The Country House Courtship

by Linore Rose Burkard

  “Oh, sir, I’ve treated dozens of fevers in my day! I daresay most people do recover. It’s the weak ones, the aged and the infirm, who succumb, and infants don’t do so well, either.”

  “But is this a regular fever of the sort you often see?”

  The man looked down thoughtfully at his patient. “Well, it may be more severe; it does seem to have grown worse rather rapidly—”

  “And so in fact you are not certain that my wife will recover.”

  “Certain, sir? Only God is certain.” The doctor drew back at the fierce stare from Mr. Mornay.

  Mr. Mornay was already exhausted, and now he was bordering on terrified. He had barely taken anything to eat or drink, and the doctor was hard-pressed to get him to leave the room for any reason whatsoever.

  “You can be of no use here,” Mr. Speckman said, finally. “If you do not strengthen yourself, and your wife recovers, you may then fall ill—and not recover. Do not treat her so shabbily. Go and eat something, man!”

  Mr. Mornay reluctantly agreed, and slowly made his way to his study. Although he knew the house to be empty of guests, he could not face a public room. The housekeeper was very relieved to be able to fetch him some nourishment, and delivered it herself. The Mornays had given her a second chance at life—when they might have had her arrested for theft!—and she would never forget their kindness. They were family to her now. Mr. Mornay was her master, her employer, but also like her own flesh and blood.

  When she entered the room with the tray, Mr. Mornay was at his desk, staring ahead of him, unseeing. The family Bible lay open before him, but he was lost in thought. He looked dreadfully weary.

  “Here you go, sir,” she said in a gentle voice. She placed her tray down and moved aside the Bible to put it before him. “I’ve made you a good stiff drink, sir,” she said, “which will help you bear your sorrows, I daresay.”

  He looked down at the glass stupidly for a moment. Then he raised his head to look at her and said, “Take it back. Pour it out. Pour it out, or down your own throat, if you like, but I shan’t drink it.”

  “But sir, Cook assures me it is a favourite of yours.” She stared at him in wonder.

  “That has nothing to do with it, Mrs. Hamilton. I have a cup to drink, apparently, that has already been given me. And it is the only one I shall sip from until it is emptied, I’m afraid.”

  Mrs. Hamilton searched his desk with her eyes. She saw no other beverage. Tears came into her eyes. “My dear sir,” she said, leaning against the desk weakly, for she was that overcome by seeing him in such a sorry state. “Allow me to have Mr. Speckman prescribe some laudanum for you!”

  He realized that she did not get his meaning. “Mrs. Hamilton—I am not out of my senses. I am in the midst of a trial, and I shall see it through. I shall see it through with the strength God gives me. I want nothing other than the weakest port, do you understand?”

  “Oh!” She came to her full height again, rejuvenated by his little explanation.

  He looked at her, as if he was surprised that she still stood there. “Well, fetch it!”

  “Right away, sir!” She left with a sniffle, but it was a happy sniffle. The mistress was still poorly, but at least the master was holding up…well… masterfully!

  Lord Horatio had been given the family coach to get himself to Middlesex, and he climbed out of it now even as his footman was already at the door of Aspindon, waiting to announce his arrival. It was long into the evening, but it seemed oddly quiet, and he hoped the Mornays were not away. But the door opened at last, and a little wisp of a maid peered out at them. As he approached, his footman stood aside.

  “Is Mr. Mornay at home?” he asked, moving as if to enter the house, only the little maid moved to block his path. He stopped in surprise.

  “He is, sir.”

  “You are speaking to Lord Horatio,” the footman said, without a blink.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, yer lordship,” Molly said.

  “Well…may I come in? I am here to see your master.”

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, yer lordship,” she said again, “but mistress is ill, and no one’s to come into the house, sir—yer lordship.”

  “Ill? What sort of sickness, do you know?”

  “She’s got the fever, sir—yer lord—”

  “That’s quite all right,” he interjected quickly. “But I’ll take my chances. Let him know I’m here, will you?”

