The House in Grosvenor Square

by Linore Rose Burkard

  “I’d sooner die!”

  This brought an abrupt silence. For the first time, Mornay’s friends realized how deeply in love the man was. He wasn’t getting married just to beget an heir as many men did. Mornay was seriously—in love!

  The atmosphere in the room was transformed.

  “Scropes, this is entirely your fault,” someone said.

  “What! Not my idea! Alvanley nabbed him!”

  “That deuced game of cards was your doing!”

  “We should never have waylaid him, let’s face it, gentlemen,” said the Regent.

  “I said we hadn’t ought to!” shouted another.

  Alvanley asked the physician, in a voice of contrition, “I say, can you fix his arm up all pretty? We’ll see him home. It’s not too late for him to catch his beauty rest, and he’ll be patched up enough for the wedding.”

  Mr. Pellham took Mrs. Bentley’s hand. She faced him wearing a wobbly smile and watery eyes. She knew Mornay had not appeared yet, and she should have been up in the boughs over it, but was not. She couldn’t be, for she simply had no room in her heart at the moment. She and Randolph were being joined in marriage!

  “I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.” The two heads bent together momentarily and a loud murmur of approval resulted in the church. When they turned around with proud smiles to face the onlookers, people began to clap. The princess stood to do so, which meant everyone else must follow suit. Ariana clapped too, smiling through teary eyes, and with a mouth compressed. Her eyes grew blurry, and she hastily wiped at them, for she must contain her composure. But the thought would not leave her for a moment that Mr. Mornay must have fallen into harm or mischief.

  Oh, Phillip! Why hast thou forsaken me? It was perhaps an overly dramatic line to fall upon, and yet she felt forsaken, indeed.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The pain of poking around the wound convinced Mr. Mornay that he would have to accept the laudanum. Or drink himself under the table. He took a dose of the physic. It did nothing to relieve the pain, though he did feel relaxed, suddenly. Nevertheless, as the doctor prodded, Mornay’s uninjured right arm shot out and stopped him, grasping the man tightly.

  “Sir! Have a care!” he said, through gritted teeth.

  The man paused, swallowed, looked around at the company and said, “He’s getting another dose. He’ll kill me before I’ve done if he doesn’t have it!”

  Mornay took it too, which spoke eloquently of how much the procedure hurt. With that, and a bracing glass of port which he was heartily enjoined to accept—by his friends, not the doctor—he was taken home rather less in his own power than he had hoped to be.

  It was going on four o’clock in the morning, and the servants, even the usually fortitudinal Freddy, were asleep! The house was quiet. Alvanley joked that they should descend upon the butler en masse and give the man a fright he’d not soon forget for his lassitude. But Mornay muttered, “To bed, genelmen, to bed.” He was acting foxed, to be sure. Must have been the drug.

  They found the bedchamber—what they took to be his bedchamber, at any rate—and got the man into bed. Grafton was still along and said, “Hey, ought we not to leave the servants a note about what has befallen their master, do you think?”

  “He hasn’t lost his tongue, Your Grace!”

  “Right. Well, draw the curtains, let’s leave him to rest.”

  When they were assembled outside, Lord Alvanley said, “Which one o’ us is going to make sure he don’t sleep past his wedding, eh?”

  “Don’t be a gull, the man’s got servants! Surely they’ll take care o’ that!”

  Grafton nodded. “Right.”

  It all flooded back to Mornay while he dragged himself from the room and went towards his own chamber. He’d been shot by that pigeon-head Chesley, after which his friends had no doubt had to bring him home and—best and worst of all—his wedding was today, and he’d slept late! When he strode painfully into the room, Fotch’s eyes opened as wide as saucers, and he jumped to his feet.

  “Sir!”

  “Why the deuce didn’t you wake me? Don’t you know what day this is?” He strode into the room before Fotch could change his expression from amazement to relief, but it was short lived. Mr. Mornay was a sorry sight. The Paragon, wounded like a soldier, wore half a shredded shirt, no waistcoat, no cravat, and no coat. Moreover, the clothing was blood-stained. If Fotch had not been a man of a stout heart, he might well have grown faint at the horror of it.

