The Country House Courtship

by Linore Rose Burkard

  When Mr. Speckman called the next day at Aspindon, he had only the faintest dread of finding Mrs. Mornay in ill health. He doubted there had been any transmission of the illness during the lady’s brief encounter with Mrs.Taller, choosing to believe it took a lengthy exposure for the mechanism of sickness to spread. Nevertheless, he would call upon her daily, just to be diligent. With his apprentice, Mr. Hannon (highly recommended from Guy’s Hospital), looking in on the Tallers, Mr. Speckman had less contact with the sick himself and no qualms about seeing the lady every day, therefore.

  Ariana submitted to his ministrations, giving her hand for the pulse to be felt; allowing the stethoscope to touch her chest; and staying quiet as a mouse even when he laid his broad hand upon her forehead and the back of her neck. Mr. Mornay leaned against a wall, and watched.

  “She’s as right as rain, sir,” the doctor finally pronounced, bringing out a much gratified look upon the features of the landowner.

  “May we call back the children?” asked Ariana. Although she knew he was bound to deny her the request, she could not help but to ask anyway.

  Mr. Speckman frowned. “Nay, ma’am, you know you must wait; another three to four days, at a minimum.”

  “Yes, Mr. Speckman.” With a regretful glance at her husband, she glided from the room.

  To Mr. Mornay, the physician said, “Keep an eye on her, sir. At the first hint of a fever, call for me.”

  “I’ll do that; I thank you.” He ushered the doctor out, wishing it might be the end of their trial.

  “Mama, may I take a little air? I am in need of the exercise.”

  Mrs. Forsythe surveyed Beatrice, and frowned. “I should think your adventure the other morning to have been sufficient to keep you indoors during this cold weather.”

  “Mama, I shan’t be out for long; I promise you.”

  “Are you wearing the woolen stockings I made you?”

  Mr. O’Brien was reading a book in the corner of the room, and Beatrice blushed. How could her mother mention such a thing in front of a gentleman? “Of course.”

  Mr. O’Brien kept his gaze glued to his book, hoping it would not be incumbent upon him to accompany the young lady. Oh, Miss Forsythe was looking lovely this morning, as she always did; but he was newly determined to remain aloof, and to steer clear of any situations in which they might be alone together. Every reflection, every meditation upon his life and situation told him he must resist the pleasant girl. He would not think of her in a romantic way; he would not think of her in a practical way, as a girl who might make a fine wife; in short, he must not think of her at all.

  “Keep your exercise to a quarter hour, then, and I have no objection,” said the mother just then, as she handed an infantryman to Nigel, who was at her skirts upon the floor, hiding his little soldiers among the folds of her dress. “I shan’t have you damaging your feet; when you return you will sit by the fire and warm them.”

  This seemed embarrassingly juvenile to Beatrice, who raised her gaze to the ceiling as soon as she had turned her back on her mother, but she said, “Yes, Mama.” And with that, she left the room, gathered her coat and scarf and bonnet and muff and her warmest gloves, and ventured outside. It was a bright clear wintry day. She could see the old stone church of Warwickdon, and automatically turned her feet in its direction. She would walk to the church and back. Surely that was no great distance, as she could see the church clearly already.

  How pleasant it had been to have Mr. O’Brien as her guide on her last visit here! As she approached the cemetery—was there not always a cemetery?—she appreciated the ancient stones, set at odd angles, with slanted heads protruding from the ground like the poor teeth of an ogre. She was following the walkway, but today decided to read some of the stones, if she could make them out.

  Simon Sewell, 1700–1742; Charlotte Sewell, 1685–1730. Gunther Sewell, 1680–1732. A family. Suddenly Beatrice remembered the portrait gallery at Aspindon, showing generations of Mr. Mornay’s family. A cold breeze made her shiver, and she moved on. The gallery portraits ranged in quality and the people within them were sometimes not well recalled (she thought); but each one of them had lived and walked the earth, just as she was doing now.