  “Yes, yer lordship, sir.” Molly’s wide eyes almost made him laugh except that they were alarmed. She moved aside and let him enter the house, where he stood for a moment, looking around at the great hall. Mr. Frederick came briskly through a doorway and saw Lord Horatio.

  “Why it’s Lord Horatio! How do you, my lord?” he said, bowing.

  “Very good, Freddie. How’s yourself?” He was holding out his hat and cane, but Freddie made no move to take it. “Oh, I know, I know, Mrs. Mornay is ill. Well, I’m not leaving, so tell your cantankerous master that I’m here. Sent by the prince, in fact.” He was still holding out his effects, and Freddie reluctantly took them.

  “He’ll bark at us for giving you leave to enter.”

  “Sorry, old fellow, but I need to see him.”

  “Very good, m’lord,” he replied, but his voice was doubtful. He led the man to a drawing room and left him with a bow. “If you need anything, my lord…”

  “No, no, thank you, old man. Just bring me your master.”

  About eight minutes went by, and then Freddie returned to the room. His face was drawn.

  “Well? Did he bite your head off?”

  “My lord,” and Freddie’s sober face finally caused a worry to come upon his. “Mr. Mornay cannot be disturbed. Mrs. Mornay has reached a crisis in her sickness, sir.” The butler’s eyes were red, and he was blinking quite a bit.

  Lord Horatio looked really surprised. “Upon my word! It is as bad as all that?”

  “We may lose her, your lordship.”

  “My soul! This is terrible! What can I do?”

  When Lord Horatio showed up at the vicarage, it caused a stir. For one thing, prayers had ended and Mr. and Miss Barton had returned to spend the evening with the assembled company. Mr. Barton had become adept at knowing just what time it was safe for him to return without having to endure the religious zeal of the curate.

  The cook from Aspindon was still sending large amounts of victuals to the household (master’s orders), and just then the guests were taking tea with biscuits and cake which she had supplied. It was all very nice, indeed. But then his lordship was announced by Sykes, in a voice that said he understood the importance of this guest (a lord!).

  The room fell silent, except that Miss Barton gasped and actually dropped her cake onto the carpet. Lord Horatio looked at her, then, and his mouth gaped open for a second, and then shut again in fast succession. The letter had directed him to the vicarage, not the Manor House where he supposed Anne and her brother to be. Mr. O’Brien rang for the housekeeper, and then went to welcome the newest guest to his household. Lord Horatio stared at him for a moment, and then said, “O’Brien! That is you, is it?”

  “Yes, your lordship.” He smiled gently. “Please come in and join us.” When the housekeeper arrived, she had another tea cup, though already there was china from two different sets in use, in order to accommodate everyone. Horatio had to endure endless introductions, but when it was Miss Barton’s turn, he bowed lower than he had for anyone else, stepped up, and took her hand and kissed it. “I believe I am acquainted with Miss Barton.”

  Mr. Barton was watching him with an eagle eye, and Beatrice noted that his usual friendliness of manner seemed to have deserted him.

  “What brings you to Middlesex, my lord?” Mr. O’Brien asked. “At this hour too?”

  Lord Horatio forced his eyes away from Miss Barton’s face and said, “Well, that’s just it. I have some terrible news.” Beatrice gasped, and the room fell silent. He looked around. “Mrs. Mornay has reached a crisis
in her illness. Mr. Mornay asks you to pray, to pray very hard.” He felt rather strange delivering such a message. Lord Horatio had never asked anyone in his life to pray for anything. Also, despite the gravity of the situation, and despite all of his past friendship with Mrs. Mornay, he was preoccupied with another errand, and he could not rest until he had seen to it.

  “Mr. O’Brien,” he said, right out loud and in front of everyone. “I have come here with a special license, signed by the archbishop. I would like you to marry me to Miss Barton, and at your soonest convenience!”

  “Oh!” Miss Barton stood up, with one hand against her waist, and was staring at his lordship as though she was not aware of other people in the room. Mr. Barton was exceedingly surprised, but did not seem displeased. He looked at his sister and nodded at her, when she finally turned her eyes to him for a second. He said, “Well done, Horatio!”

