Free Expectations of Happiness by Rebecca Ann Collins Page B

declares that she is glad to have a good ladies’ maid, since they are always travelling about, leaving at a moment’s notice to visit friends. She claims she would be lost without her maid, and she is clearly very happy with Robert’s friends.
    One such family, the Percevals, live here in Dorset not ten miles from Delaford, and when I was introduced to them, they were astonished that we had not met before, seeing I had lived in Dorset for several years.
    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