The Country House Courtship

by Linore Rose Burkard

  But the eyes of the three met, and there was some curiosity in them all. “A gentleman caller!”

  Mr. O’Brien’s only thought was that it might be a man who was his competition; another curate hoping to be presented with the living at Glendover. He was soon to be ousted, in that case. He sighed.

  As soon as they had removed their outer garments, they made their way back to the drawing room. When they entered, Mr. Mornay and a young man of distinctly fine dress and bearing came rapidly to their feet. He had dark hair, tightly curled for a man. His clothing was extremely fine, in the style of Mr. Mornay’s garments, snugly fitted. Beatrice wondered if he were a lord, for he had the countenance and posture of a pampered man, not timid in company, as her idea of bluebloods was. She felt an immediate awe of his presence. And a great deal of interest.

  “Excellent, you’re returned!” exclaimed Ariana. “We have a new guest, a new neighbour, in fact, from the Manor House.

  “Mama, I bid you welcome Mr. Tristan Barton.” The excitement in her tone was unmistakable. As the three came into the room she continued smoothly, making the introductions. “My mother, sir, Mrs. Forsythe.”

  He gave an infinitesimally small bow, but said, “At your service, ma’am.” She nodded, with the slightest curtsey. “I am pleased to meet you, sir.” She then took a seat on a settee.

  Beatrice also curtsied quickly upon his introduction, and Mr. Barton’s eyes flickered over her with a studied air of politeness; but inside he felt a surge of interest in the fair young woman, and was able to take a quick appraisal of her appearance.

  “And, Mr. Peter O’Brien, sir,” she said, “who is a curate.” The two men were not far in age and looked at each other pleasantly enough.

  “Ah!” he said, having found a point on which to comment. “So you preside in this parish?”

  “No, sir; Mr. O’Brien is a friend of the family,” said Ariana, quickly. “He resides in London.”

  When Mr. Barton learned that it was Mr. O’Brien’s first visit to Aspindon House, he said, “Then we are both new to the neighbourhood. Capital. I shan’t be the only one who knows nothing of the place.”

  “Indeed, you are not, sir,” put in Ariana, “as my mother and sister are only visiting, as well as Mrs. Royleforst and Miss Bluford.” (He had already been introduced to those ladies.) “And what do you think?” Ariana asked the others, with a smile. “Mr. Barton has even done us the felicity of bringing with him a sister!”

  “You have a sister with you, sir?” Mrs. Forsythe asked, smilingly.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, with a little smile. “I am afraid I had to leave Miss Barton home today, as she was feeling rather unwell, but I expect she will wish to make your acquaintance, indeed, all of your acquaintances, as soon as possible. She is seldom indisposed, and I am sure she will accompany me here as soon as Mr. and Mrs. Mornay will allow me to call again.”

  “May I ask the age of your sister, sir?” asked Mrs. Forsythe. She was endeavouring to ascertain what sort of company they could expect in this woman.

  “My sister is younger than I am,” he said, and with a sparkle in his eye, added, “if that is any indication.”

  “Oh indeed it ’tis!” she replied, with a laugh in her voice. “I take it she is quite young, then.”

  “Oh, not so very young,” he answered, cryptically. “She is indeed five years my junior, and might well have married by now, only I have not found a gentleman I can approve of,” he said, eyeing Mr. O’Brien suggestively.

  “In other words,” said Mrs. Royleforst, “your sister is an intelligent young woman of marriageable age, and we should all look forward to meeting her.”

  “You have the right of it, ma’am,” he said, smiling, and beginning to enjoy himself.

  Mrs. Forsythe was happy to think that another young woman of gentility would soon be of their company, for Beatrice’s sake; but she also grew aware of a slight caution within her. What if Miss Barton began to turn the head of Mr. O’Brien? It also occurred to her, on the other hand, that Mr. Barton might be a suitable prospect for Beatrice; she would have to learn more of his character to know.

  “I do so look forward to making her acquaintance,” said Ariana. Why do you not come by with Miss Barton on the morrow?”

  He smiled.“I think I may speak for my sister in saying that we should be delighted to join you, thank you very much.”

