The Country House Courtship

by Linore Rose Burkard

  When the meal was ended, Ariana rose to signal the ladies to leave for the drawing room. Frederick came in to announce that the small band of musicians had arrived, however, and so Mr. Mornay offered to forgo the customary male practice of remaining at table to enjoy a glass of port with conversation not deemed fit for women. His wife thanked him with a brilliant smile.

  The dancing was thrilling for Beatrice, especially since the Mornays enjoyed waltzing with each other. The small trio which had been hurriedly called for from town were equal to the task of playing the music required for various waltzes, reels, and country dances. Beatrice enjoyed a waltz with both Mr. Barton and Mr. O’Brien, and found the latter man to be a much better dancer, to her surprise. Mr. Barton was so much more the cosmopolitan man. But Mr. O’Brien had a sensitivity to her movements that made him give her just the right amount of leading to perform the steps in a smooth rhythm that was as pleasing to the eye, she was sure, as to herself. Nevertheless, she felt more at ease with Mr. Barton, for his looks were simple and curious, nothing more. Mr. O’Brien had eyes filled with thoughts and sentiments that she could not guess at, and which made her uneasy.

  “Are you just come from London?” Beatrice had asked Mr. Barton, at one point. She could not resist learning more of the metropolis, and perhaps the Season.

  Mr. Barton looked at her expectantly. “I am. Have you been there of late?”

  “No!” A smile. “No, though I should like to acquaint myself with the place. My sister is considering whether she will give me a coming-out this year.”

  “Ah. For the Season?” To her nod, he said, “Splendid idea!”

  Beatrice was elated at this response. “My mother is old-fashioned, I’m afraid! She thinks I am too young. What do you think, Mr. Barton?”

  A charming smile. “That depends on how old you are, Miss Forsythe. May I ask?”

  “I am seventeen years, sir.”

  “Seventeen.” He was still smiling. “I daresay girls as young as fifteen sometimes have their coming-out; and seventeen is by no means considered too young.”

  She laughed. “You are in all things a tonic to me, Mr. Barton!”

  “I am honoured to be of service,” he said, and his eyes sparkled with satisfaction.

  Mr. O’Brien saw the two of them talking and smiling with each other, and felt as though a little feeble candle of hope was being snuffed out inside him. But for what had he been hoping? That Miss Beatrice Forsythe would be smitten with him? It was perfectly understandable that Barton should have her. He was evidently of a higher class than Mr. O’Brien; he had wealth and social aplomb, and would no doubt fit in just right with the Mornays. He wished her well of him, he really did.

  Eight

  Mrs. Julia Forsythe was as pleased with her richly appointed bedchamber as anyone used to much plainer living would have been. But she could not sleep. She needed to speak to Ariana. Earlier, with Mr. Barton and Mr. O’Brien in the company, and then the addition of the children to the room, followed by dinner, she had found no chance to raise the subject that weighed heavily on her mind.

  Wrapping herself in a robe, and stopping only to put her slippers on and grab a candle, she quietly left the room, shutting the door behind her with as little sound as possible. She stopped to peer down the dark corridor, lit only by a few lonely sconces along the wall at far intervals. Now, which way was her daughter’s room? She should not disturb Ariana at this hour, for it must be the middle of the night, but somehow the thought of walking the corridor appealed to her. And she might as well do it in the right direction. It was dark and quiet, and she detested tossing in her bed when sleep evaded her.

  Hearing a sound, she held up her candle, and peering into the darkness beyond, saw the shadow of a figure. “Who’s there?” she asked.

  “Mama?” It was Ariana’s voice, coming from far down the corridor. “Yes! So it is you! I’m glad! I wished to speak to you!”

  “Now?” As Ariana came out of the darkness, a little candle in her hand flickering with the house breezes, she said, “Are you unwell?”

  “No, my dear, I am fine, I assure you. Only I could not sleep for want of speaking to you.” She stopped to appreciate how fetching her daughter looked in an embroidered robe over a nightdress that sported a great deal of lace at the throat and sleeves, and with a frilly night cap on as well.

  “What is it, Mama? What did you wish to say to me?”

  “How is it that you are come out of your room?” the mother asked first. “Are you unwell?”

