The Country House Courtship

by Linore Rose Burkard

  Mr. O’Brien was running and never heard the sound of the hooves approaching. All he knew was that suddenly there was a monstrous horse rearing up in his face, and he shielded his head with his arms, expecting the worst. But nothing happened. The horse was whinnying and Mr. Mornay shouted to regain control over the beast, but no great heavy legs came down upon him. Soon, he stood and watched while the animal circled, as Mr. Mornay slowly quieted his animal, and then clopped over to Mr. O’Brien. The curate had thought it was Barton again, but instead found his host looking at him quizzically from atop the huge mount. His look was not benign.

  “Do you need assistance?” he asked.

  “No, sir. I am making my way back.”

  “What happened?”

  “We walked too far, I am afraid. Miss Forsythe began to suffer frostbite on her feet; we had just come out at the parsonage—”

  At this, Mr. Mornay scowled. “You mean to say, the two of you walked as far as that? All the way to Glendover?”

  Mr. O’Brien hesitated. “Well, yes; it did not seem so very far.”

  Mr. Mornay took an exasperated breath. “It hardly seems possible!” He looked back at the cleric. “Well?”

  “We found the door unlocked, and went in to start a fire—”

  “To the house? It was indeed open?”

  “Yes!” He paused, watching the other man with some surprise. “I made a fire, and did what I could to safeguard Miss Forsythe from incurring permanent damage. I have had experience with such things, in St. Pancras, you know.”

  Mr. Mornay had been reining in his horse, while the animal stamped impatiently. He suddenly barked, “Get on behind me, O’Brien.”

  Mr. O’Brien hesitated. “I do not ride very often…”

  “Yes? So? Up with you.” He held out one arm to help him. Mr. O’Brien, being tall and slim was able to climb atop Tornado better than most men would have. He was obliged to hang on to Mr. Mornay, which felt ludicrous to him, but what could he do? He’d fall right off the animal if he didn’t. He hoped no one would be about save the groom or stable hands when they returned.

  After his recent discussions with Mornay, he had felt—at long last—they were approaching more of a friendly footing with one another. Was this day going to ruin all?

  “Is it not a pretty day?” Ariana asked.

  “It is a cold one,” Mrs. Forsythe returned, for she was beginning to feel the effects of it about her feet; and without a muff, and no pockets on her redingote, even her gloved hands were starting to grow stiff with cold.

  Ariana stopped in her tracks. “Are you cold?” She sounded surprised.

  “My dear, it must be near freezing; yes, I am cold. I think we should go back.”

  “Mama—we can call upon a tenant and escape the cold. Mr. Mornay has had every cottage whitewashed on the inside. I should like you to see one. And, would you not like to meet some of our cottagers? They are the dearest people!”

  Mrs. Forsythe surveyed her daughter. Ariana had a cap on beneath her bonnet, a lined heavy redingote, and half-boots. She did not, in fact, appear to notice the cold.

  “How is it you are not chilled half to death as I am?”

  Ariana’s mouth dropped open just a little. “Oh, my! I do not seem to feel the cold as much as other people. I think since my mishap falling from the boat that time, I seem to have developed a resistance to cold air! But I will return with you, since you are so uncomfortable. We’ll see a cottage another day.”

  They turned back toward the house, but in seconds, they both heard a woman’s voice calling out to them. No; it was to Ariana. “Mrs. Mornay! Mum! Mrs. Mornay! If you please, mum!”

  “My word!” she breathed.

  “Who is that woman?” asked her mother.

  “I cannot tell…though I believe it may be Mrs. Taller. She seems to be in some distress! Wait here, Mama!”

  Ariana began walking quickly back toward the woman, who was now running toward her. Mrs. Forsythe waited only a few seconds before deciding that she must know what was happening, and so she hurried after her daughter.

  Mr. Barton was elated that he had been able to rescue Miss Forsythe.

  At the house he waited impatiently after their arrival for a man to come and help her down; he thought it was safer if he stayed astride the horse until she had been helped off it. When a hearty shout of “Ho, there!” still failed to produce a boy or footman, he gave a sigh, and said, “We’ll go to the stables for help; and then I’ll get you to the house in a trice.”

  “I can climb down right here,” Beatrice said.