  “And do you always speak so confidently of what your sister might enjoy?” asked Mr. O’Brien, but with a smile.

  Mr. Barton hesitated, returning the smile. “Not always, no. But I think I am safe in this, for I see a company of lovely ladies in this room, all of whom she will be delighted to converse with. We have made no other acquaintances yet, you understand; so this will be just the thing to please her.”

  Beatrice was listening, but was equally busy taking in every inch of the fine Mr. Barton, from his breeches and pure white stockings and cravat, to a ring on his finger. My, but he was a fine figure of a man! She had thought Mr. O’Brien to be impressive when he first appeared in the drawing room, but next to Mr. Barton, his elegance paled. Then again, Mr. Barton was a smaller man; tall and lean, but with the easy slimness of youth. Whereas Mr. O’Brien, who was also tall, seemed somehow to be a more substantial man, more mature, perhaps. He was not large of girth by any means, but seemed more muscular beneath the dark superfine and cambric, than the young Barton.

  The three gentlemen began to discuss the hunting and shooting in the area, so that Ariana came and sat with her relations. “Only think how amusing this shall be, to have new neighbours who are not only friendly, but of a comparable age to myself and Mr. Mornay.”

  “But you and Mr. Mornay are not of a comparable age,” replied Beatrice, who was technically accurate, but Ariana shrugged this off. “I mean, who may prove to be like-minded people. If Mr. Mornay approves of them, we may even put up a party, perhaps a little ball.”

  “Oh, I should adore that!” cried Beatrice. But this reminded her of something. “I hope you are still considering a trip to London, though, Ariana. And that I may come with you.”

  “I may need to make that trip,” Ariana replied, eyes alight. She was thinking of her plans to visit charitable institutions in the city. “But not until we are better acquainted with the Bartons.”

  From across the room, they heard Mr. Mornay say, “Now you must tell us what brings you to Middlesex. How did you settle upon the Manor?” The women all turned to face their guest, being desirous of the same information.

  Mr. Barton stifled a surprising stab of fear. Here it is! The question that would either pave his way or ruin his scheme. It was bound to come up, and he had prepared to answer it. “I am looking for an escape from Town,” he said, with an easy smile. “I thought Lord Malcolm would have told you, actually. My father left the country when I was young, and now I wish to know more of it to understand his reasons. I have been disposed against it for all my life without knowing precisely why I am.” (He smiled.) “I felt it was time to determine for myself whether country living is truly as vile as he presented it, or if I have been brain-addled by him for no cause.”

  This of course, brought forth a barrage of support for country living, until Beatrice said, “I am, I fear, the only one here who will not encourage you in country life, sir.” To his raised brow, she added, “I, for one, abhor the country!” Beatrice was delighted with Aspindon House and its environs, but this little fact did not seem to enter her brain at the moment.

  “You enjoyed our walk just now!” exclaimed her mother, in amazement.

  Beatrice’s gaze met Mr. O’Brien’s, who was listening with an intent expression. She felt suddenly a little abashed at her strong terms, and so added, “Well, Aspindon House is of course singular in its delights. If I lived here year-round, I daresay I could bear it well enough.” (There were titters around the room.) “But we hail from Chesterton, sir, where all is provincial and dull, I assure you.”

  Mr. Barton said, “I c
an say nothing against your sentiment, ma’am, as I make it a rule never to contradict a lady,” which brought forth more general gaiety. But Mr. Mornay had not done learning of his new guest. “But how did you come to this small hamlet?” he persisted, to the man. “Am I to understand that you have some ties to the area? A wife who is to join you here?”

  “I?” He was greatly surprised. “No, sir! I-er, learned of Lord Malcolm’s extraordinary terms in letting his house; that he would take a monthly lease, which suits me exactly. It allows me to test the country without the expense or commitment of buying a house. I have engaged the property for only a month, and I may renew it for another if I choose. His lordship even expressed a possible willingness to part with the place entirely if I find it agreeable.” He paused, and scanned the faces around him and then smiled. “How could I resist?”

  “How kind of Lord Malcolm,” said Ariana, wonderingly.

  Mr. Barton smiled. “Yes, ma’am. Most providential.”

