The Country House Courtship

by Linore Rose Burkard

  It was Mr. O’Brien’s third morning at Aspindon, and he was determined to get the attention of his host for the matter of the living. He was disappointed, when he went for breakfast, to learn from a footman that “the Master” had already taken his morning meal.

  Did the man know where Mr. O’Brien might find him? Before he could answer, Frederick came up the corridor and asked him, “Are you quite done with your breakfast, sir?”

  Mr. O’Brien eyed the butler with surprise. “I am.”

  “Would you be so good, then, sir, to join Mr. Mornay in his study?” Mr. O’Brien stared at the butler, first in surprise, and then relief. Like the well-trained servant he was, Freddy was not looking at the cleric, but kept his gaze steadily ahead of him as he spoke.

  “I should be delighted to join Mr. Mornay in his study!” he cried, giving Freddy quite a surprise. He did not move his head, but swiveled his eyes upon the young man, blinking in surprise.

  “Very good, sir,” he said, quite deliberately.

  Mr. Mornay sat behind a large polished rosewood desk, from where he motioned Mr. O’Brien to a chair. Mr. O’Brien had tried not to gawk on the way to the study, but the more he saw of the house, the more awed he felt. He even began to think that he could better understand his host now, simply for seeing his home with his own eyes. It must engender a certain amount of pride to be brought up in such magnificence, he thought. Not that he was ready to excuse arrogance, but a proper familial pride was perfectly understandable.

  Upon the desk was a stack of books, one of which was a large Bible. There were two framed pictures, though Mr. O’Brien could not see the portraits they contained; a small sand pot for blotting letters; an ink well; a quill holder; and a compass. There was more, and Mr. O’Brien would have liked to catalogue every item in the room suddenly, but he took a breath as Mr. Mornay put his hands together upon the desktop and looked at him squarely.

  It was time. Here was the announcement he dreaded and yet knew must come. Mr. O’Brien would not be found suitable for Glendover, and somehow Mr. Mornay had wished to keep him waiting this long to hear it. He cleared his throat, and met the man’s gaze head on. So be it. Mr. O’Brien was unafraid.

  Nine

  In truth, Mr. Mornay almost felt sorry for O’Brien. Here it comes, he thought, again. He is going to ask me for the living. He knew it had to be a deuced uncomfortable spot to be in. But the young man, after glancing about the desk, had leveled his gaze on Mornay, who recognized a maturity in that one gesture that had not been in this man upon their last meeting. He had become bolder, for sure.

  “How may I serve you?” Mornay asked.

  Mr. O’Brien’s brows cleared in a sort of relief. This was a decidedly open and nonhostile way for the man to have begun the conversation, although it did seem to ignore the point.

  “Well, sir, I must say that I ought to be asking you that question.”

  Mornay merely made a small smile, and then casually opened his snuffbox and took a small pinch. He offered it to O’Brien, who declined politely.

  “…As I am here on recommendation?” he added, hoping to jar the man’s memory.

  “Yes?”

  “From the Colonel.”

  “Yes.”

  “You did get the letter?”

  “Yes.”

  Mr. O’Brien was now practically at the edge of his seat. “I have to know! Forgive me for being blunt, sir, but why have you allowed me to come? I do not entertain the notion that you have wholly forgiven me for what has occurred in the past, nor do I expect that you shall. I cannot blame you; I was too much a fool, and I know it.” His eyes had been roaming the tops of the walls, as he spoke, but once again he settled them upon his host, and there was nothing of hope in them. “Why have you let me come? I know what your eventual answer must be; you would sooner present your living to the pope than to me! Is that not so?”

  Mr. Mornay hadn’t expected to find O’Brien amusing. “I…do not think I could present it to the pope.” But he smiled gently.

  “Well, to anyone else in England, then, any other curate save this one!” and he hit his own chest with his thumb, in a disgusted manner. He looked at Mornay. “I need to know, Mr. Mornay, have you brought me here to amuse yourself? As a hoax? I cannot think you have any motive that would be for my benefit. So I beg you, be plain with me on the matter, and I may yet leave here with some semblance of my dignity intact, though I am the first to admit I have precious little of that when I am in your presence to begin with!”

