Expectations of Happiness (31 page)

Daniel indicated that he had thought it might be a good time to talk about that letter he intended to write to Mrs Dashwood and she agreed, “Of course; and what do you want to know from me? I can tell you, and I am sure Margaret will support me, that our mother is perhaps one of the most easygoing women I know, and once you say that Margaret and you love each other, you will have little difficulty convincing her that you should be married.”

He laughed softly and said, “That is certainly very comforting, but are you quite sure? I do not know how much Margaret has told you about me, but—” Sensing his embarrassment, Elinor stopped him in midsentence. “Daniel, Margaret has told me everything I needed to know to understand the unhappy situation in which both of you were placed. I know of your marriage and the sad loss of your children that caused your wife's long illness, and that you loved and supported her through it for many years. I am deeply sorry for your tragic loss and understand your feelings. I know also that when Margaret and you met in Provence last year, and you revealed these matters to her, Margaret accepted it, despite her feelings for you. It is to your great credit that you were honest and open with her from the start.”

Daniel said, almost as if he were talking to himself, “That is true, but would your mother see it in the same light? How would I convince her that I was worthy of her daughter…” and Elinor intervened, “Mama does not have to know, Daniel. Margaret tells me that only your close friend Dr Grantley knew your situation. I would advise that you let it remain so. Margaret and you met in France and fell in love; that is all my mother needs to know. For the rest, your reputation as a scholar and a historian, not to mention a tour guide
par excellence
, will soon be known to her and will inform her judgment of you,” she said with a smile, clearly hoping to reassure him.

Regarding her with some concern, he asked, “And you do not feel constrained to question any aspect of my conduct?”

To which she smiled and replied, “Which part of your conduct must I question? That you were faithful and caring toward your ailing wife for several years? Or that last autumn you fell in love with my sister? I am aware from what Margaret has told me that throughout her tour of Provence, you made no direct approach to her—”

This time it was his turn to interrupt, “Indeed I did not; I tried at first to discourage her interest in me, but Margaret is very hard to resist, and when it became apparent that she was developing a particular partiality for me, I had to tell her the truth, so she should not be hurt later. I admit I had already fallen in love with her and it was too late for me, but, Mrs Ferrars, please believe me, I did not encourage her affection, nor make her an offer of marriage that I had no right to make while Helène lived. It would have been unpardonable!”

Elinor nodded. “I know and I commend you, even though I know it was very difficult for Margaret. She is young and knew only that she loved you; it was entirely right that you made her no offer of marriage until you were free to do so. But, since circumstances have changed and you are both free to do as you wish, I cannot see any impediment.”

He had one more question. “May I ask—and forgive me, this may seem an impertinence—does Reverend Ferrars know?” he asked, and Elinor read the anxiety in his eyes and answered kindly, “He does not, not at the moment; but I will explain the circumstances to him, in time, and knowing my husband to be a compassionate man, I am sure his view will not be very different from mine. But no other member of my family will hear of it from me. I give you my word.”

He thanked her then and left to write his letter.

***

Later that afternoon, Daniel and Margaret walked in the Delaford woods, where she showed him some of the places she had frequented as a young girl, often spending many hours alone among the splendid stands of trees that were the pride of Colonel Brandon's estate. In a particularly beautiful grove of oaks, which stood beside a clear running stream, they spent some quiet hours together while he told her of his conversation with Elinor.

“Your sister is one of the wisest people I have met and perhaps the kindest, as well,” he said, and she agreed as he went on, “I had to confess that I had fallen in love with you, but could say nothing because I had no right to do so and indeed, I tried to discourage you because I feared—” She put her hand up to his lips to stop him then and said gently, “I know, Daniel, and that is why I knew I could trust you and love you without reservation. Elinor knows that, too, because I told her many months ago, before you returned from France.” It was the kind of innocent sincerity that he had found irresistible.

