“But of course, Miss Bluford!” cried her mistress, quite surprised.
The lady’s lips came together in concentration, and she lifted her chin. The other occupants in the room were almost craning their necks, waiting, except for Phillip, who had crossed his arms and merely sat, watching her with not the least surprise or curiosity on his face.
“How—how do you like—” and here she paused again.
“Out with it, my dear!” said her mistress.
Miss Bluford swallowed. “How do you like this? Mr. Frogglethorpe.” All the females in the room chuckled in surprise that sober Miss Bluford would produce such a name.
“Very amusing, Miss Bluford!” gasped Mrs. Royleforst approvingly. With this encouragement, Miss Bluford gave a little wobbly smile and added, “Let us say, then, Mr. Frederick Frogglethorpe!” Her skinny shoulders shook as she quietly enjoyed her own mirth and gave little peeks at the others about her (except for Mr. Mornay. She was still wary of him.). She loved that she had amused everyone.
“I daresay Frederick shan’t like it,” replied the lady of the house, thinking of their butler, Mr. Frederick, whom her husband called “Freddy.”
Little Nigel burst into the room at that moment, leaving the door ajar.
“Mama! Papa! Nigel is back!”
“Come to Auntie Royleforst,” said the large older woman, immediately. Mrs. Forsythe had been just about to offer her own arms to the child, and frowned, but she said nothing.
Beatrice repeated, “Frederick Frogglethorpe. I believe it has a very proper ring to it—almost.” And she laughed. “Ah, yes, ‘Mr. Frederick Frogglethorpe at your service, ma’am,’” and Miss Bluford tittered the most of anyone. Ariana was smiling, enjoying that her sister found the little exercise diverting. Beatrice added, “I think he will bow timidly, with overarching propriety, and will offer you a great deal of flummery.” They all chuckled, and Miss Bluford, nodding fervently, agreed, “Yes, flummery—indeed, indeed! The richest sort! The smoothest going down! Quite the vicar!”
Mrs. Royleforst continued to feel amazed and amused at how Miss Bluford was coming out of her shell of silence, but she was too busy allowing Nigel the pleasure of crawling all over her large person to say anything of it.
The clock ticked, and they all continued to wait.
Four
Mr. O’Brien, having accepted that his fate was to appear before his old nemesis, the Paragon, did what he could to ready himself. He knew the “interview” would be a hopeless affair, but he was properly resigned to this. The Colonel’s honour was at stake; his own honour demanded his acquiescence, and so he set himself to making his appearance in the best manner possible.
He went first to his mother and suffered the humiliation of enlisting her support in the form of funds. She was reluctant to help him in the scheme, feeling there was a preponderance of certain doom attached to the venture. But sons have their way of finagling help from their mothers, and soon Mr. O’Brien was in possession of enough money to call upon his tailor.
He had his overcoat relined and cleaned; he did the same for his boots and shoes, getting new heels and paying extra for the very best polish. He even bought a new waistcoat, and would have ventured a shirt as well, but needed enough money for the post chaise to get to Middlesex. He made very sure to keep enough for the return journey, as that, he knew, would not be far behind his arrival. During a routine hair trim, the barber somehow convinced him to sport the very latest fashion of a slight “whip” above his forehead. His hair was the perfect texture, he said; his face had just the right shape to pull it off without a hint of dandyism; and so when the curate left the shop, he had a new wave in his hair, and could hardly suppress a slight feeling of glee when two young ladies sent admiring glances in his direction as he returned to the family carriage.
With this little boost to his confidence, and a very good shave, he packed his clothing (particularly his whitest neckcloths—this was, after all, Mornay he was to see), kissed his mother goodbye, and set off on his doomed journey. Oddly enough, he felt almost optimistic. At first. But during the two-and-a-half hours of the drive, he had time to consider his past sins—the very reasons Mornay would never present the living to him. It had been years now since his humiliation and defeat at that man’s hands; years since he had fallen in love with a woman, only to have her choose Mornay instead of him. He bore no ill-will toward her; indeed, his feeling at the present time for Miss Ariana Forsythe—er, Mrs. Mornay—was nought but benevolent. He wished her every happiness.
