“Of course you may,” she answered. This struck Mrs. Pellham as reasonable. She no longer felt that strong need to sponsor a gel as she had used to. Marrying Randolph seemed to have filled some part of her that had used to need the attention. Her offer to Beatrice, therefore, was all the more generous in that it was entirely unselfish. She did have a few last words, however, which she lost no time in parting with:
“Do you recall that your sister will now truly be Lady Mornay, as your brother has finally had the good sense to accept the honor of a title. A viscountess! My niece!” she beamed at Mr. Mornay with more than her usual approval.
Mr. Mornay merely nodded. When he finished eating he told Beatrice he needed to speak with her.
When they were alone in the library afterward (so that the Pellhams could sit in the drawing room), he looked wryly at his young relation, and asked, “What has made you think better of a London Season?”
She gazed at him with an odd expression. “I suppose I am merely thankful that my sister is well; if I do go to Town, I should prefer it to be with her and you, sir; not my aunt and uncle.”
“Your aunt is likely to put forth a greater expenditure upon you than either myself or your sister.”
She nodded, but he could see it did not impress her in the least. Interesting!
“I must tell you,” he said, “that during your sister’s illness I had much time to consider a great many things, one of them being the day you disappeared upon the estate with Mr. O’Brien.”
This caught her attention, and she looked up at him with interest.
“Yes?”
“I have come to the conclusion that the incident was sufficiently compromising to your character so that you must wed.”
Beatrice’s face froze. Her eyes opened wider. She could not help it and had to smile just a little, all beneath the watchful gaze of her brother-in-law. She looked at him, and all he could detect upon her features was relief and joy. By Jove, the girl was in love! No wonder she had given up London!
“I will write to Mr. Barton at once,” he started to say, but Beatrice gasped.
“Mr. Barton!” she cried. “Surely you do not think I can wed Mr. Barton!”
He stopped in surprise. “He offered for you, regardless of the incident with O’Brien. It makes an easy escape for you, under the circumstances.”
“Escape? To what?” There was silence a moment. “To a life with him?”
Here Mr. Mornay had to smile. “Barton has the money to keep you in style; he can buy the Manor House, and you can be neighbour to your sister. Does this not please you?”
Beatrice was suddenly taking deep breaths, too distraught to say anything. She leapt to her feet and walked first this way, then that. Her arms were crossed across her middle. “I can never marry Mr. Barton! Was I compromised by Mr. Barton? No! Was I taken care of by Mr.Barton? No!” She looked at Mornay as though he was pigeon-headed. Blinking back tears, she said, “Is he a good, kind man who fears the Lord? No! Is he gentle and soft-spoken and wise? No!” She stopped before him and opened her arms in exasperation. “Do you honestly think he would make me a good husband?”
Mr. Mornay was trying not to smile. But he said, “No!”
“Oh! Then you shan’t try to force me to wed him?”
Her startled words brought out the full, handsome smile. “By no means! I only proposed it because I thought you preferred him.” How auspicious. He knew that his wife would be delighted to discover that her sister had fallen in love with their young cleric.
Beatrice stared at him for a second. In unison, because he saw it coming, they both shouted, “NO!”
Weak with relief, Beatrice sat back down upon a wing chair in the room. A maid had come in and was building up the fire, but she paid no heed to her. Beatrice looked up at him, smiling through tears of joy, and said, “You are the best and kindest of brothers, sir! You are the best and kindest!”
He was smiling and nodding. “May I tell your sister or do you insist upon that honour?”
Beatrice looked askance for a moment. “Oh, you may tell her!” she breathed. She was still holding one arm across her stomach while she let this turn of events sink in upon her. But then a terrible thought occurred to her. “Sir!” She caught him before he left the room. “What if Mr. O’Brien does not wish to marry me?”
Mr. Mornay looked at her with mild eyes. “I do not think you will have that problem.”
That afternoon, Mr. Barton showed up at the doorstep of the vicarage. He was delighted to discover the good news regarding Mrs. Mornay, and he said just that to the ladies in the parlour. Miss Forsythe was not present, but he would ask about her soon enough.
