With this sorrow upon him, every annoyance of state, every governmental duty was more tiresome than the last. At least if he got Mornay in the House of Lords, it would put another vote in his favour; he had no energy to influence the Lords, no energy for most things, in fact. Except when he was at table; yet his epicurean delights on that head were catching up with him more than ever. Hence the deuced need for frequent bloodletting, and attacks of the gout, and his accursed digestive difficulties, not to mention the ever-widening girth which the press loved to attack him for!
He no longer cared what the other Lords would make of it; he wanted Phillip Mornay’s vote in the House, by Jove, and he wanted the business done with. He was willing to create a new title—the College of Heralds had already sent Mornay a list of possible usages, and he had only to approve one. They’d studied the Mornay family tree as far back as they could go to create their list of names.
Meanwhile, the Regent’s letter was written up properly, transposed for palace records, and stamped with the prince’s seal. It went by special messenger to Middlesex.
Tristan Barton was granted a reprieve, which he met with secret rejoicing. When Mr. Mornay had emerged from his discussion with Mrs. Forsythe, he quelled the possibility of their housing any of his guests at the Manor, using as his reason a desire to keep his relations beneath one roof, if possible. The Manor was not large enough for all of them. Barton breathed a sigh of relief. Then, when he finally had Mr. Mornay to himself, he saw the opportunity as one in which to ply the man further on the business for the prince.
“Mr. Mornay, as you know, my sister and I descended upon this neighbourhood rather suddenly, would you not agree?”
“I’ll grant that.”
“I wanted to come clean to you, sir.”
Mr. Mornay raised his eyebrows.
“Yes?” He little wanted a long conversation at the present time, but this was an offer too intriguing not to pursue. What did Mr. Barton have to come clean for?
“I came to this neighbourhood solely on your account; to speak to you on behalf of the prince.” When Mr. Mornay only made the slightest response, pressing his lips together with a look of mild disgust, he added, “Does that not astonish you?”
“You are not his first emissary, Barton, and shall likely not be the last. I suspected you might have been, actually. What does he want this time?”
Mr. Barton felt his trump card had just been snatched from his hand, but continued, “Well, sir, I shan’t beat around the bush; he wants you to accept the honour of the title, and to take your seat in the Lords, with all haste.”
Mr. Mornay waved his hand dismissively. “I know that; I have no time for that, now. You may tell him I’ll speak with him when next I’m in town.”
Mr. Barton eyed him regretfully. “I do hope, Mr. Mornay, that you will give me leave to speak of this again to you when your wife is recovered.”
“My wife is not ill,” he returned, softly. Was he trying to remind Mr. Barton, or himself, of that fact?
“There is one other matter, if I may be so bold.”
Mr. Mornay looked at him knowingly. “My sister-in-law.”
Mr. Barton’s brows drew together in surprise. “You knew?” He was astonished, because it seemed impossible to him that Mr. Mornay could have construed his feelings regarding Beatrice when he had only so recently determined them himself! How on earth did Mornay surmise them?
“I do, now,” he said.
Mr. Barton did not know what to think. Was Mr. Mornay telling him he had known before, or that he had suspected such, and that he, Mr. Barton, had only now affirmed it? Dashed if this man wasn’t some sort of mystic! No wonder the prince wanted him in his party.
“Your acquaintance with her is too short for us to discuss anything on this point,” Mornay said. “And, I must tell you, her future may already be settled.”
Mr. Barton blinked at him. “Are you telling me, sir, that she is betrothed?”
“Not exactly; no.”
Mr. Barton was still perplexed, but his brows cleared at this response. He had a new thought. “Is there a reason for which I would not wish to align my name with Miss Forsythe’s? Is that what you allude to?”
Mr. Mornay took a breath. “How could that be the case, sir, when my name is linked to her family’s?” Before Mr. Barton could respond, he added, “However, if a small dowry is reason enough for you to avoid an alliance, then you should reconsider. Otherwise, I merely think you are too hasty in your thoughts, and I have reason to believe there may be a prior complication.”
