The Country House Courtship

by Linore Rose Burkard

  Beatrice listened, her large eyes revealing alarm, but she knew she could not allow him to have his way. Her feeling changed to amusement. He was sweet to try to protect her feet, but it was the rest of her that Beatrice was worried about. “I am sorry for it, sir,” she said, with a smile, removing his hand from her arm where he was holding her back. “My sister will understand when you tell her how adamant I was in accompanying you back to the house. She knows that I am…”

  “Willful?” he supplied, with a sideways smile.

  “I was going to say, ‘strong-minded,’” she replied, but she was still smiling. Pulling on her gloves she said, brightly, “Well! Shall we go?”

  He looked at her wryly a moment. “Miss Beatrice,” he said, softly, getting her full attention. When they were acquainted in the past, she had been “Miss Beatrice,” and suddenly days gone by were coming back at her. He put out his hand. “May I see your gloves?” She had just put them on, and she held out her hands. He peered at them a moment, and then suddenly took both of her hands and swiftly pulled the gloves off!

  “What are you doing?” she asked, and then immediately knew. He was not going to let her accompany him!

  “I still have a muff!” she cried, and grabbing it, made a dash for the door. He was too much the gentleman to stop her she thought.

  He pulled her back by the waist with a surprising strength, and with a sigh, said, into the back of her head, “Must you make me take hold of you to keep you safe? You are being…naughty!”

  She said, “No, sir! You are! You ought not to have touched me!” She pushed away and turned to face him, but in a few seconds they both smiled, and then started to laugh. He had already massaged her feet at length! He looked at her appraisingly.

  “If I allow you to leave this cottage, do you think Mr. Mornay will ever hold me in the least respect?”

  “He already does,” she said, knowing nothing about it.

  His brows went up. “No. Your feet, once having frozen, are more prone to it, again.” He looked outside. “It only gets later and colder. You must listen to me, and stay put. I will run the entire distance, or at least until I drop from exhaustion.”

  Her eyes widened with alarm, but he grinned.

  “I’m jesting; I won’t drop from exhaustion, I assure you. I will run, Miss Forsythe. You have only to stay by the fire like a good girl for a short while. Now, do I have your word?”

  She looked around at the place. It might have been cozy, with more candlelight and cheery furnishings, but it had an empty look about it. She knew, the moment he left, she was going to feel a vague fright. It would be nameless and unreasonable, perhaps, but she would feel it, just the same.

  She looked at him plaintively. “I cannot. I am sorry for it. Please let me accompany you.”

  He was puzzled. “Why cannot you?”

  She sighed heavily. “I will be frightened here alone.” She hated the sound of her own words; despised herself for being such a coward, but she had to tell him. She could see he was not going to let her leave with him, otherwise.

  He walked over to her, and once again reached for her hands. She thought he would give her the gloves, but he had already stuffed them into a pocket. Instead he held her hands within his own larger ones, and said, “Allow me to pray for you.” His eyes were so kind and compassionate, that she did.

  He prayed simply, and to the point. He thanked God for their safety and the use of the cottage, and for the restoration of Beatrice’s feet with no lasting injury. And he prayed for the mighty hand of God to rest over her and this little house, for angels to minister at its doors and windows, standing guard, and to keep her, now and eternally, safe.

  Beatrice was struck by his words. His earnest, wonderful, gentle words. He was so caring! She had a terrible urge to reach up and kiss his cheek. But instead she turned away and went and sat by the fireplace. “Lock the door, please,” she said, in a quiet voice.

  “I’ll be back for you as quickly as possible!”

  What on earth was wrong with her? One minute she was angry and resentful that she might not have a rich husband like Ariana; the next she wanted nothing more than to fall into Mr. O’Brien’s arms!

  It was madness. It was irritating. She wanted two things, and could not have them both. If she were to open her heart to the curate, she was kissing her dreams of grandeur good-bye. If she did not, she would never forget his kind ways and earnestness, and large blue eyes, and handsome demeanour…Oh, it was too vexing to think upon!

