The Country House Courtship

by Linore Rose Burkard

  Beatrice was listening without looking at him. “Spoken just like a good curate, sir,” she said, in a tone that was mildly dismissive.

  Ariana glanced at her husband, half expecting him to offer some reproving remark to the girl, but he said nothing. Oh, dear. These few minutes of talk had certainly not supported Ariana’s hopes of matchmaking in the least.

  Suddenly Mr. Hargrove was hurrying out to greet them. He was a large-bellied man, which was evident despite the greatcoat, knee breeches, and shoes. His hat was brown, and in the style of a country parson. If he had sported a white wig and curls, Ariana would not have been surprised, but she could see, as he approached, grinning and gesturing, that his hair was gray. After a few minutes during which he bustled them into the hall of the dwelling, introductions were made and niceties said. A footman ran up from the Mornays’ other carriage, with Mrs. Forsythe coming up the path to the door.

  “Mrs. Royleforst wishes to inform, sir, that she is returning to the house; she is satisfied with having seen the vicarage from the coach.” Mr. Mornay understood that she had not liked what had appeared to her as a property requiring a great deal of walking. He nodded. “Fine. See that the coach is returned to us; we’ll need it when we leave here.”

  Mr. Hargrove had waited politely, smiling and nodding at the others, and now burst into a multitude of comments and questions, directing his first remark to Mr. Mornay. “I cannot say how overjoyed I was to get your correspondence, sir.”

  Turning to Mr. O’Brien, he peppered him with a series of utterances, not bothering to wait for a response from the gentleman.

  “You will be happy here, my boy; very happy, I daresay.”

  “I have a thousand little things I must remember to tell you!”

  “How soon, sir, can you see your way to occupying the house?”

  “Can you preside for services Sunday next?”

  “I will show you every foot of the place, but I think we must start on the grounds.”

  Mr. Mornay said, “Is that necessary? It is cold for the ladies, you understand.”

  He seemed struck by that thought. “Oh, yes, sir, oh, yes, indeed, we must think of the ladies, of course!” They were shown into a good sized, somewhat elegant parlour. “I will tell you about the grounds, since it is too cold,” he said, while checking the grate and then hollering, “Sykes!”

  A manservant appeared, to whom he said, “It is a sniveling fire, my dear man!” Sykes hurriedly attended to the fireplace, not quietly, but no one cared. Warmth was their concern. Afterward, Sykes began to collect the hats, coats, and scarves of the guests, while Mr. Hargrove pulled up a sturdy stool from near the fireplace so that he could face everyone in the room at once.

  “Yes, well, let me begin, then. I am ecstatic to meet you, sir” (again, to Mr. O’Brien).

  “You were going to tell us about the grounds of the property,” said Mr. Mornay.

  “Oh yes! The grounds, of course. You won’t be disappointed, my boy; you won’t be disappointed!” He spoke very fast, and no one could look away for a moment lest they miss something.

  “Let me see—the grounds; we have a moderate glebe of a hundred and fifty acres, which I have planted these past ten years, sir. I have already ordered this year’s seed, which I have the honour of offering to you at cost. I have no use for it in Yorkshire, as very few crops grow successfully there! (He laughed at this.) If these terms are suitable for you, sir, I will take the liberty of deducting the cost of the seed from your salary, and I daresay you should have it covered quite soon, quite soon, my boy, etcetera and company and so on.”

  “Sell it to him at half-price,” said Mr. Mornay. “He is coming to your aid, taking over your parish with all possible speed. I think an allowance can be made for him under the circumstances.”

  Mr. O’Brien would usually have blanched at negotiating of any kind, but this was Mr. Mornay doing it for him. He looked to Mr. Hargrove. The vicar’s face had dropped for a moment, but this was Mr. Mornay—he said, “If you say so, sir, he shall have it at half-price.”

