The Country House Courtship
Page 1
The reviews are in! Readers and critics love
Linore Rose Burkard’s Before the Season Ends…
“The author’s command of period detail is impressive, evident in material details but also in dialogue. The theology is also period authentic. The novel even contains a glossary to help non-Regencyphiles get up to speed about the difference between ladies’ pelisses and spencers…on the whole it’s a tasty confection.”
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
“A really nice surprise! This is definitely an original regency romance.”
ANNE WOODLEY, Amazon.com Top 500 Reviewer
patroness of the Almack’s List, Byron List, Janeites, and the Austen List
“Beautifully written story, fast-paced and exciting from cover to cover, (and) one of the best stories I have read!”
KELLI GLESIGE
book reviewer for www.ReaderViews.com
“Well-written, interesting, captivating, romantic, inspirational, and addictive, I highly recommend this book.”
ArmchairInterviews.com (Top 1000 Reviewer)
“I laughed out loud and was also brought to tears while reading this beautifully written book.”
ALICE TJIONG
Amazon.com Reader
“A great, entertaining book! It had me caught from the first few pages and continued to reel me in page after page.”
DONNA CRUGER
Business Owner/Amazon.com Reader
“So good that I couldn’t put it down! It made me laugh out loud and it made me cry.”
LAURA LOFASO
Amazon.com Reader
…and more raves for Linore’s
The House in Grosvenor Square…
“With a dose of charm and pinch of audacity, Burkard narrates a tale that will make you feel as though you have been transported back to the nineteenth century.”
LAURIE ALICE EAKES
Winner of the National Readers Choice Award for Best Regency Novel
“I love this book!!! I want some magical thing to happen so I can be one of the characters, even Mrs. Bentley, so I can be involved! Somehow, we’ve got to get it into the BBC’s hands! Linore sure did, somehow, maintain the same feel as the last book but wove in so much more. It’s like an amusement park ride with lots of twists and turns.”
TINA DEE
Christian Romance author
“I just had to tell you that I LOVED every minute of this story. I adore Ariana and just couldn’t read enough of Mr. Mornay and his struggles right up until the last minute!!…I love how you totally immersed me into that time period and culture that I know absolutely nothing about. TOTALLY LOVED IT!!”
NORA ST. LAURENT
Book Club Co-ordinator for Lifeway BookStore
“Grosvenor Square is a FANTASTIC read. I’m in the middle of Regency England and loving every minute of it!”
ASHLEY LUDWIG
Inspirational Romance author
THE
COUNTRY
HOUSE
COURTSHIP
LINORE ROSE BURKARD
HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS
EUGENE, OREGON
Cover by Dugan Design Group, Bloomington, Minnesota
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
THE COUNTRY HOUSE COURTSHIP
Copyright © 2010 by Linore Rose Burkard
Published by Harvest House Publishers
Eugene, Oregon 97402
www.harvesthousepublishers.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Burkard, Linore Rose
The country house courtship / Linore Rose Burkard.
p. cm. — (Regency inspirational romance series)
ISBN 978-0-7369-2799-4 (pbk.)
1. England — Fiction. I. Title.
PS3602.U754C68 2010
813’.6—dc22
2009025795
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Printed in the United States of America
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 / RDM-SK / 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To my husband, Michael John Burkard, without whom I could never have pursued the dream of writing the way I have.
Special thanks to: Dee Hendrickson, for reading the manuscript and giving me suggestions and encouragement; Nancy Mayer, whose outstanding knowledge of the Regency is always helpful and reassuring (she, too, read the manuscript and gave me pointers). Debbie Lynne Costello and Melanie Dickerson, my daily goal-sharing writer friends who read parts of the manuscript and helped keep me accountable for my daily word counts! And Nick Harrison, my editor, who is always kind. I also want to thank Harvest House Publishers for another great book cover and their support. It’s a pleasure to be a Harvest House author.
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Epilogue
Discussion Questions
About the Author
Can You Review This Book on Amazon.com?
Linore’s two previous novels about the Forsythes are…
Other fine fiction from Harvest House Publishers… Lori Wick’s English Garden Series
A Short Glossary for The Country House Courtship
About the Publisher
One
London, England
1818
Mr. Peter O’Brien felt surely he had a devil plaguing him, and the devil’s name was Mr. Phillip Mornay. The paper in his hand should have made him happy. Indeed, it ought to have elicited nothing but joy. For after two years of holding a curacy that didn’t pay enough to feed a church-mouse Mr. O’Brien was being recommended to a wealthy landowner whose vicarage had gone vacant.
The recommendation had come from the curate’s previous naval commander, Colonel Sotheby, and the appointment was to a parish in Glendover—a prestigious position to be sure. In addition to having a decent curate’s salary at last, Mr. O’Brien would have claim to a large glebe, a generous and well-built house, and, in short, would see himself by way of having enough to begin a family. (If he found a wife to marry, first, of course. O’Brien could just hear the Colonel’s good-natured laugh ring out at that remark.)