  “Slow down, O’Brien,” Mr. Mornay murmured. “I did not summon you here; I did get the Colonel’s letter, and, if you must know, I would have indeed attempted to discourage you from coming all this way, had I received it in a timely manner.” He pulled a missive out of a top drawer of the desk, and unfolded it now. “It shows a date of five January, and states that you will arrive at my home on the twenty-fourth of February, if I have no objection, and will be in residence.”

  He looked up at the younger man. “The thing is, you see, I did not receive this letter until the day you arrived.” He set it down again.

  Mr. O’Brien looked thunderstruck. “What!” He shook his head. “I do not understand! The Colonel assured me he’d written to you last month! I tried to reason him into a different recommendation, sir, of anywhere and anyone else—”

  Again the little smile. “I imagine you did,” he said.

  “He insisted I come for the interview, however, so, you see, I had no wherewithal except to appear. He would never agree to recommend me to someone else if I hadn’t, and I am quite sure I shall need another recommendation, as you know only too well.” His voice was growing quieter and more defeated by the second.

  “So we, neither of us, wished to have this interview, and yet here we are.” Mr. Mornay took the letter and placed it back in the drawer from which he had taken it.

  Mr. O’Brien began to stand up. “I can be packed and on my way as soon as I can hire a post chaise, sir.” He met his eyes. “I shall return to London, and we both may try to forget this happened.” He paused, standing now. “If I might be so bold, however, as to ask that you will indeed tell the Colonel I did my part in coming—”

  Mr. Mornay was watching him, looking almost amused. “Don’t be in such a deuced hurry, O’Brien. My wife has asked you to be our guest, and as such, I cannot have you dashing off in a hired post chaise. As for the benefice,” and here he met his eyes head on, “I am afraid I cannot present it to you.” There was an empty pause, a hollow moment for Mr. O’Brien, though it was just as he expected; but then Mr. Mornay went on, “but I have just received word that our neighbouring parish is in desperate need of a curate; Warwickdon. A very ample situation, vicarage, a hundred-and-fifty-acre glebe; it ought to suit you, and I know,” he added, picking up a pencil and playing with it in one hand, “that it will provide a decent salary. There is no question but that it is far superior to your situation at St. Pancras.”

  Mr. O’Brien’s brows went up while he heard this, and his mouth might just as well have dropped open in utter surprise, for that was how he felt. “Warwickdon! The very Warwickdon I passed through on my journey here? With the Gothic-style church that is visible from the road?”

  A steady clear-eyed gaze met his. Only someone as familiar with the Paragon as his wife would know that he was suppressing a smile. “The very one, sir.”

  Meanwhile, Mr. Barton had come to make his second call upon the Mornays, and had his sister in tow. Miss Barton was decidedly not feeling her best, but he had insisted she come to meet the other women. Their hopes of making her acquaintance had been too plain for him to ignore, and he wanted to do everything in his power to cement good relations between himself and the Mornays—while he could.

  Anne was received warmly, and soon they were all lounging about the drawing room, where Mrs. Royleforst was playing with Nigel, and Mrs. Forsythe held the baby. Anne could not help herself—she had to go and sit beside the lady to see the infant. She ha
d never cared for an infant in her life. After admiring Miranda for some minutes, Miss Barton gasped with pleasure when Mrs. Forsythe offered to let her hold the child. She looked to Ariana, who was watching, and said, “Oh, thank you!” when she smiled her assent.

  Mr. O’Brien had not yet returned from the meeting with Mr. Mornay, and seeing an opportunity, Mr. Barton invited Beatrice to a game of piquet. They sat at a small card table on one side of the room, and Mr. Barton produced a set of playing cards from a pocket.

  “You have cards upon you?” she asked, rather shocked.

