The Country House Courtship

by Linore Rose Burkard

  The next day, Mr. Mornay asked his wife to take tea with him and the children in the nursery—a startling request, but Ariana was delighted to comply. They liked to be together for bohea and biscuits, but lately the children joined them in the drawing room since the guests were there as well. It would be cozier upstairs, just the four of them and Mrs. Perler.

  Thirty-five minutes later, Miranda had been fed with all the attentions due an infant (meaning she was burped, nursed on the other breast, burped yet again, and thoroughly adored, all while maintaining a complete oblivion to the squeals of delight and laughter around her) before Ariana asked her husband, “Do you wish to hold your daughter?” Coat removed, he had been playing upon the carpet with his son, letting the child climb all over him and giving him rides upon his back.

  “By all means,” he said, with a little smile, patting Nigel on the head before getting up to come and take the baby. Unlike the manner of his rough play with their son, Phillip took his littlest child gingerly into his arms, but without the great air of confidence that usually accompanied his actions. He sat down and studied her face, touched her with his finger, and let her little fingers clamp around one of his. Ariana came and sat beside them, after giving Nigel some tea and letting him pick what he wanted from the tray, which usually amounted to naught but biscuits.

  “Isn’t she lovely?” Ariana said, for the thousandth time.

  “She certainly is,” he murmured. “Just like her mother.”

  Miranda had been born with a beautiful silky layer of dark black hair, but at two months, it was already beginning to fall out, and, to his delight, was being replaced with the same light golden strands he loved on Ariana. He may not have been in his element holding an infant, but the miracle of this child being flesh of his flesh still astounded him, and he relished having her. At Nigel’s birth, he’d felt awestruck that he had taken part in giving life; and that the life was part of him, part of Ariana, and something that, once there, he would never want to live without.

  Until his children were born, he’d had a sense of needing an heir, but to actually have a child of his own in his arms was unbelievably satisfying. He had to conclude that it was a God-given desire, hidden within some people more than others, perhaps, but there just the same. He hadn’t known that it was within him to feel so much love, to be fiercely protective of others the way he felt for his family. Not until Ariana, and then Nigel and Miranda came into his life. What was life without them? How had he ever thought he was at all enjoying himself? God was so merciful to have given him what amounted to a new life! A family. A wonderful, precious family.

  After holding the baby until she slept (Ariana never grew tired of the sight of her strong, handsome husband cuddling a baby against his chest), he motioned to Mrs. Perler to take the child, but his wife said, “I’ll take her.”

  He handed her over gingerly, but said, “A few more minutes; then, come with me so I can speak to you.”

  “I haven’t done, Papa!” cried Nigel, his mouth full of crumbs.

  Their visits were the highlight of his days, even more so than just having tea every early afternoon; Mr. Mornay’s eyes softened at his son’s words, and he sat back down. Meanwhile, a maid began refilling cups for the adults, including Mrs. Perler, who was always allowed to partake with the family. She knew to sit aside by herself in a corner of the room unless she was needed, however, and she did so now. Ariana often had her tell any stories of things the children did, or what new smart thing Nigel had said or accomplished in her absence.

  Ariana would have transformed a parlour into a nursery so that she could have the children always near her; but Mr. Mornay insisted that she needed time apart, to rest for one thing; and to be available to him, for another. And so the upstairs nursery, which was really a small suite of rooms, was decorated and filled with the latest toys and furniture and engaged for their daily care.

  Nigel crawled upon his father’s lap, a biscuit in one hand.

  Ariana, snuggling a blanket-wrapped Miranda against her shoulder, was grateful for this family time, perhaps as much as her son. Phillip was kept so busy with the estate or visiting his holdings, or engaging in sport such as hunting or shooting with London gentlemen who came to visit, that she enjoyed moments like this immensely.