  “No, ma’am! You’re liable to break an ankle!” He had taken the horse he was offered, after coming to call at the house and finding there was a search going on for Miss Forsythe and the curate, but it was a good-sized mare; fifteen hands, at least. That the clergyman was gone off with Miss Forsythe angered him. Was that pesky cleric trying to make an inroad to Miss Forsythe’s heart? That was not allowable. Having conceived of marrying her himself, he was fast growing overfond of the idea. He liked it very well. He relished the thought of finding himself a relation of the Mornays. And if he was to buy the Manor House, they would be neighbours as well. He and Mornay ought to be fast friends in no time.

  It made such a cozy picture in his mind that he was determined to be as pleasing to the young lady as possible, and so to win her. With a protective tightening of his hold about her now, he smiled to himself and turned the horse toward the stables.

  After Beatrice and he were leaving the stables, she turned to her companion. “Mr. Barton—may I ask for your confidence, sir?”

  He was thrilled to be asked for such a thing from her. “You have it, my dearest Miss Forsythe—with all my heart!”

  “Thank you, sir. You see,” and she hesitated. “I comprehend that you may have a mistaken notion since it appears that I was alone with Mr. O’Brien—”

  “If it is a mistaken notion,” he said, carefully, “you need only say so; and I shall believe you, utterly.”

  “Shall you! Oh, I thank you, sir! For there was nothing at all improper about it! My feet were frozen, and Mr. O’Brien was good enough to build a fire for me.”

  He had no doubt that she was speaking the truth, so it was easy for him to assure her of that.

  “But what I most need from you, Mr. Barton, is your assurance that you shall tell no one about the cottage.” She had stopped walking, and they gazed at one another. He was wishing he could declare his intentions right then and there, but was momentarily lacking the courage.

  “I am sorry to ask you to participate in what seems to amount to a lie,” she said awkwardly, and she turned away and resumed walking, for she was very agitated. “But I fear that if Mr. Mornay learns what happened, he will insist upon believing other lies—that we were improper or some such thing! And that would mean a marriage!”

  Now Mr. Barton became utterly soothing. His worst fear at that moment was precisely that which she dreaded might happen. Mornay was the type, it seemed to him, to sit upon points. “Miss Forsythe, I would sooner die than reveal your secret,” he told her with entire honesty. “I came upon you in the wood, let us say. And brought you back from there.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Barton! Then we are agreed upon it!”

  “Does Mr. O’Brien know of your concern?” Mr. Barton asked. “Will he keep your secret?” How could Beatrice not have thought of that! For a moment, she floundered in uncertainty. “Oh, dear!” But then her look cleared and she exclaimed, “Mr. O’Brien is a new curate! He shan’t want a hint of scandal about his name! I daresay he will be happy to go along with us!”

  Mr. Barton nodded, his eyes narrowing shrewdly. “I think you have the right of it. Excellent.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Mornay!” Mrs. Taller had now reached Ariana and started to sob. Ariana’s large eyes, filled with compassion, had broken a growing dam of tears inside the lady, and suddenly she was crying uncontrollably. Ariana put out her arms, and the woman fell into them, sobbing. In f
act, she was not feeling well herself. All of the strain of worry, and tending her sick children, had resulted in an alarming measure of faintness. Mrs. Taller blinked, and tried to remember her mission, and that this was the mistress, and she stepped back.

  “How can I help you, Mrs. Taller?”

  Mrs. Forsythe, standing back a few feet out of politeness, was wondering the same thing.

  “Oh, my lady!” she cried, forgetting that Ariana was not a “real” lady, “’tis my daughter! MaryAnn!” She had to suppress more sobs at this point.

  “What has happened to MaryAnn?” Ariana asked, to prompt more of the story from her.

  “I fear she’s dyin’! I give ’er the ’pothecary’s cure, but it ain’t done nothin’! She’s worse’n ever!”

  “Tell me what happened to MaryAnn,” Ariana instructed.

  “She’s got the fever! Three or four days, now! I’ve tried to nurse ’er through it, but she’s only got worse! Ah fear—ah fear she’s dyin’! Please say you’ll ’elp us, Mrs. Mornay! You’re me last ’ope!”

