The Country House Courtship

by Linore Rose Burkard

“Just the two of you?”

  “Yes, just the two of us,” he said, very deliberately, as if anyone who dared to challenge the propriety of it must needs answer for it. Beatrice’s heart was pounding. It was all going to come out, she knew it! She looked with a panicked expression to Mr. Barton, who was waiting for his moment to take over the story, watching with as much interest as Beatrice.

  Mrs. Royleforst started to take a sip of tea, but stopped in midair. “Where did you walk to, alone, just the two of you?”

  “We saw Glendover, ma’am,” Beatrice put in. She could not stand to be silent a moment longer, for fear that Mr. O’Brien would spill the whole business.

  “What? Impossible! Not on foot, in this cold!” Her teacup was hastily returned to its saucer, causing a small amount of liquid to splosh on her gown. Miss Bluford instantly produced a handkerchief and came to her mistress’s aid, while the lady, ignoring her companion, said, “I am all astonishment!” and cast a sly look at first Beatrice, and then the cleric, who had taken on a look of concern. It was odd, he thought, that both Mr. Mornay and Mrs. Royleforst had found it hard to believe they’d been to Glendover. Could he and Beatrice have found a shortcut to the place? But no, it was a well-worn path. Why was it hard for them to believe they might have walked the mile or so to the cottage? And what was Beatrice about, anyway?

  Before anything more could be said, Mrs. Forsythe came into the drawing room and just stood, looking at everyone for a moment. She had already been apprised of her daughter’s safe return, and she would certainly discover every last detail regarding the event—later. For the moment, she surmised from Beatrice’s calm visage and manner, that the gentleman had indeed acted a gentleman throughout the ordeal.

  Then, looking at Mrs. Royleforst, she said, “I gave my express leave for Mr. O’Brien to accompany my daughter, ma’am. He is an old family friend, and we trust him implicitly.”

  Mr. Barton’s eyes narrowed; he did not like to hear praise of his competition. Mr. O’Brien, meanwhile, could almost have stood a little taller. He was grateful for those kind words. And Beatrice breathed a sigh of relief.

  Mrs. Forsythe turned to the whole room. “There is a sick child on the estate; her mother was quite distraught. I beg each of you to think of her when you say your prayers this night.” Mrs. Forsythe had already located a flustered Frederick, who had just returned from searching for the missing couple, as he had heard the shot. He now had to send for the doctor apace, and see that he went directly to the Taller cottage. (Mr. Frederick was not used to such excitement. A multitude of guests always did upset the apple cart, he reflected…)

  Mrs. Forsythe came into the room and sat down. She took a breath, then stood and pulled the bellpull. “A cup of China tea,” she said, when a maid appeared.

  Mrs. Royleforst thought she had given this interruption enough time. “Well, I can allow that you had permission, but now you must relate your adventure in full,” she said, putting her eyes upon Beatrice.

  Oh, no! But Mr. Barton now came to the rescue. With a pointed look at Mr. O’Brien, he said, “Allow me, ma’am. We were all concerned for the safety of our friends because of the cold, and when the other gentlemen rode out to search for Miss Forsythe (he did not mention the curate), my sister and I arrived just after. I knew immediately that I must do my part, of course. I found a horse, and went searching for them, and I was fortunate enough to be the man to find the wayward couple,” he finished playfully. “Mr. O’Brien was good enough to give Miss Forsythe a hand up, and I was able to take her back to safety.”

  While Mrs. Royleforst nodded, listening, he added, again with a look at O’Brien: “There was no question of impropriety, you see, unless you wish to think that two people, dressed to the nines in coats and gloves and scarves can be very much improper with each other.”

  “Oh, sir!” Mrs. Forsythe said, for she knew nothing of the cottage. “Of course there is no question of impropriety! Upon my word!”

  Mr. O’Brien was understanding enough to comprehend that Beatrice wished to keep the full extent of the event under wraps; and, since he saw no harm in doing so at present, said nothing to contradict Mr. Barton’s account. But he was curious to know exactly what was afoot with Beatrice and Barton. Besides which, if he was questioned by Mr. Mornay, he would tell the entire truth.

  Beatrice said, “Exactly so. We merely walked to the parsonage. We followed a pathway that was so well worn we simply had to know what lay at its end!” Beatrice smiled at the memory.