  In fact she had been amazed, at first, to see how much of his time was spoken for. Especially after having her impressions of him formed in London, where he seemed like a typical upperclassman, with time on his hands. She had not expected to find an involved landlord. Had he been often shooting or hunting to dogs or riding, it would come as no surprise; but he paid attention to the tenants, knew the men in each family by name, even asked about their wives. He oversaw the accounts of the estate to the extent of regularly spending a few hours with his man of business, his steward, and even the housekeeper, each by turn, going over accounts. As if Ariana hadn’t already been starry-eyed about her new husband, this side of him only deepened her admiration.

  The Mornay estate would never fall prey to poor management or disrepair while Phillip was its owner. Unlike the properties of much of the nobility, nay, much of the landed gentry, too, his was neither entailed nor mortgaged. She began to understand why the prince should want him for his government. He was superb with the management of his affairs.

  She took a sip of tea with one hand, while continuing to watch the two males she loved most in the world. Mr. Mornay was breaking a biscuit up and handing pieces to the child, who watched his father with rapt eyes, smiling while he ate. After the child had finished the treat, Mr. Mornay’s eyes met those of his wife. Oh, yes—he wanted to speak with her.

  “Mrs. Perler,” she said, “take the children to their grandmother and aunt in the drawing room. We will be there shortly.”

  “Huzzah!” Nigel shouted. “The drawing room! Will there be more tea and biscuits, Mama?”

  When she and Phillip were alone, she looked at him expectantly. He patted the space on his lap where their son had been only minutes earlier, and with a smile she got up and claimed it. He immediately drew her toward him and kissed her.

  Afterward, he regarded her face, turned up at him. “You are enormously pretty,” he said, making her smile.

  “But you did not arrange tea with me to tell me that,” she returned. “What is it? You have got me so curious!”

  He moved a stray lock of hair from her face, curling it around one of her ears. “We need to discuss Glendover once more. I know that yesterday you thought it might be granted to Mr. O’Brien, and”—he held up a finger to silence her—“I need to be certain you understand that such a hope is impossible.”

  Ariana, studying his eyes, said, “Impossible? Or not to your liking?”

  He chuckled. “In this case, one is equal to the other. If I do not like a man for the living, he does not get it. Surely you could not expect me to actually consider O’Brien.”

  “You once said yourself, Phillip, that if we could improve a man’s life, that was good enough reason to grant him the living.”

  “That was presupposing the man to have met my full approval. I am responsible to the parish to make the best choice of vicar that I am capable of. Mr. O’Brien is not that man.”

  “But what are you basing this conclusion upon? The past, I daresay, for you have spent no time with him alone. You have given him no interview, nor seen him fulfilling his office. Let him preside for us this coming Sunday, here at Glendover, and base your decision upon his actual performance. Nothing from your history with him is worthy of consideration at this time. You must let the past rest with the past, and allow him to prove himself as he is, now.”

  “Nothing of my history with him?” he asked. “Then let it be his history with you that concerns me. Either way, he still fails to get the living.” He smiled lazily at her frown.

  “Only promise me that you will not interview another man until you have given Mr. O’Brien every chance that he deserves to win this situation.”

  “I will sp
eak to him, then, and I will question his theology if it pleases you.” He looked at her squarely. “Mr. O’Brien will dig his own grave, I assure you. I’ll wait as long as you like. But you cannot expect him to stay in the neighbourhood past one Sunday. He has his own parish to attend to.”

  “I understand. But I think our curate has improved a great deal in his character. I believe he will not, as you say, dig his own grave.”

  “Then we shall see. I give him until Sunday to prove himself, or he goes back to St. Pancras.”

  “Sir, might I have a few words with you?” Mr. O’Brien’s bold gaze met and held that of his host, Mr. Mornay, who had returned with his wife to the drawing room only minutes earlier.

  “Certainly,” replied Phillip. “Shall we remove to an office?”

  “I would be obliged, thank you.”

  Mr. Mornay began to lead Mr. O’Brien from the drawing room, thinking to himself, Here it comes. He will ask me outright for the living.