  Mrs. Royleforst’s little eyes were as wide as they could get. Miss Bluford’s eyes were even wider. She asked, without realizing perhaps, that she was speaking aloud, “Do you mean you approve of this match?” Her voice had come out in a high, reedy tone, and not a person in the room could believe they had actually heard from Miss Bluford; or that she had truly questioned the match. After recovering her astonishment at her companion’s audacity, Mrs. Royleforst said, “Here, here! I second that question!” Miss Bluford gave a look of sheer adoration to her mistress. Instead of the companion agreeing with her employer, for this once, for this one occasion, Mrs. Royleforst had agreed with her companion.

  Mr. Barton said, “To both your questions, I can answer, yes, I do; with all my heart.”

  But Mrs. Royleforst had more to say. “Surely Miss Barton does not wish to accept a man who does not propose but in a roundabout way; who barges in on genteel company at night, with a license in hand, indeed!” Everyone looked to Miss Barton. Lord Horatio’s face grew shadowed.

  “I do accept him!” she cried, as a tear slid down her face. To Horatio she said, “You received my note, then?”

  He nodded. “It gave me the courage to come after you.”

  “Courage?” she asked. “When I always hoped you would!”

  Beatrice was smiling despite her embarrassment at this show of affection, between two virtual strangers, for she had still not reached that level of friendship with Miss Barton where one becomes comfortable with another. But this was too sweet not to smile at, despite being so irregular.

  “And you will marry us?” Lord Horatio turned to the curate.

  “After I examine that paper, yes. Shall we say, tomorrow? In the church?”

  Miss Barton could contain herself no longer, and at this she flew to the side of her betrothed. He received her with one arm about her, and their eyes met and held fast. Miss Barton was smiling and crying at the same time.

  “I am greatly obliged to you, Mr. O’Brien,” she said, through her happy tears. “Greatly obliged!” Mr. O’Brien merely nodded kindly in acknowledgment. She turned to Mrs. Forsythe and added, “And to you!” But Ariana’s mother could scarcely pay heed.

  “My daugh-ter!” she cried. Her voice was so loud that everyone’s attention flew to her. “We must pray for Ariana! She has reached a crisis! Time is of the essence!”

  “Of course!” said Mr. O’Brien. Mrs. Forsythe stood up, and then, with a look around as if she were daring anyone to cavil, she dropped to her knees by the table and began to pray silently. Beatrice quickly stood and went and joined her. Miss Barton, tugging lightly onto Horatio’s sleeve, motioned for him to come, and they, too, slowly took places around the table. It was exceedingly unusual, his lordship thought, but somehow it did not feel improper.

  Mr. O’Brien had opened his Bible, and now he came and got to his knees near the others. There was room for one more, and he looked at Mr. Barton expectantly. Mr. Barton grudgingly moved toward him, but at the last minute he stopped, and without another word, turned and left the room. In a minute, they heard the noise of the front door. He had left the house. In another minute, Mrs. Persimmon, who had cleaned up the cake that Miss Barton had dropped, returned, and she came and fell to her knees, making the little circle of people around the table complete.

  Mr. O’Brien found a page in his Bible, and then said, “We will agree in prayer tonight for the safety and recovery of Mrs. Mornay.” Beatrice had tears in her eyes, and she clung to his words as great reassurance. He saw the look on her face, a look of deep distress, and he said, looking directly at her, “If two of you shall agree on earth as touching any thing that they shall ask, it shall be done for them of my Father which is in heaven. This is the Word of our Lord.”

  “Amen.” The others spoke in unison.

  He nodded at her very earnestly. It was as though she could hear his voice again, saying, “You must trust God’s faithfulness!” And, “Do not borrow trouble.” Ariana might have reached a crisis, but she had not died, yet. There was still hope. And here she was in a prayer circle, agreeing on the Word of God about her sister’s recovery. “It shall be done for them of my Father which is in heaven.” She would dare to believe it.

  Mr. O’Brien said, “And now, each of us must pray from the bottom of our hearts for Mrs. Mornay. From the bottom of your hearts!” He looked about at the circle of faces. “Who will agree with me?”

