The Country House Courtship

by Linore Rose Burkard

  Beatrice blushed lightly. Her rosy cheeks contrasted well with her gray redingote and black half boots. Her face was framed in a bonnet that accented her green eyes, and altogether it struck Mr. O’Brien forcefully that Miss Forsythe was as pretty and desirable a young woman as any man should be happy and proud to own the affections of. More, she was excellent with children; not overly impetuous or silly (as many young women of his acquaintance were); and wishing to speak to him.

  She cleared her throat.

  “May I ask—” he began, while at the very same moment, she said, “Here is the thing—” They both stopped and exchanged a smile. “Here is the thing,” she said again, wondering why on earth she had wanted this conversation. She felt far too embarrassed now that she had demanded his attention. But she had no alternative but to plunge ahead, and so continued, “I have been given—to understand—” and she peeked at his eyes.

  “Yes?” He was curious to understand her dilemma.

  “By Mr. Barton…that he desires to court me.” (Goodness, that not was not what she had meant to say!) Mr. O’Brien drew back. His face went blank, but he said, “And this is troubling to you?” He was trying desperately to ignore the pang of disappointment in his breast. “Has he sought the permission of your parents? Or of Mr. Mornay?”

  “He means to, but on account of my sister’s exposure to the fever, I believe he lacked an opportunity to speak with Mr. Mornay.”

  He nodded, his eyes very intent, listening. Beatrice wished she were talking to him of something else! Of her very real admiration for him—but it was impossible. How had she thought she could speak of such a thing?

  “How may I be of service to you?”

  She took a deep breath. “Your acquaintance with Mr. Barton is new, I grant, but I need to ask for your honest assessment of his character. I am having some difficulty making it out…” She trailed off.

  A look of concern flitted across his face, and in an apologetic tone, he said, “I fear I am not in a position to judge his character.” He fell silent a minute. Indeed there were a few things that he had noticed about the man, but it did not seem fair that he should warn her against another man; not when he knew how much he wished he could be in that man’s position. He was doing it again, was he not! Making a cake of himself over a Forsythe girl!

  “As a churchman, sir, I ask you. As a curate, do you not form opinions of people?”

  He gave a little smile. She had no idea of his feelings, he could see. That was actually a good thing. “I form opinions as a human being, but I do not think it is fair to Mr. Barton if I say anything of him based upon so short an acquaintance.” He swallowed, and said, “He is evidently a man of some standing, and seems to have a good enough fortune to deserve you.”

  It was true that she thought so herself. Nodding in agreement, she said, “Yes, I do expect that he could purchase the Manor, and it is a fine, large house. Not so fine as Aspindon, of course, but still a proud dwelling.”

  “Yes.” He thought of his pride at being the occupant of the vicarage, and could only imagine how much larger and finer the Manor House must be. He felt his own pride deflating, such as an air balloon when it has lost the gas inside it. But Beatrice deserved such a house.

  “And he goes to London for the Season every year, I understand.”

  “Does that suit you?” he asked.

  “Yes! Exceedingly.” But as she said this, her own words felt hollow for some reason. She did not understand why they did. She desired to go to London, did she not? The thought of a Season every year—why it was thrilling; it must be so!

  “I think I should say,” he offered, making her look hopefully at him, “that it speaks well of Mr. Barton that he would offer for you (and I hope you won’t take this badly, for I mean nothing against you by it), but his circumstances are above yours, do you not agree?”

  “Oh, yes, that is true! I have family, with Mrs. Mornay as my sister; but he has fortune, I grant him that.”

  He looked at her assuringly, if not enthusiastically. “He will keep you in good style.”

  “Yes.”

  “In short, I can only say that there appears to be no reason against him, unless you know of something in him that I do not.”

  Her pretty eyes widened. “But I am asking what you know of him! As my friend! Gentlemen are often knowledgeable of other gentlemen in ways that we females are wholly ignorant of. We have no manner of knowing or judging a man in his true character when we only see him in company, at his best behaviour. I am asking you, sir, if you know of anything undesirable in him. Something I would not see in him in a drawing room!”