“And how does Lord and Lady Horatio?” asked Mrs. Forsythe.
“Very well indeed, ma’am, I thank you. It seems that Lady Weverly has decided that she adores my sister; this has put her in the good graces of her new mother and father, and all is as well as it could be for them. For now.”
Mrs. Royleforst caught those ending words. “For now, sir? What mean you by that, pray?”
“Did I say that? How very foolish of me, for I meant not a thing! What I need to know,” he said, looking around the room (and smoothly changing the subject), “is whether it is now safe to call upon the Mornays.”
“We think it best, on account of the children, Mr. Barton, to wait a few more days.”
“There is always the devilish possibility,” said Mrs. Royleforst, “that my nephew may fall ill.”
“I see,” he said. “And Miss Forsythe? Is she well?”
“She is well, I thank you, sir,” said her mother.
“Capital,” he said, “Capital, indeed.”
“Will you join us for the evening meal?” asked Mr. O’Brien. He did not really wish for the man to stay, but his manners were too good for him not to ask. Mr. Barton, however, declined the offer. With no Beatrice there to amuse him, he would be bored to pieces if he stayed. Even more, while he did not wish to expose himself to any disease, he needed to settle the matter of his wedding. He would write to Mornay, renew his offer, and be done with it. He could return to London a happy man, and stay clear until every last threat of illness was gone. He would then marry Beatrice and buy the Manor House. It was a delightful plan.
Mr. Mornay opened the letter which had just been delivered, by hand, by Mr. Barton. He understood why the man had not wished to come into the house—but it did nothing to raise him in his estimation.
It was a letter asking for the hand of Miss Forsythe.
Having only just come from his wife’s bedside, where he had regaled her with the very welcome news of Beatrice’s surprising disclosure, he knew exactly how to reply.
Mr. Barton was delighted to receive a quick response to his declaration. But as he read the response—then reread it—he considered that there had to be some way to answer this; to change the girl’s mind, perhaps. How could she possibly prefer a country clergyman to him—for he just knew that O’Brien had to be the reason for this rejection. It couldn’t be. It lacked sense. He finally concluded that Mr. Mornay, for some inexplicable reason, preferred the “old acquaintance” to himself, but he did not believe it was Beatrice’s sentiment. He crumpled the note and threw it into the fireplace. He would see about this. He would not give up quite that easily!
The next few days passed slowly. Mr. Mornay carried his wife downstairs one day; and the next, she came down herself. It was wonderful to see her improving so speedily, but there was a small sadness in the household, nevertheless, for she missed the children exceedingly.
“I cannot stand it for a second longer!” she said, finally on the next day. “Get me my children, this day, sir, or I will go mad!” Mr. Mornay folded his arms and stared for a moment at his beautiful wife. Then he smiled.
“Master Nigel, come, you are to go to your mama!” Mrs. Forsythe’s joy could hardly be contained as she summoned the little boy. The child, dark curls bobbing, dropped the wooden toy he’d been holding, in a crouche
d position, and sprang to his feet. Eagerly, he shouted, “Mama! Huzzah!” The baby Miranda was hastily dressed and made ready and bundled off for Mr. Mornay’s carriage which awaited them.
During the drive, Mr. Mornay kept his son upon his lap, and kissed his head, and played with him, and listened to him with endless patience. He feasted his eyes on his daughter too. When they reached the house, the children were brought to the drawing room, where Ariana was seated on a comfortable divan, fluffed with pillows, but she stood as soon as they entered the room, and watched with joy while her son ran toward her. She dropped to one knee and held her arms open for him. The little one flew into her embrace.
“Mama! Mama! Where were you? Where were you?”
“Oh, my Nigel, I missed you!” she said, giving him an almost crushing hug, for she could not embrace him tightly enough. She turned her face and began kissing his head and cheeks, and her eyes were teary, if not closed, as she absorbed this long-awaited reunion. She ceased kissing and petting his face and held him again tightly against her chest, though he began wriggling from her.