  She caught movement from the corner of her eye and looked out a window just in time to see the last of Mr. O’Brien disappearing into the wood. He was running.

  Mr. O’Brien figured that he had run about half the distance, and had to stop and catch his breath for a moment. He used his woolen scarf to protect his lungs from the cold, and was about to resume his trek when he heard the sound of a horse approaching, and let out a cry of, “Ho, there!”

  He saw the animal first, and then its rider, but did not recognize the man immediately. The rider said, “Whoa,” and pulled on the reins, and then clip-clopped up to the cleric. The horse whinnied to a stop.

  “Here you are!” the man said. “I see I’m still in time to be of service.”

  Mr. Barton pressed his heels lightly into the horse’s side and circled Mr. O’Brien, making it very difficult for the curate to speak to him, but he cried, “You can be of service, sir, by lending me your horse!”

  Mr. Barton eyed him and then asked, “Where is Miss Forsythe, sir?”

  Mr. O’Brien fell silent. He did not wish to send Barton to a woman alone. Finally, he said, “Make room for me; I’ll take you to her.”

  He climbed atop the horse, and directed them back to the cottage. Beatrice, watching from a window, was ecstatic at the speed at which she was being rescued. She burst out the front door before the men had a chance to reach it. As they rode up, she saw Mr. Barton first, and smiled in surprise. His face was drawn. She realized Mr. O’Brien was behind him as he got off the animal. He held out a hand to her, and she came forward.

  “Come,” Mr. Barton said, “extending his own hand toward Beatrice. I shall return you to the house at once. Help her up, will you, O’Brien?”

  Mr. O’Brien lifted Beatrice as high as he could, looking deeply into her eyes when they chanced to be close to his. Mr. Barton did his part to bring up her up securely in front of him. She sat with his arms holding the reins on either side of her, her legs on one side. Mr. Barton put one arm protectively about her middle, while tightening up his hold on the reins.

  With a nod, he dug in his heels, and Beatrice felt a stab of regret as they turned around to be off. “Thank you!” she cried to Mr. O’Brien, looking tall and dignified in front of the cottage. “Thank you!”

  He acknowledged her words with a simple nod, but there was a grim look on his face. It was not an expression she had seen on him ever before.

  Mr. O’Brien found a bucket in the house, but no water. If there had been water, it would have been frozen in any case. He had to scoop out the hot coals and tote them outside in a black pot that was made for such things. He carefully scraped every last bit of ash just to be safe, and then finally blew out the candle lamp, and the smaller candle. In the dark, he found the door, and then closed it behind him. He was mildly worried that Mr. Barton would not return Beatrice directly to the house, but there was nothing he could do at the moment. He wrapped his scarf again more securely about his neck, and adjusted his hat. Bending his head against the cold, he started the long walk back.

  Beatrice didn’t usually ride a tall horse, and never with a man. She was uncomfortable and a little bit frightened at how far the ground was, not to mention the jerking of the animal. Mr. Barton could tell she was scared, and he tightened his grip about her.

  “Do not worry,” he said, “I’ve got you!” And he did; but she did not care to have him holding her about the middle.

  “Perhaps you would do better to slow down,” she yel
led. He seemed not to have heard her, but Beatrice would not turn her face toward his—not when she was practically in the man’s lap. He was able to speak right into her ear, however, and he yelled, “I am delighted to be of service to you, Miss Forsythe!”

  She winced. He did not need to yell for her to hear! She merely nodded her head. Suddenly a man was there ahead, upon a great black horse, blocking the path with his large mount. Barton slowed down, and they came abreast of each other. Without a word, the man lifted a rifle from somewhere, and Beatrice’s heart jumped into her throat! What was happening? But she caught a glimpse of a handsome face beneath the hat, behind the high collar—it was Mr. Mornay! Thank God!

  Mr. Mornay held the gun in one hand, and balancing it against his leg, cocked it, and sent a shot into the air. Beatrice jumped despite herself, making Mr. Barton tighten his grasp all the more. If Mr. Mornay had been surprised to find Mr. Barton on his property, with one of his own horses, and his sister-in-law almost in his arms, he did not show it. Mr. Fotch appeared on his animal.

