The Country House Courtship

by Linore Rose Burkard

  When he joined the other guests, Mr. O’Brien’s heart was lighter than it had felt for an age. He knew the warden at St. Pancras would be sorry to see him leave, but he himself could not be so. It had only been an irritation to feel so useless in the parish. When he walked in the room, Ariana chanced to look up, and she smiled. His immediate responding grin told her everything she needed to know, and she held out one hand to him, saying, “I must offer my compliments to you, sir, and my deepest congratulations!”

  He bowed over her hand, and then straightened up. The room had fallen quiet at her words, so he looked around to include everyone in the happy news of his new appointment. He felt a small pang of concern when he saw that Beatrice was off to the side at a card table with Barton, alone, but he was too aloft on this cloud of his own good fortune for it to really plague him.

  He noticed the presence of a new young woman, a pretty lady who was holding the baby; but the look on her face was one of deep disturbance. Mr. O’Brien, for a moment, was reminded of the faces of girls in his parish that he saw all too often; girls whose babies were the inevitable result of their working in the “skin trade.” They did it to survive, but had no means to support the babies which often resulted from the business. He blinked and looked again, and recognized a sense of deep sadness afflicting the young woman—he would be curious to make her acquaintance.

  Meanwhile, the others were delighted at his news. Beatrice asked, “I understood you were here to apply for Glendover’s living. Was I mistaken?”

  The man smiled ruefully. “No, you are correct; but Mr. Mornay has been so good as to refer me to Warwickdon, and I am much obliged to him, I assure you. I did not expect to fill the vacancy at Glendover.”

  “If you are content with Warwickdon, sir,” said Beatrice’s mother, “then we are indeed most happy for you.”

  “I hope you will all come to tour the vicarage with me, perhaps later today?”

  “So soon?” Beatrice’s mama was all surprise. “How delightful!” Anne looked up and her face registered only concern. She was sick to her stomach almost every day lately. She was sure it was due to her “condition,” and therefore did everything in her power to hide her complaints. But she did not relish the thought of the outing.

  “Astonishing, is it not?” Mr. O’Brien replied to Mrs. Forsythe. “The vicar is champing at the bit to be off, and he will welcome me just as soon as I can make the proper arrangements. I shall ask to borrow pen and paper from the Mornays and send my resignation to St. Pancras’s directly.”

  “Miss Barton,” said Ariana, realizing belatedly that an introduction had yet to be made: “May I have the honour of presenting Mr. O’Brien to you? He is to be the new curate, as you have just learned, of our neighbour village of Warwickdon.”

  “How do you do, sir?” When she spoke, every vestige of sadness or trouble fled from her expression, and Mr. O’Brien thought he must have been mistaken. She smiled calmly and then properly averted her eyes to the baby on her lap.

  “Mr. O’Brien, I present Miss Barton, the sister of Mr. Barton.”

  “Miss Barton; I am honoured,” he said, with a light bow. She nodded shyly, and that was all. But again Mr. O’Brien felt sure they had a troubled young woman in their midst. Unfortunate as it was, he knew the look.

  With that done, there were little pockets of chatter regarding when they would know if the tour was to occur this day or not. Ariana was happy when her husband returned to the room, and eager to know of any news. First, of course, he had to greet his exuberant son, who had run to him with a shout of, “Papa! Papa!” He held him easily in one arm, ignoring the hands that were touching his face and neckcloth as though they were curiosities in themselves, and told his wife, “We should hear shortly from Mr. Hargrove, as I’ve sent a good rider.” He took a seat in a chair off to one side of the room, just as Mrs. Perler arrived to take her charges to the nursery.

  Ariana accompanied her to feed the baby with privacy; Miss Barton had given Miranda up with a word of thanks for the pleasure of holding her, and a sigh, which amused the mama. “You are fond of children, Miss Barton.” She waited to hear the response.

  “I hope so, Mrs. Mornay.”

  Mr. O’Brien did not blink, but he heard her response and mulled it over with interest.