  “I often take a look at the children if I awake during the night, if you must know. I adore watching them in their dreams. Will you come with me?” Ariana had been moving them along as she spoke, for she was indeed eager to lay eyes on her offspring.

  Mrs. Forsythe smiled, even as she scurried to keep up. “You are enjoying motherhood, I am glad of that.”

  “Did you not enjoy it?” she asked, surprised.

  “I did, you know it is so; I still do. Of course the station does come with many cares attendant. In fact, it is my other daughter who supplies my errand tonight. I must speak to you of Beatrice.”

  “Oh! Of course, Mama.” Ariana agreed. “Let us just peek on the children first.”

  “Yes.” As they walked, she said, “Actually, there are two things, my dear.” They were speaking in hushed tones, the darkness of the night making them feel as though quiet must be observed. That, and the short span of their tapers’ dim glow added to the feeling of privacy. The floor was draped at intervals with long, narrow carpets, and both wore slippers, but the air was not warm.

  “As you know, Beatrice hopes you will sponsor her for the Season this year.”

  “Yes. Do you really object to it?”

  “She is but seventeen, and my opinion is that she needs must wait. Another year or two will only add to her charms—and her sense.”

  Ariana grew thoughtful a moment. “Beatrice is rather sensible for a girl so young, though, Mama, do you not think so?”

  “Not in this matter, my dear. She thinks she is entitled to a high match because of your success.”

  “I know,” Ariana stifled a chuckle. “Well, it is true that I can help her in ways that I could not have, if it were not for my marriage.”

  “Yes, but even so, you know she is not well-heeled in point of fact. She has no more dowry than you did, and I daresay there are few Mr. Mornays about who will fall head over heels in love with a poor gel!”

  “Yes; yes. I will speak of it to her, and set her straight, Mama, I assure you.” They had reached the nursery, and Ariana put a finger to her lips, while hesitating, listening, outside the door. She quietly opened it, though it gave a little creaking that could not be helped. The first sound they heard when they entered was the snoring of Mrs. Perler, who slept in a bed in a small connecting room to the right.

  Ariana held her candle higher and went first toward a crib that was against the wall across the room. Upon reaching it, she smiled down at the sight of the infant, on her stomach, her little round face to one side so that one small cheek lay against the sheet. As if aware of her mother’s presence, the baby stirred, and then moved again, instantly beginning to fuss.

  Far from being disturbed by this, Ariana smiled and put down her candle, quickly taking the child in her arms. While she quieted the baby, she joined her mother, who was looking down at Nigel. She had found the four-year-old fast asleep, his legs and arms sprawled outwards, and no blanket upon him at all. Mrs. Forsythe had replaced the blanket which had been kicked off, so that he was up to his neck beneath it. “They are beautiful children,” Ariana’s mama murmured, smiling herself.

  Ariana said, “I know! How could they fail to be, with such a handsome father?” She moved toward a chair, and sitting down, said, “I will feed Miranda and then have Mrs. Perler put her back to sleep.”

  Mrs. Forsythe watched her a moment and then said, “Your nightdress is made for nursing a child! How propitious! They did not have such allowanc
es in my day!”

  The young mother said, while putting the infant to her breast, “Yes; Mr. Mornay bespoke my “mothering” clothes, as he calls them. He is so thoughtful!”

  “Some men do not like their wives to nurse children.”

  “He is happy to let me,” she replied. “He knows I prefer to.” After a moment’s silence, she added, “He did make me wean Nigel to a wet nurse, on account of my fatigue. The boy was waking up hungry every two hours and I must confess, it was wearing on me rather alarmingly. But I do enjoy nursing my babies!” And here she looked down to marvel at her little daughter who was sucking away quite contentedly. It took only a few minutes, and then she switched sides for the baby, but also had to keep giving her little pinches on her cheek, for now the child was falling asleep instead of completing her meal. Soon Mrs. Forsythe went and awoke Mrs. Perler, who took the infant sleepily into her arms. “I’ll put dry garments on her, ma’am,” she said, amidst a yawn.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Perler,” Ariana replied. When they’d left the nursery, she said, returning to their earlier conversation, “So, you desire me to discourage Beatrice from having a Season this year?”

  “Yes. I prefer she waits a year or two.”