  But Mrs. Forsythe saw them and said, “Mr. O’Brien! You do still wish to accompany my daughter and me for a walk upon the grounds, I hope?” For yesterday they had shown the man about the large house, giving him a brief tour of the public rooms, which both women were still enjoying taking in themselves.

  “In this weather?” asked Ariana, for the late February air was chillingly relentless, making all the chamber maids extra busy with filling up coal bins, stoking fires, and removing ashes. They were forever scuttling into and out of the drawing room and other public rooms to maintain the heat of the fires.

  “I beg your pardon,” Mr. O’Brien said sincerely. “I mean to keep my word, to be sure; but I shall join you afterward if that will be agreeable.”

  But Mr. Mornay said, “By all means, accompany the ladies. We can talk later. There’s no hurry, I assure you.”

  Mr. O’Brien looked at him curiously. Did he already know what he wished to say to him? But how could he? He said, “Very good; I am obliged.”

  Soon the three of them, cloaked in coats and scarves and hats and gloves, had set out from the large front door, choosing to take the walk that led around the long house.

  “We’ll stay close to the house this time, and see if we can circle it before getting too cold,” said Mrs. Forsythe. Beatrice was curious as to why her mother suddenly was in want of outdoor exercise, as well as why she had said, “this time,” as if there were certain to be more such outings. But she merely nodded and drew her scarf about her tighter and went along.

  They followed a paved brick walk, remarking about the beauty of the house and the grounds, and the prospect. In five minutes or so they reached one end of the structure, and turned and were out of sight.

  About thirty minutes later, Mr. Barton let out a whistle to himself as his carriage came to a stop in front of the stately dwelling of the Paragon and his wife. The country house was impressive with its Georgian columns and Venetian-style windows. The sheer size of the place, and the neatness and formality of its grounds (not least of which began with a mile-long, tree-lined drive—or so it seemed) had brought his mission—his reason for being there—strongly to mind. Aspindon House was certainly impressive enough to be the abode of a viscount. Even an earl, for that matter!

  It did his heart good to see this firsthand evidence of prosperity in the world; it reminded him that there was always a great deal of money, somewhere, and that playing one’s cards correctly might well result in ending up with a greater share of it. If he could succeed in influencing Mornay for the prince, he might well be on his way to a bit more of a fortune than he had at present. If more money was not given him, and it was unlikely it would be, he could at least be sure of a continued welcome into the circles of the upper class, and enjoy the bounty of others.

  And Mr. Barton did have wealth. But his fortune was not endless, whereas his gaming habit was. He had discovered, moreover, that fortune alone did not always ensure acceptance in the bon ton. His sister was apparently wiser than he, for selling their family home had been a grave mistake, but one which he had willingly committed, thinking only of the assets it would give him to settle in Mayfair. His foolishness was evident to him now, but too late. Looking at Aspindon looming stately and elegant before him, he hoped his luck was about to change.

  The groom finally appeared, allowing him to hand over the ribbons and head toward the great front door. His pulse quickened at the prospect of what lay before him. He hoped he was about to find the man at home. He hoped, more, that he would somehow gain his favour—a much trickier thing to procure than a mere audience with him. His sister might indeed be useful in that matter, however, for he expected that Mrs. Mornay was short enough of genteel company to be delighted to learn of her new neighbours.

  He straightened his coat, checked his cravat with his hands, and reached up for the knocker. The next hour would no doubt be most illuminating as to whether his hopes had any chance of succeeding or not. He took a breath and rapped firmly on the door, twice. And waited.

  Six

  A note, sir, by special messenger, from Warwickdon.”

  Freddie handed the missive to his master, and even Mr. Mornay seemed surprised to be receiving a second urgent letter in two days. He opened it right there in the parlour, letting Ariana read it with him, for they were seated side by side. Mrs. Royleforst’s small eyes opened as wide as they were capable of while she waited, hoping to hear the contents.

  Mr. Mornay’s brows rose while he read, and he and Ariana shared a look of surprise.

