Back at Warwickdon, the guests were trying to make the best of the situation. After they had all had time to visit their assigned bedchambers and change out of their morning or afternoon dress, they were assembled in the drawing room. True to her word, the cook at Aspindon had sent over a feast. It was the meal she would have served had the guests remained at the estate.
Beatrice’s gowns were feeling tight so she arrived for the meal determined not to make a spectacle of herself by eating too much. The food was so good at Aspindon! Each new course with dishes more delectable than the last. She had seen such artful and imaginative ways of dressing a turbot or goose, or pheasant, since her arrival to the house than she would ever have believed existed. One of her goals, in fact, was to go down to the kitchens and secretly observe the chef as he prepared his exquisite culinary creations. How interesting and unusual it would be!
Mr. Barton had called just before the meal, and so he joined the table with the rest. Unruffled, Mr. O’Brien recalled that they were almost neighbours, though residing in different parishes. It struck him forcefully that in the eyes of the world, he seemed to have accomplished an amazing feat these past few days: Namely, securing a generous living while at the same time increasing his acquaintance and standing among the gentry. The Mornays in fact were good ton, friends of the Regent, welcome in the highest circles of society! He had never been on an equal footing, and here he was with their relations lining his table.
Somehow it was not the triumph he might have considered it years earlier. He ran his gaze over each of his guests, wondering over the state of their souls. This was his real business in the world; the reason he had taken Holy Orders, and that which he meant to carry out. The business of tending to eternal souls. To many people, it was a business that ought to be reserved for the Church or chapel. Religion was too controversial to be acceptable for polite conversation. But here was an opportunity like no other; Mr. O’Brien had these people in his house, at his disposal, so to speak. A captive audience.
He must find a way to influence their religious sensibilities. He had no desire to offend, but if offense came from such a duty, so be it. However, in the interest of treading lightly for the sake of the nonreligious, he had begun the meal with a short prayer: “Heavenly Father, for this food we Thee thank; for this day, we Thee bless; for our lives, we Thee entreat; and for our usefulness to Thy kingdom, we Thee pray. Amen.”
In no time, Mr. Barton regaled Miss Forsythe with London on-dits while her mother and Mrs. Royleforst listened. He seemed to have endless stories of London, which amused Miss Forsythe enough so that she was laughing merrily from time to time. In between her laughter, however, she reverted shortly to a look of discomfort. No one could quite forget that they were here at Warwickdon on account of the terrible possibility of Mrs. Mornay falling ill.
“I beg your pardon,” Mr. O’Brien said, getting everyone’s attention. “I will be conducting prayers for the Mornay family, and the Tallers (their tenants, with the fever). I hope I may expect all my guests to join me. In the drawing room, at around nine. Does that suit?” He looked around.
“Capital, sir!” cried Mrs. Forsythe. “I am obliged to you.”
“Yes,” echoed Beatrice. “How thoughtful of you.”
“I will gladly be there, sir,” said Mrs. Royleforst, and Miss Bluford’s head bobbed in quick agreement: “Indeed! Indeed!”
Mr. Barton merely smiled and nodded his head. Rather peculiar, he thought, but Mr. O’Brien was a clergyman. Only to be expected; however, what a dull dog the man was!
Miss Barton was sitting quietly by the fire, knitting as usual. The dress, cap, and little pair of booties already finished and in her basket were for little Miranda; however, she had another cache of little garments, and she was now at work upon a blanket. She hoped to add to the pile continually with little garments and another blanket, for the child. So far she had kept her activities in such endeavours away from the eyes of her brother. He was so cross and vexatious, he would no doubt give her a combing for making them. But what else could she do for her own flesh and blood?
In her heart, Miss Barton was dreading the inevitable outcome that she would have to give up the baby to some unknown country woman. How she longed to tell his lordship of the child! He would be affected by it, she knew. His heart was not coarse, and he was not as her brother thought.
