The Country House Courtship

by Linore Rose Burkard

  In the end, he had a drink and just lost himself in thought before the fire. When Anne came home much later, escorted by his lordship, she was hoping to question her brother, to understand what had caused his earlier disappearance, but not much information was to be had from Mr. Barton by that time.

  He was asleep, spread-eagled, on the floor in front of the fire, an empty wine bottle beside him. He was oblivious to the most ardent shaking and to all efforts to make him stir.

  When Agatha and Randolph Pellham, or “Aunt and Uncle Pellham,” received a letter from Mrs. Forsythe telling them about Ariana taking ill, there was only one thing to do. They must leave their nest and get Mrs. Pellham to her niece directly. Mrs. Pellham detested leaving her house. She detested travel of any sort. But she had a special fondness for Ariana. It was so strong a fondness that it was stronger than her dislike of travel or leaving home; and so fly to her niece she must.

  Her decision, once made, had to be executed with the utmost haste. She therefore had her servants in such a flurry of activity and tasks as would make the most seasoned housekeeper quake. And she liked to check on it all: She oversaw the packing of their trunks, the closing up of the house, the readying of their coach and four, and the preparation of a basket of victuals to take for the journey. Bricks were heated, woolen stockings donned, hats and coats and waistcoats and jewellery (Mrs. Pellham never went anywhere without her jewellery), all packed up and stowed in the boot of the coach. Carriage blankets were ready, and even a small vial of brandy—in case the cold became too ruinous to Mr. Pellham’s constitution.

  When all was stowed and ready to go, the coachman sat hunched atop the vehicle, clad in a heavy, many-caped coat and ponderous hat, so that his face could not be seen. He knew his orders: He was to go with all possible speed and haste to Aspindon of Middlesex. Beside him sat Haines, equally prepared for the cold—and for hoodlums. He had learned to use a weapon since the unfortunate events of the past when Lord Wingate had abducted his mistress at point of pistol; he now prided himself on his accuracy, and Mrs. Pellham considered him indispensable to her comfort when travelling.

  In addition to her dislike of travel, Mrs. Pellham had an aversion to sickbeds. Thus her journey, and her object, were rather extraordinary. In the back of her mind, however, was her hope not only to be of assistance to her beautiful (though very particular) niece, but to see the children again. She adored her great-nephew Nigel, and had not yet met Miranda. There was no question, therefore, that she would have to go to them. And where she went, of course, Randolph went also.

  She brought her little leather-bound Book of Common Prayer for the journey, and she held it within her gloved hands for most of the ride. Even if she didn’t open it, the sight of the worn black leather tome in her possession was enough to reassure her.

  To this day, the memory of the Season five years earlier when Mrs. Pellham (she’d been Mrs. Bentley then) had sponsored Miss Ariana Forsythe in London was one of the highlights of her life; an annus mirabilis, a miraculous year, when Mrs. Pellham had been welcome in the finest drawing rooms of the aristocracy; when Ariana had done the impossible and snagged the famous Mr. Mornay for a husband! And she, Mrs. Bentley, a widow for well-nigh ten years, had finally agreed to marry Mr. Randolph Pellham, her dearest and most loyal companion. They had been happily together since.

  This was why she moved with such haste, and ordered her coachman to make good time. The mercy of it was that the Pellhams were at their London townhouse when they heard the news, instead of their country estate. Mrs. Pellham always left the country for town before March, well before the Season started, to ensure the best seamstresses were at her disposal. Thank goodness, for that reason only, they could reach Aspindon in less than three hours; had they been home in the Cotswolds, it would have been an overnight drive, at the least.

  “My dear Mr. Pellham,” said the lady, when they were both comfortably seated among a canopy of blankets and pillows and had heated bricks beneath their feet.

  “Yes, my dear Mrs. P?”

  “I feel that we ought to pray for Ariana. I must confess, Randolph, to having a most unnerving and unnatural feeling of dread concerning her.”

  “Mrs. P, you must not distress yourself so; allow me to read from the prayer book, and you, rest your head upon me, here, with this pillow—”and he moved a small travelling pillow so that she could lean her head comfortably upon it, which in turn, rested upon his left arm—“and I shall begin. I was about to read the Collect, myself, you know.”