He told her then, how very early in their acquaintance he had been attracted to the spirited young lady with the lovely open countenance and an insatiable thirst for learning.

“It was hard to believe that you were real! I had not met anyone with so much energy and such a genuine desire to learn, much less a charming, intelligent young lady with such a passion; there are no ladies at Oxford, you know, and to a scholar and a teacher like me, it was quite seductive,” he admitted, opening himself to her inevitable question.

“And when did you discover that you wanted to love me as well as teach me?” to which he answered without hesitation, “Almost at once; you were such a delight to teach, Margaret, and very easy to love,” which declaration pleased her very well.

She told him then of her plans to use even more of what he had taught her in her new book. On his return from France, Daniel had brought her a gift: a beautifully illustrated little book of the songs of the medieval troubadours of Provence, who were credited with writing some of the most poignant and sensual love songs ever written. Since they were almost all written in the Provençal dialect, which was the language used by troubadours of the era, Daniel had translated them into modern French for her and Margaret had been deeply touched by their exquisitely moving lyrics. It had stimulated her own interest in the troubadours, and she planned to include them in her book on travels through Provence.

But, curious as to why he had not spoken of them when they were travelling in Provence last autumn, she asked, “Why did you not mention them? Did you not think I would be interested in the troubadours' songs?” He looked directly at her and said, “I think, Margaret, you know the answer to that question.” And when she looked genuinely puzzled, he said, “How should I have introduced you to the love songs of the troubadours, while trying to pretend that I was not in love with you? It was hard enough when we were only visiting abbeys and churches and talking of sacred music.” She smiled then and said, with an unusual archness of tone, “And were you trying also to keep me from falling in love with you?”

His voice almost broke as he replied, “Indeed, I was, although I was not so vain as to believe it was the case; you are so much younger than I am… nevertheless, there was a risk and it would have been quite unconscionable, in the circumstances, to promote it.”

Margaret said softly, “I do understand and I am delighted that now you have given me a whole book of these beautiful love songs; but, Daniel, if I am to write about them, I shall need you to read them to me and tell me more about them and show me where they were composed and by whom. Will you?”

“It will be my greatest pleasure, and I shall read them to you as often as you wish,” he said and promised that when they returned to Provence, after they were married, they could spend as much time as she wished on the troubadours and their exquisite lyrics, a pledge that brought tears—tears that could now be swiftly countered with the promise of happiness to come.

***

After a few more splendid days at Delaford, spent in the happiest way possible, with the family at the parsonage and their friends Dr Bradley King and his wife, Daniel and Margaret returned to Oxford to make their plans, leaving Edward and Elinor to ponder a number of interesting propositions. It had been a special pleasure for them to see how well Daniel Brooke was accepted by Dr King and his wife. Helen King had congratulated Elinor on her brother-in-law to be, saying that Dr King had declared him to be a most remarkable scholar in his field. To Elinor he was all those things, but most importantly, he was the man with whom she hoped her sister would find true contentment.

As they retired to bed that night, Elinor turned to her husband and said, “I do like Daniel, don't you?” to which he replied, “I do indeed, my love—he is an authority in his field, but, happily, he is also a thoroughly modest, amiable fellow. But you do realise they are already lovers, do you not?” Completely taken aback, she said nothing for a minute, then asked, “However did you deduce that?” He laughed and replied, “It wasn't difficult. They hardly leave each other's side, if it can be helped, and I did observe a particular closeness between them, which must signify a level of intimacy in their relationship. Do you not agree?”

“Do you disapprove?” asked his wife, a little nervously, and Edward put away his book before responding, “It is not for me to approve or disapprove; Margaret and Daniel are mature enough to make such decisions for themselves. I asked if you had noticed, because I had hoped Margaret had confided in you and that you had counselled her,” he said, and she realised how deeply he had considered the matter, with Margaret's interest at heart. Elinor admitted that she had advised her sister, but had tried not to be overbearing or censorious about it, which her husband assured her she could never be.