But he and Mr. Mornay had never seen eye to eye, and now, all this time later, the man had resurfaced in his affairs! Why had it happened this way? He’d thought the Mornays were behind him forever. Not that he’d done anything more dishonourable than giving way to a few weak impulses, stealing a kiss from Ariana when he ought not to have. It was a sin he’d repented of, received forgiveness from God for, and put decidedly in his past. But the name “Mornay” now brought it all back again, rushing across his mind like a soldier reliving some great battle. Only this was a battle of the heart—and one he’d lost.
He understood Ariana Mornay enough to know that he had nothing to fear at her hands; she would receive him kindly, whether she wished for him to have the living or not; but her husband? Why had he not written to the Colonel, telling of his abhorrence for Mr. O’Brien? Or, why had he not written directly, telling him privately what he really thought, and that he oughtn’t to waste his time calling upon them at Aspindon? It would have saved him this pointless trip.
When the chaise stopped at an inn to pick up more passengers, O’Brien hired a fast-riding messenger and sent an urgent letter to Mr. Mornay. If he was to be turned away at the door, let him say so now, before he arrived. He hoped this would give Mr. Mornay the time he needed to send a message back. “Go home, O’Brien,” it would say. “You are not welcome here.” And go home he would, with relief. But that message had not come, and now the coach was well nigh the vicinity of Aspindon House. Mr. O’Brien sighed. He did not relish the next hour.
Unfortunately, without their knowing it, and just when Beatrice had tried out the name of “Mr. Frederick Frogglethorpe” aloud upon her tongue, the butler was at the door with a guest, and both men heard her pronouncement. Nigel had exited the room just as swiftly as he had run in (at Mrs. Perler’s calling for him) and left the door open. Frederick, just raising his hand to knock, heard the words coming from the room. He stiffened, and grimaced. Why was he the brunt of a joke? He took a breath, and again went to knock—when Beatrice’s voice again rang out: “I think he will bow timidly, with overarching propriety, and will offer you a great deal of flummery.” They all chuckled, and Miss Bluford, nodding fervently, agreed, “Yes, flummery—indeed, indeed! The richest sort! The smoothest going down! Quite the vicar!”
Now Mr. Frederick’s eyes opened wide in comprehension, which turned to apprehension. They were not making fun of him; they were making fun of the man with him! Mr. Mornay had told him to expect the arrival of a curate. It did not take a man of brilliance to understand that the occupants of the room were jesting with regard to a churchman. He felt deuced uncomfortable, but there was nothing else for it, so he knocked and opened the door all the way, so that both men could enter.
“Begging your pardon!” he said, in a tone that was almost a scold, for he hoped to silence the room (and did); “Mr. Peter O’Brien!”
From his position near the mantel, for Mr. Mornay was casually leaning against it, he cracked the smallest smile at Freddy. The man had bottom.
Meanwhile, the effect of the butler’s unmistakably demanding tone was that the room immediately fell into an immense silence. It was either that, or the name of O’Brien, or the realization that their “Mr. Frogglethorpe” had arrived, and that he was nothing to snivel at.
Mr. Mornay’s eyes flew to his wife. He was curious, no sense denying it, as to how she would behave with her old admirer. Ariana recovered her astonishment first, and cried, with del
ight, “Mr. O’Brien! Upon my word! Do come in, sir!” To the servant she added, “Thank you, Frederick; send in the tea now.” The butler, with a mild look of reproval that he could not erase, bowed lightly and left the room.
Beatrice’s eyes were round with surprise—nay—amazement. She remembered Mr. Peter O’Brien! She remembered him as a tall, kind young man who had indulged her when, at the age of twelve, she had promised to marry him, of all things! She was blushing lightly for having just mouthed the words “Mr. Frederick Frogglethorpe,” realizing that the man might well have heard her; and now her blush deepened at this memory. She despised blushing, however, and set to reasoning herself out of it.
It had all happened when Ariana’s betrothal to Mr. Mornay was established five years earlier. Mr. O’Brien had maintained his hopes for her sister’s affection right up to the wedding. But on that day when Ariana and Mr. Mornay had fallen into each other’s arms—right there in Aunt Bentley’s parlour (for Mrs. Bentley hadn’t married Mr Pellham, yet, though she was Aunt Pellham now)—Beatrice had seen the forlorn expression on the young man, and felt terribly sorry for him.
