Seventeen
Mr. Mornay saw to it that Mr. Speckman examined his wife before going to the Taller cottage. His news was not encouraging. He ordered a hot bath, instructed her husband to see that the clothing she’d worn was discarded or, better yet, burned (he wouldn’t normally go to such lengths, but he knew Mornay could afford it, and better safe than sorry). The London fever, he said, did not seem to spare its newest victims a long wait; if they were exposed and had caught it, it needed only two to five days to reveal itself. In the meantime, Mrs. Mornay’s children must be sent from the house; in fact, he recommended complete separation for her from all members of the family.
“Two to five days! Not to see the children? It’s not possible, sir! That won’t answer, I assure you!” Ariana was trying not to collapse into tears in front of the man.
The doctor took a heavy breath, and looked to the husband. “It is necessary, I am afraid, if you would ensure the safety of your offspring.”
She started crying then, and Mr. Mornay went to put his hands upon her shoulders, for she was sitting upon a sofa in their bedchamber, while the men were standing. But the doctor said, “Sir, you, too, must stay wide of your wife. For the time being. It won’t be for long.”
Mr. Mornay looked at Mr. Speckman, and then slowly, deliberately, put his arms about his wife, even dropping to sit at her side. She turned to him at once and fell against him, sobbing softly. Mr. Speckman’s mouth pressed into a frown, and he sighed again. “As you wish, sir. But be sure your house is in order.” He turned to leave, closing up his leather satchel. He hesitated, and turned around once, and Mr. Mornay looked at him expectantly.
“You will have to stay apart from your children, now, as well, sir.” Mr. Mornay took a deep breath, which he seemed to need of a sudden, and nodded. Ariana, hearing that, popped her head up.
“Leave me, then, but do not abandon the children! They have already lost their mother! You cannot be gone from them as well!” The doctor was looking on, unhappily. But he said, “Ma’am; if I may? Children are resilient and they will soon forget this episode. I daresay it will be harder for yourselves than for them. I pray you think only of what is best for them—in the long term—and keep both of you apart from them until I have examined you in six days’ time—”
“Six days? Did you not say five days, earlier?”
“I am in mind of your youngest child, ma’am. At such a young age, babies are subject to very violent illness if exposed; I daresay we must take every precaution.” He turned again to leave. “If in that expanse of days you are still well, the ban is lifted; you are free to smother your children with affection.”
She fell once more against her husband’s shoulder, and he circled her with his arms, and kissed the top of her head. “It will go quickly; all will be well, I expect.”
Ariana pushed him away and sat up. “The baby! I am Miranda’s nourishment! We must send to the village at once for a wet nurse!” She tried not to even think of the discomfort she would have to endure at the sudden cessation of suckling her child. It was said that an application of ice, a few times a day, for a few days, would teach her body to stop producing mother’s milk. She despaired that she was going to need to test the theory. More tears began to spill from her eyes on that account, until her husband said, “Stay here and rest; I’ll see that we find a wet nurse; and I think I must send our guests on their way.”
“Do you have guests, sir?” the doctor asked. “In that case, they must all be sent away too! I am sorry to say it, but we can never be too careful in these cases.”
Mr. Speckman followed Mr. Mornay to the drawing room, where still the guests were congregating save Beatrice and Mrs. Forsythe. Servants were sent to fetch them, while Mr. Mornay entered the room and introduced the physician.
“How does Mrs. Mornay?”
“Is she ill, sir?”
“Is it the fever, sir?”
To this onslaught of questions made in chorus, Mr. Mornay held up one hand. “If you please.” With the ensuing silence he looked about and said, “Mr. Speckman has something to speak of, and I will return to you shortly; I pray you, hear him out.”
Mr. Speckman cleared his throat, and his eyes settled on Mrs. Royleforst. “May I inquire as to the nature of your business at Aspindon? Are you staying long?”
“I am a relation of the family. We have been here these past two weeks, and mean to stay for another month or more.” Mr. Speckman nodded and then looked to Mr. Barton.
