The Country House Courtship

by Linore Rose Burkard

  “I will need to bring a report back to your mother. If I return without learning of your sister’s condition, she’ll want to throw me in the stocks, I imagine.”

  It was meant as a small joke, but Beatrice was too piqued to respond at all. Mr. O’Brien had the distinct impression that he had somehow transgressed, but he hadn’t a clue as to how. He was doing his honest best to be a friend to Beatrice, to give her his counsel, and without burdening her with a jot or tittle of his own admiration for her. He was being as generous with himself as he possibly could be; her reaction did not make sense to him.

  The last thing she had asked was if Mr. Barton deserved her. He wished he could have shouted! He would have said, “Of course Mr. Barton does not deserve you! You deserve a man of God, who will honour you as a co-heir of salvation! You deserve a man who is thrilled by the look of your green, beautiful eyes, and the shine of your hair in the sun. You deserve someone who finds your temper exhilarating, and your strong emotions energizing! Like me. Like me!” But of course he could not so speak.

  “Was my opinion of Mr. Barton not good enough to please you? Is that what vexes you?” he asked. She was about to turn the door handle when the door opened from the inside. Frederick stood, looking out at them with the peculiarly dour gaze of a butler. Ignoring him, Beatrice turned back to the curate.

  “Not good enough? It was far too good, if you must know! You are the most uncaring man in the world!” And with that, she started crying, and entered the house. Frederick waited for Mr. O’Brien to decide whether he would enter too. The Curate stood there for a moment feeling utterly perplexed, looking after Miss Forsythe with near shock on his face. Remembering himself, he asked, “Is there news of Mrs. Mornay?”

  “Mrs. Mornay continues as she was, sir.” The servant’s eyes revealed that he knew somewhat more. “Mrs. Pellham has come to tend to her, however. It gives us all hope.”

  The clergyman nodded. “Pray for her, Frederick. Pray very hard!”

  “I have, sir. I will again.” Before he shut the door, as Mr. O’Brien turned to go, he added, “Thank you, sir.”

  Back at the vicarage, Mrs. Persimmon brought the Bartons and Lord Horatio into the drawing room, where only Mrs. Forsythe was nervously working on a piece of needlework.

  No one seemed to know where Mr. O’Brien had got to, and when it was discovered that Beatrice was also gone, and the carriage, Mrs. Forsythe guessed aloud that they were inquiring about Ariana’s health. She was poking her needle into the canvas rather feelingly; Miss Barton felt too shy to mention their errand—that they were come to be married. She felt badly about Mrs. Mornay herself.

  Mr. Barton was standing looking out the window. He had come to witness the marriage for his sister, but he had nothing to say to either Mrs. Forsythe, or Beatrice, really, until he knew where things stood with Mrs. Mornay. If she recovered, he would pursue the alliance with Beatrice as before; if she did not, he was prepared to wash his hands of the whole business; admit his failure to the prince; give up the Manor House, and get back to his life in London. He had hoped to find himself in the prince’s debt, to be celebrated at Carlton House or Brighton; but so be it. His life was not so bad just as it had been. This country living was what he could not abide!

  He suddenly had a thought intrude upon his brain, however. If Mrs. Mornay did recover, and he wished to pursue Beatrice, would the curate be an obstacle? Both were gone from the house. That put them together somewhere. Dash it, he did not like it!

  He turned to Mrs. Forsythe. “I understand that your family has long known our Mr. O’Brien, is that correct, ma’am?”

  “Some of our family has long known him, sir. Particularly Mrs. Mornay.”

  “Does he often take one of your daughters abroad with no chaperone?”

  She eyed him with surprise. A sense of unease sniffed at her heels, and she replied, cautiously, “He is a trusted acquaintance, sir, if that is your question.”

  “Tristan, mind your manners!” put in his sister.

  He turned to her. “Does it not strike you as odd? They’re being out together? Did they not once get lost upon the Aspindon grounds? Let us hope they have not agreed on another adventure of some sort today!”