  On the way upstairs, Ariana, too, was musing upon the very pretty sister of Mr. Barton. She was quiet and reserved, in the way of one who had known sorrow. Mr. Barton was far more gregarious and good-natured, but there was an air of thoughtfulness in Miss Barton’s silence that made Ariana feel nothing but warmly toward her. She hoped, given time, that she would be trusted with the secrets of the lady, and that they would become very good friends, indeed.

  Back in the drawing room, Mr. Barton asked amiably if there was anything of interest in The Chronicle, which was open before Mr. Mornay, upon his lap.

  After a pause, Mr. Mornay said, “There is an outbreak of the influenza,” he said, “which appears to have originated in the metropolis, but is slowly spreading to outlying areas.”

  “I heard something of that before we left Town,” said Mr. Barton. “It is chiefly among the poor, who do not know enough of sanitary practices to keep their homes healthful.”

  “It may be that, in part,” said Mr. O’Brien, “but the problem is greatly compounded by the lack of good physicians.” Beatrice found these remarks very interesting as they concerned London, and she was all ears.

  “Is there a shortage of physicians, sir?” asked Mrs. Forsythe.

  Mr. O’Brien answered before Mr. Barton could. “There is no shortage, ma’am, there is merely a lack of men who are brave enough to enter the lanes and tenements where the illness is rampant.”

  “Bad show, O’Brien!” exclaimed Mr. Barton. “Many a doctor has ventured into those noxious areas and ended up dead for his trouble, that’s what. We can’t have every last physician in London giving themselves up for the sake of the poor.”

  “And what if they were rich, sir?” he asked. “Could you spare your physicians for the sake of the rich if they were the ones affected?”

  Mr. Barton stopped and smiled a little, as if he realized he’d said the wrong thing, but then he rallied. “I daresay, there would be far less fear surrounding the issue, and many more doctors willing to treat people if they were; for the rich do not suffer themselves to be surrounded by the very sources of putrid and noxious vapors that make them ill, as the poor do.”

  “As the poor must, you mean, sir,” the curate said. “They have nowhere else to go, nor do they have the means to clean up these filthy tenements that harbour illness.” He paused and added, “In addition to which, physicians can catch sickness from attending the rich as well as the poor; and if the lower classes had the means for better quarters, they would take them; if they had the education to know their mistakes, they could live healthier lives.”

  “Education,” said Mr. Barton, “for those who begin their day with gin and end it likewise?”

  “There are some who drown their life in gin, to be sure,” agreed the cleric, “but you cannot think they represent the greatest mass of poor people who dwell in London!”

  “I daresay, I do think so,” said Mr. Barton, who was warming to his subject. “I have seen an innumerable number of them—men, women, and children, alike—who not only drink gin, but beg for it, steal for it, and would die for it, I’ve no doubt. Women and children, sir!”

  Beatrice was watching and listening with a concerned expression. Her liking of Mr. Barton made her partial to his arguments, but she could not deny the sense of, nor the ring of truth to, everything Mr. O’Brien countered with. It troubled her.

  “Mr. Barton,” said Mrs. Royleforst, who had been near dozing, but wakened to his loud tone, “your subject is not fitting for the drawing room, sir!” She looked to her nephew as if he, too, was to blame.

  “I merely mentioned a news item,” Mornay said innocently, though he had to grin.

  “Well, read us some m
ore, then!” she demanded.

  He eyed her with a sanguine expression, and then turned to the paper, which he had allowed to drop to his lap while listening to the gentlemen debate. “I quote,” he said, looking to his aunt as though she might challenge him. “From The London Medical Repository. ‘Fevers are still prevalent… Relapses have been noticed as of frequent occurrence in the instances of the late epidemic.’”

  “Epidemic?” asked Mr. O’Brien. “It must have spread very rapidly. I heard nothing of an epidemic before I left my parish, though I did call upon a few families with the fever, and heard of others.”

  “But you did not fall ill yourself, sir?” asked Beatrice.

  “I never did, no. I have called upon the sick numerous times; it is one of my chief occupations, I’m afraid.” His eyes flicked upon Miss Barton, who still listened with interest. “But I gave no thought to opening myself to harm, and I never did succumb to an illness, even in cases where the sufferer later passed on.” He paused; Mrs. Royleforst leveled a reproving glare at him for continuing what, to her mind, was conversation best fit for the tavern.