“My sister and I are neighbours,” he supplied.
“Are you the man who has let the Manor House?”
“The very one, sir.” He nodded his head at the man in acknowledgment.
Mr. Speckman then turned to Mr. O’Brien, who, guessing his intent, instantly offered, “I am the new curate for Warwickdon, sir.”
“The new curate, eh?” He looked interested. “I am happy to make your acquaintance, sir.” But he frowned, looking around. Mrs. Forsythe appeared in the doorway, behind him. She had been listening and now waited to see what else would happen.
“It is my medical opinion,” said the doctor, “that each of you must fly from this house at your soonest convenience! There is no saying how much distance is required from one who is ill; we simply do not know. However, if you remove from the house, I think I may safely say that you will not contract an illness from under its roof, if it is to appear.”
“Does Mrs. Mornay have an illness, then, sir?”
Mr. Speckman turned in surprise since the question had come from the concerned mother, who was still standing in the doorway, behind him.
“And who might you be, madam?”
“I am Mrs. Mornay’s mother.”
He blanched, but said, “Well, there is no way of telling, until the time for the sickness to appear has passed. But in the meantime, if she is harboring the illness, you are all at risk, every moment you spend here.”
“Upon my word!” Mrs. Royleforst cried.
“What of the children and Mr. Mornay?” Mrs. Forsythe’s face was clearly distressed.
“The children must leave this abode as well. Mr. Mornay chooses to stay with his wife.”
“I should rather stay with her!” cried the mother.
“It is too late for that,” said another voice, and Mr. Mornay appeared. He kept back, and added, “Please go into the room, and give me a clear path so that I may speak to you all at some distance.”
Mrs. Forsythe eyed him sadly, but did as he bade. Mr. O’Brien quickly moved from his chair and crossed the room, as did Miss Bluford after seeing his example, so that now all the guests were assembled on one side of the room. Mr. Mornay delicately stepped inside, and quickly went to the opposite end of the room, where he turned to face them.
“I regret to say that Mr. Speckman’s advice must be followed. I will put up every one of you who needs a room at the nearest inn, or any place of your choosing. I put my children into your care,” he said to Mrs. Forsythe, “only I ask that you keep them here in Middlesex if at all possible. I have already sent servants to seek out a wet nurse for the baby.” He paused, thinking. Everyone’s face was grave, indeed.
He said, “Where is Miss Forsythe?”
“I believe she retired to her chamber,” said Mr. Barton softly.
Mr. Mornay fell silent a minute longer, but then added, “I apologize for your inconvenience,” but everyone stopped him with great objections, saying how sorry they all were for this threat of sickness.
“If, in five or six days Ariana has not taken ill, you are safe to return, and I must say, very welcome to do so. In fact, it would bring my wife great pleasure if you did.”
“Of course!” Mrs. Forsythe said bracingly, hoping she was speaking for everyone in the room. They were all quick to agree.
“Phillip,” she added, “she is my daughter; I have tended to her illnesses in the past, and I daresay it is I should stay with her, not you.”
“I have already had a deal of contact with her,”
he said, shaking his head. “There is no reason to put you, or anyone else, at risk.”
“But think of the children, sir! They will need their father!”
Mr. Speckman said, “Mr. Mornay is right, ma’am; he must keep clear of them.”
“Sir,” she said to the physician, “will you check on them daily? And give us your findings?”
He hesitated, but said, “Certainly, ma’am. Just tell me where you are stopping, and I will send word.”
“Where are we stopping, indeed?” she asked to the room in general. Miss Barton looked questioningly to her brother, as if to ask, “Shall we invite them to the Manor?” But he shook his head in the negative, almost imperceptibly; she saw it and remained silent. Her face was troubled, however. She felt ashamed to have a house with empty bedchambers, but not to offer them now.
Mrs. Forsythe had not seen the exchange, and she said, timidly, “Mr. Barton, would it be too great an imposition, sir, to ask if you might have room for us for the few days we must wait? Is it possible, sir, if you will forgive my boldness in asking? I am desperate to remain in the neighbourhood, you see.”
