Expectations of Happiness (9 page)

Bored and determined not to lose the opportunity to see something of the site for which she had prepared herself with so much anticipation, Marianne rose and, leaving her companions in various states of relaxation, took the path that led up a small hill behind the inn, from where, the innkeeper had advised them, “one could get a very good view of Glastonbury Tor.”

She didn't know what to expect, but when she first saw the dramatic dark mount, with its tower rising like a stark sentinel above the fabled Avalon marshes and heath lands, all bathed in the red-gold afternoon light, Marianne gasped. It was a breathtaking sight, atmospheric and magical, like nothing she had seen before, and all the tales of ancient times with kings and knights and deeds of derring-do came flooding back. As she stood there, trying to absorb its impact, she heard a voice behind her say, “If you climb the Tor and stand on its summit, you can overlook three counties,” and Marianne froze, unable to move, because she knew that voice, she knew it well; it was, it had to be, the voice of Mr Willoughby.

Often, in times past, she had wondered if she would ever see him again and, if she did, how she would cope with the situation. She had toyed with the notion that it would be easy, now she was married and quite out of his reach, to greet him with cold courtesy. She had believed that a mere formal bow would suffice to indicate politely but firmly that he meant nothing to her, that he was no more than a stranger. However, at this moment, not knowing if he was even aware who she was, for she had her back to him and wore a cloak and bonnet that almost completely hid her person, Marianne was unable even to turn and face the man who had addressed her. Indeed, she could not be certain that it was to her he had spoken, for, she thought, there may well have been some other person with him.

As myriad thoughts reeled through her mind, she stood still, until he, taking a few more steps, reached her side and said, “It is not as difficult a climb as it might seem from here—even for a lady; it is steep, but well worth the effort,” thus making it plain that his words had indeed been directed at her.

Marianne could no longer avoid it; she turned and looked up into his face, and the consternation reflected upon it told her that he had not known it was she. Indeed, she, in recognising his voice, had been momentarily advantaged and better prepared for this encounter, while he was clearly deeply shaken. When he could speak, which was in a few seconds, though it seemed an eternity, he said, “Marianne—I beg your pardon, Mrs Brandon—I had no idea it was you. There is a party here from Somerton, who are visiting Glastonbury… I met them briefly at the inn and seeing you from behind, standing there, I assumed it was one of the ladies… else I should never have taken the liberty… please forgive me…” at which point words seemed to fail him, and as he stopped, she said in a voice that she struggled to keep from trembling, “Mr Willoughby, there is no need to apologise; I can see you were mistaken.” And in a gesture that at once astonished and delighted him, she held out her hand, which he grasped and held for a moment before raising it to his lips.

Marianne withdrew her hand swiftly and tucked it inside the deep pockets of her cloak before saying, “I too am with a party of friends who mean to visit Glastonbury this afternoon. I left them in the woods below the inn and made my way here to get a glimpse of the view—the landlord recommended it; but it is time I returned, or they may begin to worry that I have got myself lost.”

At this, with the smooth gallantry she remembered so well, he warned her of the danger of sliding and falling on the rough footpath as they descended the hill, which remark immediately recalled to her mind the very first time they had met at Barton Park, and a blush rose in her cheeks. He offered her his arm, which she may well have found quite helpful, yet Marianne, realising that she must not be seen with him by the Percevals and their friends, who would proceed to ask a thousand questions, politely declined his assistance, claimed she was able to manage the descent on her own, and preceded him downhill.

She found the rest of the party making preparations to return to their carriages. “Ah, there you are, Mrs Brandon, we were beginning to wonder if we should send out a search party to find you,” said Mr Perceval, and his wife demanded to know where she had been. Marianne obliged quickly, seeing it was easier to answer the question, else it would be asked again and again, relentlessly. “I wasn't far away; I walked up the hill behind the inn and took a look at Glastonbury Tor in the distance—it is a most impressive sight, indeed,” she said.

By this time the younger members of the party had all climbed into the brougham and were about to drive out of the yard, which brought the conversation to an end, as Mr Perceval urged his wife and her cousin Miss Peabody to hasten, if they were to have any chance of seeing Glastonbury before sundown. When they were all seated and the carriage was moving out, Marianne turned and looked toward the inn, and there she saw Willoughby standing at one of the windows, a glass in his hand, watching them; as she caught his eye, he lifted a hand in a casual gesture, looking for all the world like an indifferent acquaintance waving them farewell. His insouciance startled her; yet knowing him, she should not have been, for it was exactly what she could have expected him to do.