But to the curate’s consternation, the landowner’s name was Mr. Phillip Mornay, none other than the Paragon himself. And Mornay, Mr. O’Brien knew, would never grant him the living. To do so would go against everything he knew to be true of him. After all, no man who had once overstepped his bounds with Mr. Mornay’s betrothed, as Mr. O’Brien unfortunately had, would now be presented to the vicarage on the man’s lands. Of all the rotten, devilish luck! To have such a letter of recommendation was like gold in the fiercely competitive world of the church, where there were more poor cur
ates looking for a rise in their situations than there were church parishes who could supply them.
Therefore, instead of the boon from heaven this letter ought to have been, Mr. O’Brien was struck with a gloomy assurance that Mornay would sooner accept a popinjay in cleric’s clothing than himself. Even worse, his mother agreed with his appraisal as she perused the letter while she sat at her breakfast.
“You do not wish to renew old grievances,” she said. “Mr. Mornay is not, to my knowledge, a forgiving man. Shall you be put to the expense and trouble of travelling all the way to Middlesex, only to be turned down in the end? What can you possibly gain in it?”
Mr. O’Brien nodded; he saw her point. But he said, “I may have to do just that. The Colonel will never recommend me for another parish if he learns that I failed to apply myself to this opportunity.”
“Write to him,” replied his mama. “See if you can politely decline this honour, with the understanding that any other offer should be most welcome and appreciated!”
He doubted that any letter, no matter how “politely” written, would be able to manage his desire to avoid this meeting with Mornay, as well as secure the hope of a future recommendation. But he thought about it, put quill to paper, and sent the Colonel a reply. He asked (in the humblest terms he could manage) if the man might commend him for a living to be presented by some other landowner; indeed, any other landowner, any other gentleman in England than Phillip Mornay.
He could not explain the full extent of his past doings with Mr. Mornay without making himself sound like an utter fool; how he had hoped to marry the present Mrs. Mornay himself, some years ago. How presumptuous his hopes seemed to him now! Miss Ariana Forsythe was magnificent as the wife of the Paragon! He’d seen them in town after the marriage, but without ever presenting himself before them. It appalled even him that he had once thought himself worthy or equal to that beautiful lady.
When the Colonel’s reply came, there was little surprise in it. He assured Mr. O’Brien that his apprehensions were ill-placed; that Mr. Mornay’s past reputation of being a harsh, irascible man was no longer to the purpose. Colonel Sotheby himself held Mornay in the greatest respect, and insisted that the Paragon had as good a heart as any Christian. In short (and he made this terribly clear), Mr. O’Brien had best get himself off to Middlesex or he would put the Colonel in a deuced uncomfortable spot. He had already written to Aspindon House, which meant that Mr. O’Brien was expected. If he failed to appear for an interview, he could not expect that another recommendation of such merit and generosity would ever come his way again.
Mr. O’Brien realized it was inevitable—he would have to go to Middlesex and present himself to Mornay. He knew it was a vain cause, that nothing but humiliation could come of it, but he bowed to what he must consider the will of God. He knelt in prayer, begging to be excused from this doomed interview, but his heart and conscience told him he must attend to it. If he was to face humiliation, had he not brought it upon himself? Had he not earned Mornay’s disregard with his former obsession with Miss Forsythe, who was now Mrs. Mornay?
He no longer had feelings for the lady, but it was sure to be blessed awkward to face her! No less so than her husband. Nevertheless, when he rose from his knees, Peter O’Brien felt equal to doing what both duty and honour required. He only hoped that Mr. Mornay had not already written his own letter of objections to the Colonel; telling him why he would never present the living to Peter O’Brien. The Colonel was his best hope for a way out of St. Pancras. It was a gritty, desperate parish with poverty, crime, and hopelessness aplenty—not the sort of place he hoped to spend his life in, for he wanted a family. A wife.
Prepared to face the interview come what may, Mr. O’Brien determined not to allow Mornay to make quick work of him. He was no longer the youthful swain, besotted over Miss Forsythe. A stint in the army, if nothing else, had hardened him, brought him face-to-face with deep issues of life, and left him (or so he thought) a wiser man.
Aspindon House, Glendover, Middlesex
Ariana Mornay looked for the hundredth time at her younger sister Beatrice, sitting across from her in the elegantly cozy morning room of her country estate, Aspindon. Here in the daylight, Beatrice’s transformation from child to warm and attractive young woman was fully evident. When Mrs. Forsythe and Beatrice had arrived the prior evening, Ariana had seen the change in her sister, of course, but the daylight revealed it in a clarity that neither last night’s flambeaux (lit in honour of their arrival) or the interior candlelight and fire of the drawing room had been able to offer.