  “May we pray together, first, Randolph? I despise this terrible suspicion! I must vanquish it—or rather, ask the Saviour to.”

  “Oh, it is like that, is it? Yes, we must pray, then.” He took her hand warmly within his own, and bowed his head to lead his wife in a “prayer of agreement” over the safety of their journey; and the health of Ariana. Mr. Pellham’s faith had grown along with his wife’s over time, so that to turn to the prayer book or Bible was second nature to them now. And to pray together was not just a duty but a privilege. They had seen the effectual power of prayer too many times to doubt its use.

  “Oh, you are such a comfort to me, Randolph!”

  “As you are to me, Mrs. P.”

  After praying, they travelled on while he read to her. He chose selections from the prayer book, the Bible, and then from a book of sermons. Next to travel books, sermons were Mr. Pellham’s favourite reading material.

  Mr. Mornay was losing all sense of hope. His wife’s delirium had ended, but was replaced with an ominous silence. Her previously restless limbs were still; her face, as though asleep; and yet it was much worse than a normal sleep, as nothing could rouse her. His eye fell upon a framed bit of verse on the bedside table, something Ariana herself had written out with painstaking neatness and had framed and placed where it sat. He picked it up on a whim, and then returned to her side. Taking his seat, he began to read it aloud to her: Who knew if she could hear him? She had loved this enough to take the trouble to write it out; he would read it to her now.

  When on her Maker’s bosom

  The new-born earth was laid,

  And nature’s opening blossom

  Its fairest bloom display’d;

  When all with fruits and flowers

  The laughing soil was drest,

  And Eden’s fragrant bowers

  Receiv’d their human guest;

  No sin his face defiling,

  The heir of Nature stood,

  And God, benignly smiling,

  Beheld that all was good!

  Yet in that hour of blessing

  A single want was known;

  A wish the heart distressing;

  For Adam was alone!

  O God of pure affection!

  By men and saints adored,

  Who gavest thy protection

  To Cana’s nuptial board,

  May such thy bounties ever

  To wedded love be shown,

  And no rude hand dissever

  Whom thou has linked as one!

  —Reginald Heber

  He finished reading; Ariana did not stir or show a sign of change. With a deep sigh, he fell to his knees. “O God! Where is Your protection, indeed! Do not dissever what You have linked in one!” Mr. Mornay had not felt as helpless, hopeless, or desperate at any time in his memory. In fact, he felt a slow panic beginning to rise within his breast. How often had he said that a man needed only God to get by in life? How often had he spouted such nonsense? He needed more than God—he needed Ariana! He couldn’t face his life again without her!

  He looked up once more to see her face, very white and pale, despite the heat that still emanated from her skin. He was losing her, he knew it. Losing Ariana! He had to do something; it was impossible, suddenly, for him to remain helplessly by her side a moment longer.

  He rushed from the room, falling, bumping into his own furniture, into the columns at the top of the stairs. He moved like a blind man, like one drunk; he could not see for
his eyes were filled with tears. He did not cry—but he needed something to put his hand to or he’d go mad! He felt so helpless! He made a fist with his hand and moved it as though he would slam it against the wall, against a bust, but he stopped himself, looked at his fist in despair, and dropped it.

  He rounded the bottom of the stairs. Where was he going? He didn’t know. He’d been thinking of the Taller family. If only Mr. Taller would show up at his doorstep this very minute! He could kill the man! It was his fault! Why had he not come forward with the truth earlier? Why had he not let them know in time, before Ariana went near them! It was his fault, by God! If he lost Ariana, it was Mr. Taller to blame for it!

  He was slowing down, becoming spent. He was going only on the energy of rage and despair. Where was God now, when he needed Him? Where?

  Losing energy quickly now, he stumbled to the front hall. Mr. Frederick came to an interior doorway, apparently having been there for some time. He stayed back and watched with a sad, grim expression. Mr. Mornay picked up a small statue—something resting upon a tall urn. He looked at it, and then threw it to the ground. The butler’s lips compressed even more. He’d never seen his master like this in the twenty years of his service; not even when the old Mr. Mornay had died, or Mrs. Mornay, his mother. Not even when his brother Nigel died.