“A prior complication?” He stared at the man.
As if reading his thoughts, Mornay added, “Nothing to cast doubt upon her character, I assure you.”
His brows cleared. “You are referring to the incident this morning with O’Brien. I am prepared to accept the word of Miss Forsythe upon that matter.” But that had indeed been his first thought; if Miss Forsythe was in any way connected to a scandal, it would make her less of a prize; yet that in itself might not affect his hopes. In fact, it might seal his standing with Mornay, who could be grateful to the man who would take her, despite this past “complication.” He gazed evenly at his neighbour.
“May I take it then, sir, that you have no objection to me as a suitor, if this…complication can be resolved to your satisfaction?” This was the least he needed to know, but it was something.
“I have made no declaration to the contrary.” Mornay’s voice was mild, as well as his eyes. “I am not averse to you, if that’s what you mean; and it does well for you that you volunteered the information regarding your purposes here. I shan’t forget that.”
Dash it, but the gentleman was wary. No outright denial, nor an outright endorsement. Slippery as an eel. “May I speak to Miss Forsythe, then, regarding my hopes?”
“I understood you had already done so,” he replied dryly.
Ah! Now he knew what was what. Beatrice had told him—he liked that; it meant she would no doubt welcome him as a suitor. “But do keep in mind, sir,” (and his words were spoken deliberately and slowly) “that I have spoken to you, and have hopes of her. And that if there is any concern regarding her morning’s adventure with the clergyman, I am fully prepared to ignore it entirely.” He smiled wryly, and Mr. Mornay met his eyes with an appraising, thoughtful look.
“I shall.”
Barton considered his position. He’d have to work on Beatrice, to be sure. She had seemed pleasantly surprised at his interest in her. Now, he only needed to strengthen it, so that the thing would be done. He also needed to ascertain that the “complication” was nothing other than the matter of their being unchaperoned in the cottage. That was enough of a problem to be sure. If it got out, his hopes could be dashed. He’d have to think upon the situation, devise some scheme to protect his interests. But first, he needed to get himself and his sister out of Aspindon House. It was devilish contaminated!
Eighteen
Mr. Frederick knocked hesitantly upon Mr. Mornay’s study door. He then entered and shut it behind him.
“The Black Boar has been consulted, sir; they have one room available, only. The innkeeper expects that he may have two rooms on the morrow, and wishes to know if you will be laying a desposit on them.”
“Two rooms! Hardly enough for four women and two children, plus servants and nurse.” He stood up from behind his desk, saying, “Perhaps I’ll have to take Ariana to another property, and let the others have this house.” He was thinking aloud, which meant that if Frederick desired to say something of the matter, he might properly do so.
“What about Glendover, sir? Without a vicar in it, there’s no reason why the women could not stay there. Plenty of room.”
“I’ll have to see if that’s permissible,” Mornay said, rubbing his chin. The house of worship was on his land, and he held the advowson, but it properly belonged to the bishop of the Anglican Church. He looked appreciatively at his butler. “Well done, Freddy! You may have saved the day
. Get a boy to run me a message to the Ordinary. He ought to know.”
“Yes, sir.” Freddy was elated to have been of help, and, despite the worrisome events causing this mass exodus of the guests, he was ready to go off to accomplish his master’s bidding with a spring in his step—almost. “There is one thing more, sir.”
When he saw the dark brow go up in expectation, he said, “I wish to be certain you understand that Fotch and I will remain in the house with you and Mrs. Mornay. In addition, one housemaid, and Cook (so long as she is required only to stay in the kitchens), will remain. I’m afraid Monsieur René is packing his things as we speak; but he will inquire next week to ascertain if it is safe for him to return.
Monsieur René was an expensive French chef whom Mr. Mornay kept on because he had a discriminating and fussy palate. The Frenchman, in turn, was discriminating and fussy regarding the use of ingredients, and was often requiring trips to London to restock his pantry. But since his culinary creations were precisely of the caliber that Mr. Mornay most enjoyed, his eccentricities were appreciated rather than found chafing.