  “Sir! Your arm! If I might be allowed to say how sorry I am!” He followed his master into the adjoining dressing room.

  “Thank you. How much time do I have?” Mr. Mornay sat down and held out one muscular leg. His buff leather pantaloons were ruined by drops of dried dark blood, and his boots would need a good cleaning. Fotch immediately got before him and began to remove the boot.

  “The wedding begins in fifty-four minutes, sir.” When he’d got the boots off, he stopped and darted to the bellpull and gave it far more jerks than necessary to call for help—desperate times, desperate measures! Soon the sound of hastening footsteps was heard approaching.

  Frederick appeared first, followed by a footman and parlourmaid. When Freddy saw his master, he sighed with relief, and wiped his brow with a handkerchief. But then he saw the bandaged wound on his arm. His eyes bulged. He turned to the maid. “Send for the family doctor on the double!”

  “No need for that,” his master said.

  Frederick said, “Get a bath up here at once!”

  The parlourmaid, who was also looking on with amazement offered, “At once, sir? We’ll ‘ave to warm the water, first.”

  “I want it brought now! To the devil with hot water!” This was a severe oath to leave the lips of the butler, and both servants turned abruptly to do his bidding. “And do send for the doctor,” he called after them.

  “Freddy, are you my butler or my mother? I said no doctor!”

  Fotch also wanted very much to have the doctor take a look at the injury, as the bandaging was red and brown, which meant dried and fresh blood. And Mr. Mornay’s colour was undoubtedly pale. “Did you just get in, sir?” He was still trying to figure out what had happened.

  “No. I was in the guest bedchamber.”

  “You!” Freddy and Fotch exchanged surprised looks. “My word, there all along!”

  “Yes, and not my guest, apparently. He never showed, eh?”

  “Mr. Timmons, sir?”

  “Yes, Mr. Timmons.”

  Freddy cleared his throat. The master looked at him in amazement. “Well?”

  “He is here actually, sir. Wanted to wait up for you but fell asleep.”

  “But not in the guest bedchamber or I should have had company. So where did he sleep?”

  “In the parlour.”

  Mornay gave a breath of a laugh. “So my guest slept in the parlour, and I slept in the chamber which should have been his.” He closed his eyes tiredly. “Fotch, you know I must hurry!” Fotch was proceeding slowly, being gentle and careful instead of aiming for speed.

  “I won’t have time for a bath,” he said, now. Fotch, clearly scandalized, exclaimed, “But sir! You’re wedding!”

  Two footmen carried in a tub just then, followed by other servants with buckets of water. Fotch felt the water in one, and then eyed the footman with surprise, who said, “Mr. Frederick told us to hurry. We hurried.” When the servants had gone, Fotch said, “Come on then sir, we’ve got a wedding to get you to.”

  Mr. Mornay obediently stuck a leg into the tub, but no sooner had he done so than he cried, “Aah! This water is freezing!” He began to pull his leg out, but Fotch and Freddy stopped him.

  The valet said, “Ah, ah, sir, we didn’t have time for a hot bath, did we?”

  “Don’t patronize me, Fotch! I’ll have your situation!”

  “Yes, sir,” he said, hiding his smile. He and the butler gently pushed their master into the unwelcoming water.

 
Ariana faced the newlyweds to her right, hoping that her face showed only happiness for them. She smiled at her aunt, trying valiantly to hide her own turmoil, but Mrs. Bentley was aware of Mr. Mornay’s absence, and her eyes grew wide when she saw that he had still not appeared.

  Mr. O’Brien suddenly came beside her. Ariana turned to him in alarm, ready to give him a set-down. He moved past her, however, and went up near the vicar. Another man was speaking to Mr. Hodgson, but Mr. O’Brien would wait.

  Ariana’s aunt whispered into Mr. Pellham’s ear, and they waited there in front of the church instead of proceeding down the aisle. She moved towards Ariana as for an embrace, but she meant to discover if there might be an explanation that her niece knew of.