“My toy,” he said, “do you want to see it, Mama?”
“Yes!” she answered, still beholding him like an angel sent from heaven. Meanwhile, Mrs. Perler brought the baby, and Ariana held out her arms; and this time tears did fall.
“Look, Mama!” Nigel had a complete new set of exquisitely formed and painted wooden soldiers, and now brandished a few in his hands—they were of the prince’s colours, as the Regent had them specially made and sent when he heard of Mrs. Mornay’s illness. When Ariana noticed their superior craftsmanship, Mrs. Forsythe said, “A gift from the prince, my love. When he heard of your illness.”
“Oh!” She was sensible of the honour and the thoughtfulness, and admired the pieces prettily not just for Nigel’s sake, but because they really were tiny works of art. From her apron, Mrs. Perler pulled a few more of the Dragoons, and Nigel shouted, “See how many, Mama? From the king!”
“The prince, my love,” she corrected.
“No, he’s the king, Mama! He has to be the king!” His little face went into a pout. She said, “We cannot make people what we would have them be, but must accept them as they are, my pet.”
Some of the toy men were on their knees, aiming a weapon at an imaginary foe; others were on horseback, and the horses were fashioned as carefully and with as much detail as the men. The prince himself was represented by a good, tall fellow (much taller than the Regent, in reality), who held up a sword in one hand, while his other arm pointed forward, as if to direct his troop to the battle. His costume even included a little blue sash across his chest, which, unlike the other painted figures, was made of real silk. And the hat he wore had real miniscule tassels spouting from the centre.
“Has anyone sent a thank-you to the prince?” Ariana asked. “How long ago were these received?”
“Just the other day, and I did send a note of thanks with the messenger who delivered them. At that time, my sweet, we were not certain of your survival”—and here Mrs. Forsythe stopped, her eyes filling with tears just at the thought of how close a brush Ariana had endured with death—“and perhaps it would be a kindness to send another message, telling him of God’s mercy upon you and us all.”
“Now I think on it,” said Ariana, “Mr. Mornay can give our thanks in person, as he is to see the prince after he is ennobled.”
“Yes! You will be Lady Mornay, now!” Her mother’s eyes were filled with tears, again, though they were happy ones.
Meanwhile Nigel was trying to be patient, but was yanking upon his mother’s gown.
“And you,” said Ariana, looking fondly down at him, “Will be ‘the honourable’ Nigel, sir! On paper, at any rate.”
Ignoring this, he cried, “Will you play with me and my men, mama? You can be the King!”
“You mean the prince, sir!” she said, playfully.
“Mama, why can he not be king?”
She smiled. “Because the real king is his father! And he lives, still.”
Nigel frowned. “Why is he not here? I want the king too, Mama!”
“This is the prince’s regiment, sir! You have the honour of being their master, and that must satisfy you.”
“I want to show them to Papa again,” he said, for they had already been taken out and admired during the carriage ride.
She took his little chin in her hand and made him look up at her. “Today you will stay for tea with the grown-ups! Right in this room too!”
“Tea! Huzzah! An—an—biscuits?” he asked, his dark black eyes large in his face. Ariana smiled; Nigel’s eyes were so like his father’s.
“Of course!” She nodded to the servants, who left to fetch the tea tray. Nigel had suddenly desired to climb into her lap, however, and so she gave up the baby to Mrs. Perler. Nigel was studying her, and he put his little hands on each side of her face. “You look different, Mama.”
“Mama was ill; but I am better, now.”
“I’m glad you are better, Mama!”
The tray was brought in with a fresh tea service, and plates of biscuits, scones, and slices of seed cake. Mr. Mornay returned to the room as well.
“Papa!” shouted Nigel. He pulled his hand free from his mother’s and charged at his father like a little bull. Phillip was already smiling and received the boy into his arms only to lift him, upside down, and deposit him upon his shoulders, holding tightly to his little chubby legs. The boy’s papa was wearing his shirt and waistcoat, but no outer garment, for he had anticipated his son’s antics. Ariana settled Miranda once again upon her lap, watching her husband and son with a smile. Nigel’s shrieks of delight were blithely ignored by the baby, who snuggled warmly against her mother.