“That seems in keeping with René, to be sure. Tell the other servants who choose to stay that I’ll pay double wages, but I want only those who aren’t afraid; and if anyone is prone to illness, see that they do not stay.” He had another thought. “What of Mrs. Hamilton?”
“Oh, staying sir, I beg your pardon! She is devoted to the mistress, as you know.”
“Of course; and I suppose Molly…?”
“She is the housemaid I referred to earlier, sir. Staying like an oak in the ground.”
Mornay only nodded. It was beginning to feel as though the country had been invaded at last, and they were about to face battle—no matter that the war with the French had ended.
“The footmen have informed me, all save Harry, that they will stay until it is known whether…whether…” He did not want to say the words: Whether Mrs. Mornay has contracted the fever. But Mr. Mornay spared him the need.
“Very good, thank you, Frederick.”
“We must say good-bye to Ariana,” Mrs. Forsythe said, as soon as Mr. Mornay appeared from his study. The servants had been dashing from guest bedchamber to guest bedchamber, helping with packing. Miss Bluford alone took care of her mistress, but still there was a great scurrying about going on. Mrs. Forsythe had not yet packed. She had been on her way to do so when it occurred to her that if her daughter did in fact have the seeds of illness within her, that she might not see her again! Banish the thought! But she could not. Once conceived, it continued to be felt, making its presence known like a little dog at one’s heels, forever nipping… So she had returned to the corridor to find her host and let him know her intentions. It felt so odd, to be always speaking to him across a wide chasm, as he continued to keep his distance on account of his exposure.
“I do not think it advisable,” he said, but the usual authority in his tone was not present. He had to admit that it might be important to his wife—or would it upset her more? Who knew? Who could tell such things! So he said, “Allow me to speak with her, first. Are you packed?”
“Not yet; I did not wish to risk missing you.”
“Please see to that, and I will see what my wife says.”
“Thank you! Do tell her I desire most urgently to see her before I go.”
“But you will be in charge of the children,” he suddenly remembered. “If Ariana must endure the separation from them, and you were to get the illness from her anyway—”
“Oh,” she moaned. “I see your point. I will not see her. Perhaps Beatrice may—” But she looked up and saw his face and realized that Beatrice would be helping with the children too; the same separation must be kept regarding her as her mother, between them and Ariana.
Mrs. Forsythe cleared her throat. She had to try, once more. “Phillip,” she said softly. “I can stay with you. Allow me to stay with my daughter—I am her mother, after all. The two of us can support one another if she falls ill; split the burden of her care. I cannot see you carrying this alone.”
He eyed her a moment, remembered instantly his earlier prayer and replied, with a feeling of hope more than conviction, “I shan’t be.”
Mrs. Forsythe lowered her eyes for a second or two. “You are a father as well as a husband,” she added, in that same soft tone. “If you wear yourself out, you are more likely to fall ill; only think how much worse it will be for the children if—”
“No, ma’am,” he said. He was eyeing his mother-in-law with as grave a face as he had ever been known to wear. But then, in a soft tone, a very soft, sad voice, he whispered, “Do not even think it.”
Just then Mr. Speckman appeared in the corridor, hurrying toward them. The physician’s face was grave, and he merely shook his head sadly to the husband’s inquiring gaze. “Have the children been removed from the premises yet?”
“They’re going now,” Phillip’s voice sounded hollow.
“Good.” Mr. Speckman licked his lips nervously. “And the ladies as well, I presume?”
“We’re just on our way, sir.” Mrs. Forsythe’s voice was also low and inanimate.
“Very good,” he murmured. “Leave the direction of your destination with a servant so I may reach you.” His grave countenance only heightened the sense of dread and fear that Mrs. Forsythe felt in her heart at that moment. “Thank you, sir.”
She went to oversee the packing of her things, while Mr. Mornay checked on his wife. He’d only gone a few steps, however, when he heard, “Mr. Mornay!” It was the voice of Mr. O’Brien, and so he stopped and waited. He could almost welcome the hour when everyone had gone! It was one bother after another.
