Expectations of Happiness (5 page)

Delaford Manor was by any measure a valuable property, with several established tenancies, plenty of excellent pasture, and some of the finest woods in this part of the country. While these qualities were appreciated by those who knew and understood such matters, to the lady of the manor, Mrs Brandon, they were not immediately apparent.

For Marianne, Norland Park was the standard by which all estates were to be judged, and while admitting that Colonel Brandon's could be considered valuable when viewed in a commercial light, she found nothing here to compare with her memories of “dear Norland,” where she had spent all of her early life. It was the place she would always associate with the varied experiences of childhood, of growing up and discovering the pleasures of painting and poetry, of romantic music and literature.

The trees at Norland Park were, as she remembered them, more majestic, the sweeping grounds more extensive, the prospect of distant hills and downs more exquisitely appealing in the morning mist, than anything the West Country could offer. Together, they had provided the appropriate background for the exercise of her romantic imagination, and indeed, their appeal had only increased with the passing years.

As for the house, while Colonel Brandon's manor house was an edifice of solid construction in russet brick, with generous accommodation and many comfortably furnished rooms, it had neither the architectural style nor the nostalgic charm of Norland. There she had learned from childhood to admire and love every prospect and discover the fascination of each well-appointed room. Norland possessed for Marianne, as it did for her mother, Mrs Dashwood, a grace that no other place could match. Certainly Delaford, for all its advantages, could never surpass it.

She said nothing of this to anyone, especially not to her devoted husband, but these perceptions rankled as she tried to settle into life as the mistress of Delaford Manor—a role for which she had had little preparation.

Marianne had enjoyed immensely the feeling of being cherished and adored by a man who loved her dearly. Colonel Brandon had been there, strong, reliable, and loving, as she had emerged from the nightmare of Willoughby's betrayal, emotionally ravaged and physically exhausted after a near-fatal bout of fever. He had offered her his devotion and a comfortable marriage—a safe haven, which she had entered with gratitude and affection, though without the hopes of rapture such as she had imagined with Willoughby.

And in the years following their wedding, her husband continued to be loving, kind, and devoted to her, and there was not one thing she could complain of in his treatment of her or in the comfort and style of life afforded her at Delaford. Over the years, nothing very much had changed, which probably explained why Marianne, her beauty now fully recovered, who tended to view her life as though she were a character in a novel, had begun to feel rather bored with her role as the mistress of Delaford Manor.

Wearied by the unvarying pace of her existence, she had been wondering how she would occupy her time as summer ended and Colonel Brandon travelled to Ireland to attend to his estates there.

He had persuaded her on one occasion—quite early in their life together—to accompany him, but the cold and damp had not suited her delicate constitution at all; she had become unwell, and they had had to return early to England as a consequence. Much medication and several weeks at Lyme Regis, taking the sea air, had been needed to restore both her health and her spirits.

Thereafter, Colonel Brandon had always gone alone, reluctantly leaving Marianne to occupy herself at Delaford. It was usually a very pleasant time of year, with the harvests being gathered in and village fairs and festivals being organised around the county for Harvest Home. Aware that his wife did not take a great interest in these public activities, he had provided her with everything she could need to pursue all of her hobbies and did not expect that boredom would pose a problem for her.

In previous years, Mrs Dashwood would arrive to spend a few weeks at Delaford and keep her daughter company, affording Marianne some respite from the tedium of life alone at the manor; but this year, following the death of Lady Middleton, Mrs Dashwood was otherwise engaged.

Visiting the parsonage, Colonel Brandon drew Elinor's attention to the date of his departure for Ireland and asked especially that she attend on her sister as often as her parish duties would allow, since Mrs Dashwood was not available to visit. Elinor assured him she would do so with pleasure. She retained, as well as her sisterly affection, a strong sense of family responsibility toward Marianne.