  “I am certain they have done no such thing, sir,” said Mrs. Forsythe, wondering at this sudden censure from the gentleman. She suddenly realized that Mr. Barton was speaking like a disappointed young man. Like a man who thought himself thwarted in love perhaps? She was not averse to the curate in any way, and if this time with her daughter might be conducive to a romance, fine. But she needed to tread carefully. It must not seem scandalous in any fashion. So she added, “My daughter knows that I will rest easier when I have heard of Mrs. Mornay’s condition this morning. You can be assured that this was their object.”

  “Of course,” he replied politely; except that his tone lacked an ounce of sincerity. “I beg your pardon.”

  “All we can do now, is to wait,” said Mrs. Pellham. Phillip sat upon the bed beside his wife, holding her hand. He and Mrs. Pellham had already taken turns applying cold cloths to her head and body. A poultice of ice was upon her brow. Additionally, he had taken a wet cloth, wrapped it over some ice, and smoothed it over her face and neck and arms, even her chest. If the fever made it dry, he passed the cloth again. Nevertheless, through it all, Ariana was still, quiet, and limp.

  Mr. Mornay released her hand, and went and stood before the casement. It was a typical winter day, not too sunny, but the silent landscape was now an unfeeling reminder of happier days. The bedchambers looked over the rear of the estate, and he could see the maze, and he thought suddenly of the day a young blond-headed woman had run into him at top speed; she was exceedingly pretty, but that he ignored; he always ignored women. Instead he proceeded to give her a set-down, and she had thoroughly surprised him by returning him one.

  Her spirit, that was the first thing that attracted him to her. Looking over at her now, so pale and silent, and still hot with fever, was totally disheartening. If only this would pass, if the blasted fever would just leave her! A light knock at the door revealed Mr. Speckman, who was greeted with a blast of wintry cold air. The windows were now only open an inch or so; but the fire was out; his patient was exposed to the air, and the room was cold. His eyes opened in shock. “What the devil are you doing? Do you want to kill her?” He rushed over toward the window, but Mr. Mornay sprang to his feet and put himself in his path.

  “You’ll kill her, sir!” the doctor maintained. “I tell you, she’ll not survive!”

  “If you cannot give your approval, Mr. Speckman, I suggest you take yourself off.”

  With a look of gravity, almost fear, the man eyed Mornay for a moment; recognized the air of assurance. His advice would no longer be followed. He went and collected his bag. His assistant, behind him, gathered more things, and the two of them left, giving only the slightest bows. At the doorway, the man stopped and turned around. “Her death will not be upon my shoulders.”

  “True; not any longer!” cried Mrs. Pellham. He looked injured at that, but turned and was gone. In another moment, Beatrice came into the room. She had seen the doctor and his assistant in the corridor and thought the worst; that they were leaving due to failure! Her sister was lost! She burst into the room, stopped to glance at the scene, and then, with a great sob, threw herself at her sister’s limp body.

  “You’ll hurt her,” cried Mrs. Pellham, sharply, trying to pull her off.

  “What?” Beatrice blinked at her. “She isn’t—? I saw the doctor leaving.”

  “Oh, no, my dear! Your sister is alive!”

  “Oh! Thank God!” She sat up, brushed a bit of ice from her gown, and turned and studied the form upon the bed. She met the gaze of Mr. Mornay, who nodded a greeting. She had nothing helpful to say to him, and so she turned her attention back to Ariana. She reached out her hand to smooth away a stray bit of hair, and felt Ariana’s pale face. Curious, she touched the back of her neck, then her arms, and h
ands. Mr. Mornay saw her doing this, and he started over, an intense look upon his countenance.

  “She isn’t hot!” cried Beatrice.

  Mrs. Pellham and Mr. Mornay at once both began to feel her skin in various places, and in a rapture of joy, Mrs. Pellham threw herself against him, into his arms, and they actually hugged. The two of them both loved Ariana, and if Mrs. Pellham had never expected to find herself embraced by the Paragon, she did not show it now. Beatrice was also overcome, and she put her arms about the two of them as best she could.

  Mr. Pellham, meanwhile, had been warned by his wife to stay clear of the sickroom, but he, too, was quite fond of Ariana. Unable to help himself, he timidly opened the door, expecting to find a sad scene before him. When he saw the three in a circle of closeness, he thought the worst had occurred. He crept silently into the room, and, not wanting to disturb the mourners, took a glance at the lovely lady upon the bed. His eyes filled with tears. And then, suddenly, Ariana was looking up at him.