  “But I have decided I must go, myself, after your visit is ended; I need to reacquaint myself with the efforts on behalf of the poor. I am afraid Mr. O’Brien’s descriptions of St. Pancras should haunt me, otherwise.” She paused. “I would like to bring Beatrice to Grosvenor Square with me. It won’t be for a whole Season, and I will require her to accompany me on my charitable missions. Will that suit you?”

  When her mother only frowned, Ariana said, “And, I should tell you, Mama, that many girls do come out at her age.”

  “Yes, but those gels are not my daughters. However, with your promise not to give her all frivolity and nonsense, I will allow her to accompany you.”

  “Very good,” said Ariana. “I think you are right in it.”

  “Now, the other matter,” the older woman said, looking at Ariana plaintively, “is dear Mr. O’Brien.”

  “Yes?” Ariana wondered what her mother could have to say about this man.

  “Can you prevail upon your husband to grant him the living here? He seems like such a deserving young man, and so good of heart! If you must know, I do hope to encourage your sister to…er…acknowledge his good character, and if he were to get both benefices, of Glendover as well as Warwickdon, even she might be satisfied with his income.”

  Ariana had been suppressing her glee. “Mama! I have had the very same thought! But to find you a matchmaker as well! It is too amusing!”

  “My dear, a churchman may make quite as good a husband as any gentleman! But better than many, for we know already that Mr. O’Brien has a true religion.”

  Ariana fell to silent musing for a moment. “I can agree with that. I do not know if Beatrice will; and I must tell you, I cannot press my husband in this matter. Not any more, for I have already tried.”

  They were back near Mrs. Forsythe’s guest bedchamber and so the two stopped walking.

  “My dear. I have seen how he defers to you, how he adores you. Why cannot you say a good thing in the curate’s favour? I fail to see—”

  “Mama, things that happened in London—concerning myself and Mr. O’Brien—predisposes my husband against him.”

  “Things in London? Between the two of you?” Mrs. Forsythe’s tone revealed a note of anxiety. In fact, she forgot to keep her voice down, and this time Ariana held up her candle and peered into the darkness of the corridor for a moment. She saw nothing.

  “Have I been mistaken in his character? Is he dishonourable?”

  “No, Mama! It was nothing of significance! But only something a husband would dislike.”

  “If it was truly nothing of significance, then I daresay it ought not to be considered or held against him now.”

  Ariana sighed, “I am in agreement with you on that. But my husband is not. I cannot dare say another word, for he already feels I support Mr. O’Brien too much.”

  Mrs. Forsythe fretted, “I have no desire to plant a seed of disharmony between you and your husband, my dear. But if Mr. O’Brien had the living, it would benefit him, his future wife (who just could turn out to be your sister), and therefore the whole family.”

  “Yes, I know,” the other said, unhappily.

  “May I have your word that you will apply once more to Mr. Mornay? He has a great deal of sense regarding such things, and he knows that to keep these things in the family is always preferable to bringing in a stranger.”

  “The thing is, there is nothing at present to say that anything at all will spring up between Beatrice and Mr. O’Brien. And now with Mr. Barton…”

  “That is precisely why I could not sleep!” cried her mother. “Mr. Barton!”

  “But he seems a gentleman, and if there is anything of ill-repute about him, my husband will learn of it.”

  “My dear—I do not wish to speak against a gentleman without cause; I can only tell you that I am convinced” (and here she stopped to search her feelings and thoughts), “that Mr. O’Brien is the superior man, fortune or no fortune. I have formed the opinion that a match between him and Beatrice would be advantageous for both of them. And I do not call it a coincidence that the two of them are here at the same time.”

  “But Mr. Barton is too,” returned the younger woman. “How do you discount that?”

  Mrs. Forsythe looked lovingly at her daughter, so grown up now that she was more like a friend than her child. “My dear; wherever there is to be a move of God in a life, does not the evil one try and fill the place for it with a lesser substitute? Have you never noticed? He tries to get our eyes to see something other than what is best for us, as though it must be best; when in fact it is but a mere shadow of the far better thing the Lord has in mind for us.” She stopped and searched her daughter’s face, holding up her candle. “Mr. O’Brien is that good thing for Beatrice!” she exclaimed. “And Mr. Barton is the shallow substitute! And he is turning her head, I daresay!”