Phillip glanced over from time to time, but he continued playing with his son, getting on his knees and taking the child about on his back. Ariana watched adoringly. Who would have known—not even she—that Mr. Mornay could be so playful and unrestrained with his offspring? It was beautiful to behold, and at times she wasn’t sure who was having more fun, the child, or the father. However, as soon as Nigel was removed from a room, her husband reverted to his usual, more sedate nature. She still marveled upon it.
The wet nurse appeared. “I beg your pardon, ma’am,” she said with a curtsey; the playing on the floor stopped while Phillip paused to hear what was said. “I believe it’s time for the baby to be fed.”
“Oh.” Ariana paused, sorrow flooding her heart suddenly because she could no longer perform that office. But she lifted up the child, saying, “Of course; thank you, Mrs. Dennison.”
At that point, as if aware of the sudden separation from her mother, the baby awoke with a shudder, and let out a muffled cry; then, a louder one. Mrs. Dennison took her with a look of urgency, and disappeared with the crying child from the room, moving determinedly and with rapid strides.
“My sister has to eat? My sister is hungry?” asked Nigel.
“That’s right, darling.”
“But, Mama, your ’sposed to feed her!”
She smiled weakly. “Mama cannot feed her any longer, but she will be fed, very well, I assure you, by Mrs. Dennison.”
“Do you like my men, Papa?” asked Nigel eagerly.
“I do, sir!” he replied, but he got to his feet and started smoothing down his clothing.
Nigel suddenly realized that treats were available and dropped the little men like they had the plague and hurried over to the table. Molly helped him fill a small plate with foodstuffs.
Mr. Mornay sat beside his wife. “I have sent word to O’Brien to see me. Your sister is anxious to settle the matter of her future—though I cannot understand why,” he added, in jest.
“Excellent,” she replied. “And you will now grant the living at Glendover to him?”
“If he isn’t so pigeon-headed as to refuse it.”
“Phillip—you are to be brothers now. You must speak well of him henceforward.”
Mr. Mornay made a sm
all sound of irritation in his throat. “Must you remind me?”
Twenty-Seven
When will you speak to Mr. O’Brien?” Ariana asked Phillip. “To tell him that we have decided his fate?” She continued in a droll tone: “He must marry a delightful girl, become a vicar for the first time, reside at Glendover, which is finer and more spacious than even Warwickdon—and live happily ever after, I daresay!” She was smiling at her husband, but a little worry came over her, creasing her brow.
“What, now?”
“If you insist upon the wedding, will Beatrice ever feel he did not desire it? He has made no declarations to her, I think.”
He put his head back and frowned at her. “Do not say you are not content with a forced wedding! It is precisely what you hoped for! And we have every right to insist upon it; and, Beatrice is in love with the man! What could be more propitious?”
“If he proposed to her without any onus from us. So that she may never have cause to doubt him.”
He smiled down at her, now, amused. “I should say you are quite recovered, are you not? Back to scheming, already.”
“Only for the happiness of my dear and cherished sister!”
“And what do you think I can do for her happiness that I have not already done?”
“We must put them alone together again, so that Mr. O’Brien can speak for himself, under no duress, and from his heart.”
He looked doubtful. “Who is to say with all the time alone in the world, he will speak for her?”
“He must! I believe he will!” she said, as if there could be no doubt about it.
“Perhaps you can arrange it,” he said. “I believe I have had my fill of the matter.”
“Very well,” she said. “Only, you must give me your word not to interfere.”
“Done.”
“Thank you, darling!” She settled into his arms and gave him a welcome kiss of gratitude.
Mr. Barton knew that he would have to act quickly. He went by the vicarage first, and found only Mr. O’Brien there. All of his guests, the clergyman told him, had returned to Aspindon only hours earlier.
The Country House Courtship Page 32