  He saw that it had been a mistake to have them, but he answered, “I was hoping to suggest a game with you today. I merely wished to come prepared.”

  She smiled. “I see.” Glancing at the cards, she said, “May I?”

  He handed her the deck, and she quickly started pulling out any card below sixes.

  “You know,” she said, while she shuffled the remaining thirty-six cards, “I have read that this is a popular game at men’s clubs.”

  “And so it is,” he answered, surprised that she would mention that.

  “Do you enjoy gaming, sir?” She did not meet his eyes, and Mr. Barton had to smile to himself. Miss Forsythe was supremely easy to read; she wished to know if he gamed habitually. Easy to answer to her satisfaction. “Not at all, Miss Forsythe! It is a hazardous occupation, as you must know.”

  “Indeed, I do,” she said, with a relieved smile. Mr. Barton relaxed in his chair, while she dealt out the hand. This was going to be an amusing diversion. He chanced to look up and saw that Anne had been listening to their talk, however, and she wore a look on her face that told him she knew he had purposely lied to Miss Forsythe. Her brother, in her opinion, was addicted to much gaming. He merely narrowed his eyes at her, and then yawned. Anne returned her attention to the baby in her arms.

  Mr. Barton was happy to be occupied in such a fashion that he did not have to give any of his attention to a child. He’d shrewdly caught on quickly that the Mornay children were welcome into the midst of the adult gatherings whenever Mrs. Perler or their parents seemed to feel it beneficial for them. If Nigel scraped an elbow, he was brought to his mother. If Miranda was unusually fussy, to Mama she must be brought. The Mornays never murmured a complaint at this practice, though Mr. Barton frowned upon it. He was wise enough to keep his sentiments to himself. The Mornays were not fashionable in their treatment of the children. Most upper-class houses acted as though youngsters were nonentities when guests were about. In London, one could almost come to believe that no one had any children. No one of the fashionable world, that is, and at least not small children. They were never in sight, never heard from, never spoken of. With the Mornays, it was an entirely different thing. The children must be considered in every decision.

  It was an irritation he would live with. But he started thinking of how to broach the subject of the prince’s wishes to Mornay. His safest course was to wait for a good moment and slip it into a conversation that could support it. But how long until that happened? Anne was still as slim as a rail—but her very thinness meant that her condition would likely show up all the more starkly. He had best stop pussyfooting around and get to the point. Soon.

  Mr. O’Brien was still agog with his sudden good fortune—such a blessing! “Is there no curate in line, then?” he asked his host. “Have no arrangements yet been made?” He was as eager as a young cub, and his words were spilling out faster as a result.

  “I have been applied to,” Mr. Mornay said, “to give them the man to fill the vacancy. I am happy to offer them you—if you wish.”

  “If I wish?” He looked up at his host; the man he had feared was his enemy, but who now seemed to be doing him a favour. “When’s the last time you stopped at St. Pancras’s parish, sir?”

  Mr. Mornay smiled. “I thought so.” He reached for a piece of paper. “I’ll write your recommendation this very moment, and perhaps we can even squeeze in a visit to the place this very day so that you can see it. Mr. Hargrove—he is the incumbent—cannot be off soon enough. He is above anxious to take up his new living as soon as possible.”

  He quickly penned the letter, and assured the magistrate that he could send a man that very day, whom Mr. Hargrove could interview personally for the vacancy.

  “Where is Mr. Hargrove off to, do you know, sir?”

  “Oh, somewhere in the dales, I don’t recall, really. Apparently he has many relations in that area, and they are eager to welcome him. His new benefice shall supply him a surprisingly substantial income, which is good news for you, for he won’t require any part or share in the glebe.”

  O’Brien watched while Mornay, his old nemesis, took out a crisp piece of foolscap and dipped his pen in ink. The man was behaving in the most disarming, generous manner imaginable. If he didn’t know better, Mr. O’Brien would have had to admit that he was feeling downright friendly toward him. Only that couldn’t be possible. Mr. Mornay had used to despise O’Brien.