Mr. Barton opened his mouth to reply, but for a moment he knew not what to say. Finally, he said, “We lack the servants for so many.”
“I can send you servants aplenty,” said Mr. Mornay.
“But we lack the room for so many,” he added, looking around.
“I do not need a room,” said Mr. O’Brien. “I must to London to gather my belongings, and then I shall be settling in at Warwickdon.”
“I can return to London as well,” put in Mrs. Royleforst, reluctantly. She really had no wish to leave the little ones in the sole care of their grandmama, as she delighted in being part of the family. What an advantage it would give Mrs. Forsythe now! The children would learn to adore their grandmama, and forget all about their Auntie Royleforst!
Mr. Barton saw that he was quickly being backed into a corner—but he had a sudden thought. “Sir—if I may speak to you privately?” He had addressed Mr. Mornay, who nodded, then said to the others, “Begin to pack what you’ll need; best to take all, I suppose. We’ll iron out where you shall go, in the meantime. Except you, Mrs. Forsythe, if I may have a word with you?”
“Certainly, sir!”
“Mr. Barton, I need a moment with my relation, if you please, and I’ll speak to you directly.”
“Of course,” he said, with a slight bow, and left the room with the others.
Mrs. Forsythe turned to her son-in-law expectantly.
“Have you ascertained yet, what kept your daughter and Mr. O’Brien so long from the house earlier?”
“I have most of the story, I believe.” When he waited, she began, “They appear to have walked to your Glendover.”
“I cannot credit that; it is nigh two miles.”
“Beatrice’s feet suffered frostbite, so I think we can safely believe it, sir.”
The door opened suddenly just then, and Beatrice rushed into the room. Her face was evidence that she had already been given the news that they would have to abandon the house.
Mrs. Forsythe held an arm open to her, so that Beatrice rushed to her side. “Oh, Mama! I am to blame for this! If Ariana had not gone looking for me!”
“What happened between you and Mr. O’Brien?” Mr. Mornay asked directly.
Beatrice stared at her brother-in-law. “Between—?” Her face was all astonishment. “Nothing, sir!”
“No? Mr. O’Brien tells me you entered the parsonage, and that it was empty of anyone save yourselves.” Her heart sank. So he already knew about it.
“Yes, that is true. He made a fire so that I could warm myself,” she said, “He knew exactly how to help me. And that is all he did.” She met his eyes with her own. She was subdued and felt defeated, but she knew there had been no impropriety. Every touch of his had been like that of a physician. (Saving for when he had to pull her back from leaving; but that was nothing!) In fact, the thought of what happened, now that her feet no longer hurt, was rather pleasant. He’d been brisk and yet gentle, and so natural and calm that Beatrice had never even thought of feeling embarrassed until afterward, though the idea that he had taken her feet in his hands did, at this moment, seem rather scandalous.
“I trusted him like an older brother, sir, and he behaved no differently than one.”
Mr. Mornay looked at her evenly. “You have no older brother to judge by.”
“Yes, sir, I have you.”
Did she see a sparkle of humour in his eye? “I assure you, there was no question of impropriety. I daresay, I thought nothing of it, perhaps on account of the pain in my feet! He only did what was necessary.” Her eyes were wide with sincerity. “Why do you question it, sir?”
“The two of you were gone for more than two hours. Alone. Unchaperoned. It is my duty to question it.”
She breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, if that is all, now you know nothing occurred—”
“I would hardly call that nothing,” he replied.
Mrs. Forsythe was frowning. “I encouraged them to go,” she said.
“Not to Glendover,” he replied. “Certainly not to be inside a dwelling alone.”
“I understand how it looks,” Beatrice’s face was growing worried, “but you have my word on it, that nothing improper occurred.” She looked at her mother. “You believe me, do you not, Mama?”
“I do, but it does not signify. What matters is what others must think. What the Bartons will think—” Actually, a small flame of hope burst forth in Mrs. Forsythe’s breast. Might this not be the very thing she desired? A matter to ensure that her Beatrice must wed the curate? Ought she to say something regarding the settling of Glendover? But not at this time, no.