Beatrice’s previously brown hair was now a lovely luminous russet. Ringlets peeked out from a morning cap with ruffled lace, hanging over her brow and hovering about the sides of her face. The reddish brown of her locks emphasized hazel green eyes, smallish mischievous lips, and a healthy glow in her cheeks. Beatrice noticed her elder sister was studying her, and smiled.
“You still look at me as if you know me not,” she said, not hiding how much it pleased her to find herself an object of admiration.
“I cannot comprehend how greatly you are altered, in just one year!”
“I regret that we did not come for so long,” put in Mrs. Forsythe, the girls’ mother. She was still feasting her eyes upon Ariana and the children (though the nurse, Mrs. Perler, had taken four-year-old Nigel, the Mornay’s firstborn, from the room, after he had spilled milk all over himself minutes ago). “We wished to come sooner, as you know, but Lucy took ill, and I dared not carry the sickness here to you with your new little one.” At this, she stopped and cooed to the infant, who was upon her lap at the moment. “No, no, no,” she said, in the exaggerated tone that people so often use when addressing babies, “we can’t have little Miranda getting sick, now can we?”
Ariana smiled. “It matters not, Mama. You are here, now. I only wish Papa and Lucy could have joined you.” Lucy, the youngest Forsythe sister, and Papa had been obliged to stay home until the spring planting had been seen to. Mr. Forsythe did not wish to be wholly bereft of his family, so Lucy, who was a great comfort to him, had been enjoined to remain in Chesterton for his sake.
“I could not bear to wait upon your father a day longer,” Mrs. Forsythe answered with a little smile. “They will come by post chaise after Papa has done his service through Easter. And then we will all be together—except for the Norledges. Perhaps when Papa comes, he may bring your older sister and her husband.”
“I would want Aunt Pellham too, in that case,” Ariana said.
“Oh, my! With your Aunt and Uncle Pellham, and the Norledges, even this large house would be filled with guests, I daresay!” said her mother.
Beatrice, meanwhile, was barely listening. She was still happily ingesting the thought that Ariana had evidently noticed her womanhood. At seventeen, hers was not a striking sort of beauty—one did not stop in instant admiration upon spying Beatrice in a room, for instance, as had often been the case for Ariana; but the younger girl had no lack of wits, a lively eye and countenance, and, not to be understated, an easy friendliness. Among a group of reserved and proper English young ladies, Beatrice would be the beacon of refuge for the timid; she was welcoming where others were aloof; inquisitive and protective where others looked away.
Nor was she the sort of young woman to glide across a floor, dignified and elegant. Instead, Beatrice was ever having to keep her energy in check; when rising from a chair (her mama had made her practice doing so countless times) she could appear as elegant as the next young woman. She ate nicely, even daintily. But left unchecked, her natural enthusiasm might propel her through a room with alarming speed. Her shawls were ever hanging from her arms, never staying in place over her shoulders; and her mother forbade her from wearing hair jewellery, as it tended to lose its place upon her head. Bandeaux were her lot—besides bonnets, of course.
“It is fortunate that I am only seventeen,” she had said to her mama only last week, while the woman was draping a wide bandeau artful
ly around Beatrice’s head. “Or I believe you would exile every manner of female head attire from this house, saving turbans! Although my hair holds a curl twice as long as Lucy’s!”
Mrs. Forsythe had paused from her ministrations and met her daughter’s eyes in the looking glass before them. “I daresay you are suited for turbans; perhaps we should shop for some. I believe they are very popular just now.” Since the last thing in the world Beatrice wished to wear upon her head was a turban—no matter how many ladies in the pages of La Belle Assemblée wore them—she simply gave voice to an exasperated huff, evoking a knowing smile upon her mama’s face.
“I should adore a full house of guests,” Beatrice said, now. “Please do invite the Norledges, Ariana! Only think of the diversions we could have; play-acting with enough people to fill all the roles, for a change! Or charades; or even a dance!”
Ariana looked at her sister fondly. “Which dances do you like best?”
“The waltz!” she quickly responded, with a smile to show that she knew it was mischievous to prefer the waltz—the single dance which entailed more contact with the opposite sex than any other ballroom fare. Mrs. Forsythe clucked her tongue, but Beatrice blithely ignored this, taking a peek at her brother-in-law to gauge his reaction, instead. The host of the gathering was reading his morning paper, however, and not listening to the small talk between his wife and her relations.
And relations were virtually all around him. In addition to Beatrice and Mrs. Forsythe, there was his aunt, Mrs. Royleforst, staying with them at the present; and her companion, skinny, nervous Miss Bluford. These two ladies had not yet appeared for breakfast, which was no doubt on account of Mrs. Royleforst. She found mornings difficult, and either slept in or took a tray in her room.
“What do you think, sir?” asked Mrs. Forsythe of her host. “Shall my daughter invite the Norledges to join Mr. Forsythe and Lucy when they set out for your house? Or is your home already filled enough for your liking?”