  “I’ll suggest our visit later today, which ought to send him into raptures; he could not have imagined that we would just happen to have a curate in our midst.” The little smile on his face revealed that he found the circumstance amusing. Mornay didn’t look up, but spoke while he wrote. Mr. O’Brien was dazed with the unexpected benevolence.

  “Later today!” he exclaimed, as one who might be dreaming. “Are you confident, sir, (I hope I may ask) that the Ordinary will approve me, then?”

  Mornay glanced up only for a second. His mind was evidently on the paper before him, but he replied quickly, “’Twas the Ordinary who asked me to see to the business. He apparently has a frightfully busy schedule as of his writing to me, and he is prepared to accept the man I choose.” He laid down his pen, and while he neatly folded the missive, he looked into Mr. O’Brien’s eyes.

  “The magistrate of the village of Warwickdon and the Ordinary are one and the same man, you see.” When he finished writing, he put down the pen and looked squarely at Mr. O’Brien. “I have one reservation which must be addressed.”

  Mr. O’Brien’s heart skipped a beat. “Yes?”

  Phillip’s eyes looked hard at the young man. “I hope I can expect that your youthful infatuation for my wife has been fully resolved?”

  Mr. O’Brien shut his eyes in a moment of horror, and then opened them wide. “Sir—if I only knew the words to describe to you the remorse I have suffered regarding your wife—the shame I have felt! The memory of my past behaviour is a constant reminder to me of why I must fall to my knees daily and beg God to use me as His minister! I am helpless to my own depravity, I am afraid.”

  Mr. Mornay was satisfied, and tried to stop him. “That will suffice,” he said.

  But Mr. O’Brien had not done reproving himself. “Just the thought of my…infatuation (he said the word with difficulty)—keeps me ever humble before God, sir.”

  Mr. Mornay’s brows went up, and he was almost annoyed. “O’Brien, you needn’t rake yourself over the coals! Receive God’s forgiveness and be done with it, man! I only require knowing for certain that you are no longer harbouring any secret hopes of her.”

  “No, sir! Upon my honour! Upon my soul.”

  “Do not swear to me upon your soul!” He stood up, scowling. “Your soul is a business between you and God, and has nothing to do with me.”

  “Of course, sir, I know it.” Despite his host’s evident annoyance, Mr. O’Brien had to smile, for he was being encouraged in the faith by a man he least thought to find faith in.

  Mr. Mornay lit the sealing candle and let a proper size blob fall upon the folded letter; he blew out the stick of wax, pressed his seal into the little blob after blowing it somewhat dry, and then stood up, signaling Mr. O’Brien to do the same.

  The cleric felt awkward, but he said, “I don’t know how to thank you. Your generosity to me is quite…quite remarkable!” Mr. Mornay listened with a peaceful silence and then nodded, but he went and rang the bellpull. He said, “I believ
e you have letters to write, sir.”

  Mr. O’Brien said, “Yes, of course!” He needed to write to the vicar of his parish, and give notice. He would send a letter to the Ordinary of St. Pancras as well; he started to say something, but took a step toward the desk, behind which his host was again seated. “I can’t thank you enough, sir! I can’t—”

  “No need. Be off with you, then.” He knew his wife would be grateful to see how happy the man was for this change in his situation, however, so he said, “You may announce your good fortune to the others.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir! My utmost thanks to you, sir!”

  Mr. Mornay stood and turned to face his bookshelves, putting his back to the younger man, who was supposed to recognize his cue to be gone. Instead, from behind him, he continued to hear, “I shall never forget this kindness. It means a world of difference to me.”

  Mr. Mornay had taken a volume from his shelf, and now opened it as if to read a passage, but he looked at the young man enough to say (in a firm tone reminiscent of his old cutting replies), “Mr. O’Brien. Get yourself to the drawing room, before I change my mind.”

  The cleric’s eyes opened wide. “Yes, sir. At once.” And he scrambled off.