; his leg is healing very well and he is in excellent spirits and so, I believe, is Sir John Middleton, who is exceedingly happy to have both the colonel and Marianne for company. Mama says it is like old times again: Marianne sings or reads to them after dinner, and Sir John tells everyone he meets how fortunate he is to have such good relations and friends around him.

Mama says that Colonel Brandon and Marianne plan to go to Europe in the spring, which will be very good timing indeed, because the most recent gossip from Mrs Palmer is that Willoughby's wife's application for a divorce is expected to come up for hearing before the Consistory Courts at about the same time and will no doubt be a subject of much gossip. His wife's parents are influential in church circles, we are to understand, which should favour her cause. I am told his exposure here has meant that he has no friends left in this part of the country. My friend Mrs Helen King has also had some similar information from his cousins, the Clifts, who are far from pleased with his recent behaviour, so it does appear that he is about to reap the whirlwind both socially and financially. There is even talk of Combe Magna being put up for sale!

My dear Margaret, we must be very thankful that Marianne was saved, by the merest chance, from being drawn back into his nasty web. It would have been a disaster from whose consequences none of us would have been spared.

Margaret took her letter up to her room and re-read it slowly. She was relieved too, although she had not been as fearful as her elder sister. She had known before Elinor of Marianne's meetings with Willoughby, and while she'd had concerns about her sister's propensity for self-delusion, she had been far less certain that Willoughby had it in him to do more than indulge in the ephemeral pleasures of dalliance with her. He was no Casanova, she had decided. Writing in her notebook, Margaret was quite candid in her estimation of both.

Now that it has come out that he kept a tawdry mistress, who followed him around the country, it seems even more certain that Marianne was in greater danger of doing her marriage harm by her own precipitate behaviour, than being led down the primrose path to perdition by Willoughby. I cannot see him as some Regency rake—more a petty deceiver of gullible young women, like poor Eliza Williams and our foolish Marianne, who are taken in by his false charm. Had Marianne been once again deceived into trusting him, the person most injured by her conduct would have been Colonel Brandon, and we must indeed be thankful that it did not eventuate. There would have been a tragedy and much undeserved suffering.

Margaret was pondering albeit in a whimsical manner, whether it might not make an interesting plot for a novella—a cautionary tale of romance and intrigue that might interest Mr Armitage—when Mrs Muggle struggled up the steep stairs to advise that a gentleman was at the door asking for her. “Who is it, Mrs Muggle?” she asked in a whisper; Margaret was not in a mood to meet strangers. Mrs Muggle did not know. “He did not say, miss, he's very tall and dark, looks foreign… He has a beard…”

She did not get much further, for Margaret had leapt out of her chair and raced down the stairs and into the arms of Daniel Brooke, who was still standing in the open doorway with a brisk breeze blowing through the hall. Breaking out of his embrace, she shut the door, dragged him into the parlour, and stoked up the fire. “You're freezing, how long have you been standing out in the cold?” she asked and was appalled to learn that he'd been walking up and down the street for the best part of an hour, trying to decide whether he should call at the cottage, wondering if she would be alone or whether Miss Jones would be home and his sudden appearance might be an embarrassment to her.

Margaret went to the kitchen to get a pot of tea, which she brought in and dispensed, lacing it with brandy, insisting that he drink it before she would let him speak another word. She was shocked to see how gaunt he looked, and the beard made him seem older and even more serious than before. It was clear to her that he had endured a great deal of anguish.

As he finished the tea, she re-filled his cup and asked, “Why did you not send word that you were back in England?” and he, cradling the cup between his palms to warm them, replied, “I did, when we reached Dover. I had to travel overland to Calais and cross the channel on the packet; I could not get a place on the boat at Marseilles. I was fortunate enough to meet a colleague, who was travelling direct to Oxford and offered me a seat in his vehicle. We arrived yesterday; my letter is probably still on its way to you.”

When Daniel had finished his second cup of tea, she was eager for news, but afraid to ask. Seeing the unspoken question in her eyes, he said quietly, “Helène is very weak; they are not confident that she can return to the convent in Provence. She will probably remain in Nice, but they have promised to send me word if she worsens. When they do, I shall have to go at once.” His voice was strained, as though it hurt to speak, and she felt tears sting her eyes.

“Of course, I understand,” she said softly. “And are you staying at the college?” she asked. He replied, “Just for a day or two, but I am going to the Cotswolds and I think I will stay there until the new term begins. I have shipped a lot of my things and need to arrange for their collection and storage when they arrive.” He was silent for a moment, then his voice quickened suddenly and he asked, “Margaret, would you like to come down to the cottage for a few days? I should like very much for you to see it. It is peaceful and quiet, I enjoy working there… Perhaps you might like to bring some of your work along, too. Have you started your new school term?”

Before she could give him an answer, Mrs Muggle knocked and put her head round the door; it was time for her to leave and she had to be paid. Margaret went out of the room and took some time paying Mrs Muggle and shutting the front door.

When she returned, Daniel was standing beside the fire. It was no use at all to deny how much they had needed one another; she went to him and was enfolded in his arms and held as though he never wanted to release her. For herself, she wished he never would let her go. When he spoke, his words were unequivocal. “You know how dearly I love you, Margaret, so you must also know that I will do nothing to offend you, I give you my word. But I do long to have you with me, to hear you talk and laugh and see you smile, as you did in Provence, where you brought me new energy and spirit, when I was feeling drained of life and hope. I have missed you these long weeks and longed for your company; will you come with me?”

She waited only to catch her breath before saying, “Of course; when do you wish to go?” and was delighted to hear him say, “Tomorrow, if that suits.” When she smiled and nodded, he asked, “What about your friend Miss Jones? What will you tell her?” Margaret replied, “Claire and Nicholas are planning to visit her parents in Wales, she will not worry if I say I have gone to visit a friend in the Cotswolds for a few days.”

A thought struck her and she asked, “Do either of them know of your cottage?” and his answer fixed her resolve. “No, nobody does but my good friend Francis Grantley. He spent a week there on some kind of retreat, working on a theological dissertation, and said it had helped him clear his mind and work wonderfully well.”

“Well, perhaps it will help me work better too, I have been distracted somewhat of late,” said Margaret with a coy smile, whereupon he pretended to be disappointed and asked if she would have some time to spare for him. She matched the lightness of his tone with her own response, “I may, if I am permitted to love you; am I?”

“Of course, did you doubt it?” he replied and she asked in a voice somewhat more serious than he was accustomed to from her, “You do not reproach me then for saying it, Daniel?” This time he was surprised and she feared she may have hurt his feelings when he said, “Reproach you? Why, my dear Margaret, do you take me for a hypocrite that I, loving you as I do, should reproach you for your honesty?” The expression in his eyes and the tone of his voice told her she had hurt him, and relenting at once, she apologised and embraced him, reassuring him with such warmth as surprised them both. “I could never do that Daniel, not when you have been so honest with me. But I do want you to know that my feelings are unchanged.”

Never having been in love before, nor knowing how deeply such emotions could affect her, Margaret was ill-equipped to feign more or less than she actually felt, and Daniel understood and loved her for it. Clearly she had no wish to hide her feelings and yet he had resolved never to take advantage of the artless honesty that characterised her dealings with him and almost everyone she met. She had a freshness combined with clear-sighted intelligence that had intrigued him when they first met in France; meeting her again, he knew it was one reason he loved her so well.