  He went on, talking speedily: There was a dovecote, replete with doves. “You will always have the softest of mattresses and pillows, my boy, as well as meat on your table, from it. Mrs. Persimmon (she is your housekeeper and cook) is expert at dressing pigeon and doves and very skilled in the art of cleaning and using feathers, etcetera and company and so on.” Everyone looked at Mr. O’Brien to see his reaction to this interesting bit of information. He was embarrassed, but saw that a reply was expected, so he said, “Very good, sir,” which was sufficient so that Mr. Hargrove continued:

  “You have a chicken coop with some very excellent layers, sir, the very best layers, I daresay, in this countryside; you have a dairy, sir, and a buttery; a sty (though I confess I have no pig in it at present, but you may get yourself one); you have a front garden (which is perhaps not ideally situated, I allow, since a small park would be more fetching to the eye); but I assure you there will soon be an abundance of violets and spring bulbs aplenty to colour the garden, so that your landscape will be a profusion of cheerful hues, etcetera and company and so on.” ( A smile.)

  Mr. O’Brien was already smiling, listening to the delightful catalogue of his future property. “Sykes and Mrs. Persimmon, as both have family here, sir, and were born and raised in Warwickdon, etcetera and company, are staying with the house, and so on. And they are loyal and faithful and will serve you well; and Mrs. Persimmon, I must say, is an excellent cook, sir.” He paused to collect his breath before steaming on. (A second of respite!) “You will pay their salaries for now on, o’ course, but it won’t break you, sir! It won’t break you.” He thought for a moment. “I am leaving a good deal of records of all the running of this household in my study. I won’t need a bit of it where I’m going; and Mrs. Persimmon will help you find what you need, etcetera; the names of who to call in the village when your fields are ready, or your fence needs mending, and so on.”

  Beatrice whispered to Mr. Barton, “He forgot to say ‘and company,’” to which he grinned, and she let out a giggle. Mr. Hargrove ceased talking abruptly and stared at her as if he were quite in shock.

  “Was something funny?” he asked in earnest. “What was funny?” He looked around as though someone in the room must surely be able to help him at his present loss. But no one did.

  Ariana and Mrs. Forsythe were both sending frowning looks at Beatrice, who felt mortified by all the eyes upon her. “What was funny?” Mr. Hargrove continued to ask, until Mrs. Forsythe said, in her kindest tone, “Please continue, sir. We are all enthralled by your vicarage.”

  He looked gratified, finally forgot about something being funny, and finished his speech with his eyes large in his head, staring at Mr. O’Brien. “I do believe that is all I have to tell you,” he said, as though he himself were surprised. “Mrs. Persimmon will show the whole of the house to you and your guests now, sir, etcetera, and Sykes and I will have everything ready for tea at your return, company and so on.”

  Ariana herself had to suppress an urge to laugh, while Beatrice merely exchanged comical looks with Mr. Barton. Somehow they all managed to stifle their mirth and filed from the room, following Mrs. Persimmon, with Mr. O’Brien right behind her.

  “Wait!” called Mr. Hargrove, before they had so much as got five feet from the room. He appeared in the doorway, and he looked alarmed. “Did you see the church?” he asked the group, with widened eyes.

  “Only from the road, sir,” said Mr. O’Brien.

  “Well, well, you must needs see it, you know; very fine church; very fine.” He thought for a moment. “After seeing the house, we should go there, directly. Show you where things are, etcetera.” His countenance brightened as a new thought entered his head. “And then we’ll all be comfortable together and take our tea, eh? Does that suit?”

  Beatrice had been hoping that tea might be served before the tour, but she said nothing. Mr. Barton caught her eye, however, and he shook his head in t
he negative, as if Mr. Hargrove was a dimwit. She stifled a giggle.

  Mrs. Persimmon waited in the hall. “As you can see,” she said in a tone that was calculated to be of sufficient volume to reach the entire group in her charge, “we have a very fine old wainscoting. This house was built in 1701,” she said, “and has enjoyed only four occupants.” Her gaze fell upon Mr. O’Brien. “Prior to Mr. O’Brien, that is. He will be the fifth.” She spoke loudly and carefully, pronouncing her words as though she was addressing a group of children.

  When later they had reached the bedchambers, Mrs. Persimmon turned to them and with eyes sparkling, assured Mr. O’Brien that he would “find it is quite a large abode, indeed. Quite fit for a sizeable family.” She smiled broadly. “Mr. O’Brien will be the second parson to raise a family in this house!”

  Mr. O’Brien said, “I hope I may, ma’am.” Ariana and her mother were smiling, while the others said nothing.

