Expectations of Happiness (7 page)

They are a large, engaging family of six or seven, with two young girls and a boy still at home, while two older sons are in the navy and their eldest girl is married and settled in Somersetshire. Mr Perceval is a retired ship's captain who took up a business as a chandler and is said to have made his money victualling the navy during the wars with France. Mrs Perceval is a quiet woman with a partiality for odd-looking lace caps. However, the Percevals are all very cheerful and hospitable and very polite to me at all times.

I am to accompany them on a visit to Somerset next Saturday; I have heard so much of the beauty of Somerset—I look forward to seeing it.

Some days later, she had written in glowing terms of their visit to Somerset.

Our journey to Somerset was unforgettable. I did recall some of what I had been told—it was many years ago, but as we drove through the lovely landscape, I remembered it all as one does a dream. Oh why is Dorset so dull, so lacking in features that inspire me, compared to this enchanting county?

We drove first through acres of farmland and orchard, with wildflowers in profusion everywhere, and stopped to climb a little hill overlooking a valley through which flowed one of the many rivers of Somerset. The Percevals' daughter lives in the peaceful little town of Langport, on the east bank of one such river; her husband is the rector there of a very old church. The Rectory overlooks the river and has a view of the distant hills. What a joy it must be to awaken to such a prospect each morning!

They welcomed us and treated us to luncheon, after which Robert insisted that we must drive forth and take a look at Exmoor—which was rather chilling, being all dark and mysterious. The Percevals were all for staying on and exploring, but Lucy and Robert thought that was not a good idea. Lucy claimed her shoes were not suitable for exploring Exmoor, and we had to agree, for they did look rather too dainty for walking on the moor.

The Perceval girls have vowed to go back again—the mystery of the moor has gripped their imagination, as it has mine. I have read a great deal about the moors and their appeal to poetic souls, but have never actually walked upon one before. It could be a very exciting experience.

On our return to Delaford, Robert went out again with friends, leaving Lucy and me together for the evening, and she took the opportunity to ask if I had heard anything of Mr Willoughby in the last year or two. She was careful to beg my pardon for asking first, but said she thought I must have heard that he was at present living at his place in Somerset. When I looked surprised, even as I tried not to appear interested, she revealed that it was now generally known in town that Willoughby and his wife, Sophia, lived mostly apart. When she was in London, he moved to the country and vice versa. I did not wish to appear curious, but I had to ask if that meant that she came down to Somerset when he went up to London, but Lucy said, “Oh no, she has an extensive property in Essex, which she inherited from her mother, and that is her family home.”

I confess I did not wish to ask any more questions, but Lucy, probably because she has so little to offer as conversation, continued with various bits of information. It appears Mrs Smith, his aunt, died, but Willoughby did not inherit all of her estate because she never forgave him for his misdemeanours in the matter of Eliza Williams, and Lucy says Willoughby still believes it was Colonel Brandon who advised his aunt of that episode in his past.

When she said this, I was so astonished I protested that it could not be true—it cannot have been my husband—but Lucy herself is convinced it was—she claims that Lady Middleton told her Colonel Brandon was so incensed when he discovered Eliza and her child had been abandoned by Willoughby, he wrote to Mrs Smith apprising her of the circumstances. Lucy declares that Lady Middleton had it from her mother, Mrs Jennings, who was very close to Colonel Brandon.

And thereby hangs a tale…

End of Part One

Autumn 1819

Margaret Dashwood and her friend Claire Jones had planned to leave for their holiday in Europe before the end of summer; but, as often happens with the best-laid plans, their departure was delayed by the necessities of business, when Miss Jones's employer discovered an urgent assignment that could not be postponed. However, the setback did allow Margaret a fortnight in which she could visit her mother and sisters before leaving for France and acquaint them with her plans.