He had been speaking with her father, and she had every reason, to her twelve-year-old mind, to think him a worthy gentleman. So she had said, when her father introduced her, “I’ll marry you,” to the young man. The men had laughed, so she added, “But I shall, Papa, as soon as you give your leave!”
So, without his asking, and contrary to all propriety, Beatrice had proposed herself to be this man’s wife! And now, five years later, here he was, standing before her. What if he remembered? What would he think of her now?
In the past, he had gallantly treated her fancy for him with the air of a fond older brother. He had never teased or berated her, not even when she stayed with his family on Blandford Street in London, and assured them earnestly that she would marry Peter as soon as her papa gave leave. Just the thought of these memories sent a little extra colour into her cheeks, and she suddenly felt as though she was at the edge of her seat. Of all the people in the world whom she might have run into at her sister’s house, this one man seemed the most unlikely—and yet here he was!
His gaze fell upon her. He had very blue and intelligent eyes; eyes that were unlikely to have forgotten her youthful faux pas—Beatrice quickly looked away. Why was she feeling the least bit flummoxed over this meeting? She’d only been a mere child, she reminded herself, when she had rashly promised to marry him. Nevertheless, it was mortifying. She could barely take in his dignified appearance—the handsome demeanour and good manners he was displaying—for fear he would take one look more at her and at once remember her rash promise! She hoped it was the sort of thing a gentleman would not dream of mentioning.
Her thoughts were flitting rapidly through her head while Mr. O’Brien spoke to Ariana and her husband. It was difficult to comprehend that she was truly seeing Mr. Peter O’Brien again! He had always been handsome, in her memory, but seeing him now was like a jolt. Perhaps it was an air of maturity he had gained, more than an alteration in his features; but whatever the cause, he looked exceedingly fine. If it were not for the dread which had come upon her, she would be proud of him, and pleased to make this reacquaintance.
His twin-tailed black jacket was well fitted, and just hinted at the latest fashion with a little bulge in the upper sleeves, and wide tailored cuffs at the wrists. His cravat was more voluminous than those her brother-in-law favored, but not unbecoming; a fine embroidered yellow waistcoat peeked out of his jacket, and breeches with stockings and black shoes brought the eye to the floor. A cane, and hat in one hand, finished the ensemble. His hair was neatly fashioned into a whip, and it gave him a sort of dash that she did not remember in him. And—wait—he had used to have blond hair. It had grown into a deep brown, with just a few streaks of lighter strands here and there. How unusual, and yet the colour, she had to admit, suited him.
In short, he was as neat and fine a gentleman as Beatrice had seen, though she could not be sure if his polished look was due to superior tailoring, or if he had somehow grown into wearing his clothing with more aplomb. The dark colours suited a clergyman, and the hint of yellow from the waistcoat lightened his appearance so that there was no sense of severity in it. Beatrice reminded herself that if she could meet Mr. Mornay’s dark eyes without a single flutter to her heart, surely, the presence of a mere curate would do no worse.
Ariana, meanwhile, was making introductions. When it came to Beatrice’s turn, she said, “Beatrice, you recall Mr. O’Brien; my sister, Miss Forsythe, sir.” Mr. O’Brien had been looking with polite curiosity at Beatrice, but at Ariana’s words he seemed to open his eyes wider somehow.
“My dear Miss Forsythe!” He recognized her. His tone was warm but not overdone.
“Has she not altered a great deal in her appearance since last you met?” Ariana was smiling proudly. Mr. O’Brien raised his eyes while completing a bow, and exclaimed, in his soft-toned voice, “Altered, indeed! Grown up, I should say. What a pleasant surprise to see you.”
Beatrice replied, while impulsively thrusting out one hand, “Thank you, sir,” and met his eyes. A flash of deep blue was in them, and something more; was it amusement? She blushed deeper. He took her hand and held it lightly, and even bowed over it again, but did not raise it to his lips. (To her relief! What on earth had made her offer her hand to him?)
Ariana was smiling affectionately; Beatrice dared not look at her mother.