  He blinked, thinking he was imagining it. But then she blinked.

  “Upon my soul!’ he cried, causing the others, who did not know of his presence, to jump apart in surprise.

  “Randolph! You frightened me!” cried his wife.

  “She’s awake!” he said, in delighted response.

  Mr. Mornay had just discovered this, and he fell to her side on his knees and took her into his arms. He was cradling her head against him, and he kissed the side of her face, and whispered, “Thank God! Thank God!”

  The others looked at each other, and by silent motions agreed to leave the pair alone. In a few seconds they had gone, while Mr. Mornay held his wife, who was still too weak to talk or return his sentiments. He shut his eyes, knowing what was coming, but it was too late; a tear slid down his face. He had almost lost her, but she was back! She would recover! Thank God!

  Mr. O’Brien, unfortunately, had the unhappy honour of delivering only bad news. The fever hadn’t broken, yet, to his knowledge, and Ariana’s danger had not passed. To say the atmosphere in the house was dampened would be an understatement.

  Lord Horatio got the curate alone and said, “Look here; would it be improper, under the circumstances, to ask you to perform the ceremony for us?”

  Mr. O’Brien said, “I think it is acceptable; one sad event does not mean there cannot be a happy one.” He pulled out his watch fob. “Is your bride ready?”

  “Yes.” Lord Horatio smiled. “I am much obliged.” He shoved some banknotes into Mr. O’Brien’s hand. “Please. Let me take care of this, now.”

  “Thank you!” Mr. O’Brien, so used to officiating at ceremonies for the poorest of London, was not used to accepting paper notes, as those beneath his care could usually part with only a few shillings. There was no set amount for his services, and he had always been grateful for whatever came his way, but Lord Horatio had managed to eke some money out of the marquess as well as the family coach. And he was a generous man.

  The pair were married in the parlour, and Mrs. Forsythe wished that Beatrice could have seen their curate in his surplice, his official robe and collar, Bible in hand, delivering the ceremony without hindrance.

  She felt so proud of him, herself! Almost as though he was a son, which was strange because she had never been closely acquainted with Mr. O’Brien before. When they were pronounced man and wife, she managed to smile and give the new couple her sincerest best wishes—along with a few shillings for a new bonnet, she said—and tried to keep up her spirits while Mrs. Persimmon provided some refreshments afterward. It plagued that lady that she had not known in advance of the wedding, for she would have had a finer table, she said. But Miss Barton certainly did not care. She was all smiles, and had never looked lovelier.

  The moment the couple left, the children came down for their daily time to be with the adults, and so Mrs. Forsythe wore only smiles for their sake, and made sure to stay in the parlour while their visit lasted. She would not let Mrs. Royleforst have them all to herself!

  “Dash it all, I’ve just remembered something!” said Lord Horatio.

  “Well?” asked Tristan. They were just turning in to the drive of the Manor. “I’m supposed to get Mornay to London for Prinny.”

  “Are you? That’s deuced interesting because I am supposed to do that very thing, also!”

  “Tristan has had no opportunity,” explained Anne. “Mrs. Mornay’s illness makes it impossible.”

  “Did you tell the prince?” Lord Horatio asked.

  “I told him of the threat to Mrs. Mornay; and that the Paragon would no doubt accept the viscountcy.”

  “He has agreed then?”

  “No, not in so many words. But would you turn down a title? He’s an Englishman, is he not?”

  Horatio whistled. “One never knows with our dignified friend.”

  “The place is a sickbed, in any case,” snapped Mr. Barton. “We’d take our life in our hands if we try and see him now.”

  “Let us call there in a few days,” said Anne. “By then, the outcome with poor Mrs. Mornay will be determined, and we will know whether to try the man or not.”

  “Well, and since you are newly wed, I think I’ll just take myself off to London, and leave the Manor House for your pleasure.”

  “And abandon Miss Forsythe to the curate?” asked Anne, half joking.