  Her manner was so earnest, that he searched his brain for anything that might answer. He cleared his throat. “Well, I do not take him for a man of deep religion, if that is what you seek to know.”

  She nodded eagerly. “Yes?”

  “I have not seen evidence that he and his sister share a great love between them, as some siblings do.”

  “I have noted that too!”

  “But I must tell you—”

  “Yes? Yes!”

  “Mr. Mornay is the man whose opinion you must seek. He will know whether Mr. Barton is suitable for you better than I.”

  A strange sort of disappointment filled her breast. Mr. O’Brien did not want to discourage her regarding Mr. Barton’s suit. Why was that the least bit deflating? She should have welcomed it as a good sign. As evidence that Mr. Barton had no grievous failings that should rightly warn her away. But instead, she felt disappointed. Another matter occurred to her. One that she had no idea she would raise, but suddenly she did:

  “Mr. O’Brien, I must discuss one thing more with you, if I may?”

  “By all means.”

  “I wanted to mention how good of you it is that you have not once even alluded to my childish promise to marry you!” She tried to laugh while she spoke, to show him that she knew it was merely a joke, now. He nodded, but said nothing for a moment.

  “Of course.”

  “You knew, then, that it was my youth and inexperience speaking?”

  “Of course!” But he looked very uncomfortable.

  “It does not pain you, that I mention it?” she asked him gently, and he met her gaze, noting her large pretty eyes, and surprised her by answering, fully as gently as she had asked the question, “Little Beatrice, no man of honour would hold a child to such a thing.”

  “No,” she agreed, her eyes suddenly seeming to shine. She turned her head away, looking out the window. “I was only a child!”

  “Of course. A very fetching, affectionate one,” he said, smiling at the memory.

  “I daresay I embarrassed you a great deal!” She met his gaze again, and the watery look had vanished. The carriage slowed to a stop, and he came to attention.

  “Remain here. I’ll be right back.” He spoke with decision, almost abruptly.

  “Yes, sir.” He did not look at her but climbed out of the coach and was at the door of the house in a minute.

  Mr. O’Brien was troubled. As he waited for the door to be answered, he wondered: What did Beatrice want of him, really? What did his opinion of Mr. Barton matter? It would normally be precisely the thing a young lady should not wish to know, if she cherished hopes of marriage to a man. Why look for trouble? Why seek to know what might alter the course? Did she truly want Barton or not, that was his question.

  After waiting at the door for a few moments, the housekeeper finally answered. She looked frazzled. Her eyes widened at sight of him, and she stepped back. “Come no further, sir! The mistress has fallen ill! She’s got the fever! God have mercy on us!”

  Somehow Beatrice had convinced herself that her sister would not take sick. The atmosphere in the carriage had swiftly changed to a dark foreboding feeling when Mr. O’Brien returned almost at once with the dreaded announcement. He ordered the carriage to return to the vicarage before rejoining Beatrice.

  “A fever is not always severe,” Mr. O’Brien said, i
n an effort to comfort Beatrice.

  “Yes,” she agreed, in a low voice. But her eyes were filled with worry.

  “We will continue to hold Mrs. and Mr. Mornay in prayer. You must trust God’s faithfulness.”

  She looked up to meet his gaze. “God’s faithfulness, sir, did not prevent a score of deaths in London from this illness!”

  “Yes, but many of those people were undernourished, not attended to in their illness, and already in a weakened state before they got the fever. Your sister is young and strong; and in the best hands. We have every reason to hope!” She nodded, but nevertheless a tear slipped from one eye. He rummaged in his clothing to produce a wrinkled handkerchief from an inside pocket of his waistcoat.

  “Thank you,” she said, receiving it and dabbing her eyes. The next few minutes were passed in complete silence except for the noise of the carriage wheels and the horses upon the road.

  “Truly, I did not believe—that she would get ill.”

  He nodded. “I know.”

  “I may yet be at fault for her death!” More tears came.

  “Miss Forsythe—Miss Beatrice.” (He could not help but to use her name after remembering her from when she was younger). “You are leaping to conclusions that are not warranted by the circumstances! Please, let us take each day as it comes, and attend only to the trouble it brings. Do not borrow troubles that have yet to occur.”