Yes, they had been wrong to come together. But was it not also wrong for society to keep them apart? Why could not the world see its way to rewarding true love—from wherever it sprang up—with marriage for the lovers? Would not society be a happier place? It only added to the general misery to force people apart when they loved each other, when both were unmarried, available to be wed. Why not to each other? Why not!
When his parents had ruined all their hopes in their “final judgment” (or so they termed it), she and his lordship had met secretly—merely to say good-bye. Neither had any thoughts of disobeying the parental strictures, or the rules of society, or of morals. But their farewell meeting had wrenched the hearts of them both—so much so that his lordship had kissed her for the first time.
And then—oh, rue the day! He lost his head, and, knowing full well that it could mean her ruin, her banishment from polite society, Anne had not the will to fight his. Thus, her fate had been sealed. She ought never have agreed to the assignation with him. It was wicked and wrong, but she was desperately in love! How could she have refused to say goodbye to him?
She blinked back tears. She laid a hand upon her belly. She had gained some weight, she was sure of it. The child was growing. And in her heart, she could not wish it otherwise. What’s done was done, and in a just world she would marry his lordship. He wanted it, and she wanted it. Why could his parents not deem his happiness on an equal footing with their social pretensions? Why were not the Bartons considered good enough for a second son?
She heard a clock chime the hour from the dining room, and glanced at the one upon the mantel. Ten o’clock. No doubt Tristan would stay out as late as his presence would be tolerated at the parsonage. With a sudden surge of hope rising in her breast, she lit the candle in a sconce that could be carried with her, got up, and left the room, heading to her bedchamber. Why had she not remembered to do this sooner? It had been in her thoughts since their arrival!
In the corridor she saw Peggy, their maid of all work, who said, “Pardon, miss, but would you be wantin’ your tea, now?”
“Yes, very good, Peggy. Thank you. Leave it in the drawing room.”
“Aye, miss.” She curtsied and was off.
Miss Barton arrived at her room, and, making her way to her little escritoire, set down her candle, opened a drawer, and pulled out a sheet of crisp foolscap, a quill, and ink. She sat down and took a deep breath. Where to start? She wrote, My Lord—; but her pen froze in her hand. She could not do it. She could not bring herself to write to Lord Horatio.
What if he wanted nothing to do with her? What if he was glad she had left London and wished never to hear from her? She felt an urge to crumple up the paper, to abandon her scheme. It was doomed in any case, was it not? Perhaps Tristan was correct, and now that his lordship had got what he wanted of her, he would turn his back on her. He had to, no matter what he felt or thought, did he not? That was the problem to begin with!
She had just thrown the page into the fireplace when suddenly the maid was back. “There be a gentleman here to see you, ma’am!”
“A gentleman?” Could it be? Had his lordship found her? With a gasp of joy, Miss Barton quickly came to her feet. “Did he give his name?” she asked, while smoothing down her hair, and taking up a small looking glass to observe herself in.
“Aye, mum; It be Mr. O’Brien.” The maid watched her with large eyes. Miss Barton’s face fell, and she swallowed and slowly replaced the looking glass. “Show him into the parlour, Peggy. I’ll be right there.” Why was Mr. O’Brien calling upon her, she wondered?
When Miss Barton entered the parlour,
she paused in surprise when she saw that Mrs. Forsythe was there too. Her face was kindly, however, and so Anne smiled. Holding her stomach, which was quickly becoming a habit, she walked over to the settee and sat, facing the other two.
Mr. O’Brien spoke first. “My dear Miss Barton,” he said. “I am here in my official capacity as a curate; you will forgive me if we are here without cause, I hope.”
“Of course, sir.” But she had a suspicion they had not come without cause.
He looked at Mrs. Forsythe. “Anne,” she said, very gently. “We must know if there is anything we can do to be of help to you.”
Anne averted her gaze. Did they know? How? Had Barton told them? But why would he?
“I pray you, do not be alarmed, Miss Barton. Your secret is entirely safe with us.”
She took a deep breath of relief. “Is it?”
Mr. O’Brien said, “We desire to know if anything can be done to help you. That would mean you must confide in us. But it is entirely up to you.”