Margaret had pleasanter memories of Devonshire than Marianne; having spent the latter part of her childhood there, she took much pleasure in visiting and looked forward to seeing the park and woods again. She had intended to stay with her mother at Barton Cottage, but finding her still in charge of the household at Barton Park, accepted Sir John Middleton's invitation to stay at the manor house.

Mrs Dashwood was delighted to see her youngest daughter looking so well, and so was Sir John, who was sufficiently recovered from his wife's death to tease Margaret at dinner about a certain gentleman, who had missed her when he was down at Barton Park some weeks ago. When Margaret pretended not to know whom he meant, Sir John was supported by her mother.

“Sir John means Mr Andrew Barton, my dear; he was here for dear Lady Middleton's funeral and stayed on for a few days to call on friends in the neighbourhood. He particularly asked after you and was disappointed to learn that you had been down, but had to return to Oxford to keep an important appointment,” explained Mrs Dashwood, trying tactfully to indicate that she had provided her daughter with a plausible excuse. Margaret looked at her mother and nodded gratefully, appreciating her help, but it appeared that Sir John and Mrs Jennings were not to be satisfied so easily.

The latter was determined to discover what had caused Margaret to leave before the funeral. “Come now, Miss Margaret, what was this important appointment, hmmm? It cannot have been work surely; was it another beau?” she quizzed, fixing Margaret with her penetrating gaze, and when Margaret said quite spiritedly, “It most certainly was not, Mrs Jennings, I assure you,” her son-in-law chimed in, “I'm very glad to hear it, Miss Margaret, because if that were the case, poor Barton would be quite desolated.” He then looked directly at Margaret and declared, “You must know the young fellow is hopelessly in love with you. He has told me, more than once since you met last December, that he has not met another young lady who has so enchanted him, and I assure you he is quite serious; he means to propose to you at the earliest opportunity. Considering that he can have the pick of the young ladies in London, that is a very particular compliment, wouldn't you agree? I have told your mama that he is an excellent match for you, if you will have him; he has at least five thousand a year and two fine houses in London and Bath, with the prospect of a share in a great estate in the north of England when his father dies, which may not be long, considering he is almost eighty and suffers badly from the gout and a few other ailments besides.”

As Margaret listened, Mrs Dashwood observed her daughter, hoping to see some flicker of interest on her countenance, and Mrs Jennings sat literally open mouthed, agog for some response. But, to their general disappointment, she shook her head. “I am sorry, Sir John, I have no wish to marry Mr Barton—”

“Why ever not?” interrupted Mrs Jennings, loudly. “He is as handsome a man as ever I saw, with a fine upstanding figure and such charming manners. If I had an unmarried daughter, I'd have been perfectly willing to let him marry her—as I said to your mama the other day, he is a jolly good catch for anyone…”

“I have no doubt he is, Mrs Jennings, and I do not mean to disparage Mr Barton, I do assure you, but I am not interested in marriage to anyone at this time,” Margaret explained. “Besides I have just contracted to complete another year's teaching at the seminary—and considering they sent me away to study in Europe at their expense, I cannot possibly let them down.”

Despite the various sounds of disapprobation emanating from Sir John and his mother-in-law, it was clear to everyone at the table that Margaret was unlikely to be moved by any of their arguments. Mrs Dashwood had said no more then, but afterward, when they were alone in her room, Margaret could not escape her mother's inquisition. “I don't mean to push you, my dear, but are you sure you are not making a hasty decision about Mr Barton? He is a respectable man and from an excellent family, you know. Are you not willing to consider?” she asked, and Margaret replied gently but with the kind of determination her mother recognised, “I am not, Mama, believe me, I have no wish to marry him or anyone else.”

“And there is no one else? No one you have given your word to? No young French gentleman?” At this Margaret laughed merrily. “No, Mama, none. I promise you,” she said, and Mrs Dashwood had to be satisfied, although, as she said later to Sir John and Mrs Jennings, “I really cannot make her out at all.”