As they travelled toward Glastonbury, Marianne's thoughts were filled with the afternoon's encounter and the image of the man who had filled her life, to the exclusion of all else, but a few years ago. She was surprised at how little he had changed in appearance; he looked perhaps a very little older but not, she decided, in any way coarser in his features or less graceful in his figure, and his confident air and gallant manner were as they had ever been. The contemplation of these matters gave her an unexpected degree of pleasure, making it difficult for her to drag her mind away when they arrived at their destination.

Marianne had looked forward to Glastonbury with such avid interest, and yet, suddenly, she felt drained of energy and enthusiasm as they alighted from their vehicles. She decided it was because her present companions were so dull in their responses to what lay before them—the timeless site, its mysterious ruins inspiring a string of myths and legends reaching back into the earliest period of Christianity in Britain. It had been one of the most significant centres of religious practice and pilgrimage since the tenth century, during the time of the great Abbot of Glastonbury—later Saint Dunstan. As Marianne stood before the massive piles of stone, sunk in the soil of an ancient land over which the setting sun cast huge purple shadows, she was conscious of being in a sacred place, which was deeply moving to her romantic soul.

Meanwhile, the Misses Perceval tramped about the place with very little comprehension of where they were or what significance might be ascribed to each ancient ruin, and Marianne, who had hoped to give them the benefit of her research into the site, felt a sudden sense of lassitude at the thought of trying to convince them of its antiquity and historical significance. Consequently, she moved from one monumental pile to the next, studying them intently, recalling all the things she had read but making no effort to share her feelings with the young men and ladies, who appeared to be far more interested in teasing each other with secrets and jokes and references to Lancelot and Guinevere.

As the sunlight faded and a cool breeze invaded the ancient site, Mrs Perceval, tiring from her exertions, retired to their carriage, while the younger members of the party flitted around like late butterflies—to no particular purpose, except to exclaim from time to time, “Oh do come and look at this,” each time their eyes fell upon some carving or inscription. However, when the others gathered round, there was not much more said, except to ooh and aah and speculate at how very old it must be. Marianne found it all very unedifying. She was almost relieved when it was decided that it was time to get back in their vehicles and make for the inn. Miss Peabody agreed at once, claiming she was simply dying for a cup of tea.

Their carriage reached the inn first and the ladies—Mrs Perceval, Miss Peabody, and Marianne—went upstairs to refresh themselves, while awaiting the brougham bearing the rest of their party. They were surprised, on coming down to tea half an hour later, to find no sign of the others. Mr Perceval, who had been taking some liquid refreshment in the bar, came out to greet the ladies, and when it was pointed out to him that the vehicle bearing the younger members of their party had not arrived, he seemed puzzled and quite unable to comprehend what might have happened or, indeed, what needed to be done.

While Mr and Mrs Perceval were standing in the hall, the latter looking rather troubled, Marianne and Miss Peabody had seated themselves in the parlour from where they could see and hear what was going on. Miss Peabody poured out the tea, claiming she was very tired and would like nothing better than a bit of dinner and a good night's sleep. Marianne was about to agree, when suddenly, another voice was heard in the hall, addressing Mr Perceval. “I could not help overhearing your conversation, sir,” it said. “The rest of your party may have been delayed by some minor mishap—a lame horse or a broken axle, perhaps. It may not be safe for the young people to be stranded out there after dark. May I suggest that I ride out along the road to Glastonbury, taking your manservant with me, and if there has been a problem, we could take your carriage and bring the stranded travellers back with us?” Marianne knew at once it was Willoughby, but said nothing to Miss Peabody, who was eager to listen and discover what was afoot.

Both Mr and Mrs Perceval responded with great appreciation to Willoughby's offer of assistance, and Marianne heard him say, with all of his usual charm, that he would not consider it any trouble at all—he understood their concern and it was indeed a pleasure to be of assistance. As he went out into the yard with Mr Perceval to find Wilson, the manservant, Mrs Perceval entered the parlour, declaring that there was a very fine gentleman indeed and were they not truly fortunate he was at hand to offer his help? Marianne and Miss Peabody nodded, and the latter poured out more tea for herself and Mrs Perceval.