  Mrs. Royleforst, who knew the estate, raised her eyebrows above both of her little black eyes. “You’re certain it was the parsonage! Glendover!” Her tone was infused with disbelief.

  “Yes, ma’am, and we were charmed, you must know, by its quaint air and lovely prospect.”

  “Quaint air?” She seemed more surprised than ever.

  Mr. O’Brien decided to do his part in the telling. “The worst of it was that Miss Forsythe’s feet began to suffer the cold. I would think you should keep close by the fire,” he said even now, turning to her. She gazed at him apprehensively. He appeared to be keeping their secret. But all eyes were upon her, so she looked around in surprise and exclaimed, “I am fully recovered, I assure you!”

  Mr. O’Brien cleared his throat and Beatrice watched him cautiously. He was going to require an explanation, that much she could tell. So be it. As she thought what to say to him, the door to the room burst open again, only this time it was Mr. Mornay. The look upon his face had the effect of silencing even the thoughts of each member inside it.

  Mr. Mornay stood for a moment, surveying them all. He still wore his full outdoor costume except for his hat. But the fact that he had on his overcoat and gloves, and his face, ruddy from the cold, made them all aware, even before he spoke, that he had something of moment to impart.

  “The sickness upon the estate is the fever,” he said.

  There was a collective gasp. Miss Barton’s hands circled her middle. Beatrice just stared, blinking. Mr. Mornay wore an odd, disquieting look. In a low voice, Mrs. Forsythe asked, “What is it, Phillip?” She knew there was more, something more that kept him standing in the doorway, with that odd, eerie look about him. She dreaded to hear him say that the girl had died. When he hesitated, she said, “I had your butler send for Mr. Speckman, who is to go to the cottage directly.”

  “He must stop here first and see Ariana.”

  Now the whole room went deathly quiet. Mrs. Royleforst found her voice first. “Why should he see Ariana?” It was a statement of dread more than a question. He looked at his aunt.

  “The child’s mother also has the fever, and she had contact with my wife. We will have to wait and see if she has contracted the illness. In the meantime, pray for her. And for all our tenants.” He bowed slightly, and said, “I beg your pardon; I must see to Ariana.”

  “I don’t understand, sir,” Mr. Barton said hurriedly, stopping him before he could go. “How did your wife become exposed?” Mr. Mornay thought for a moment, and his eyes fell on Ariana’s mother. “Mrs. Forsythe will explain,” he said. She nodded her head in obedience, and he left the room.

  The adventure of Beatrice and Mr. O’Brien was now wholly forgotten, as each occupant of the room digested this disturbing announcement.

  “I daresay we should all avoid any contact with the villagers, and certainly the tenants of this property,” said Mrs. Royleforst. The others were mute, but no one disagreed.

  Mrs. Forsythe said, in a quiet, grave tone, “We were out walking, hoping to come upon Beatrice and Mr. O’Brien.” (Beatrice covered her mouth with her hand. Could it be that her sister was exposed to a disease on her account? What a dreadful thought!) “We saw Mrs. Taller hurrying toward us, and as she got nearer, we could hear that she was calling for Ariana, for Mrs. Mornay.” She stopped to glance at her listeners, and saw that she had the attention of everyone in the room. Staring ahead then, as if at nothing, she said, “When Ariana reached her, the lady threw herself upon her,
sobbing so that you’d think someone must have—” but the next word was not uttered.

  Exclamations of concern were made by Miss Barton and Mrs. Royleforst; Beatrice’s face was wrinkled in concern, and she stared down at her lap, ready to cry.

  The story continued to unfold. “Neither of us thought of any illness; and she was so distraught, poor woman, that it took some time to make her errand known! She told us of her daughter’s condition, and begged for Ariana—Mrs. Mornay, that is—to come home with her and pray for the child. I believe her name is MaryAnn.”

  Mr. O’Brien could not help himself. “She did not accompany her?”

  Mrs. Forsythe met his eyes. “No, sir. She started to, but I reminded her of the children. Little Miranda is most at risk, as I’m sure you’ll all agree.”

  “Oh, yes!” Miss Barton spoke most feelingly, and her face had registered the horror of the idea of the little infant contracting the illness.

  “My word!” Mrs. Royleforst said, taking a heavy breath and expelling it in a deep sigh.