  With a heavy sigh, Beatrice kept moving toward the church. Life was so brief! And yet her own journey seemed already so long as to be tiresome. Until recently, anyway. At Aspindon, everything had been getting more and more delightful; suddenly her life seemed filled with possibilities. Especially since the arrival of Mr. Tristan Barton. She envisioned his dark curls and strong green eyes. His expensive twin-tailed coat and snowy cravats. His coming to Aspindon had quickened her pulse, to be sure. She remembered that one impulsive kiss and almost blushed right there out in the cold. Did he really have serious intentions? It was true that he had called at the vicarage the day before, but he had been all politeness and aloof amiability, nothing more.

  And yet Beatrice had been somehow relieved that there was nothing more. When she was not looking into his strong green eyes, she was often engaged in conversation with the man of clear blue ones: Mr. O’Brien. And his conversation was somehow more important, more significant, than Mr. Barton’s. She could not think of the curate’s soft-spoken gentle words with any disregard whatsoever, whereas she sometimes found Mr. Barton’s loud and jovial tones excessive. Even his conversation was loud.

  But Mr. Barton loved wit and laughter—was there really anything so wrong in that? Mr. O’Brien was not sporting at all! He was intelligent, but sober. She suddenly recalled how they had laughed together in the cottage when she scolded him for taking hold of her. Even the walk through the wood had been fun; but he was often reading a book of some sort, not asking to play cards or seeking a diversion as Mr. Barton did. Oh! Which one suited her better? She could not be sure.

  When she returned to the house, Mr. O’Brien was upon the floor, playing with Nigel. He did have the most agreeable manner with children. She had to admit that Mr. Barton did not call on the days when Mrs. Perler was gone (and thus the children were with the adults almost all day), nor did he ever show the slightest regard for the youngsters. It was as though, in his opinion, they were not quite people yet. But she supposed it would be different for him if they were his own children. Men were often like that, were they not?

  She took turns trying to envision herself as the lady of the Manor; then the parson’s wife. Why was it that she could only picture a happy family at Warwickdon? Mr. Barton was the sort of man Beatrice wanted! Wealthy, fashionable, urbane, and witty. If he bought the Manor, she would be neighbour to her sister in the country, and able to attend as many Seasons as she liked, when in London! In all, Mr. Barton, it seemed to Beatrice, was exactly the man she wanted: handsome, wealthy, with social standing, and able to offer her the life she envisioned for herself.

  She would not have the luxury of Aspindon as Mrs. Barton, but she would be well enough to do, and able to live quite comfortably, and with plenty of diversions. What more could she want?

  Watching Nigel laughing with the curate, Beatrice’s thoughts fell upon her sister, and dark fears began to intrude upon her mind. But she shook them off. Ariana was young and healthy and strong, and she had not spent a great deal of time with Mrs. Taller. What danger could there be?

  When Mr. Mornay blinked awake on the fourth day after his wife’s exposure to Mrs. Taller, he was beginning to feel less anxious about his wife. He and Ariana had been making the most of the time alone, in fact; he’d taken her through the maze (he never got lost, himself, as he had committed it to memory years earlier), and enjoyed her bafflement at ever coming out again. They’d reminisced at the day far past when she had been running on the estate and ran smack into him—to his great displeasure. How he apologized for treating her so shabbily, then! For his instant combing!

  Ariana was delighted at the memory, however, for it served to highlight how much she had since won his heart. The change in him, she said, was magnificent.

  They had go
ne riding together, which was not uncommon, but somehow felt more special at this time, and they’d been in each other’s company more than ever, as Mr. Mornay was not making his rounds with the steward, or meeting with solicitors, or hearing disputes from the townspeople, or doing any of the innumerable activities which often pulled him away from his wife’s side.

  Ariana was now in the worst of the discomfort from having to abruptly cease nursing a baby, and Freddie had been fetching ice from the icehouse himself, in order to supply it for Mrs. Hamilton, who made cold compresses with cloths to ease the swelling. As Mr. Mornay put one arm over the sleeping figure of his wife, and snuggled against her, he luxuriated in the fact that once again they had no responsibilities for the day except to entertain one another. It felt like a guilty holiday; this having none of the usual work of the place upon his shoulders.