  “It does seem hard on the neighbourhood, though; taking the house for so short a period.” Mr. Mornay’s eyes were keenly watching the guest as he spoke. But he knew that no one in the village would be pleased about the Bartons—or anyone—coming to “try out” their village. They would be at a loss as to how to treat them, and resentment would soon win out. A man of means who meant not to stay might just be up to no good. Such men might alight upon a small town merely to search out a naïve young woman to form a dalliance with. It was known to happen.

  “You will have no standing or place in the village,” he said. “People will not trust you.” When Mr. Barton had no ready answer, he added, in a small attempt to dilute the severity of his words, “It bodes well for you that you are at least not merely staying at the Inn. That would surely raise doubts about your character.”

  “Yes.” Barton jumped at that straw. “I had hoped that leasing the house for a month, at minimum, would be indicative of both my means, and my intentions.”

  “Your means? Very many could afford a house for a month, with no real means at all. An annual lease might be far superior if you intend to tell the world you are a man of means.”

  Mr. Barton licked his lips. “I have brought my carriage and two servants; I should think that would help give the impression of my means, sir.” The tension in the room had escalated swiftly.

  Ariana did not know why her husband was being so hard upon the poor fellow, who seemed, to her eyes, an earnest young man.

  He protested, “I am confounded, I assure you, that my object could be misconstrued as an evil one: I depend upon your friendship all the more, Mr. Mornay, and that of your lovely wife and family (with a nod toward the ladies) to reassure the people in this area that I have only the best intentions.” He finished uncertainly, and Ariana was quick to smile at him reassuringly, but her husband only continued to eye the man with a probing stare.

  “To try out the country,” Phillip said, a little sourly. Mrs. Forsythe’s hand took hold of her daughter’s, for the tension was palpable.

  “Ah—yes. The proximity to Town was a further incentive to me, as I do not relish travelling.”

  Mrs. Royleforst was watching and listening with great enjoyment. She knew her nephew well enough to suspect he had a reason for raking the young man through the coals, and therefore she did not question it. She almost tittered aloud when his face grew pale and he licked his lips.

  Beatrice, however, knew only that her brother-in-law was making a new acquaintance downright uncomfortable—intentionally. It was unpardonable, to her mind.

  At that moment Mr. Barton’s eye fell upon Beatrice’s, who had been listening intently, and he cracked a smile. He knew the look of compassion in a female when he saw it, and inwardly gave himself a point for dressing. His sister had been against his wearing breeches…

  …“It is only the middle of the day,” she had pointed out.

  But at least he had been right about the matter of his clothing, and to him that was no small thing. He saw it in the eyes and manner of the ladies, though Mr. Mornay was proving to be devilish unfriendly.

  Ariana decided she had to end this perplexing tête-à-tête, and said, brightly, “Well, sir, we are not the village, nor are we flummoxed by your presence.” She looked at her husband: “May I ask our guest to stay and dine with us, sir?”

  “If it pleases you.”

  Ariana smiled, saying, “I daresay even the state dining table shall be filled! Let us all dress for it!” In another minute, Mr. Barton was invited, and accepted, an invitation for dinner, once again congratulating himself on wearing breeches, as well as for navigating through the maze of sticky questions Mr. Mornay had thrown at him.

  “Perhaps we could have dancing!” put in Beatrice. “We will have three men and three ladies!” She turned to Mrs. Royleforst, “And if you care to dance, ma’am, I will share my partner with you!” Her excitement was refreshing to Mr. Barton. Miss Forsythe seemed like a girl he could enjoy the company of. He would ask to be her partner after dinner. It promised to be most diverting.

  Ariana smiled at her husband, surprised to find him wearing a scowl as he studied Barton. But she said, “Should we send to inquire of your sister, Mr. Barton? Would she wish to join us, do you think?”

  Mr. Barton lost his amiable look as he thought on her question. “No, I thank you, ma’am. When Anne is unwell, dancing is the last thing she would enjoy, I assure you.”

  Beatrice laughed. “We shall have our own little ball. It shall be delightful!”