  “She is stuck at Aspindon now until her sister either recovers, or dies. I should not likely see her, in any case.”

  “See here,” said Lord Horatio. “Mrs. Mornay is a dear friend; do not speak so unfeelingly of her, I pray you.”

  “I beg your pardon,” he said, surprised to discover this. “I only mean that my interest in Miss Forsythe must cease if Mrs. Mornay does not rally through this.”

  “Is that so?” asked his lordship, still feeling protective of Ariana.

  “She brings me no advantage without her sister, you addlepate! I can’t afford to marry beneath me,” he answered.

  “You dare to say that to me? When I have just married your sister with a dowry so small as to be unacceptable to my parents!”

  Mr. Barton eyed him with an unreadable expression. “You are a better man than I,” he said. “But a poorer one.”

  “On the contrary,” said his lordship with an easy smile, as he put one arm around his new wife, “I have riches ye know not of.”

  Twenty-Six

  By the time word had spread that Mrs. Mornay had survived the crisis, Mr. Barton was back in London. He threw himself into his clubs and gaming at tables, and congratulated himself on finding an escape from the tedium of the countryside. During quieter moments, he saw the pretty face of Miss Forsythe, or heard her delightful laughter, or detected a sparkle of mischief in her bright eyes. It was a pity, that’s all. But he decided he must soon make the drive and find out what was what before giving her up entirely.

  He did not have the latest report—that Ariana had survived the crisis—so that instead the news went around swiftly that she was in grave danger. The Regent himself heard this, and sent a gift for the children. He did not know what else to do.

  Then, exactly three days after Ariana had awoken from her sickness, word trickled in of her recovery. Mr. Barton had still been dragging his steps and hadn’t returned to Middlesex, but at this news he made haste and was on the road speedily. Now that he knew his course, he wanted to see to it with all due haste, before that deuced parson had a chance to usurp his place.

  Ariana was growing stronger by the day, but her husband made it clear to Beatrice that his wife would not be setting foot in London until she was absolutely fully recovered. When she accepted this information without a qualm, he assumed it was on account of her good sense in the matter. She understood that her sister could not be rushing about from ballroom to dinner party after having suffered such a devastating illness. Little did he think her meek acquiescence had far less to do with Ariana than with Beatrice’s changing hopes.

  What had she wanted so badly in London, she no
w wondered. It was true that Mr. O’Brien had nothing so fine as an Aspindon; he was not a man about town; he was not a glib, amusing Mr. Barton. And yet, somehow she had become thankful that he was not! In fact, she suspected that she loved him all the more for it! A finer house might have been a boon, but in her heart she had developed this odd feeling that where she lived was not nearly as important as who she lived with. In fact, it was worse than that: She was feeling that she belonged in the vicarage, with Mr. O’Brien. Indeed, could it be that it was her place to be at his side no matter where he lived? Yet, for all she knew, Mr. O’Brien thought her a foolish girl, not worth his time. He had not given her any indication of his thinking otherwise.

  She had not seen the man since the day he brought her to the estate, the same day that Ariana had overcome the worst of her danger. But she thought of him often. If only she had not expressed an interest in a fine house! In a Season in London! In Mr. Barton! How foolish her words sounded to her own ears now! Oh, she assuredly had been most foolish!

  “Miss Beatrice,” said Mrs. Pellham, for she had been at table when Mr. Mornay let fall the news regarding a London Season. “You might consider returning to the metropolis with Mr. Pellham and myself. I no longer have the consequence I had when your sister was with me, but I can show you a very diverting time, I am sure.”

  Mr. Pellham nodded saying, “To be sure, your aunt is superb at gathering invitations.”

  “Why, thank you, Randolph!” the matron crooned.

  “I am much obliged, Aunt Pellham,” replied Beatrice. “Truly. Only I must tell you, at present I have no wish to go to London.” Mr. Mornay held his fork in midair. (Ariana was still taking her meals, small ones, in her chamber.)

  Mrs. Pellham said, “Oh! I beg your pardon! I understood you desired a coming-out!”

  Embarrassed, Beatrice replied, “I meant no disrespect, ma’am.” She dabbed her mouth with a linen cloth. “May I have some time to consider your offer?”