  “I suppose it was God’s grace,” he said. “It is part and parcel of my calling to visit the sick and counsel the distraught.” He looked at Anne, and she froze, seeing his look. She had to turn her head away, but his attention at that particular moment was very distressing to her. What did he know? And how could he have known it? His eyes were gentle and not reproving, but she felt suddenly exposed, and was distressed, indeed.

  Mr. O’Brien looked at Mr. Mornay. “What are the symptoms of the fever in this case?” he asked. “Does it say?”

  Mr. Mornay instantly read, “Besides febrile symptoms, there are pains in the legs and back, aching of the bones, and soreness of the flesh, as if the patients had been beaten.” He paused and continued, “During the most formidable symptoms, the patient falls into a state of stupor, delirium, or coma, and, in the absence of an extreme perspiration, does not recover.”

  “Such a morbid discussion!” said Mrs. Royleforst.

  “Indeed!” cried Miss Bluford.

  “But it must be wise to stay abreast of these things, ma’am,” offered Beatrice. She was not enjoying the topic, but she did feel it was a precaution to be aware of such things.

  “Overstated nonsense,” said Mr. Barton. “I tell you, we’ve just come from London, and we neither saw nor heard a thing of this! Were you to go there today, you would see or hear nothing of it, I assure you.”

  “Is that not a shame?” asked Miss Barton quietly, who had applied herself to behaving as normally as possible. She picked up her embroidery canvas and calmly made a stitch. But then she paused. “Is it not a shame that there should be an epidemic in the poorer sections of the city, and yet others should know nothing of it?”

  “The rich are always insulated from the poor,” said Mrs. Royleforst.

  Miss Bluford added, “Indeed!” nodding her head vigorously.

  “Insulate them too well,” murmured Mr. Mornay, “and you get a revolution. Witness the French.”

  Mr. Barton crossed his arms, and his countenance was armed, though he said nothing.

  “There has been discussion before the House,” said Mr. O’Brien. “The doctors are hitting heads on how to treat the fevers, whether by bleeding, as in the previous century, or by cordial and similar supports. It’s been a hot topic,” he added, cracking a rare joke.

  “And what has been determined?” asked Mrs. Royleforst. “Concerning the treatment? Which is most effective?”

  “Well,” he said, “half the physicians treat their patients by trying to force the crisis, keeping them blanketed and in airless rooms; while others swear they see the most recoveries where they have done quite the opposite: opening windows, even moving the sick person out of doors if necessary, for brief periods of airing.”

  “Sounds like an old rug being cleaned,” Mrs. Forsythe remarked, offhandedly.

  “That’s all very well in the warmer months, I should think,” said Beatrice, “but you cannot mean that exposing the ill to cold wind and weather can help them?”

  Mr. O’Brien shrugged. “Many of the worst epidemics occur in the places that are most closed up, which, unfortunately, tends to be the houses of the poor,” he said.

  At that moment Ariana came back into the room, and she immediately felt there was something afoot. “Well!” she said airily. “What have I missed? Are we to see the vicarage?” She paused to smile at her husband, and then went toward him, giving him a kiss on the cheek. She had not yet had a chance to thank him for Mr. O’Brien’s new situation. “You were so right, my love,” she whispered to him, leaning down to speak into his ear. “Our curate is delighted with his lot. I thank you for that.”

  Beatrice could have blushed, and looked around apprehensively to see if anyone was scandalized by the public display of affection between the pair, but the others in the room seemed to accept it as being just the sort of thing one must expect from the Mornays.

  Ten

  Mr. Hargrove received the letter from Aspindon House with great joy. He motioned for the servant to wait, and hurried into his study to pen a reply.

  “Mrs. Persimmon!” he called excitedly. A lady quickly appeared from the kitchen, still removing her apron. She was both housekeeper and cook for the establishment, a thing which would strike any Londoner as an odd coexistence; but for country cottages, doubling up on duties was not at all unusual. There was also a single manservant, dressed in worn ivory-colored breeches and a waistcoat and jacket, who accepted the apron with a nod, and went to return it to its place.