  Later, Beatrice had to admit that it was a good-sized house; much roomier than their home in Chesterton. In addition to the hall and parlour, there was a hall chamber, parlour chamber, drawing room, and library; and upstairs, four separate bedchambers, as well as a maid’s chamber and a room that looked to be a nursery at one time, or schoolroom; and off the kitchen, a cheese chamber. The library held four leather chairs and a great quantity of books, which Mrs. Persimmon said belonged to the house.

  She pointed out every object that was staying; this settee, that set of wing chairs, a modest chandelier, and other furnishings. Even the drapery was mentioned, with the added information that Mrs. Persimmon prided herself on keeping it “spankingly clean.”

  “Etcetera and company and so on,” murmured Mr. Barton behind Beatrice’s ear. She dared not laugh aloud, but smiled and gave him a mock look of reproval.

  While they all filed back downstairs, the housekeeper stopped on the staircase to say to Mr. O’Brien, “Sir, I do not wonder at your finding yourself a wife directly, and setting up housekeeping. It is all ready for you; your future wife will consider herself fortunate, indeed, I assure you.”

  Her eye fell upon Beatrice. “Is this young lady so fortunate as to be in way of becoming Mrs. O’Brien, may I ask?”

  To Beatrice’s mortification, she blushed furiously. “We are mere acquaintances, ma’am!”

  Mrs. Persimmon smiled without the least bit of repentance for having been so direct. Her gaze roamed to Miss Barton, and as soon as her brow went up, Miss Barton smiled but exclaimed, “No, ma’am! We have only just met.”

  Looking back to the young cleric, she said, “No matter; a handsome young sprig as you are should have plenty offspring about you soon enough, I warrant!”

  Ariana and Mr. Mornay exchanged amused, surprised glances. Mr. Barton muttered something about the “bald pluck” of the servant, but Miss Barton said, “She means kindly. Do hush, Tristan!”

  Mr. O’Brien was amused more than embarrassed. He was in too much rapture at his good fortune to allow anything to spoil the day. He would still be a perpetual curate, but he could be called a parson, and there was a circulating church warden who saw to the care of the building. There was a part-time clerk, and now his own little house with two servants! He had to force himself not to let his heart swell.

  By the time the little party had seen every room, and admired it sufficiently, they were happy to sit in the drawing room to enjoy refreshments. (Mr. Mornay suggested that some warming beverages would fortify the women before returning to the cold out of doors to see the church. As ever, Mr. Hargrove was pleased to defer.) Mrs. Persimmon helped Sykes serve the guests, while Mr. Hargrove sat close by Mr. O’Brien and shared notes upon the clerical life, “etcetera and company and so on.” It was a pleasant hour, except that Ariana and Mrs. Forsythe were still somewhat mortified by the behavior of Beatrice and Mr. Barton. They sat rather too close to one another, and only joined the general conversation when obliged to.

  Mr. Barton, in fact, seemed intent upon one thing only: making Beatrice laugh. She was in a mood to be amused, and found whatever he did, funny. He mimicked Mr. Hargrove—she giggled. He pointed to a strange little portrait—she snickered. He feigned boredom and a long-suffering attitude—she chuckled and nodded in agreement. Beatrice was not trying to encourage him to misbehavior, but she was oppressed by the length of time they had been listening to Mr. Hargrove and Mrs. Persimmon. She was also happy to be distracted from a host of disturbing, intrusive thoughts that she disliked.

  For instance, when seeing the nursery, she had thought, What a perfect little room for a child’s bed! The vision of children upon the floor, playing with toys, came to mind. She did not welcome it. Children in that room would not be her children! The mother of the household would not be she!

  Beatrice was irked that she had the feeling she ought to be paying close attention to it all, as though it must matter to her. It doesn’t matter to me! she kept telling herself. Her antics with Mr. Barton were largely in defiance of these feelings—she would not be serious! She would not marry Mr. O’Brien!

  And then, the realization that she had thought such a thought seemed so absurd to her that she had laughed out loud. Mr. O’Brien had not offered for her—why was she thinking such nonsense? Even Mr. Barton gazed at her in surprise, though he slowly smiled at her. No one else did, though.