But Elinor too had a question to resolve. “I did wonder why it was that I was willing to accept Daniel so readily, to believe the best of him on such short acquaintance, and yet I was always wary of Willoughby. Even when he was presenting himself at his best, visiting our home at Barton Cottage and wooing Marianne like a gentleman of honour throughout that summer, I had certain reservations about him, for which I was severely censured by Mama and Marianne. Why do you suppose my responses were so markedly different, Edward?” she asked and his answer gave her the explanation in simple terms.

“Because, my dearest, as you have correctly judged, Daniel Brooke is quite clearly a man one can trust; he is open and forthright, a man who is a gentleman and a scholar. Whereas Willoughby—well, as we have seen many times over, he is a fraud, a pretentious nobody, a contemptible deceiver.”

There was no more to be said.

***

Two letters brought more surprises for Elinor the following week.

One from Marianne, posted in Paris, informed her sister that Colonel Brandon and she were extending their tour to take in a couple of other cities in France and would therefore not be back at Delaford until the middle of June. In a brief paragraph, Marianne said again that they were both enjoying their holiday in France very much and declared that she was happier than she had been in years.

Relieved, Elinor turned to her other correspondent, whose exceedingly expensive perfumed note paper was quite new to her. It bore a London postmark, and the writing was unfamiliar, too. “Who can it be?” she thought as she broke the seal and opened up two sheets of paper, closely written in a very cultivated hand. Turning swiftly to the second page, Elinor looked for the writer's name and was bewildered to see that it came from Fanny Dashwood, wife of their half brother, John.

Elinor's reaction was due chiefly to the fact that in all the years that Fanny had been married to John Dashwood, she had never found it necessary to write to her or her sisters. She recalled a very brief formal note written on black bordered notepaper, received by her mother on the death of her husband, but no more. Any further communication between them had been through Fanny's husband, John, or Edward, who was Fanny's younger brother.

This sudden compulsion to write a letter two pages long must have been provoked by some quite portentous event, thought Elinor, as she began to read. Fanny wrote:

Dear Elinor,

I trust that Edward and you are well and enjoying the benefits of country life, albeit in a county far removed from where you grew up and many miles from London. We remind ourselves daily of our great good fortune that we live in salubrious Sussex and can travel to London within a couple of hours if we choose.

However, it is not to discuss such trivialities that I write, but to ask if you can either confirm or deny a most disturbing rumour that has been circulating in London this last week. I had it first from my brother Robert, whose wife, Lucy, had heard it when they were dining with Mrs Jennings and the Palmers, and if the truth were told, I gave it no credit at all. Both Mrs J and Lucy are wont to listen to any story and repeat it ad nauseam, without ascertaining its veracity.

However, two days later, to my amazement, my husband, John, returned from his club with the very same tale, which caused me to take some notice. It concerns Sir John Middleton of Barton Park—who, I recall, is related to your mother's family—he is a widower now since the untimely death of his wife last year. Well, the news around town is that he plans to marry again, although no one knows who the lady is. Elinor, it really does not signify whether Sir John Middleton remarries or not, but we are from time to time invited to receptions at his house in London and occasionally to a weekend shooting party at Barton Park. If we are to continue the acquaintance, I should very much wish to have some information about the person who is to be the next Lady Middleton, before I am called upon to accept or refuse the next invitation. I wonder if I could prevail on you or perhaps on Mrs Dashwood, since she lives on the estate, to undertake some discreet enquiries and discover the details of the lady's name, age, family antecedents, etc., etc.

I often find that butlers and valets are usually well informed on such matters.

The writer carried on for another sentence or two, but Elinor could not be bothered to continue reading. She put it down, still puzzled by the rumour, but far more disgusted by the snobbery and furtive curiosity of her sister-in-law, who had hoped to recruit her or her mother to obtain information about Sir John Middleton's private affairs from members of his household staff.