When Elinor had visited her sister after the funeral of Lady Middleton, she had noticed that she was not in good spirits and had tried to discover the reason for it, but Marianne had successfully avoided answering any questions, save in the most superficial way. She had confessed that she had grown tired of reading and had begun writing a diary. “I intend to record everything I do and feel each day, for at least a year, after which I shall read it over and decide if it is worthwhile to continue the exercise,” she had declared, causing Elinor to smile and say, “Indeed? That should keep you busy,” only to have her sister interrupt abruptly, “I wonder you should say that, Elinor, you must know how little I have to do each day that is of any real interest to me; I should be surprised if I could fill half a page.”

Following this odd exchange, Elinor had come away believing her young sister was bored, but she had as yet no appreciation of the depth of her discontent. Sometime later, however, after the colonel had left for Ireland, Elinor visited her sister again, taking with her a letter from their mother in which she declared her resolve to remain at Barton Park for a further month at least, attending upon the ailing Mrs Jennings and assisting her cousin, Sir John Middleton, with his household.

I really feel it is not possible for me to leave at this time, when Mrs Jennings is still quite unable to even contemplate travelling alone to London or Cleveland. Indeed, it would appear that the Palmers are not at Cleveland, having decided to take their summer holiday at Ramsgate this year. That would mean Mrs Jennings would be quite alone, and I cannot imagine what she would do all day.

—Mrs Dashwood wrote.

As for my poor cousin, Sir John, he seems quite unable to decide on how anything is to be organised in the household. I understand Lady Middleton was a most meticulous mistress. The housekeeper relies almost entirely on me for instructions regarding provisions and menus, and I have to wonder how they will get on without me. One must hope they are all honest and will not take advantage of my poor cousin.

Elinor was astonished that Mrs Dashwood could be relied upon to organise an establishment the size and status of Barton Park, but she was even more disconcerted by the news that her mother appeared to have no plans to join them at Delaford as she had hoped. She was concerned too that Marianne would be exceedingly disappointed at the news; Marianne was much closer to her mother than were either Elinor or Margaret. Indeed, so alike were they in manner and disposition, they could, but for the difference in their ages, have been sisters.

Elinor had expected that Mrs Dashwood would return within the month, which seemed now to be very unlikely, and she, worried that Marianne would resent her mother's absence, had a suggestion. “I know you miss Mama a great deal, my dear, so Edward and I wondered if you would like to join us when we travel to Weymouth for a fortnight. It should be a pleasant change; Edward is looking forward to meeting with a colleague who was at Oxford with him, which will give us time to see something of the town and the surrounding country. We hope to stay outside the town; our friends Dr and Mrs King have recommended a small hotel and they say there are many historic sites within easy distance…”

Elinor's enthusiastic recital of prospective pleasures was interrupted when Marianne said quietly, “That is kind of you, Elinor, and I have no doubt Weymouth will have many delights, but I'm afraid I shall not be free to join your party. I shall be busy entertaining Mr and Mrs Robert Ferrars, who have plans to visit friends in Dawlish and expect to spend a few days with me at Delaford.”

Elinor was speechless for several minutes. Robert Ferrars, her brother-in-law, had married Lucy Steele, a young woman whose deception of both Elinor and Edward had been quite unpardonable. Lucy had become secretly engaged to a young Edward Ferrars and had pretended to be deeply in love with him for many years, before she had abruptly thrown him over for his brother, Robert, for blatantly mercenary reasons.

All this was well known to Marianne, yet it appeared she had invited the couple—for whom none of them had any regard—without so much as a word to Elinor. When she could speak, she asked, “And when did this come about?” Marianne replied, “Not very long ago; I had a note from Lucy telling me of their plans to visit us en route to Dawlish, and I invited them to spend a few days at Delaford. I knew Colonel Brandon would be in Ireland and hoped they might be company for me.”

Elinor was shocked. “Company for you? Marianne, surely you cannot be serious? Since when have you sought the company of Robert and Lucy?” She knew—from her own experience of conversations with Lucy and Robert and from everything that Marianne had said in the past of their superficiality, their complete lack of taste and judgment, except in ensuring their own advancement over all else—that they were the last people in whose company her sister would take any pleasure.

But Marianne bridled at the suggestion and claimed in her defence that she was certain their company would afford her greater pleasure than being alone at Delaford for several weeks.