  Mrs. Persimmon wore a white cap, from which some thick graying curls peeked out. She was of a matronly age, perhaps fifty, and had been pretty in her youth, one could tell. She had large, light eyes and an expression that seemed to be always just upon the point of saying something, or expecting a request. She was eager to please.

  “Mrs. Persimmon!” the man exclaimed again upon her appearance. “Can you conceive of it? Mr. Mornay has a curate to send to me directly!” (He rolled the “r” in the word as if to emphasize the astonishing immediacy of the fact.)

  “Directly, sir?” she asked, amazed, but with a dawning worry upon her heart. “How directly?”

  “He comes to see the vicarage this very day!” The man was practically whistling with excitement, but Mrs. Persimmon cried, “Mercy me! This very day! And the house in such a disorder!”

  The vicar’s expression sobered. “Mrs. Persimmon,” he said more sternly. “It is only to be expected that I must be about my packing. It will not signify, I assure you.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said at once, turning to go. “Shall I prepare some refreshments for you and your guest, sir?”

  “Yes, do, refreshments, of course. Very good, Mrs. Persimmon.”

  Mr. Hargrove wrote out his response for the owner of Aspindon House, and gave it to the messenger, who took off with it apace. The vicar then continued pulling pieces of paper from his drawer. He had more writing to do, and he had best get it done. He had letters to pen for the leading families of the area, as a courtesy. One for the magistrate, even though Mr. Mornay had mentioned notifying him as well. One for the bishop; a copy for the warden; one for his relations in the north. He hoped that after meeting the new man today he might even be able to supply them with a possible date for his installation as their new vicar.

  His blood seemed to surge in his veins while he wrote; ah, there was nothing like good fortune to make a man feel young. He had long anticipated this event, and now that it was upon him, it felt too good to be true. He hoped that this Peter O’Brien would be willing to step into his shoes as quickly as possible. Sunday next would not be too soon for him! (His congregation, he knew, would be unhappy that he was leaving during Lent; but what could he do? His new congregation expressly wished to have him for the Day of Resurrection, and here the Lord seemed to have provided his way of escape from Warwickdon. It was out of his hands.)

  Anne
Barton excused herself and went in search of a place of privacy—unfortunately the only room that came to mind was the privy, but she knew that even in a great house like Aspindon, the slightest unsavoury odor would empty her stomach of its contents at once.

  She really had not felt up to being in society today, and she was angry that she had allowed Tristan to bully her into it. Thing was, she had not been feeling well for three weeks now. She hid her condition from Tristan as much as possible. He did not know, for instance, that following every meal, Anne had to give it up into a chamber pot.

  She tried to hide her growing thinness with a good deal of shawls, and wore her robe over her morning gowns at home every day now. Her brother was like a thorn in her side; his disgust of her was sufficiently daunting that she had to make sure she gave him no further reasons to disregard her even more. He would be repelled if he knew how sick she really was.

  A footman in the corridor caught her eye, and so she stopped and asked, “What room is this, if you please?” She nodded toward a door which he seemed to be standing guard before.

  “The library, mum.”

  “Oh, excellent,” she said, a little weakly. She was not going to make it much farther. He opened the door for her, and she went into a beautiful, cozy room, warmly wainscoted and with an abundance of wall shelves. There was no fire, and it was cold in the room, but she looked around hurriedly for a vessel; anything that could suffice. Spying a small coal scuttle, she picked it up like treasure. It would have to do.

  Six minutes later, her composure regained, Miss Barton exited the library and headed back toward the drawing room. A maid had been about to enter, evidently prepared to start a fire for her.

  “Oh, that won’t be necessary,” she said.

  She hoped the girl would not notice that someone had been sick and then dumped the evidence in the grate. She had seen no other place to discard it. She sniffed, and went her way.

  Mr. O’Brien waited only long enough for the slight young woman to go some distance from the library before turning the handle quietly and slipping into the room. What had she been doing? He had a suspicion, and needed to know. He looked around for a likely object and spied the very same vessel Miss Barton had seen. In less than a minute he had deduced what he needed to know, and left the library with a thoughtful look upon his face.