  Mr. Barton was looking back at her and smiling in return. What an attractive, delightful girl. Things with Mornay were starting out on a deuced uneven keel, but here was an unexpected boon: Miss Forsythe, a family relation. It was something to think upon.

  The dinner was not as splendid as Ariana would have liked, for their chef had not had the necessary notice to make it so. But it was nevertheless sumptuous to the minds of the guests, and satisfying. The state dining room, with its elegant chandeliers and satin-damasked table, its silver and crystal service, goblets and covers and napkins, were not put to shame by the many courses the kitchens served up.

  Mr. Barton was clearly in his element, happy that the Mornays did not stand upon points and insist that one speak only to the person sitting next to one, as some people did. Instead, he spoke freely across the table, addressing first one, then another person, or being addressed by them in turn.

  Beatrice was not shy; she did her fair share of conversation, and part of it concerned her hopes of the Season in London. Miss Bluford had clearly fallen into an awestruck silence by the finery around her, and stared often at her host, which was thoroughly out of character for her. She often looked from one gentleman to another, in fact, but never murmured a word. Ariana thought the poor thing was very admiring of the gentlemen, and wondered, for the first time, if poor little Miss Bluford was a lonely creature.

  But there was much joviality at the meal, and she had no time to focus her thoughts on the paid companion. At any other state dining room, Miss Bluford’s presence might have been snobbishly ignored—companions were allowed at table, unlike servants, but that did not mean that all people accepted them. But Mrs. Royleforst treated her companion almost as a sister (albeit a servile sister), and no one else in the room—with the possible exception of Mr. Mornay—treated her condescendingly. However, Miss Bluford was properly astonished to find herself at the finest table she had ever sat at.

  Beatrice was enjoying the sheer power of Mr. Barton’s presence. When he spoke, she found herself listening with pleasure. The only chink in the armour of his persona was if Mr. Mornay chanced to say something. He alone seemed to deflate Mr. Barton’s confidence completely.

  Mr. O’Brien was no longer a man to vie for a woman’s attention, particularly when her surname was “Forsythe”—so he merely observed how Mr. Barton managed to monopolize Beatrice’s conversation, allowing his own remarks to be brief and to the point. He was determined to remain dispassionate, aloof
. He spoke when spoken to, not averse to holding conversation, but he was certainly not about to insist upon having Miss Forsythe’s attention when Mr. Barton so evidently required it.

  The thing upon his mind most (other than the striking appearance of Miss Forsythe, which he was obliged to ignore entirely) was the fact that he had still not had an audience with Mr. Mornay. The thing was becoming absurdly overdue, to his mind. He had come to Aspindon House to inquire about a living. He’d been sent by the recommendation of a man the Paragon could respect. He deserved to have this meeting, even if he was to receive an unapologetic rejection for his troubles.

  He noted the spotless cravat on Mr. Barton and wondered if his own attire was up to snuff. But how could it be? He was surrounded by men who dressed to the nines. True, little Miss Bluford spent as much time silently studying him as she did the other two gentlemen at table; but he had no idea what her object could be, or what she was trying to discover.

  Miss Bluford was actually astonished at the fine figures all three men made in their evening wear. Not a one of them was unhandsome, each had thick strong brows, though of differing shades. Each man had a strong nose, a fine forehead. Mr. Mornay, she decided, was the most handsome. He had an aura of strength about him, whether it came from being the master of the house, or from the fencing and sparring he did often as exercise. But the other two, she could not decide between. Mr. Barton’s ease of conversation lent him an air of urbanity and grace that did much to add to his charms. Mr. O’Brien, on the other hand, had a quiet dignity and serious depth in his looks that gave him the air of a brooding hero (almost in the style of Lord Byron).

  Miss Bluford had read many romances, and, as Mr. Mornay was frightful to her at times (not to mention married), and Mr. Barton too sauve for her to imagine conversing with at all, she finally concluded that Mr. O’Brien was the man most worthy of admiration. From that point, she paid special attention to all his conversation. She laughed at anything with the slightest touch of humor; she quite amazed Beatrice by her attentions to the man, in fact, but it served to make Beatrice appreciate his presence more, oddly enough, no matter how much Mr. Barton tried to monopolize her conversation.