  Just at that moment, the knocker sounded on the door. Mr. Mornay looked up, as if struck. Mr. Frederick hurried out, but his master saw him and said, “No. I’ll get it.” Mr. Frederick stopped where he was, and watched with an expression of sad regret.

  When he reached the front door and flung it open, there, to his utter astonishment, stood Mr. Taller! The very man he was feeling positively murderous toward!

  “You!” he said.

  “I ’ad to come,” the man muttered. “I ’av to know. How is she?”

  Mr. Mornay threw himself out the door, leaning upon a wide column, which flanked either side. He stared with a terrible look at the cottager. “You’ve killed her, if you must know! You’ve killed her!”

  Mr. Taller’s face broke up into tears. He shook his head. “No, no, I didn’! Don’t say I did!”

  “You and your cowardly lies!” His face was in the other man’s face, but Mr. Mornay slowly regained control of himself. He wanted to strike the man, but when it came down to it, he knew too well that it was wrong.

  “She’s dead, then? Truly?” He looked almost as distraught as Mr. Mornay.

  “Not yet. Not yet.” He seemed to think about that for a moment, as if newly realizing it.

  “An’ what’re you doin’ down ’ere, then, eh?” Mr. Taller was angry, now. “She’s got life in ’er, and you’re missin’ it! Ma Mary is gettin’ better. Ma MaryAnn ’s better! Your wife may get better. But you should be wi’ ’er, that’s what!”

  Mr. Mornay stood up straight, staring at the other man’s face. He was right. And his wife was improving? His daughter had improved! That meant there was hope for Ariana. When he came back in the house and dashed up the stairs, Frederick just stared, surprised. But it had to be good. Mr. Mornay had energy again.

  He didn’t stop until he had returned to his wife’s bedside.

  She was still unconscious. He bent over her and felt for a pulse, then, gratefully, with some small relief, he knelt down at the bedside and prayed. One hand slowly groped until he found hers, and he clutched it, though she could make no response.

  “Forgive me!” he prayed. “And have mercy!” His eyes were still wet, and he suddenly gave in to the first real sob he had ever succumbed to in his memory. He tried again to pray, but was overcome by another racking sob. Then, he lifted his head and studied his wife’s face, and suddenly was seeing her as she had been, always with a ready smile, with love in her eyes for him and for the children. He dropped his head again. “Do not take her, my Lord,” he prayed, “but I give her to You. I give her to You.”

  Mr. Speckman came into the sickroom. He had taken a brief absence, to eat something in the kitchen. He frowned, seeing Mr. Mornay on his knees by the bed, with his head in his hands. He, too, was feeling utterly helpless. He pulled out his watch fob and read the face of the timepiece, but his frown only deepened.

  Ariana lay on the pillow, in the exact position Phillip had left her in, near an hour since. The physician sat by the counterpane, sadly looking out over the wintry countryside view. He turned when Phillip woke up in a chair by the bed, however, and rose from his seat.

  “Has there been a change?”

  “None, sir.”

  Phillip looked down at his wife, and put forth one hand to her brow. She was still burning with fever and the touch of his hand made her turn her head, eyes closed, and moan in a low tone, though no words could be discerned. He felt his heart tug at him in such a strong manner that he wanted for a moment to take her up in his arms. But what good would it do? He could not help himself, and he sat down beside her.

  Mr. Speckman looked at him sadly, and turned away, directing his gaze back outside the window to give the man a degree of privacy. But he almost shook his head. He’d seen such cases before, and seldom did the sufferer recover. And such a young woman! It made his own heart ache, but there was nothing he could do to help her. She was entirely in God’s hands.

  It was early in the morning when the Pellhams’ coach pulled up to the house in Middlesex. Haines had a time trying to get someone awake, though his master and mistress were still comfortably snuggled together in the vehicle. Finally, when no amount of banging the knocker produced a response, he was getting ready to inform the Pellhams that they would simply have to wait for the house to stir, when the door opened.