  He felt the wetness of the compresses through her nightdress and considered whether to ring for new ones. But then he noticed that the damp cloth was rather warm. In fact, it felt hot. He quickly placed a hand upon Ariana’s neck and forehead, and then shot up from the bed. He rang the bellpull with vigour. Fotch appeared in a moment—

  “Sir! Awake, I see! Let me—”

  “Send for Mr. Speckman! On the double, Fotch!”

  “Yes, sir!” And with widened eyes, the servant turned and hurried off to find the butler. Mr. Mornay was already in stockings, and pulled on a pair of pantaloons, followed quickly (as soon as he had found them) by hunting boots. Ariana was still asleep, and he feared to wake her, but he rang again, and again, until Fotch was back, panting.

  “Mr. Frederick has gone for the doctor, sir!”

  “What, Freddy had to go?”

  “We are down to precious few servants, sir.”

  “Right. Have Mrs. Hamilton get a new cold compress up here, and tell her to be smart about it!”

  “Yes, sir.” Fotch’s face might have been amusing at any other time; for he was itching to get to work on his master’s neck cloth, and watching Mr. Mornay hurriedly tying it himself was almost painful. Mr. Mornay, meanwhile, running into his first difficulty with his cravat, realized how idiotic it was for him to bother with the thing at all, and pulled it off hastily. Ariana was ill! She had the fever! Nothing else mattered. He sat beside her on the bed and touched her skin now and then, gently, grimacing at how hot it felt. He was careful not to wake his wife, knowing that she would have to stir soon enough, when the new compresses were brought.

  He thought he would go mad with impatience, when he suddenly remembered that he ought to pray. He took one of Ariana’s hot hands into his own while he sat there on the bed beside her, and closed his eyes…

  The Bartons returned to the vicarage the next day, giving Mr. O’Brien the thought that Mr. Barton was either bored to tears, or more interested in Miss Forsythe than he had given him credit for. Since Miss Forsythe was decidedly “wife material,” he knew that the latter must be the case. But this worried him. Not because he had any claims upon Beatrice Forsythe himself; indeed, no. But Barton was evidently a man of the town, and surely must be ignorant of the fact that the Forsythes were not in the way of wealth such as the Mornays.

  What if he had the mistaken notion that Miss Forsythe was an heiress? He no doubt assumed, as many had in London, that if Mr. Mornay, the Paragon, had married a Forsythe girl, the family must be well lined in the pocket. He worried that once Mr. Barton was disabused of his mistake, he might drop Miss Forsythe abruptly and break her young heart. What could he do?

  They were sitting in the drawing room, engaged in a rubber of whist. Miss Forsythe had just returned from yet another outdoor venture quite unharmed, and her cheeks were rosy. Mr. and Miss Barton were in fine form, and had proposed the game. Miss Barton had nodded at Mr. O’Brien pointedly, letting him know that a certain letter had been dispatched. Good. The children were upstairs in the nursery with Mrs. Perler, and so even Mrs. Forsythe had agreed to play. Mrs. Royleforst had opted to remain sitting upon a settee, with Miss Bluford beside her, as she lacked the energy, she said, for cards, at the moment. Instead she was paging through a ladies’ magazine which she had brought with her from home, and talking of the latest fashions as they appeared in the illustrations.

  “My, but the hems are all embroidered or bejeweled this year!”

  “Turbans, turbans everywhere! Look at this gold-coloured gauze! I should get some of that, directly!”

  “My word! Is not that waistline lower than what we are accustomed to seeing? My dears, the waist on these gowns is dropping, I say! Quite a change for the empire style! What a nuisance! I will have to bespeak a new wardrobe if I dare set foot in the capital this Season!”

  Beatrice eyed her hopefully. The idea of a new wardrobe sounded wonderful to her ears.

  “Do you expect to be in London for the Season, Mrs. Forsythe? And your daughter?” asked Mr. Barton.

  Beatrice glanced up at him from behind her hand of cards, while her mother said, “As for myself, no; I am intent upon returning to the countryside in Chesterton. My husband and another of my children are there, you see, as well as my married eldest daughter.”

  They spoke more of the family for a minute, then, without seeming eager, Mr. Barton inquired, “And what of you, Miss Forsythe? Will you be gracing the ballrooms with your presence this year?”