  There was no way Mr. Mornay’s coat was going to fit over the injured arm, for the bandaging was too bulky for the perfectly fitted sleeve. Fotch and Freddy’s attempts to make it do so resulted in involuntary exclamations from its owner, which, at any other time of his life would have been laced with various epithets but was controlled now only on account of his newfound sense of religion.

  “Sir, you can be married without a coat.”

  “Don’t be absurd! Is that blasted physician coming or isn’t he?”

  A sound at the door at that very moment reached their ears, and Freddy went to investigate. Mr. Wickford had arrived. When he entered the dressing room, Mornay said, “I need a new dressing, and it must be undetectable so that I may wear my coat for my wedding.”

  “Your wedding, sir?”

  “Yes; and which I am late for this very minute. I need the smallest wrapping possible so I may wear the coat. And hastily done, if you please!”

  The man congratulated him calmly and blinked, saying, “What happened to the arm, sir?”

  While Fotch speedily undid the snowy shirt and removed it, Mr. Mornay explained that he’d been shot at Boodle's by a man too deep in his cups. Fotch and Freddy swallowed nervously and exchanged glances once more. At Boodle's? One of the most exclusive men’s clubs in town! My word! Thank God no worse harm had come to the master!

  The doctor took out his equipment and asked for clean cloths, which were speedily supplied. The servants’ eyes were fastened on the wound, which Mr. Mornay himself could not fully see, since Chesley had shot him from behind. He was well aware of the man’s progress, however, and shot out remarks accordingly: “I don’t need you poking in the wound!”

  “The bullet was removed by a man at the club!”

  “Have a care, Wickford! I cannot be bleeding at my wedding!”

  “Sir, it must be sufficiently covered, and with enough pressure to keep the bleeding stopped.”

  “My coat sleeve will supply it. I assure you, my tailor is incomparable at fitting sleeves.” A good tailor did indeed fit a man’s coat to the width and length of his arms for a snug fit; he did not make allowances for the odd chance that his client might suffer a bullet. It would supply pressure.

  The doctor did not look happy. He eyed the servants for support, but they only shook their heads. He had best appease their master.

  In a short time, the Paragon looked much improved. He was clean and freshly shaved. He wore a beautiful snowy-white cravat over a fine shirt and a waistcoat worthy of the Regent. His coat was successfully coaxed over the wound, though not without causing pain to its wearer. The greater bulge of the bandaging faced the back, which thankfully Mornay could not well see. Fotch assured him of its being undetectable—with his fingers crossed behind his back.

  Dark fitted breeches, white stockings and shoes completed the outfit.

  “Freddy, where is Timmons? I’ve forgot all about him! We must be off. See that he’s ready.”

  Freddy’s face balked. He too had forgot all about him. “Sir—there’s something about Mr. Timmons you’ll need to know.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Forsythe joined hands worriedly where they sat in a pew, though Mr. Forsythe did not think it possible that his future son-in-law meant to jilt his bride. In fact he was convinced there must be a reasonable explanation for his absence. That even Mr. Timmons had not appeared further strengthened this conviction. He sent up a silent prayer for victory against the obstacle, whatever it was. He shared his conviction with his wife, pointing out Timmons’ absence, and she passed on the prayer concern to the Norledges. As a group, the Forsythes fell to silent intercession.

  Meanwhile, the rector questioned Ariana. Did she know something of the delay of her betrothed? Did she believe the man would show? The new Mrs. Pellham stood nearby glaring at O’Brien, who roundly ignored her. He waited to seize a chance to speak to Mr. Hodgson himself, to tell him of his desire to wed Miss Forsythe, if the young woman could be convinced to have him.

  “You had him locked in the armoury?”

  Freddy explained their reasons. They hadn’t thought he was home. They didn’t want the rector to know he wasn’t home, thinking he might raise a dust before the wedding, or worse, cancel it. Mr. Mornay ended up chuckling to himself, but he hurried down the steps and called impatiently for the butler to keep up and open the blasted door.

  He heard Timmons banging and shouting before he reached the portal.

  “Hold on, Timmons, I’ll have you out directly!”

  “You, sir, are a blackguard and a—a—knave!”