  “Where’s O’Brien?” Mr. Mornay asked.

  “We left him about half a mile back, I should think,” said Mr. Barton.

  Mr. Mornay leveled his gaze at Beatrice, who felt suddenly like a naughty child caught doing something mischievous. “Is all well?” he asked her.

  “Yes.”

  “No one hurt or anything?”

  She paused. “No. Nothing of moment.” He caught a note of hesitation in her voice, and eyed her for a moment, but looking back to Barton, said, “Obliged, Barton. Take her to the house. I’ll check on O’Brien.”

  He nudged his horse forward, already rehearsing in his mind a few choice words for that young man. Was he always trouble? Everywhere he went? Or was it only to plague Mr. Mornay that his appearance always seemed to coincide with some sort of ill happenstance? At any case, he wanted to give him a good combing for it. A gentleman should have known better than to worry half the household, not to mention going off alone for hours with a young woman of quality.

  He moved on, ready to deliver himself of such thoughts to the man.

  Fifteen

  Mrs. Forsythe and Ariana came apart from praying together for Beatrice and Mr. O’Brien—which they did just in case there was some danger afoot, though Ariana could not imagine what it could be, other than exposure to the cold.

  “They may have got lost,” the older woman mused, as they went on. “You have such a large property, and there are paths and woods, are there not?”

  “Yes; I suppose they might have lost their way.” Then Ariana had a thought. “Mama, do you think they would have attempted the maze?”

  Mrs. Forsythe’s response was assured. “No. Your sister has a dread of mazes! She said so just the other day.”

  They walked on, and Ariana said, “Let us go toward the cottages. Perhaps they wanted to see them. They may have been invited inside by someone. We have the loveliest tenants, Mama! Not a one of them is trouble to us.”

  “My dear,” Mrs. Forsythe did not like to think badly of anyone, but doubts were assailing her, as they tended to do whenever circumstances lacked an explanation, temporarily. “You know Mr. O’Brien best, I daresay. Is he an honourable man?”

  Ariana said, breezily, “But of course! Very honourable, indeed!” And as soon as the words left her lips she remembered the matter of his persistence and refusal to accept Ariana’s rejection of his suit, years ago. And what about the time when he had lost his head completely, and plucked her into his arms for an unexpected—and unwelcome—kiss?

  Her mother was well sastisfied with her response, however, so she said nothing more, but now Ariana had her own worries and doubts. Finally, she said, “There is no doubt that he would never harm Beatrice; or abuse her. He has, in the past, been persistent in his addresses to me, is all.”

  Her mother eyed her with fresh worry: “I did consider him a polite, gentlemanlike man; and of a strong religious sensibility. Am I to regret giving them leave to go out walking unchaperoned?”

  Ariana fell into thought, but said, “I cannot believe that he would do anything at all amiss! We must trust his character! He is…a good man.”

  Mrs. Forsythe nodded. Then she added, “Beatrice is young, but she is exceedingly sensible.” She sounded more wishful than certain.

  “Yes, I am sure you are right.” Ariana stopped walking, and touched her mother’s arm.

  “We have prayed for them, have we not? We have put them into God’s hands! Let us not waste another thought fretting about them!”

  “You are right, indeed, my dear!”

  “Yes, I’m certain I am,” she said, moving on. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose were rosy from the cold, and she blinked from the wind bringing tears to her eyes. They had reached a small rise in the landscape, and a neat row of cottages could be seen, still far in the distance, but in sight.

  “There,” said Ariana. “These are the first of our cottages. They are all newly roofed or thatched!”

  From inside her cottage, Mrs. Taller was staring mindlessly out of the single window facing west; she saw the figures of the women—yes, it had to be women, for they looked to be wearing gowns—and suddenly a forlorn hope rose quickly in her breast.