  Beatrice had to smile at his words, but said, trying not to grimace, “I cannot say for certain, sir. My sister is still considering whether to take me. My hopes rest upon her entirely, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, but the Mornays do return to Town for the Season, do they not? It would be most peculiar of them not to!”

  Mrs. Forsythe interjected gently, “I believe they are happy in domestic life, sir. They go to Town less and less. Perhaps when the children are older—”

  “The children!” he exclaimed. “I fail to see what they’ve got to do with it! Children are no trouble at all so long as you have servants and nursemaids enough!”

  Beatrice almost blushed at this remark. His sentiment might have been a common attitude, but it was not one that the Forsythes—or the Mornays, for that matter—shared. Or Mr. O’Brien.

  Their host cleared his throat. Laying down a trump card, he said mildly, “We cannot all be of such a mind as to ignore our own offspring,” with the hope of shaming the man into a retraction.

  But only the women understood his intent, as Mr. Barton blithely continued, “Well, sir, my advice to those who are not, would be to become of such a mind. If they wish to continue to enjoy life—the opera, the theatre, the ballet, music, and dancing—what place is there for children at such events? None whatsoever. I tell you, there is no drawing room in London that will welcome the little creatures, and what would become of polite society if they did?” He took a breath, topped Mr. O’Brien’s card with one of his own, and took the trick, saying, “Proper servants is all one needs. A nurse, a governess, a tutor, perhaps; and any couple may rove the Town to their heart’s content.”

  Mrs. Forsythe laughed. “To rove the Town, sir?” Her eyebrows were raised, exceedingly. “I hardly think a person of good character would wish to rove the Town!”

  “I only mean to participate in society, ma’am,” he said, with a look at Beatrice to see if his remark had met with equal reproof in her mind. He thought it had. She was staring at him in surprise, but she quickly lowered her eyes when he glanced her way. Beatrice decided to change the subject.

  “Mr. O’Brien, do you intend upon continuing prayers this evening?” They had been meeting around the fireplace of an evening and joining the curate in a short but heartfelt time of prayer. “Mr. Speckman has brought us only good news, these three days.”

  “We must continue in prayer,” said her mother. “Until the quarantine is ended. There is still a danger, my dear.”

  “Upon my word! I adore this bonnet! Look you, Mrs. Forsythe, and tell me if you do not agree!” Mrs. Royleforst had given her magazine to Miss Bluford who obediently rose and came to show
the page to the ladies at the table. “Would you not snatch it up directly?” she said, beaming from her little eyes at Beatrice’s mother.

  Mrs. Forsythe was not given to high fashion at any time, but she politely looked over the bonnet in question, and nodded, saying, “Very pretty, to be sure!” She directed a kind smile at Mrs. Royleforst, who said to her companion, “Now show Miss Forsythe! And Miss Barton!”

  The two ladies each surveyed the bonnet in question, making appropriately admiring remarks, and even the gentlemen were curious and had to look. Mr. O’Brien said, “There is endless variation to women’s hats, it seems to me! And all so fetching!”

  Mr. Barton said, “All fetching? I say, not! A lady must choose her head-wear so that it fits the shape of her face, the style of her gown, and her standing in society.”

  “Oh, Mr. Barton!” said his sister, with an embarrassed glance at him. She and Beatrice exchanged a look as if to say, “How absurd he is!” Beatrice was happy for that exchange. Mr. Barton might not have been the sharpest wit at the table, but neither was she, Beatrice, quick of tongue. Besides, she felt surely she could have a good influence upon the man—if Mr. Mornay gave his consent to the courtship.

  Mr. Speckman’s face was blank. He was endeavouring to awaken Ariana gently, but her only response was to moan softly. Mr. Mornay looked on, trying to contain his agitation.

  Mr. Speckman removed the cold cloths that Mr. Mornay had placed upon his wife’s forehead, saying, “Cold of all kinds must be avoided to bring the fever to a crisis. Once it has passed, she will recover. But we need heat, not cold, to do that.”

  Ariana weakly opened her eyes. What was happening? Everything was swimming around her. She couldn’t move. She could hardly keep her lids apart. She could make out her husband’s face and whispered, “Phillip.” She had not meant to whisper, but to speak, but a small whisper was all she could produce.