She fell silent a moment. “Where is Barton?” she asked.
“Still at the vicarage,” Mrs. Forsythe said. “Mrs. Persimmon is playing the pianoforte and practicing hymn-singing for them.”
She looked amused. “And my brother endures it?”
“He has Miss Forsythe to make it endurable for him. And Mrs. Royleforst to make sure it is only just endurable.” They shared a smile. But hers did not last, and soon she had resumed a look of abject sorrow. “I am afraid you can do nothing for me,” she said. Her gaze went up to meet the curate’s. “Unless you can teach me how to happily give up a child when it must be done.”
“Is the father unmarried?”
“He is.”
This answer made Mr. O’Brien’s hopes rise in his chest. It might turn out that there was really a way to help this young woman! That is what he had prayed for.
Mrs. Forsythe came and sat down beside the girl. “Now,” she said, “start at the beginning…”
About half an hour later, the two visitors left, and Anne returned to her room. Only this time she went more confidently to her writing equipment and began a new letter. My Lord Horatio—. No, she had to scratch that out and take yet another new sheet of paper. She would not use his name, in case it fell into the wrong hands. This thought brought fresh tears, but she remembered her conversation just now with the curate and Mrs. Forsythe, and she was able to stop crying quickly. That was a change. She got up for a handkerchief from a different drawer. Just in case.
She almost lost her courage a second time, but with the encouragement and the promise from the curate, she found it again. She moved the little flame closer to the sheet before her, and dipped her quill in the ink pot. She would have her say.
“If you do not allow me to get some water into her throat, I tell you, you will lose your daughter to dehydration.” Mr. Speckman’s assistant had returned to the cottage reluctantly, but Giles Taller had been beside himself. He was a large ox of a man, and not one to be dismissed lightly, so here the doctor’s helper, Mr. Hannon, was, back in the stuffy cottage, and giving his professional advice. Mr. Speckman had made him go; if Mr. Mornay heard his help had been asked for, but refused, he’d be in deep trouble with the man. And what explanation could he offer? That he fully expected the girl to die? That it was hopeless? How could he say that to the landowner, when his own wife might have just contracted the very same illness?
Giles Taller was indeed feeling desperate. Not only his daughter, but his wife was now gravely ill; what if he lost the both of them? His other children were whimpering from their beds, because their mama was ignoring them. They had inexplicably overcome the same illness that was threatening the lives of their mother and sister. They would have been wailing inconsolably had the fierceness in their father’s tone and eyes not cowered them into mere whimpering. He was generally a good papa, and affectionate. But something in his attitude, a thing which the children could intuit, as children did at times, caused them to lower their cries, and make do with clinging to one another, and watching the proceedings with large, frightened eyes. With any luck, they would fall asleep.
Meanwhile, Mr. Hannon had taken a vial of water and was forcing open the child’s senseless mouth, directing the flow to the side of her throat where it would be swallowed into the stomach. He was taking quite a long time at this, and Giles himself was propping up MaryAnn’s head to help the operation.
Mr. Hannon was only too aware that were he to accidentally allow the liquid to slosh to the centre of her throat, she could inhale it, which would be a disaster. Drops of sweat fell from his face, but still he held the vial up to the girl’s mouth. When this was done, he would have to do the same thing to the mother. In his experience, if they did not die from the complications of the fever, sufferers died from the accompanying dehydration. He must not allow that to happen.
Twenty
Beatrice’s eyes blinked open. Where was she?
Oh, yes, the vicarage. Her bedchamber was a cozy room, and she shared it with her mother, who slept on a bed against the opposite wall. Of course there was nothing near as fancy as what Aspindon offered, but Beatrice found she was enjoying the informality, surprisingly enough. She supposed it was on account of this house being closer to what she was accustomed to at home.