  “I will,” said Beatrice. He nodded.

  “I shall also,” said Mrs. Forsythe. Mrs. Royleforst, who was still upon a sofa (for she was a large woman and lame in one leg) said, “I do agree, sir.”

  “And I!” put in little Miss Bluford.

  Miss Barton and Lord Horatio looked at each other askance. Miss Barton shrugged. This night had been an answer to every prayer that she had uttered of late, and so she said, “We also, sir.”

  “We are all in agreement, then!” said a satisfied Mrs. Persimmon.

  Mr. O’Brien said, “Please, let us take hands with one another.” Obediently, with teary smiles on some—this was so peculiar!—they did so. Horatio was happy to have a reason to take Miss Barton’s hand, most affectionately; and then the curate led the little gathering in a prayer for Ariana that was at once both heartfelt and encouraging. He prayed for healing and health; for a speedy recovery; for the continued health and prosperity of the Mornay household and all of its tenants. And finally, for each one in the room there tonight. “We are gathered in Your name, Lord, and in Your name we pray. Amen.” When Beatrice looked up, his tall head was still bowed in a reverential attitude, and she felt the most ardent admiration for him. How wonderful that he had appeared when he did!

  What would they have done if Mr. O’Brien had not generously opened his new house to them? What if they had been scattered, without news of Ariana? And what if he had not been there to lead them in prayer? To be the beacon of strength in this time of sorrow? How foolish she had been, to speak to him in the carriage, yesterday! Why had she told him of Mr. Barton? Beatrice was now certain that Mr. Barton, despite his wealth, or amiability, or social connexions, could never make her happy. Nor could she please him. How could her grasp of both men have changed so substantially in one day? But it had!

  His head came up and he glanced at her. Quickly she averted her eyes. How embarrassing!

  Mrs. Forsythe began thanking him; Beatrice quietly asked the housekeeper for a night candle to find her way to her bedchamber. There was much in her heart to consider.

  Twenty-Four

  Mr. Barton left the vicarage in disgust. That Lord Horatio had showed up to claim his sister’s hand should have thrown him into the best of spirits; it was the very thing he had never for a moment believed was possible, but had happened. Lord Horatio had honourable intentions and meant to marry Anne! It was indeed one weight lifted from his shoulders. He no longer had to worry about social disgrace for his sister, or that his name would be tainted as a result. Of course, some people were bound to whisper when the child came early…but that was nothing at the moment.

  The thing that sent him from the house in disgust was the �
�prayer meeting.” He knew O’Brien was an Anglican curate, but dashed if he wasn’t acting like a Methodist! Or worse, a Dissenter! And the others had gone right along with him as if it wasn’t the least unusual thing in the world. Why, for all he knew, it might have been heresy! Weren’t people supposed to pray in church? He knew it did not look well in Beatrice’s eyes, but he could not bring himself to kneel at the table. It was impossible.

  Worst of all, the reason behind the impromptu prayer gathering was also highly irksome. If Mrs. Mornay was at a crisis, then Mrs. Mornay might be deathly ill. She could die. And if she died, there was no longer anything to tie Miss Forsythe to the Paragon. Knowing Mornay, he’d have nothing to do with the family; he’d no doubt retreat into his old, miserable, caustic nature and become a recluse—or a terror. Either way, there would be no advantage for him in marrying Beatrice Forsythe.

  He felt sorry about it. He liked Miss Forsythe. She was a good-natured girl, prone to enjoy a laugh, and pretty to boot. But when she’d been family to the Paragon, he liked her better. Or if she’d had her own fortune, say, ten thousand pounds or so, he’d have found her irresistible. Without either one, he was afraid he could not afford her—not unless he was prepared to give up his nights at the clubs, which he was not.

  When he reached the Manor, he was still deliberating on what his next move would be. Mornay was still in quarantine and there wasn’t a deuced thing for him to do in Middlesex. He was itching to return to London. Dash it, but this country life was deadly dull! He was sorely tempted to drive himself back to the city that very night. But highwaymen would be a threat; and he didn’t relish going it alone.