  “But I cannot help thinking she may die! Other people have died from this! And her exposure was all—my—fault!”

  His voice was suddenly firm and strong. “Beatrice! That is enough of such nonsense!”

  She looked up at him in surprise. “Is it nonsense?”

  “Utterly.”

  She sniffed, but stopped crying, and hereafter had to eye him with a surprised regard. Mr. O’Brien was not one to tolerate nonsense, and she appreciated him for it. Indeed, she even felt better now that she had stopped crying. Perhaps Ariana would not have a severe case of the sickness. She might even be recovered by the following day! Why ought she to worry? Mr. O’Brien was right! They would pray for her and keep a chin up until they heard reason to warrant greater concern.

  “As to our former discussion,” he said suddenly, leaning in toward her a little, “if I may be of any further help, please do call upon me. But I advise you to voice your concerns to Mr. Mornay as soon as he is able to hear them.”

  “I shall; I thank you.”

  Mr. O’Brien paused, but had to ask: “Are you to be considered betrothed, then? To Mr. Barton?”

  “No promises have been made. He has not spoken for me, yet.”

  “It is what you wish, however?”

  She hesitated. His earnest blue eyes were actually quite beautiful for a man. There was a hint of fine blond stubble about his chin, but it was not unbecoming. He was in no way fastidious, and yet his appearance was neat and clean. Moreover, he had been nothing if not exceedingly kind and helpful.

  She had to answer him, so she said the only thing she could say.

  “It is, yes.” As she said it, however, she felt it was not what she wished. How irksome! It had to be, for only Mr. Barton could provide everything she based her hopes upon. Yet there was something in the curate that drew her to him, and it had nothing at all to do with his situation, or his fortune, or his lack of one. It had nothing to do with the size of his house, or with whether or not he would go to London for the Season. It had nothing to do with reason, for goodness’ sake! It was utterly unreasonable, and went against everything she thought she had wanted in a man. But Beatrice was suddenly feeling as though she were in love.

  With Mr. O’Brien.

  Oh, dear.

  Twenty-Three

  Some of the colour had drained from Mr. Mornay’s face, but he nevertheless stood watching while the physician finished up the messy business of bleeding his wife. Ariana had showed little response except to moan softly now and then, at which her husband had taken one of her hands. So hot. So abominably hot!

  When the doctor’s assistant went to empty the basin with that precious dark fluid from Ariana’s body, Freddie came in holding a letter salver.

  “I want no correspondence now,” Mornay said sourly.

  “It is from Carlton House, sir.” He held out the silver tray with a single, thickly folded note. Mr. Mornay sighed and took it, saying, “Hold off.” The butler waited. Phillip opened the blob of sealing wax and began to read. There wasn’t much; it was merely an invitation. A thinly disguised command, more like, for the Mornays to stop at Brighton to see the Regent. He’d be entertaining at his palace for a few weeks, and wished them to come as soon as possible.

  Mr. Mornay’s look was grave. He crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it into the fireplace. “Freddie, have my secretary send a response. Tell the prince that Mrs. Mornay is ill, and that we can go nowhere at present.”

  “Er, sir, I beg your pardon, but there is no secretary in the house. Shall I send for one?”

  “Can you not write?” the master asked, making Freddie’s eyes open in surprise.

  “I, sir? To the prince?”

  “Yes, yes, it does not matter. So long as you can write legibly!”

  “Yes, sir.” He stood up straighter, resigned to what was coming.

  “Do as I say.” He paused, and Freddie, from long acquaintance with the man, waited again. “And tell him to pray.”

  “Yes, sir.” He bowed and went down to the business office. He felt very inadequate to the task at hand—a butler writing to the Prince Regent! But he also felt a new sense of importance; he was so inured to his position at Aspindon that he seldom felt his own importance as the butler of the establishment, but today it was borne in upon him in a new way. He hurried his step to get the missive done, and sent back with the man who had delivered the royal message.