  It was Mr. Mornay, but Haines stared at him stupidly for a moment. Such a change in a man he had never witnessed! Mr. Mornay looked to be the one fallen ill. His hair was disheveled, his face had some days’ growth of stubble, he wore no neckcloth, and his white cambric shirt looked as though he’d slept in it, and it hung sloppily outside his pantaloons; in short, Mr. Mornay was a mess. It was rather a shock, even for someone who had not seen him in many months.

  Noise behind them revealed that Mrs. Pellham had seen him and left the carriage, followed by her husband. Mr. Mornay was blinking at them tiredly, but he held the door open and allowed them to enter the house. Mrs. Pellham stopped beside her nephew-in-law and gave him a sharp, appraising look. He half expected a set-down, but all she said, finally, was, “How is she?”

  His ghastly appearance was a fright, to be sure; but even Mrs. Pellham knew that what it signified must be far more frightening, indeed. Ariana was in worse condition than she feared!

  Mr. Mornay was unable to speak, and could only shake his head in the negative. Mrs. Pellham was already removing her bonnet and shawl, but he found his voice to say, “You mustn’t stay here; it is contagious. I apologize for the lack of hospitality…”

  But Mrs. Pellham ignored him. “I have come to see my niece, and I will see her.”

  Mr. Mornay eyed her uncertainly for a moment. Freddie came out, still buttoning his waistcoat, and joined the small group in the hall.

  Mr. Pellham said, “Show me to a guest bedchamber, sir, with room enough for my wife and me; we are staying.” His firm tone conveyed that the decision had been made. Freddie looked to his master who said nothing, so he bowed and said, “This way, if you please, sir.” It actually encouraged him that new people had come; fresh blood, which was not already discouraged or exhausted, like the rest of them.

  Before they left, the butler found the courage to face his master, saying, “Perhaps you can take some rest now, sir. With Mrs. Pellham here—”

  Mr. Mornay turned an acid eye upon his servant, who wisely dropped the matter and turned away to take Mr. Pellham to his quarters. Meanwhile, a footman had appeared, who hurried to get the luggage for the guests brought into the house. Everyone was cold, and tired, and should have been miserable, but even Mr. Mornay felt a twinge of hope. For what reason? There was none. Only more people to share the misery with. But
even sharing misery was better than not, it seemed.

  “Take me to her!” Mrs. Pellham’s authoritative voice stirred some energy within the man, and he said, “This way.” The morning light had grown enough to make his taper of no use, and he blew it out as they climbed the stairs.

  Inside the bedchamber, Mrs. Pellham’s shrewd eyes took in the situation at once; the face of the doctor, worried; the gel on the bed, smothered in blankets and sweat; the heat in the room. She opened her eyes rather wide and said to Mr. Mornay, “I want you to remove this man from the room, if you would, sir.” Mr. Mornay eyed her with some surprise, but he looked at the physician, whose face was registering shock at such a thing, and said, “Do as she says, sir.”

  “You desire that I leave the patient, sir?” Both he and his assistant were deeply disapproving of the request, their faces clearly showed.

  “Go to the kitchens and have some refreshment,” Mr. Mornay said. “Leave us for now.”

  Mr. Speckman took a look at Ariana. Then, still looking bewildered and none too happy, strode from the room, trying to keep his dignity intact.

  The moment the door closed upon them, Mrs. Pellham, said, “Get some buckets of water up here at once!” Mr. Mornay had been growing in his distrust of the doctor’s methods, and he did not so much as question her intentions. He pulled on the bellpull, strongly, and more than once. He went immediately to the windows and threw them open as far as they would go.

  “My thought exactly!” said Mrs. Pellham approvingly. She was already pulling off the heavy blankets that were upon Ariana, and she was so disgusted that she merely threw them to the floor. She saw the basin of water beside the bed, and the cloth, and wrung it out, and placed it across Ariana’s forehead.

  “Is ice available?” she asked, just as a bewildered Haines appeared at the door, followed quickly by Fotch. “Gentlemen, we need water; douse the fire; we need ice; on the double!” Both men seemed energized by the requests—finally, there was something they could do! They turned and hurried off to get the supplies. Meanwhile, Mrs. Pellham said, “Help me open this nightdress! It is far too heavy.”