  Mrs. Forsythe endeavoured to catch her daughter’s attention to discourage her outbursts. Beatrice is behaving like a lack-wit! she thought. Mr. O’Brien was doing an admirable job of completely ignoring her; which was the only comfort Mrs. Forsythe could take during the whole affair.

  When they had all bundled up into their outer garments, including Mr. Hargrove, who was happily directing them outdoors, they moved as a group toward the church. From this distance, they could see the spire above the horizon, rising among the trees and calling to mind the best picturesque scenes of the country that anyone could desire. Their path led them up a gentle hill, and then back down, before widening into a lane that led around to the back of the building. There was a separate path from the road, but this one was how the vicar always went to church.

  He and Mr. Mornay were now in the lead, and the others came up behind, first Ariana and Mrs. Forsythe; followed by Beatrice and Mr. Barton; and then Mr. O’Brien and Miss Barton.

  “This must be a lovely sight in spring,” breathed Ariana, looking all around. The others concurred. Even the little cemetery coming into view was picturesque, with its odd assemblage of old stones, some at angles, which spoke of their antiquity. Beatrice saw the little winter scene and could not call it displeasing; she said nothing, however, and merely stopped when the others did, admiring the little hamlet where the church sat, and was surprised to find that she felt refreshed by the view.

  They entered the actual churchyard through a lych-gate, and followed a little stone path through the lawn, which held the cemetery. Behind the cemetery was a tall privet hedge, almost as high as her head, and Beatrice hurried toward it, leaving the others, calling, “Oh, what do you think is on the other side?” Mr. Barton watched her for a moment, and then he, too, started toward the hedge. He caught up with her as she reached the wall of greenery.

  “Come, Beatrice,” Ariana called. “We’re going inside!”

  Mr. Barton said, “Shall we look for a hole in the privet?”

  Beatrice wavered. He was a handsome young man, and looking deeply into her eyes. She had a near smile upon her mouth, but did not answer directly. He turned and looked back to see the progress of the others, and saw they had all gone inside the building. He started to lean his head down toward Beatrice’s—to her amazement, for she hadn’t a thought of being kissed—when Mrs. Forsythe, who had lingered at the door was suddenly there, calling, “Beatrice! Come at once!”

  Mr. Barton froze, and then came to his full height again, and offered her his arm, all the while looking intently into her eyes. “Shall we?” he asked.

  She took his arm, but all the way to the door her heart beat with the th
ought that this man had very nearly kissed her! Beatrice had never been kissed by a gentleman, and it was a rather shocking thought.

  Further, she had no idea if she ought not to allow a man to kiss her once; was it a sin? When they were not betrothed? She suddenly felt young, and not altogether sure of herself. Perhaps she had been flirting with Mr. Barton too much. When they reached her mother, who was giving her a look of large-eyed alarm, she moved her arm off of Mr. Barton’s and entered the building. “Thank you, Mama! We were just looking to see the prospect beyond the hedge! But I do wish to see this place.”

  “’Tis only a simple country church,” said Mr. Barton behind her.

  “I suppose you would have preferred the privet hedge?” asked Mrs. Forsythe in a rare, dry tone, seldom heard from her.

  Inside the structure, they stood, blinking a minute to let their eyes adjust to the dim light.

  “Look,” said Mrs. Forsythe, and she pointed up at the eaves. Two small stone cherubs stared out, unseeing, at the entrance.

  “Oh! What made you look up?” asked Beatrice.

  Mrs. Forsythe smiled. “Even the smallest churches are often laden with little astonishing architectural details,” she said. “Your papa and I have gone through many a country church looking for just such things.” Ahead they could hear the vicar speaking, pointing out things he was particularly proud of, but Beatrice was content to let her own mother be her guide. Mr. O’Brien was suddenly there as well.

  “Did you see the little cherubs?” he asked, his tall head only inches from the lowest one.

  “We did! My mother pointed it out.” He reached up and touched the foot of one of them.

  “Not very smooth,” he said, with a smile. Beatrice thought, How very tall he is. “Come, we can peer up into the tower,” he said then, and she followed him. Mrs. Forsythe and Mr. Barton trailed behind them. At the bottom of the tower, he pointed up to where the bells were, way on top. “I’m glad this church has a spire, and not a ‘witch hat,’” he said, flashing another smile.