“No one but Mr. Barton knows we were in the dwelling,” Beatrice said, with passion, “and he is the last person who will wish to make it known—” She stopped abruptly.
“Why is that?” Mornay asked.
She blushed, but spoke quickly. “Mr. Barton wishes to pay his addresses to me. He told me last night; I assured him he must speak to you, or to you, Mama.”
“He wishes to pay his addresses?” This was a surprise. Here he had been ready to put his family into the care of the Bartons at their estate, but now this changed his mind. He said, “Let me speak to your mother.”
She curtsied. “Yes, sir.” But she hesitated. “You are not disposed against Mr. Barton for any reason in particular, are you, sir?”
“I am disposed to doing the thing that is proper, whether it involves a Mr. Barton or not.”
Her mother said, “You are not disposed against Mr. O’Brien for any reason in particular, are you, Beatrice?”
She was silent a moment, and she frowned. “I like him very well. Only I do not wish to marry him.”
Mr. Mornay could not help it and replied, “Do not take long walks with a gentleman you do not wish to marry!”
She frowned again, bobbed a curtsey, and left.
Mornay turned to Mrs. Forsythe. “Beatrice should be sent home until I have had a chance to sort through this muddle. I was hoping all my guests might stay at the Manor, but under the circumstances, I think it best to keep more space between your daughter and Mr. Barton. Unfortunately, the same thing holds true concerning Mr. O’Brien.”
Mrs. Forsythe cleared her throat, making him eye her curiously. “I am not averse to having more of an acquaintance develop between my daughter and the curate, sir.”
He raised his brows. “Indeed!” After an ensuing moment of silence he said, “Well, she is your daughter; I will leave her in your hands. Only, pray be careful. Another hint of scandal between them and they must get a license! Is that agreed?”
“Agreed.” She met his eyes sadly. “I will be thinking of Ariana every moment of every day. And yourself.”
“Take good care of my children, and I am content.”
“We shall! Oh, you know we shall!”
Brighton Pavilion
“Your
Royal Highness?”
“Yes, take a letter for me, quickly, man.” The Prince Regent winced, while his physician continued to poke and prod, but at least the bloodletting was done. For today.
“Busy today, Your Royal Highness,” said the physician, Mr. Watson. “Dictating a letter while your physician examines you!”
“Nothing of national importance, Watson,” he replied dryly. “Have a care there, sir!”
“I need to know if the swelling in your ankles is grown worse, Your Royal Highness.”
The secretary waited patiently, and suddenly the Regent spotted him. “And stop distracting me from my purpose! I want this dashed business over with, directly!” He looked at his secretary. “Yes, well, ‘To Mr. Tristan Barton’ (you’ll find his direction in your records; he’s in Middlesex, near Aspindon House). Where was I? Oh, yes; ‘What’s the news, Barton? When can I tell the Lord Chancellor to summon Mornay for the presentation of the title, eh? If there’s to be another dashed postponement of the business, I want the reason for it!’” When the man still waited, the Regent added, sounding annoyed, “That’s all, man! Get it sent!”
He was never in good spirits if he needed his physicians, and he had needed them this day for numerous complaints. Since the unhappy passing of his only child, Princess Charlotte, the year earlier, the Regent’s health was rarely stable. Despite a great deal of bad press regarding him as a father, her passing had been like an arrow piercing his heart. It was lodged there, still, and forever would be, he thought. Some of the pain of the arrow was indeed the hollow ache of regrets, memories of disputes he had had with her; scenes of keeping her from her mother, Princess Caroline, for fear of that lady’s ill-advised influence upon his daughter. But had it been his wish really to protect the girl from her mother? Or just the power of spleen, revenging himself upon his estranged wife by separating her from her only child? It all seemed quite, quite empty of reason, now; all it had served to do was cause unhappiness for Charlotte; and now she was gone, and he could never make it up to her.
The Country House Courtship Page 20