  “Upon my word!” she exclaimed.

  Mr. Mornay looked at his aunt and explained, “Mr. Epworth, the magistrate at Warwickdon, reminds us that our neighbouring parish is going vacant of its rector, and a vicar is needed, directly. Mr. Hargrove is above anxious to take up a living in his town of birth in Yorkshire. He is the rector of the parish, you see.”

  Ariana exclaimed, “We knew he planned on leaving, but thought he had a replacement secure. It seems that arrangement has fallen through. Did you ever hear of such a thing? A rector looking for a clergyman just when we have got us one! And,” she added, smiling, “if we grant Mr. O’Brien Glendover as well, he could hire his own curate for Warwickdon! That will put him in a splendid way to afford a wife and family, to be sure!”

  Mr. Mornay held up one hand. “You run ahead of yourself, Ariana. I am perfectly happy to recommend O’Brien for Warwickdon, despite the fact that it means our endless pest shall be a mere two miles away at all times. (“I said that affectionately!” he assured her, when she rolled her eyes at him.) But keeping him on my own property is another thing, entirely. I should think you would welcome this news as a means of satisfying your hopes of doing him some good; he will be a vicar, have the glebe, a comfortable vicarage, and the lesser tithes.”

  “It is rather extraordinary,” put in Mrs. Royleforst. “That two neighbouring parishes should fall vacant simultaneously!”

  Mr. Mornay was scanning the letter again. “And that Mr. Hargrove is anxious to leave his situation as soon as possible! He says here that he has had a ‘flood of requests to perform baptisms, a few weddings, and that a funeral appears imminent, if he can make the move quickly enough.’ Furthermore, his parish in the north is so happy of his returning that they are arranging a day of village festivities to proclaim his arrival.” He looked up. “They want him directly.”

  “I daresay, he must be enormously pleased at that,” Mrs. Royleforst said, shifting in her seat upon the sofa until she felt more comfortable.

  “Mr. O’Brien’s coming is providential!” exclaimed Ariana. Turning to her husband she added, “You are not willing, I see, to grant him Glendover, but God has provided for him, nevertheless!”

  “Indeed He has,” concurred Phillip. In fact, he quietly gave thanks for this unexpected boon. The timing of it was superb. Despite what he’d said to his wife about O’Brien, he’d had small misgivings. Now he could refer the man for an excellent situation without having to offer him his own parish. It was an act o
f Providence!

  Mrs. Royleforst was closer to the mark than she could have known. Mr. Hargrove was more than enormously pleased at the thought of the enthusiastic reception awaiting him in the north—he was ecstatic. Suddenly the spacious parsonage at Warwickdon and all the accompanying comforts of the living was a millstone around his neck. He wanted a vicar to fill his shoes—now.

  Perhaps it was a divine intervention that the Ordinary of the parish had inquired of Aspindon House—Mr. Mornay, that is—for the name of a suitable applicant, there being no great house in Warwickdon to inquire of. And Mr. Hargrove’s conscience was sufficiently intact that he did not wish to abandon his current flock without ensuring that services would continue; but he wanted a good man, one who could do more than ride in upon a horse each week, say his service, and ride off again to the next parish! He disliked pluralism in the clergy.

  In a moment of inspiration he had thought of Aspindon House, remembered that Mr. Mornay was very likely considering a list of candidates for his own parish at that very time, and felt surely this was his answer.

  The question was, did Mr. Mornay know of a candidate? A man who was worthy and true in his religion? And most important to Mr. Hargrove: a man who could come directly?

  Ariana came closer to her husband and searched his face with her large eyes.

  “Phillip, are you certain he is not seeking merely a curate? You know as well as I do that a curate’s salary is bound to be a pittance.”

  “I can speak to Mr. Hargrove, if you like, and just my doing so is certain to secure a rise in the salary; but I gather from the note that our clergyman will shortly be vicar if he is acceptable to Mr. Hargrove and the Bishop.”