  At the secretary’s desk, Frederick found a piece of the best foolscap and a plume pen, and opened the little inkwell upon the polished wooden surface. “To His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent,” he began. When the letter was finished, he opened a jar of blotting sand and sprinkled it liberally over the single paragraph of writing. After shaking off the excess, he folded it twice, lit a wafer of sealing wax with a tinder box, and dropped a good blob of the wax—he used black, to stress the point of the reply—and pressed the master’s seal, a tiny imprint of the initials “P” and “M” in a miniature ornate style onto the wax. He had signed the letter, “Your Humble and Obedient Servant, Mr. W. Frederick, Butler.”

  When Mr. Frederick had found the prince’s messenger in the kitchens, having a bite—a place that was deemed safe from the illness—he gave the note to Cook, who was told to wipe it clean of Freddie’s breath or touch. (Who knew how the sickness might be passed?) And it was sent on its way, with one of Mr. Mornay’s horses. The bother was that the groom was not in the stables, and neither, Freddie noticed, was Tornado! Could the man still be away to deliver his message to the vicarage? Surely he should have been back by now. And to take Tornado! Dashed presumptuous of him!

  He himself had to choose a mount for the messenger, and to the man’s complaint that no one had come to see to his horse and he had been forced to take the animal to the stables with his own hand, Freddie replied, “We have only a skeleton crew, here, sir, as our mistress has the fever.”

  The man’s eyes widened, and from that moment on he could not exit the place fast enough.

  But where was Mr. Rudson, the head groom? And what had he done with Tornado?

  Mr. Rudson opened his eyes and blinked. A pain in his head assailed him. When he tried to move, more aches shouted their presence, but he saw that he was beneath a tall tree, and it all came flooding back. While he slowly managed to get to his feet, and was brushing himself off, he reviewed the events which had landed him there—literally.

  Tornado, after getting into a frenzied and wild gallop, had began to buck at odd moments, trying to rid himself of his rider—he, Mr. Rudson. He’d grasped the pommel, the animal’s m
ane, the seat of the saddle, anything and everything to keep his seat. Up hills and down, he’d hung on grimly, knowing that he was likely a ruined man. Mr. Mornay would not, could not forgive him for this, he was certain. Nor would Tornado, who reminded him often of his resentment by bucking. The horse was a sly devil, too, for he began to close in on tree trunks, trying to graze the man’s legs, doing anything to make him lose his hold on the reins or the saddle.

  Finally, with a surprising and desperate buck that went into a spin, Mr. Rudson had gone flying off the seat as smooth as a stone being flung upon the water. And then all had gone black. And now here he was. Freezing from cold, far from help, and sore as a blind carpenter’s thumb. He supposed he was lucky to be alive. That was something, anyway.

  Tornado made his way back to the stables slowly and at his leisure. He found his hay bin and helped himself. His stall was not open and he whinnied in annoyance, but eventually settled upon standing just outside it, munching hay as though nothing at all had occurred.

  Mr. Rudson, two miles from the house and stables, had come to his feet, sighed heavily, and began walking. He was going to be sore for days. With any luck, that devil of a horse would be back at the stables when he got there, and he was sure, very sure, that he would never mount that demon again.

  Ariana was growing worse. She was sweating a great deal, and hair clung to her face and neck, despite Mr. Mornay’s attempts to wash it back periodically with a damp cloth. When she wasn’t tossing and turning restlessly, she either moaned or spoke out in delirium—a thing which Mr. Mornay discovered, to his shame, that he could barely stand. Was he so weak, he asked himself? Since when had a little suffering reduced him to speechless dismay? He remained by her bedside, however; and when she chanced to call his name during her moments of unconscious speech, it was heartrending to see him leaning over her and trying to reach her, to let her know that he was there. It was useless.

  In response to her worsening condition, Mr. Speckman insisted that his treatment was having its effect. “Mrs. Mornay will soon reach a crisis, sir; and when it has passed, she will begin to recover.” The husband wanted to ask, And if it does not pass? If it is too much for her? But he could not bring himself to do it. He was beginning to doubt the wisdom of the medical man’s judgment, however. “How many people have you given this treatment to, and did most of them recover?”