“It is all very well for you, Elinor; Edward is there at your side every day, and you engage with a dozen different groups of people in your parish work—you do not lack company,” Marianne claimed. “My situation is entirely different. I must find company where I can, and besides, Robert is Edward's brother—I cannot see that it is such a dreadful imposition upon you if I invite them to Delaford. When I did, Lucy wrote almost at once to say they would be delighted—they have not visited in two years or more. I believe they expect to call on Edward and you at the parsonage, too; they are sure to be disappointed to find you gone away to Weymouth.”

Astonished by her insouciance, Elinor replied, “I doubt their disappointment will be long lived, Marianne; you cannot have forgotten Lucy's past behaviour to both Edward and me, surely. You may well find them relieved to discover that we are away. I confess, for my part, I am rather glad to be missing them.”

Marianne's lighthearted response confounded her sister. “Oh, Elinor, surely it's a long time ago now. I would have thought that you would be feeling quite charitable towards Lucy for having jilted Edward; after all, it allowed him to come back to you with honour!”

This remark so discomposed Elinor, she rose, preparing to leave, fighting back tears. She could not comprehend Marianne's attitude and felt quite unable to deal with the situation. It was not often that Elinor, whose ability to govern her feelings had stood her in good stead for most of her life, had faced such a circumstance. There had been other occasions when Marianne's words had wounded her feelings, but that had been many years ago, when she'd had the excuse of temporary derangement following Willoughby's cruel conduct. Then, they had all treated Marianne with indulgence and tender concern, excusing any and every
faux pas
as a consequence of her misery. But surely, Elinor thought, there was nothing similar now that would mitigate such an unfeeling remark.

Seeing Elinor's discomposure, Marianne rose too and grasped her hand, as if she wished to apologise, but even as she did so, she smiled and seemed not to realise how deeply her remark had hurt her sister. She attempted to make light of it, claiming she had spoken in jest, but clearly Elinor was not comforted and left soon afterward.

Walking home in a light drizzle that added to her discomfort, she could not help the tears that flooded her eyes. Marianne may have forgotten, but Elinor could not. The shabby episode of Lucy and Robert's behaviour, in which they had deliberately deceived both Edward and herself while courting the favour of Mrs Ferrars by assiduous flattery, had left her feeling a degree of generic shame for those members of her sex for whom self-interest was the sole motivator. That Edward's exemplary character counted for less with his mother than the hypocrisy of his selfish brother and his duplicitous wife had left her feeling sore. But worse now to learn that all that meant nothing to Marianne, with whom she had shared her feelings at the time. It was, for Elinor, an unconscionable betrayal by a sister she loved.

When she reached the parsonage, she was further disconcerted to find Edward waiting for her in the sitting room. She had hoped to have some time alone to regain her composure, but it was not to be. She hurried in, greeting him quickly, putting down her things in the hall, and proceeded directly upstairs to change out of her damp shoes and coat and compose herself, before asking for afternoon tea to be served. Returning to the sitting room, she found her husband regarding her with some concern.

“Elinor dearest, you look so worried, I can see you are troubled about something. What is it, my dear? Is Marianne unwell?” he asked with the kind of warm sympathy that she valued so much, yet she was determined that he would not be told of the true cause of her distress. Her sister's remarks would hurt him almost as much as they had wounded her. Instead, she informed him that Marianne was expecting visitors at Delaford and would not be able to accompany them on their visit to Weymouth.

“Is that all?” he said, smiling, as the tea tray was brought in and placed upon the table. “Well, of course I am sorry your sister cannot join us, and I know that is disappointing, but it is unlikely to spoil our enjoyment. We should have plenty to occupy our time. I met Dr King in the village this morning, and he has told me of two more places that are worth visiting. I understand Milton Abbey is not to be missed; it was a famous Benedictine monastery until the dissolution under Henry the Eighth, he says, and he also recommends the walk along the cliffs from Weymouth to the village of Osmington. They took the walk last year, and he claims it affords some remarkable views of the coast.” Clearly Edward believed that the delights of Weymouth would soon compensate for Marianne's absence.