Shortly afterwards, Willoughby and the Percevals' servant were heard riding out to search for the brougham on the road to Glastonbury, and Mr Perceval entered the parlour with more praise for the exceedingly helpful Mr Willoughby, whom he had fortuitously met in the bar of the inn that very evening, he said.

“I must say that Mr Willoughby is such a decent young fellow; upon my word, am I glad that I responded kindly to him this evening when he came over and introduced himself. I don't stand much on ceremony, you see; he seemed a good sort of fellow, and when he said he had a place here in Somerset, I knew he was a gentleman and acknowledged him, which was a jolly good thing because as you see, he's offered to go out on the road and look for the brougham, which is more than I could have done. It's jolly decent of him, I must say. He's taken Wilson with him, and I daresay they'll find them stranded somewhere—Willoughby thinks it must be a lame horse…” He rattled on even though no one was listening, while Mrs Perceval seated herself next to Miss Peabody on the sofa and sipped her tea.

It was clear she was still anxious about the girls. “I do hope Mr Perceval is right and they are all safe. I am terrified of accidents, and I do not know what I shall say to the Hawthornes if anything has happened to their girls,” she said over and over again, until Marianne began to wish she had never come on this expedition.

As the sky darkened outside and the candles were lit in the inn, it was decided that they would take some dinner while waiting for news. The host was setting a table for them, when there came the sound of horses' hooves in the yard, followed by boots in the hall, and Mr Willoughby strode in.

“They are safe,” he announced brightly, bringing a great cheer from Mr Perceval and a cry of relief from his lady. “We found them stranded not two miles up the road. It is as I thought, a horse has thrown a shoe and pulled the vehicle into the ditch, which has damaged a wheel—but there's no injury to any of the passengers, except, with the wind coming off the marshes, they were beginning to feel the cold. Naturally the young gentlemen were reluctant to leave the ladies alone and go for help—no doubt they expected someone would come looking for them.”

“No doubt, no doubt,” echoed Mr Perceval, “and I thank you, Mr Willoughby, for your kindness in offering to look for them. But how shall we arrange to transport them? We are too large a party to pack into my carriage together…” Once again Mr Perceval, for all his boast of travelling in the Grampians, appeared not to have any practical common sense, and again, it was Willoughby who said, in a quiet but decisive voice, “If you will allow me, sir, to make a suggestion that may resolve your problem, I have taken the liberty of asking your man to take your carriage to collect the young ladies and gentlemen and convey them hither. In view of their state of discomfort, I thought it was best to have that done without delay,” with which Mr Perceval agreed directly.

Willoughby continued, “When they arrive, may I suggest that you and Mrs Perceval should join the four young ladies and return to your home, while the two young gentlemen remain here with the rest of your party,” he said, bowing in the direction of Marianne and Miss Peabody, as though he had never met them before and had no idea who they were. Whereupon Mr Perceval proceeded to introduce the two ladies, and Mr Willoughby bowed deeply again to each of them. Continuing to explain his plan, he added, “My own place is but a few miles from here—I shall ride there directly and return with my carriage, in which I am sure we can arrange to convey them safely to your home.” He sounded so confident, the Percevals, clearly delighted that he had taken the problem out of their hands, were effusively grateful. Mrs Perceval began to say, “But, Mr Willoughby, we cannot possibly put you to so much trouble. It will be dark and riding around these country roads could be quite hazardous…” but he interrupted her protestations with a wave of the hand. “Mrs Perceval, as I have said before to Mr Perceval, it is no trouble to me, and I am perfectly familiar with the roads in Somersetshire, I assure you.”

Then, looking at them directly, he added, “There is no other way, unless the ladies choose to stay overnight here, which, while it may be quite safe, is unlikely to be very comfortable. It is only a small establishment, and I am not certain the facilities and services will be to your satisfaction. However, if that is your preference, I will ask the landlord if he has a room for the two ladies.” Then, seeing the look of consternation on the faces of Mrs Brandon and Miss Peabody, who were both thoroughly disconcerted at the prospect of having to stay overnight at the inn, without the help of a ladies' maid and no nightclothes to change into, Willoughby smiled and said, “I think, sir, the ladies have made their wishes clear; I have no doubt that after a long day out of doors, they would appreciate a good night's sleep in their own beds.” At which both women nodded vigorously, and Mrs Perceval added that it certainly would not be seemly to leave the two ladies alone at the inn overnight.