***

Two days later, Margaret left to travel to Delaford to visit her sisters, going first to the parsonage where Elinor and Edward welcomed her warmly and demanded to be told how she had spent her time since they'd last met. Comfortably ensconced in the parlour, enjoying tea and muffins with homemade jam, she spent the afternoon regaling them with stories of her work at the seminary and the plans she and Claire Jones had made for their tour of Provence in the autumn.

On that topic, there was indeed much to talk about: Edward had visited the south of France some years ago and said he thought Aix-en-Provence was a most interesting area, “with so many ancient Roman antiquities, early Christian monasteries and abbeys—one could see as many as would fill all of one's time, if that was your wish,” he said. He did, however, recommend that they try to visit Lyon, which he described as “one of the pleasantest towns in France.” Margaret assured him that both places were on their itinerary, and indeed, Miss Jones had a friend, a regular visitor to the area, who would act as their guide. “He is a tutor at one of the colleges in Oxford and has promised to show us all the best places, which means we shall not be at the mercy of itinerant tour guides,” she said, and Elinor, who had never travelled outside of England and was rather wary, said she was very glad to hear it.

“Our friends Dr and Mrs King have travelled often in Europe and tell some amazing stories of local guides who are generally not to be trusted and will often tell the gullible traveller tall tales of miraculous relics of saints and healing springs, which have no foundation in fact at all. You are fortunate to be spared that sort of hazard. However, I shall look forward to receiving a letter or two with some account of your travels and the wonderful places you visit. You must promise to be very careful, Margaret, I know Mama will be worrying about you, and so will I,” she said, but Margaret laughed at her fears. “Have no fear, Elinor, I am sure I shall be quite safe; besides, Mama is far more worried about trying to marry me off to that impossible cousin of Sir John's—Mr Barton, whom we met at the Middletons' house in London. They spent most of yesterday singing his praises to me—not only is he rich and handsome, he has houses in Bath and London, his aging father has an estate somewhere in the North Country, and Mama believes he is a ‘respectable' man!”

Edward laughed. “And is he not?” he asked, almost in jest. Margaret snorted in a most unladylike manner. “Indeed, he is not—I have no evidence of his own conduct, but he is a great admirer of the Regent and has many friends in that dubious circle. I cannot imagine that any man who keeps such company can be called ‘respectable.' He once declared proudly—hoping to impress me, no doubt—that if he had wished to do so, he could obtain a place at court, as though that were some pinnacle of achievement Ugh! Can you imagine?”

Elinor, hearing the scorn in her sister's voice, asked, “And was it Mr Barton you wished to avoid at Lady Middleton's funeral? Was that why you wouldn't stay?”

Margaret said softly, “Yes it was; I couldn't tell you then, Elinor, I thought you would laugh at me; but now I am quite certain that had I stayed, he would have proposed. Sir John confirmed it yesterday, and then, no doubt he would have asked Mama and they would have all driven me quite mad. Even Mrs Jennings was determined that I should know what a fine catch he was! She claims she would gladly let him marry a daughter of hers, if she had one to spare! Well, she is welcome to him.”

Elinor and Edward laughed and Elinor said, “Mrs Jennings is very fortunate in both her sons-in-law—Sir John is not the brightest of men but he is generous and respectable, and Mr Palmer, for all his so-called drollery and reserve, is essentially a very sensible gentleman.”

“And neither of them have anything in common with Prince George!” said Edward, and Margaret, believing she had found an ally in her brother-in-law, said, “For which I think we must all give thanks. The lurid tales one hears of the antics of the Regent and his band of merry men are quite outrageous.”