“I have had a notice from Mr. Hargrove,” he said, excitedly, when he’d come up to him, still holding the missive in one hand. “He is abandoning the house as we speak and wishes me joy of it! The housekeeper and servants are wondering if they should close up the place until I return—or keep it open and ready for my use.
“He asks me to let them know at once, and he even desires me to consider taking up residence as quickly as possible, as he does not like to leave his parishioners without a man to perform the duties of service!”
O’Brien’s shining eyes did little to enlighten the other man’s, for Mornay felt he had much more serious matters to think about than whether or not this cleric was able to begin housekeeping. But he forced himself to be polite.
“I wish you every happiness,” he said, hoping to hide his annoyance. He made to turn around to join his wife; he knew she’d still be upset.
“Do you not see, sir?” O’Brien asked, almost with a grin. “I am able to offer rooms for each of your guests, and they may join me at Warwickdon directly! This very day.”
Mr. Mornay’s eyes lost their annoyance. Since Mr. O’Brien had been formally approved for the curacy, he was in legal possession of the parsonage (or soon would be), and he could invite others to the house. There was no need to bother any local officials over the matter, and his family and children would be safely removed from Aspindon with speed. Additionally—and this mattered in his decision—Mrs. Forsythe actually wished to encourage more contact between Beatrice and the clergyman. It was enough.
“Well done! I am obliged to you.”
“Not at all, sir! I am happy and grateful that I am for once in a position to offer you some help.” As indeed he was. It was truly the first time for such a thing, and the fact that his circumstance was possible only because Mr. Mornay himself had recommended Mr. O’Brien for the curacy was like poetic justice.
The serious nature of the need for lodgings was not lost on Mr. O’Brien, either. He considered Ariana a friend, and he was stricken with concern for her as much as anyone. To his delight, he’d discovered that Ariana Mornay was still the sweet and earnest young woman he remembered. She had acquired no airs, but nevertheless invited admiration by her presence and kindness. Mr. O’Brien held her in a deep admiration himself, but he had no improper thoughts to
plague him regarding her; no old hopes springing up in his breast. He had accepted the marriage, and the ensuing years had served him well in conquering his old feelings for her. It felt deeply satisfying to his manly self that he was finally, in some way, able to be of service, and that it was an important service.
In addition to which, the younger Miss Forsythe was beginning to fill his mind. Bothersomely so. She was very pretty, but he was not yet allowing himself to admire her openly—he must not! Had he not determined never to even think of Beatrice Forsythe as a prospect for marriage? Yes, his past dealings with Ariana were sufficiently quelling to his sensibilities for him to ever aspire to a match with another Forsythe girl. Pity, though.
But he had to live up to his situation: He now saw himself as the friend and neighbour to the Mornays, and the very last thing he should be considering was falling in love with their sister. While the Glendover curacy remained unoccupied, he would encourage them to attend his church, and would endeavour to exercise a clerical attitude toward them, as he would toward anyone in his parish.
It was the least he could do after Mornay had helped him get his new living. That he could be in it so quickly as to be of service during this dire happenstance was a double boon.
An hour or two later, he was handing up the ladies into Mornay’s carriage; Mrs. Royleforst, who harrumphed her way in; then Miss Bluford, accepting his help with a big, wobbly smile (which surprised him a great deal, since she usually sat quietly and rather expressionlessly while the others spoke); then Mrs. Forsythe, with a polite word of thanks and ladylike ascent; and pretty Miss Forsythe, with a sad nod and word of thanks. Finally, the two children were brought out. Nigel was all aflutter, for he loved to ride in the carriage, and he scrambled up, hardly allowing Mr. O’Brien to so much as guard his back; and Mrs. Perler came holding the baby. Servants were following with all manner of luggage and blankets and toys in their hands, to be transported in a second coach which sat behind the first.
The Country House Courtship Page 21