Now, when Mr. O’Brien had entered the room, it happened so that he came in facing the sofa where Beatrice and Mrs. Forsythe sat. His eyes fell upon Beatrice and inwardly he felt himself start; it was a pretty face somewhat like Ariana’s, but not. She caught his gaze and hurriedly looked away. He had no time to think about it, but somewhere in his brain he knew it must be Miss Beatrice. The sight of her! She was a young woman, not the pretty child he remembered.
He had by now collected himself from the surprise. He’d been prepared to see Ariana Mornay but instead had spied a face that at once resembled hers, but was evidently not hers, and it had startled him. It was like seeing something that should be familiar, only it was also foreign. But now he was bowing to the real Mrs. Mornay, Ariana, who was reassuringly herself, lovely as ever; and then Mr. Mornay.
“Thank you for receiving me,” he said to him, still feeling very much on his guard.
Ariana noticed that Mr. O’Brien retained the soft-spoken earnestness she had always liked in him, but without the air of timidity that used to accompany it.
Afterward, when he was seated, she said, “Sir, I am pleased to see you looking so well.”
“I could say quite the same thing for you, ma’am.” With a look to Mr. Mornay, he added, “Mr. Mornay evidently takes excellent care of you.”
While the maids brought in the tea service and began to distribute cups, Ariana looked at her husband with eyes filled with surprise. Turning back to her guest she said, “Well! I must say, you are the last person we expected to see today! We are just now waiting for other company. Do tell us what brings you to the neighbourhood.”
Everyone else in the room had assumed that Mr. O’Brien was no doubt come about the living. Ariana, so surprised at his unexpected appearance, did not think that her husband could have known about this and not told her.
Mr. O’Brien froze in his chair. He turned to Mornay. “What brings me? Did you not get a recommendation? From Colonel Sotheby?”
“Colonel Sotheby!” Ariana looked in amazement at him, and her look of confusion changed to one of understanding. “You are the man he recommended! My word!” She turned to her husband and gave him a look as much to say, “Why did you not tell me?”
He could always read her thoughts and said, “Have I displeased you? I thought you would enjoy the surprise.” He did not want to say that he had doubted the cleric would show.
“I am surprised, indeed.” This explanation satisfied her so that she was not vexed. She turned to their guest with a smile. “I beg y
our pardon! My husband did not say who we were to expect, only that a man was coming. So you have taken Holy Orders, then?”
“Yes. Three years back, actually.”
He was by turns addressed with a polite question from nearly everyone in the room, saving Beatrice and Miss Bluford. Beatrice was aware he was speaking, but hardly knew what of, for she was still reeling with the thought of her foolishness regarding this man, this one man out of all the curates in England! She had practically forgotten all about the incident; she certainly did not consider it binding in any way. But the fear nevertheless assaulted her mind forcibly: What if he remembers? What if he makes mention of it? She would die a thousand deaths in one moment, and then she would wish to murder him!
She tried to concentrate on the conversation, but found herself studying the churchman with curiosity. Beneath the stylish hair, his dark sideburns lay trim and neat. He was as fair-skinned as ever, but his features were somehow redolent, it seemed to Beatrice, of having suffered in life. This must be what accounted for the change in him. He had more presence than in the past. He did not wear a pained expression, but one such as a person who was accustomed to receiving bad news. It could perhaps be called a world-wizened look, as that of a man who knew of serious truths.
If he chanced to look toward her side of the room, Beatrice averted her gaze speedily. At one point she found Mr. Mornay eyeing her intently, which might have been disconcerting, except that she was too consumed by the fear of her childish promise being spoken of to properly take note of her brother-in-law. She rehearsed how Mr. O’Brien’s eyes had met hers with polite curiosity, then surprised recognition. There was a flash of warmth in them—fondness as for a child—which would be exactly what he used to feel for her, for she was a child. That realization ought to have soothed her fears, but did not.
Her discomfort was increasing, the longer he sat and conversed. There was only one thing for it, to her mind. She made a decision: If Mr. O’Brien made the slightest reference to her childish fancy, she would feign ignorance. She would pretend she did not remember. It was not a wholly honest strategy, she knew, but her desperation to avoid embarrassment was severe enough to recommend her to the thought.
The Country House Courtship Page 4