Listening to Willoughby, Marianne, who had remained silent throughout this discourse, was amazed at the ease with which he had promoted himself to everyone as their saviour—the man with the best solution to their problem, the good Samaritan who would extricate them from the predicament in which they had found themselves. Indeed, she decided, he had not changed at all. Not long afterward, he took his leave of them and left the inn, and they heard him ride out of the yard.

Marianne was tired and hungry but could not eat as they waited for the carriage to return with the young Percevals and Hawthornes. She had no fears for them; Willoughby had assured them they were safe. Rather, she was contemplating what was to follow—the prospect of being conveyed in Mr Willoughby's carriage with only Miss Peabody for company. As he had outlined his plan, she had listened passively, unable and unwilling to make any comment, so as not to arouse any suspicion that they had once known one another intimately. It was best, she thought, to say nothing and accept his help as the Percevals clearly wanted to do, because for her, there was no alternative.

Sometime later, the Percevals' carriage arrived and the six young people tumbled out, looking somewhat the worse for wear; the girls complaining of cold and demanding hot food, the young men cursing the lame horse, while making directly for the bar. Mr and Mrs Perceval, though keen to get away, had to ensure they were all satisfied before they piled into the carriage and left. Messrs Andrew and Joseph Hawthorne, determined not to be left behind, had persuaded their tired hosts to leave Wilson, the Percevals' manservant, to watch over Miss Peabody and Mrs Brandon while they awaited the return of Mr Willoughby, thereby providing Marianne with a clear contrast between their selfishness and Willoughby's concern for their comfort and his keenness to help.

They did not have very long to wait after the Percevals had left. Willoughby was as good as his word and arrived within the hour with a very comfortable, enclosed carriage drawn by two handsome horses, complete with a driver and an outrider. He apologised if he had kept the ladies waiting, seemed a little surprised that the rest of the party had all managed to accommodate themselves in the Percevals' carriage, invited Wilson to climb onto the box beside the driver, and helped Miss Peabody and Mrs Brandon into his vehicle with care, ensuring they were provided with rugs to keep them warm on the journey, before entering it and seating himself opposite Marianne. He did it all with such élan, Marianne thought, it was as if he spent every day of the week rescuing stranded travellers and returning them safely to their homes.

And all the while, she was struck by the fact that he had assiduously avoided revealing any previous connection between them, treating her with the same effortless but formal courtesy he extended to all the others. Only in the very first moment of recognition, when they had confronted each other as they stood looking out across at Glastonbury Tor, had he been clearly shaken; however, it appeared he had recovered quickly from the shock and was as determined as she was to maintain a perfectly plausible demeanour for the benefit of the rest of the party. For this she was particularly grateful.

As the carriage rolled out of the yard and onto the road, she hoped it would continue thus, so that she might consider this chance encounter a providential opportunity that had proved to both of them that they were now able to regard their past association with a degree of equanimity; certainly in her case, without bitterness or pain.

Some part of their journey had passed when Marianne noticed that Miss Peabody had fallen asleep and her head was lolling heavily to one side. She tried to use a cushion to prop her up, but Willoughby, seeing the problem, rose and, taking out a rolled-up rug from under the seat, arranged it so as to provide Miss Peabody with some support. Marianne thanked him and he said he was sure they were both very tired—it must have been a long day. He hoped, however, that it had been an enjoyable experience, he said. Marianne admitted that it certainly was that, but added that she was sorry they had not made better use of the day.

“I had hoped we would have more time at Glastonbury, rather than spend most of it at the inn and the picnic; I was keen to see more of the ruins and learn some more of the history of the place. I had read a good deal about it, but I fear my companions were not sufficiently interested…” she broke off, conscious suddenly of his keen attention and fearing she had said too much. But Willoughby was the soul of tact and discretion; maintaining the pretence that he had throughout the evening, he asked, as though she were a complete stranger, “Have you never visited Glastonbury before?” And when she answered, “No, nor am I familiar with Somersetshire,” he responded with a level of natural politeness that she could not fault, “And yet you live just across the border in Dorset. Mrs Brandon, I am sorry to hear that. There are many beautiful places and much to admire and love in Somerset. I hope you will find time to visit again, and you must certainly see more of Glastonbury, which is a place of special significance. For my part, I spent much of my childhood here and know it well. To my way of thinking it is one of the finest counties in England; there is so much history here—sites that go back to Roman times, and a wealth of Saxon history, dating back to the seventh century—so many great abbeys and churches, I cannot begin to tell you. Mrs Brandon, if you have an interest in the history of England, then Somerset has much that will interest you,” he said.