She wanted to reach for the prayer book and do her reading—and pray for Ariana—but she was hungrier than usual this day, and so got up. She woke her mother to help her dress. The ladies could have asked a maid, even Harrietta, but they felt awkward about it, and so helped each other instead. Mrs. Forsythe accompanied Beatrice to the morning room, where Mr. O’Brien sat, reading a newspaper (a subscription belonging to the previous owner, but which had not run out), and lingering over a cup of coffee.
“Good morning, ladies,” he said, in his sober but not unfriendly manner, rising to give a polite bow. “Please, help yourselves.” The sideboard drew the women with its covered dishes, from which emanated an array of welcoming odours. Once again, servants had scurried to bring supplies from the big house: eggs, sausages, kidneys, ham, scones, and toast; the usual fare. The women each accepted a plate from the manservant, Mr. Sykes, and began to select their choice of the repast. Beatrice brought her plate to the table, and then returned for a cup of hot tea. Her mother did likewise.
Mr. O’Brien tried to concentrate on his paper, but felt his eyes drawn to watch his guests; in particular, the younger lady. Beatrice had chosen a morning dress with an open bodice, but lined with muslin lace, a muslin frill at the neck, and frilled cuffs. Only because of the cold did she also wear a laced cap that tied beneath her chin; and over her shoulders was draped a warm shawl in a dark pattern that contrasted prettily with the light-coloured gown. The cap made her appear older, for young girls did not often wear a cap any longer; Mrs. Forsythe’s cap was a heavier and lacier affair, but Mr. O’Brien’s eyes most often glanced up to watch the young lady’s progress. Her cheeks held a rosy morning glow that he could not dislike.
Nevertheless, when she turned to put her plate down, he felt her face was drawn, as though her thoughts were of a melancholy nature. He, too, was not in the best of spirits, and the reason was chiefly from the news article before him. There was more notice of the fever in London, notably the poorer sections, including St. Pancras, which was called “a hub” of sickness. He had considered removing to London to gather his things, give his last sermon, and say his good-byes; but there was a second, part-time curate. He would write the man, instructing him to pick up the services at once. He felt a pang of concern for the parish, but read yet more.
The Chronicle strongly advised its readers of the metropolis to remain home as much as was convenient; and, if they must go abroad, to venture only into those parts of the city that were respectable. The practice of taking shortcuts through dubious alleys or byways was cautioned against, saying that, aside from the danger of foot pads, these alleys were often the worst culprits in spreading the sickness. They held filthy hovels, w
here toxic and noxious vapours might be inhaled, making innocent travelers ill, and passing the disease onto other, cleaner areas of the city.
As Mrs. Forsythe sat down with her tea, she eyed her host, and glanced at the newspaper in his hand. With that one glance, Mr. O’Brien developed a terrible feeling of foreboding—she was going to ask to read the paper after he’d done. He could not have explained, were someone to ask him, how he knew what that glance had held; but he did. And he also knew, simultaneously, that he must not allow her to read it—not today.
Mr. O’Brien had no objection to ladies reading newspapers; truly he did not. But he could not distress his guests by allowing them to see the bad write-up about the fever. In a split second, before Mrs. Forsythe could even voice whether or not she did wish to read the paper, all of these thoughts fled through his mind like a coach and four run amok; and in a blink, he flipped the paper shut, folded it again and yet again, and in another second had tossed it directly upon the fire in the grate. It had taken only a few quick movements, and both women at the table froze from surprise while he did it. Mrs. Forsythe almost gasped. It was such a speedy and unexpected thing her host had done!
Both of the women stared into the fireplace, and there, the newspaper could be seen, plain as day, burning up.
“My word!” said Beatrice, with consternation. “Do you burn your newspaper every day?”
He cleared his throat, and answered slowly. “I beg your pardon. I did not mean to startle you.”
Mrs. Forsythe found his behavior rather odd, but said nothing, choosing instead to begin eating. It was a shame, really; she had hoped to read it herself.
Beatrice smiled a little, and took a tentative bite of her egg and sausage.
Mr. O’Brien was satisfied. He had saved them from the newspaper, and he had escaped having to answer Miss Forsythe’s question.
The Country House Courtship Page 23