  Ariana tried to grasp her mother’s point.

  But Mrs. Forsythe continued, “We must wait upon the Lord if we want His best. If Beatrice sees Mr. Barton as the answer for all her hopes—and fails to wait for that which is better to show itself—Oh! I dare not even think of her sorrow, later.”

  “But Mama, you and Papa can withhold your approval from the man.”

  “As indeed we shall!” she said, in a loud whisper. “But I pray it does not come to that.”

  Ariana was concerned that her mother had taken her ideas too far. “Mama—nothing has happened yet between Beatrice and Mr. Barton. Do not borrow trouble. Did you not always say that to me?”

  Her mother saw that she had not convinced her daughter of the dangers of Mr. Barton. “Pray for your sister!” she said, turning to open the door to her bedchamber. “And speak to Mr. Mornay if you have the courage!”

  Ariana was left in the hallway, and she bit her lip with worry. She went to her own bedchamber, blew out the candle, and snuggled against her husband beneath the covers. But she didn’t expect to sleep. Her mother had thoroughly transferred her worries onto her!

  Mrs. Forsythe returned to her bed at ease and fell asleep at once. Ariana, on the other hand, remained awake a good while longer, her mind filling with ideas and imaginations, what-ifs and if-onlys.

  How would Phillip react if she raised the subject again with him? She prayed that her husband would be fair and do what was right and proper. That he would not base his decision on past grievances or annoyances. If Mr. O’Brien were to show an interest in Beatrice, surely Mr. Mornay must lose the slightest remaining vestige of jealousy. Jealousy? No, it was not jealousy, exactly; it was more like suspicion. She remembered that at one time Beatrice had promised to marry the curate. She wondered if Mr. O’Brien recalled the event. Perhaps, if he did, and if he approved of the older and more grown-up girl that Beatrice had become, more would co
me of this time of proximity for the pair. Her mother was convinced of the merit of a match between them; imagine if, after all this time, they should turn out agreeable to one another? How comfortably things would be settled for everyone, then.

  With that prayer on her heart, if not her lips, sleep came at last.

  Mrs. Betsey Taller awoke from a short sleep when her head made contact with the wall. She’d been sitting by the fire, keeping it hot for her daughter, who still lay, unconscious, on the straw bed. Her two boys, to her horror, had started whimpering the night before, and they, too, now lay abed hot with fever. MaryAnn had been sick for three (or was it four?) days now, but today she had begun moaning and coughing in her sleep. Instead of the quiet exhaustion she had displayed earlier, she was restless, tossing and turning, and it was driving Mrs. Taller mad!

  Giles had not brought any physic to give the girl. She was sure the apothecary would have offered them something. Anything that might help at all would be administered at once. If only he had done his duty and brought it home!

  She reached over and wrung out a cloth, and for the thousandth time placed it upon the girl’s forehead. Then she did the same for the boys, changing their old cloths for new ones. When she returned to her daughter, she noticed that MaryAnn was suddenly still…ominously still. Had she died? With a terrible gasp she fell upon her, and was prepared to wail to high heaven, but she felt some movement of the chest. It was shallow, but MaryAnn was breathing. When she sat up again, she reached a sudden decision. The scare had brought her to her senses, no matter what Giles said. He was wrong to try to hide the fact of their daughter’s illness. It wasn’t honest, and no good could come of it.

  She crossed herself, and then put her hands along the side of the perspiring face of her child and gazed forlornly at the girl. Then she rose and pulled a shawl around her shoulders. On an impulse, she pulled down a beautiful lined bonnet, which had been given to her by the lady of the big house—Mrs. Mornay. It was her most prized possession. She had no money, but perchance the apothecary would accept it instead. She took one last long look at her daughter, and then the boys—all three of them were sleeping or unconscious from the illness, she did not know—and then slipped out the front door. She could walk to the apothecary’s. It would take near an hour, but she would do it. Then another hour, back. Her daughter’s condition hadn’t changed for two days, but now seemed to be growing suddenly worse. It only made sense that the boys would follow the same pattern. She could not wait. She would have to risk leaving them all alone and go now, while Giles was still out.