Marianne nodded and confessed that while she did not have a great knowledge of it, she was keenly interested in history. He needed very little encouragement then to relate several tales of Somerset and the history of the West Country, which he said he had known from childhood, and as she listened, she recalled again their first meeting in Devonshire all those years ago, and how easily they had been able to slip into conversation on their favourite topics. She wondered if he remembered too and was sure he did—but she was afraid to say anything that might make it seem as though she was trying to remind him of those days. Which was why she remained mostly silent, as Willoughby spoke with rising enthusiasm of the attractions of his county, quoting writers and poets and leaving her in no doubt that he remembered well her enthusiasms. Quite clearly, while he was maintaining the pretence of having met her that afternoon, his memory of her was very clear. Yet determined not to be the first to breach the unspoken bar, partly because she had no idea how she would deal with the consequences, Marianne let him continue as though they were strangers, indifferent acquaintances, thrown together by chance.

Their journey ended when the carriage reached the lane into which they drove and the manservant Wilson was heard directing the driver to the Percevals' house. When the vehicle stopped, Wilson leapt down from the box to open the door, and Willoughby helped the ladies out and escorted them to the entrance, where a sleepy maid opened the front door and waited to assist them. Clearly the rest of the party had long gone to bed.

Miss Peabody, roused from sleep and obviously waiting only to fall asleep again as soon as possible, thanked Mr Willoughby rather perfunctorily and left it to Marianne to convey more fully their appreciation for all he had done to assist their party that day. She could not say it without a degree of heartfelt gratitude, which, for her personally, included his particular care not to embarrass her in any way at all. “I thank you very much, Mr Willoughby, for your very kind assistance to our party; I cannot think how we should have found our way home without your help. I am sure I speak for all of the party,” she said, and as she extended her hand, he took it and, raising it to his lips, replied, “It was entirely my pleasure, Mrs Brandon,” before wishing her good night as he left to return to his carriage. She stood at the door and heard him exchange some words with Wilson regarding the stranded carriage and horses, before driving off into the night.

As Marianne followed the maid up to her room, many thoughts assailed her. It had been a day like no other in her experience; not only had she been shocked to hear Willoughby's voice addressing her and turned to see him regarding her with an even greater degree of surprise than she had felt, but then, what had been a chance encounter had developed into a series of incidents and meetings that had opened up a veritable Pandora's box of memories, which she had hoped had long been set aside.

At each point in the evening, she had feared that something she said or he did might shatter the fragile pretence they had both maintained, without ever saying a word; but nothing untoward had occurred, and for this she was exceedingly grateful to him. She could not decide whether it was kindness, simple courtesy, or his own convenience that had caused him to spare her any embarrassment, and expected that she would lie awake through the night, puzzling over it. But, contrary to her expectations, once she had changed into her nightclothes and crept between the sheets, sheer weariness overwhelmed her and she fell fast asleep.

***

Marianne awoke the following morning surprised that she had slept so soundly. It was Sunday, and when the maid brought in her tea, she asked the time and was amazed at the lateness of the hour. The girl assured her that no one had risen early that day, except Miss Peabody, who had gone to church.

Feeling a little reassured by this information, Marianne dressed and went down to breakfast, to find only Mr and Mrs Perceval at the table. They greeted her, asked if she had slept well, and proceeded with their breakfast. It was past ten o'clock when the Misses Hawthorne appeared and word was sent to the kitchen for more tea and fresh toast. The Percevals' daughters were as yet asleep when a vehicle drew up at the gate and voices were heard outside. A maid opened the door to admit Miss Peabody, who entered the breakfast room and informed Mr and Mrs Perceval that Mr Willoughby was waiting in the parlour. He had passed her as she walked back from church, she said, and had stopped to give her a ride home. He was waiting to speak with Mr Perceval, she said as she sat down to breakfast, still singing the praises of Mr Willoughby and his great goodness.

“He is a most courteous and charitable gentleman; he has had the two horses stabled at his place and awaits your instructions regarding the repairs to the carriage,” she added, pouring out her tea. Mrs Perceval exclaimed at the gentleman's kindness, and her husband was no less astonished. “My very word, that is jolly decent of him, to have gone to all that trouble,” he said as he left the table and hurried into the parlour to greet his visitor.