  Mornay grimaced at Freddy who was fumbling to open the door as fast as he could.

  When Mr. Timmons appeared shortly, his eyes blazing with righteous indignation, Mornay said, “I’m sorry, old fellow. It was a misunderstanding.”

  “I think I understand well enough, sir!”

  Mornay looked at the butler. “Tell him, Freddy.” Timmons looked to the abashed servant, heard the account of the bewilderment of the staff, their desire only to protect their master, and the reasons for his imprisonment. He was a good-natured fellow, and soon the three of them were first chuckling, and then rolling with laughter. Mr. Timmons took his handkerchief and wiped his face, while Mr. Mornay came to with a start and said, “This is madness! Ariana!”

  And he was off.

  Freddy was enormously grateful to Fotch from that day forward, for the valet had thought to ensure the coach was ready, so that it waited at the curb when the men rushed out of the house.

  “To St. George’s!” the butler cried. “On the double!” He and Fotch exchanged satisfied glances for a split second. With a start, they hurried to jump on back the equipage as the wheels started rolling, where the surprised footmen made space for them. They could not miss this event.

  Mr. Hodgson, the rector at St. George’s, listened patiently to Mr. O’Brien’s objections, but then settled the matter easily. He said, “Sir, even if the lady was eager to have you, there is no license. It is out of the question.” This had the immediate effect of deflating the last hopes of Peter O’Brien for Miss Forsythe. With a care to maintain his dignity, he turned and made his way to the side aisle and exited the church. His friendship with the family had made him willing to witness the ceremony, but that willingness was now exhausted.

  Mr. Hodgson turned to Miss Forsythe. They could only be expected to wait so long for a missing groom. The princess was being forced to wait. Mr. Forsythe, with a keen eye, hurried to the front. He had an opinion and it must be shared.

  “Before you dismiss this congregation,” he said, “I must tell you, the man is surely coming.”

  “Do you know that for a fact, sir?”

  Ariana’s father consulted his deepest convictions on the matter. He had been praying fervently. He felt exceedingly sure of Mornay’s intentions. He felt fortified in this belief from prayer.

  The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much. The verse came strongly to mind, and he felt it as a prompting of the Holy Spirit. He looked the rector in the eyes.

  “I know it for a fact, sir.” Ariana gave a relieved gasp, her eyes brimming with gratitude, though through tears. She did not know how her father had got the information, nor did she question it.

  Just then, ch
eers from the crowd outside the building were heard.

  Mr. Mornay’s coach, though it could not reach the curb, stopped in the street. The door burst open, and he jumped down from the equipage without waiting for a man to let down the steps. He was followed quickly by Mr. Timmons. Ignoring the cheering crowd, the two men hurried into the church.

  A great buzz spread through the church and everyone came to their feet. Finally, the moment they were waiting for! The Paragon had arrived! Beatrice and Lucy jumped up and down in their excitement, and Beatrice, watching wide-eyed, began to whisper a fierce chant of, “Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!” to herself.

  The rector had to motion for silence. Mr. Timmons went right to the head of the church with his friend, and found the bride and her papa waiting there with such looks! Gratitude. Relief. Joy! He spoke a few words to the rector, who looked with interest at the man he’d just learned had been shot the previous night. He then shook Mr. Timmons’ hand and thanked him.

  Mr. Hodgson cleared his throat, and a deep hush fell upon the audience.

  Mr. Mornay stood beside his bride, and using only his good arm, entwined hers inside it. He met her eyes. His look was so full of love and sorrow, both at once, that Ariana was amply reassured. Tears lingered on her face, but now were happy ones. He reclaimed his hand to pull a starched white handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and gently removed any traces of them from her cheeks. Together they turned to face Mr. Hodgson, waiting now with an indulgent look on his face and a prayer book in hand. He cleared his throat.

  “Dearly beloved.....”

  Epilogue

  By the time the carriage pulled into the winding drive at Aspindon, the setting sun was just visible, peeking through the trees lining the path. When the road opened to reveal the stately manor, Ariana craned her neck to get her first look at the estate in months.