  Mrs. Forsythe felt terrible, but she had to speak: “What can Mrs. Mornay do, madam? She is not God.”

  “Come and look at ’er!” she cried. “Pray for my child, mistress, ah beg you!”

  Ariana hesitated, not sure of what to do. Finally, she turned to her mother. “Mama, I pray you, go back to the house and see that Mr. Speckman is sent for at once. See that he comes directly to the Taller’s cottage!”

  “Oh, bless you, mum!” the lady cried. “Bless y’er good ’eart!”

  Mrs. Forsythe turned to do as she was bade, but there was something she did not like about the situation—only she could not think what it was. The doctor was needed and she must hurry back. But then it struck her, and she whirled back around. Her daughter had already gone a few yards, hurrying along beside Mrs. Taller.

  “Ariana!” she called, loudly as she could. “Do not go to that gel! You may get sick!”

  “I am not afraid of that, Mama!” She turned away.

  “Ariana! The children! Your infant!”

  This stopped Ariana in her tracks. She turned back around. When her gaze met her mother’s, the older woman nodded her head. Yes, you must think of your children! her eyes seemed to say. But Mrs. Taller pulled on her redingote. “Ahm beggin’ you, Mrs. Mornay! Ah jus’ know if you pray over’er, she’ll get better! Ahm sure of it!”

  Ariana turned to the woman, and her face creased in regret. “Mrs. Taller, I will pray for MaryAnn, I promise you! But I cannot go with you to see her. I am sorry, ma’am, truly!”

  Mrs. Taller fell silent and stared at Ariana for a long moment. Then, she lost her wits. She fell upon Ariana, crying and sobbing. “We’er goin’ to lose’er! Ah know it!” She couldn’t stop; she began to pull at Ariana’s gown, and fell to her knees, still sobbing. Ariana just stood there helplessly, not knowing what to do. She began to gently extricate herself, only the lady was not ready to let her go.

  Mrs. Taller wasn’t thinking straight. In fact, she suddenly couldn’t even see straight! What was she doing outside in this freezing air? She was shaking, and held on with an iron grip to this white vision in front of her. Was this an angel from heaven she had caught? Please! she begged. Heal my daughter! Heal her! Have mercy on her!

  Ariana saw men approaching and waved wildly to them. She could not get Mrs. Taller’s strong hands off of her legs, and she was beginning to have difficulty staying on her feet. Mrs. Taller was becoming incoherent; she never heard the shouts of the man coming up swiftly behind her. Ariana recognized him; it was the woman’s husband. Thank goodness! He said, “Betsey!” in a strong voice, but when she heard it, Mrs. Taller froze for a second, and then wrapped her arms around Ariana’s legs as though she would hold on for dear life. “Heal my daughter!” She still sobbed.

  “A physician is on his way, Mrs. Taller! He will help you, I promise!” But Ariana’s voice was weak, and the tears in her eyes were no longer from the biting cold.

  Giles Taller took hold of his wife’s hands and pried them loose from Ariana. His face was set in a mean frown, and his eyes were troubled. “What’re you doin’?” he asked his wife, in weak tones of dismay. He was bewildered, or horrified, Ariana could not tell.

  “What’re you doin’? Ye’re goin’ ta make everythin’ worse!” He had turned her around to face him, and the lady had stared up at him with glazed eyes. Suddenly, she went unconscious, just like that. He pulled her to her feet, slumping against him, and then he hefted her up into his arms and turned and tromped back to the cottage carrying her.

  Mr. Horton had been approaching from some distance but reached her now, astride his horse. “Did she touch you?” he asked Ariana.

  Ariana was so surprised by that question, and still in a bit of shock over what had just occurred, that all she could do for a moment was look at him silently. She wanted her husband’s arms to collapse into, but he wasn’t there. “Mrs. Mornay, did Mrs. Taller touch you? Please, I need to know!”

  “Yes. Yes, she did. Why?”

  “The fever. Her daughter’s sick with it, and she may ’ave it too.”

  As soon as he said that, Ariana realized that Mrs. Taller’s hands had been hot. Here they were, out in the cold, and her hands were hot. Mrs. Taller had the fever, like her daughter. That explained her odd behavior, her begging Ariana to heal her child.