  Miss Bluford crossed herself. Although she was a Protestant, it seemed like the moment for such a thing.

  Mrs. Forsythe picked up her story: “I left for the house, to send for Mr. Speckman, but I looked back once and saw that lady throwing herself upon Ariana’s mercy; and I mean, clinging to her legs and dress!”

  Again there were sighs and murmurs from the room.

  Mr. O’Brien said, “Where is Mrs. Mornay now?”

  Mrs. Royleforst replied, “I am sure she has gone to change her clothing; it must be washed or discarded, directly!”

  Mrs. Forsythe came to her feet. “I must confess—” she paused and seemed at a loss for a moment. “I have lost my appetite for company.” She looked regretfully at the Bartons, and then Mr. O’Brien. “I beg your pardon; I pray you will excuse me,” she said, and with an air of suppressed grief, strode from the room. The men jumped to their feet in order to bow her off, both with eyes of concern. Her leaving in such a state, even more than her story, served to inform the others of the level of distress she felt.

  “Poor woman,” murmured Mrs. Royleforst. “We must all hope for the best.”

  “Dear, me,” said Beatrice, now sitting at the edge of her seat. She looked at Mr. O’Brien. “What do you think? Is this all my fault? Ariana was out walking on my account!” She looked so pretty and yet so distressed at the same time, he thought. But his heart swelled because she had looked to him for succor, not Mr. Barton. He quickly got up and went over by her.

  “Mrs. Mornay knew that others were already in search of us. And, even if our absence was the reason for her excursion,” he said, gently, “you cannot take the blame upon yourself. I am the gentleman, and older than you, and certainly more at fault for allowing us to remain at large for so long a period. I should have anticipated the anxiety which would be felt at your absence.”

  “You, Miss Forsythe, are certainly not to blame!” Mr. Barton was determined to offer her comfort as well. “The only person at fault is that deuced woman, Mrs. Taller!”

  “Tristan!” said his sister. “You are not at one of your gentlemen’s clubs, to say such things. You are in the presence of ladies, sir!”

  “I beg your pardon,” he allowed, with an impatient air. “But she had the gall to approach her mistress while being sick! To throw herself upon her betters! ’Tis unconscionable!” These words went unchallenged, as no doubt the others in the room felt similarly. But when he quietly added, “She ought to be brought to the magistrate—if she doesn’t die, first!” Beatrice gasped.

  “Barton!” His sister looked at him, appalled. “How can you be so unfeeling! When Miss Forsythe is already quite upset at the whole business?” No one bothered to mention that Mr. Mornay was the acting magistrate in the district—it was neither here nor there.

  Mr. O’Brien sent a quelling glance at Mr. Barton, and looked back to Miss Forsythe with concern. Beatrice had a suddenly dry throat. She came to her feet abruptly, and with a mere, “I beg your pardon!” rushed from the room too quickly for either man to even stand up. Mr. Barton was not happy with the result of his speech, and after a moment’s hesitation, while he knew himself at fault, but did not know what to do about it, he finally said, “Excuse me!” and went in pursuit of her.

  Mr. O’Brien considered whether to dash after him. Was Mr. Barton trustworthy? He was thoughtless, that much he knew. Would he make Beatrice feel worse? As if reading his mind, Miss Barton said, “He means no harm, you know. Tristan just doesn’t seem to…anticipate the effect of his words upon others.”

  “Well, that is a deep failing, I daresay,” said Mrs. Royleforst. “If a man cannot speak but what is injurious to others, he shall all his lifetime be rushing after people to apologize! He must learn to control his tongue!”

  Mr. O’Brien glanced at the empty seat, and then at the doorway. He was itching to follow after Barton. That man would no doubt catch Miss Forsythe off alone somewhere. That did it—with that thought he was on his feet. He met the eyes of Mrs. Royleforst, who nodded at him, as though she knew precisely what he had on his mind. It gave wings to the thought, and he was instantly heading after them.

  “Miss Forsythe! Please wait! I beg you.” Barton’s voice stopped her in the corridor, where she was hurrying toward her bedchamber, but she halted, trying to compose herself. She was already tear-streaked, but she raised her skirt to wipe her eyes, and waited for him to reach her, though she did not relish the meeting.