  That had to be the mistress! Mrs. Mornay was kind and good. Everyone knew it. People put their names on a waiting list to rent a house on the Mornay property. Not only did the Master do his utmost to see that all of his tenants remained gainfully employed, but Mrs. Mornay was more than generous, and sent things to her tenants numerous times throughout the year.

  One year she had spearheaded an effort to make sure all the children had coats and shoe. Another time, the Mornays paid for a new young pig for each and every family. What good eating that winter! There was only one weakness in their goodness, which had arisen since the arrival of the two children in the household, which was that, if anyone fell ill, they were supposed to notify Mr. Horton at once. The measure was implemented after a terrible incident in a nearby house of the gentry where the heir, a little boy only six years old, had been playing with a tenant’s child, who no one knew was sick. Symptoms didn’t arise until the next day, when it became obvious the lad was ill. The son of the household also fell sick a day or two later. Only, when the first recovered, the little heir had not.

  This sent a wave of fright around the countryside, so that many families began to treat their tenants like outcasts; others, like the Mornays (whose children were still too young to play much with other children, anyway) implemented precautions. This was why Giles had not wanted MaryAnn’s sickness known. The other side of the precaution was that if a man had any sickness in his house, he should not report to work on the property; he could take a situation elsewhere if he could find one; but until all question of contagious illness was past, he was to stay clear of the other hands on the property, and, of course, the family in the big house.

  Mr. Horton himself had adopted such rules, having learned from another steward of a nearby property that they had done so. Mr. Mornay thought it reasonable, and let it remain in effect.

  Ariana knew nothing about it, simply because her husband had never thought to inform her. He saw no reason to, as, to his knowledge, only once had a man needed to lay off work for reason of sickness. There were actually numerous incidents of such occurring, but only Mr. Horton needed to be aware of them, and he did not bother his employer for every little development.

  In any case, when Mrs. Taller saw the two women, she suddenly knew she must act. The apothecary’s medicine had done naught for the girl. MaryAnn, she felt, was near the end of her suffering. She hadn’t been conscious for two days now, and her skin was still hot to the touch. She needed to beg Mrs. Mornay to send their family physician—the Tallers could not afford a physician, and usually relied upon the apothecary. But it hadn’t done; his herbs hadn’t worked. His poultices were of no effect. Mrs. Taller was at her wit’s end.

  She had no way of knowing that Mr. Horton, the steward,
was making a sweep of the cottages at that very moment; or that, knowing of her daughter’s condition, he would send a physician. But it suddenly seemed absurdly obvious that Mrs. Mornay should be applied to for help. Of course! Why had she not thought of it sooner?

  Giles was on his way home. He had got word of the sweep going on by Mr. Horton and knew that his game was up. He had been preparing to come clean in any case, as he belatedly accepted that his daughter might die. She was the sickest of the lot. He couldn’t very well have just showed up for work one day and announced her passing. Mr. Horton would look into the matter. No, Giles had to admit the situation now, while he could. He was going to stop at the cottage and then go look for the steward; either that or he’d just wait for the man to come to them. It was only a matter of time.

  Mistress Taller saw her opportunity. Surely that was Mrs. Mornay up there on that hill! This could be her only chance. Once again, she had to leave the children alone while she went out. But she hoped that this time, her mission would result in the visit of a real physician.

  Just then, she heard a strange noise coming from the vicinity of her daughter’s sickbed. She rushed over, felt the wet cloth she had left on the girl’s brow, and dipped it in fresh water. After wringing it out sufficiently, she replaced it across the hot brow. Another sound came from the girl’s throat, though she appeared to still be sleeping. Mrs. Taller bent her head to try and hear.

  “MaryAnn! Are you speaking, child?” When there was no answer, she put her face right up to her child’s face, willing her to talk, willing her to regain consciousness. But only the same shallow, labored breathing was to be heard. She hurried back to peer out the window and saw that the two ladies were moving in her direction. Mercy!

  She quickly pulled a shawl from a peg and hurried out the door. She was going to break a rule by speaking directly to Mrs. Mornay when her daughter was ill, but what could she do? She had to risk it.