  Mr. Horton was looking back at the couple, smaller now as they approached the distant cottage, and was shaking his head. He’d give them the boot, for sure. After all his precautions, how had this happened? What was Mrs. Mornay doing out here, anyway?

  “Mrs. Mornay,” he said, jumping down from the animal. “Take my horse and get you back to the house. I would advise you, ma’am, to send for Mr. Speckman, and not to see the children until you see him.”

  Ariana looked at him wonderingly. The situation was still sinking in on her. While she hesitated, he grew more exasperated. “Madam, please!” He lifted her upon the horse, and handed her the reins.

  “Mrs. Mornay.” He finally got her attention fully. “Go to the house and call the doctor.” She nodded, but her mind was still on the sad plight of her tenants, of Mrs. Taller’s desperation and fear; she turned the horse around, however, and soon saw Mr. Mornay, still astride his own mount, coming over the hill. Ariana gave her horse a slap of the reins, and went to meet him.

  Mr. Horton turned in their direction, but his steps were heavy. His heart was even heavier. He’d only found out about the sick children minutes earlier, from the cottagers who lived right behind the Tallers. Now what would happen? And what would happen to her? The beautiful wife of Mr. Mornay?

  What if she had already caught the illness? How would he forgive himself? And what would his master do about it? All these questions flooded his mind, and he made an instant decision to ask in town for the latest news of the malady. Where was it spreading? How many were dying from it? Most importantly, could anything be done?

  The husband and wife, meanwhile, conferred together, their horses side by side, while he watched, approaching. Mr. Mornay reached across from where he sat, and took his wife bracingly by the arms. He kissed her face. She was now in tears, it appeared. Finally, after he had spoken something more to her, she gently pressed her heels into the horse’s side, and soon disappeared over the hill.

  When Mr. Mornay had come about and was facing him, he could tell, even at the distance he was, that his employer was not happy. Nor should he be. He plodded on to face him.

  Sixteen

  Mr. Barton, you are more jovial than even your usual jovial self,” observed Mrs. Royleforst, in the drawing room. She had finally made her public entrance feeling much restored after taking breakfast in her room.

  Miss Forsythe was rosy-cheeked and glowing, but seemed downcast; Mr. Barton, also red from the outdoors, was full of witticisms and good manners; and Miss Barton seemed to be at peace on this day, as though she had resolved some nagging, pressing issue. Mr. O’Brien entered the room
just then, and he, too, looked as though he had just come in from the cold.

  “Ah, you are observant, ma’am,” Mr. Barton replied, with a bow of acknowledgement. “I am merely pleased that I was able to be of service to our Miss Forsythe just now.”

  Beatrice said nothing, especially since she was watching Mr. O’Brien cautiously. She had to let him know how important it was to keep to the story she and Mr. Barton had agreed upon!

  “And how were you of service?” Mrs. Royleforst wished to know.

  “I rescued a damsel in distress!” he said, with his usual well-spoken aplomb; he made sure to make eye contact with O’Brien. Good. He was listening.

  “Rescued?” Her little black eyes grew wide, as wide as they were capable of getting. “Tell me everything!” she cried. “What happened? Is that why the house was deserted? When Miss Bluford and I came down this morning, we could not so much as locate a footman! No butler! Nary a housemaid! I said to my companion, ‘Miss Bluford, it appears that this house has gone deserted! We are abandoned!’”

  Miss Bluford was already nodding her head in earnest agreement. “Indeed!”

  “We could hardly get a cup of bohea, much less a bite of refreshment,” she added. “And at Aspindon!”

  Mr. O’Brien said, meeting Beatrice’s eyes (which were unaccountably alarmed, he thought), “I can tell you what happened. Nothing exciting, I’m afraid.” She was still staring at him apprehensively. He studied her, and knew something was distressing her.

  “Yes?” said Mrs. Royleforst.

  Mr. O’Brien continued, very slowly. “Miss Forsythe was getting her exercise, and I offered to escort her.”

  “What sort of exercise?” asked Mrs. Royleforst curiously.

  “Just walking, ma’am. On the property.”

  “Miss Forsythe was walking and so you joined her.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Not alone?”

  “She would have been alone, but I walked with her.”