  “I am an oaf, a cad, and an addlepate!” he said when he came up to her. “I am here to allow you the opportunity to tell me so, yourself, my dear Miss Forsythe. I am at your service and your command. Tell me to go and drown myself, and I will; I avow it; I will do it!”

  At that, she had to glance at him through her wet lashes, and smile just a little.

  “You do not deserve to drown,” she had to admit.

  “What then? Only say what my punishment shall be, and it is done! I am at your mercy, Miss Forsythe.” When she said nothing, he added, watching her closely, “And I must say, there is not another living creature whose mercy I should prefer to cast myself upon.”

  She looked away quickly, as this sort of flirtatious statement was not something she was accustomed to hearing. A blush crept into her cheeks, but she was intrigued and delighted by the pretty words.

  Mr. Barton saw his chance. If he was to marry into this family, then Beatrice must become his wife; so he added, “I should, in fact, be quite curious to know if I may cast my future upon your mercy, as well.”

  This was just cryptic enough to make her eye him curiously. His future? What could he mean? It couldn’t be—but no, that was absurd. They’d only met days earlier.

  “I wish very much to pay my addresses to you, Miss Forsythe…Beatrice. If I might be so bold?” He had inched closer, and his voice went down a tone. He wanted to make sure she understood his intentions.

  Beatrice was utterly amazed—did men usually declare their intentions so quickly after forming a new acquaintance? She was not displeased. Yet, she felt suddenly cautious. Mr. Barton was an entertaining fellow, dashing in appearance, amusing and agreeable. He had to be in possession of a good fortune, for he was keeping company with the Mornays, he dressed fashionably, and he could buy the Manor House if he pleased. He also lived in London. She thought of all these things in swift succession, and then slowly said, “Yes?”

  With a surge of elation—she was not averse to him!—he instantly bent his head and landed an unexpected kiss upon her lips. It lasted only a second; and he seemed quite as surprised as did Beatrice by it. But she said, rather wide-eyed, “You must speak to Mr. Mornay! Or my mother!”

  And then she saw that Mr. O’Brien was only a foot or so away, and she gasped in surprise. He had not meant to sneak up on them, but the corridor was lined with carpets, keeping his footsteps quiet. Her eyes opened wide in surprise, and she turned on her heel, mortified, and now blushing furiously. She fled quickly away, making
Mr. Barton call after her, “I beg your pardon, Miss Forsythe!”

  She was so flustered she almost forgot about Ariana. Knowing that Mr. O’Brien, who had been so pleasant and gentle that morning and rescued her freezing feet, had seen that kiss—oh! Her heart filled with frustration. It was too unfair! She hadn’t meant to allow Mr. Barton to kiss her! This day was indeed a day of disaster! When she reached her bedchamber (after opening the doors of two others, which were not hers), she fell upon her bed and shed a few tears.

  Had Mr. Barton really meant that he wished to marry her? How could he? They barely knew each other! And yet, what Mr. O’Brien had seen! Could she ever forget it? Only, when she remembered it very carefully, she had to confess that it had not been unpleasant. (She’d been kissed!) But she ought not to be happy about that! It was not proper to allow a gentleman to kiss her.

  To think that Mr. Barton had been forming serious thoughts of courting her! How astonishing!

  She remembered suddenly her words to Ariana that she was determined not to even consider a man until she had gone to London for a Season. And now here she was with thoughts of not one, but two gentlemen—both turning her head. Was not Mr. Barton just the sort of man she had envisioned meeting in London? And then she thought about Mr. O’Brien. He was not at all the sort of man she dreamed of meeting or marrying. But the thought of his feelings being injured by her was oppressive.

  The first order of business, she decided, would be to inform Mr. O’Brien of Mr. Barton’s honourable intentions. When he understood that, she was sure he would judge her less harshly. He was possibly the most understanding gentleman of her acquaintance. She found her prayer book, and opened it, but ended up with dark musings for some minutes while she lay there upon her bed in her walking-out dress.

  Her thoughts fell upon her sister, and her sense of misgiving returned forcefully. But Ariana was not actually sick. They had no reason to believe that she would definitely get the fever. Only time would tell. She looked over the leaves of her book, and settled down to turn her thoughts toward God. I will concentrate on this collect! And I will pray for Ariana and her tenants. And for Mr. O’Brien and Mr. Barton!