That night, after they'd enjoyed a very pleasant meal and Margaret had entertained them with more stories of her work at the seminary, Elinor took her up to her room, and as the sisters talked, she found herself confiding in Margaret her apprehensions about Marianne and the return to Somerset of Mr Willoughby. Margaret, who had never been as impressed with Willoughby's pretensions as her sister and mother had been, was not surprised. “I do recall that Mama was most reluctant to condemn him, and when she heard of his remorse and the tale he had told you of being ordered by his elderly aunt and his bride-to-be to write those cruel letters to Marianne, she was quite ready to believe him and forgive at least some of his horrid behaviour,” she said.

Elinor asked gently, “And were you not?” to which Margaret was swift to respond, “Indeed I was not. How could anyone, after what he had done, after the deception he had practised upon all of us and particularly after poor Marianne had almost died as a consequence? I did not know then about his dreadful betrayal of Eliza Williams, of which I learnt much later from Mrs Jennings. But Mama and Marianne knew of this, and yet they were ready to believe his story, which I took to be a pack of lies.”

Shocked, her sister said, “Margaret, my dear, you could not have known that.”

“Perhaps not in every detail, but think on this, Elinor, everything he did and said to Marianne was based on a lie; he was prepared to put not just her heart but her reputation and her life in jeopardy by his selfish actions—just as he did with Miss Williams. Do you not recall how ready he was to lead her into excessive behaviour, which I know you disapproved of—I heard you try to persuade her to be more restrained and wary, but she believed she could trust him and would not take your advice? It was only Marianne's good luck that protected her from being led deeper into the mire, when Willoughby's aunt uncovered his conduct by sheer chance and sent him packing.”

Elinor could scarcely believe her ears. Margaret had been not much more than a child at the time, yet she had clearly seen what was happening and had comprehended the danger her sister had faced. Growing up and seeing more of the world than either Marianne or Elinor herself had been exposed to, Margaret was now far more clear-sighted than either of them, and she did not mince her words. Perhaps it should have surprised Elinor that this young girl had more common sense than either her mother or Marianne, but knowing them all as she did, it did not. It gave her the chance to confide her own troubling thoughts and fears about Marianne as the two sisters talked late into the night.

Margaret could see that Elinor was deeply disturbed and asked, “Do you believe it is only the lack of any deep interest and a general boredom with life at Delaford that has brought about this malaise in Marianne? If that is true, can we not suggest some scheme, some good cause that might usefully engage her mind?”

Elinor looked forlorn. “If only it were possible; I have tried not once or twice but often to encourage her participation in the parish school, where I could use her talents in music and her love of poetry to benefit the children. I have suggested that she help with the church choir, and Edward has talked of the campaigns that he and Dr King are working on to collect petitions for the abolition of slavery—Mr Wilberforce has asked local communities to lend their support—and we thought Marianne might wish to be involved, but to no avail. She seems unable to summon up sufficient interest in any of these causes. I even went so far as to suggest to Colonel Brandon that he might wish to persuade her to join us when we attended a meeting at the church hall in Dorchester to draw attention to the plight of the climbing boys—the little boys who are apprenticed to chimney sweeps and made to undertake dangerous work when they are only five or six years old—but he seemed unwilling, too. I'm afraid I have failed utterly to do anything for her…” and here Elinor's feelings got the better of her and tears coursed down her cheeks, causing Margaret to put her arms around her. “Elinor, you must not blame yourself; you've done all you can, and if Marianne will not be persuaded, you are not at fault,” she said firmly, but she knew that her sister would not be comforted. Elinor's strong sense of responsibility would not let her slough off her concerns easily, despite the fact that Marianne was now a married woman; she would never forget how a few years ago, they had almost lost her.

The following afternoon, Margaret left Elinor and Edward to pursue their various parochial and family activities and set out to walk to Delaford Manor. As she made her way there, she pondered over the conversations she'd had with Elinor about Marianne and Willoughby, and it made her uneasy. Marianne was not very much older than herself, yet, from what she had learned from Elinor, it would seem that her sister still hankered after some romantic idyll, for which marriage to Colonel Brandon and her status as mistress of Delaford Manor had been no substitute.