Before the Season Ends (36 page)

Ariana gasped.

“Can this be possible?” Mr. Mornay asked her.

“I have left more than a dozen letters, I am certain of it!”

Haines looked dumbfounded.

“I have never seen them…” He lapsed into a troubled silence.

“One thing is certain.” Mr. Mornay faced Ariana. “Whoever takes them is not sending them on. Your parents have not written because they think you have not.”

“No. They would write me in any case,” Ariana insisted. “If my letters have not been reaching them, I feel sure the same fate has befallen their letters to me!”

“But who? Why?” asked the butler. He was terrified of being a suspect to their minds, although he knew himself to be innocent.

“That is the question we must all find the answer to.” Mr. Mornay looked at Haines and told him to ask his mistress to join them.

When, a few minutes later, Mrs. Bentley arrived, she had already prised some of the business from her longtime servant, and demanded to know the entirety. Ariana told her all she knew. Mrs. Bentley fixed her eyes shrewdly ahead, staring at nothing, deep in thought. Suddenly she looked at them all.

“I think I know a suspect!” She sounded as surprised by the realization as the others were to hear she had got one. The lady of the house looked at Haines.

“Molly. Something about that abigail has long bohered me! What do you know of her?”

M
rs. Bentley sent her letter to Ariana’s parents by way of her own personal messenger, with a smaller note from Ariana explaining, as well as it could, why they might not have received any letters from their daughter, and that Ariana had received none from them. Ariana wanted to write pages about Mr. Mornay, but her aunt was in a hurry, wanting to see the wedding move forward, and would only allow the short note.

After the discussion in the parlour, they agreed to set up a test to discover if Mrs. Bentley’s theory about Molly, the newest maid in her employ, was correct. To wit, was she the interceptor of the letters? Haines had not been able to give any information about her except she seemed to be adequate for her position. But Mrs. Ruskin, when sent for, had some illuminating information. As housekeeper, Mrs. Ruskin handled the hiring of domestics, needing only a final approval from the butler before taking on a body. It was she who had interviewed and hired Molly.

The girl had come highly recommended. Mrs. Ruskin was even able to locate the letter which had accompanied the abigail when she applied for the position. Mrs. Bentley opened the paper impatiently and had barely scanned its contents when she let out a great, “Aha! I might have known!”

She passed the paper to Mr. Mornay who looked it over swiftly. He recognized the name Cecelia Worthington, but it meant little to him
as her family was distinguished neither in birth or fortune. He passed the pages to Ariana.

“Gracious!” She looked in dismay at the paper and then to her aunt, who was pacing with cat-like intensity.

“Of all the nerve! That woman sent Molly here for a purpose. She usually uses her ‘Sophia darling’ to spy out anything she wants to know, but to infiltrate my household in this manner—it is—it is unendurable! Inexcusable! Why, it must be criminal!” she concluded, hopefully.

“Only if the crime is provable,” put in Mr. Mornay, to which her face dropped. He added, “Which is precisely what we shall find out when we conduct our test.”

The test was simple: Ariana would write a letter and leave it on the tray as usual. Only this time Haines would be on the watch, and a footman also—just in case. One was to follow Molly after she had confiscated the letter, which they were all certain she would do. When he discovered what she did with it, he would return and make his report. The tricky thing was to decide what to put in the letter. It had to seem authentic, but somehow contain bait for Mrs. Worthington, to make her come forward. It would be all too easy for her to place full blame on the maid and feign innocence. Unless she could somehow be coerced into revealing her hand in it.

After mulling over ideas, Mr. Mornay suggested a tactic that was daring and foolproof. Rather than write a letter at all, they would infuse the paper with a strong, permanent ink powder, so that whoever opened it would be hard pressed not to find herself instantly stained with evidence. While the ink would come out eventually from her skin, it would take time—time enough for them to confront and expose her. If it sprinkled over her clothing, well, that would furnish permanent evidence.

Everyone liked the plan. Ariana got two pieces of her aunt’s crisp paper—the amount she usually used. The Paragon, meanwhile, went home and fetched a small, opaque bottle of black ink powder from his study. He checked that it was tightly closed. While one needed to add a few drops of water to use the ink for writing, it was so concentrated
that just one stray sprinkle of it could ruin the nicest sleeve—or any clothing—even when dry.

They all watched as he carefully and liberally sprinkled the powder inside the papers, which he had already folded once. He folded them again, very slowly and carefully, and then again, making certain no trace of ink showed through. Mrs. Bentley applied a liberal slab of sealing wax and pressed her own stamp into it; something Ariana always did, not having a seal of her own. Then it was turned over, and Ariana wrote out her family’s name and direction in the usual manner. There. Finished.

The next morning Ariana went alone into the hall and placed the letter in the polished silver tray which sat upon a japanned table. She experienced a feeling of satisfaction from having done so, knowing that the “mystery of the missing correspondence,” as she called it, would soon be at an end. Now, it was Haines’s turn for action. Since there was usually a footman about the hall, he posted one there today but with special instructions. Mrs. Bentley had chosen Ian, a burly Scotsman, for the job, having come to trust him quite explicitly.

Ariana could hardly concentrate on her morning occupations so excited was she. Mrs. Bentley was restless, too, and sought her niece, requesting she join her in the second parlour.

“I thought we might discuss the particulars of the wedding,” she announced when Ariana had come in and seated herself. But Ariana’s face fell.

“So soon? We might wait for word from my parents. They haven’t even heard, yet.”

“But they will, shortly.” Her aunt had an open tablet, a pen in hand, and ink on the table. She looked at her niece expectantly. “Mr. Mornay gave me leave to ask your preference of where you should like to set up house following the wedding. In town, at Grosvenor Square? Or at his estate? Which will suit you?”

Ariana forced herself to attend to the question, though she had no heart for it at the moment.

“I should think that wherever Mr. Mornay desires to be, I will be
happy to accompany him. As long as we are together—Oh, Aunt, must we discuss this now?” She frowned at her relation. “All I can think of is my letter, and what is going to happen. That I might soon receive word from home!”

“And I wish to discuss your next home! You should be putting yourself in mind of it, Ariana.”

“But I can’t bear it! Not when there is some question about the wedding!” She paced the room in agitation.

“There is no question to anyone’s mind, my dear. You are going to marry Mr. Phillip Mornay. There is no turning back. You must be mad to cavil at such a match! The man loves you! He gives you all that is his! I have it right from his mouth!” She paused, a painful look of confusion and disapproval on her countenance.

“I am truly sorry, Aunt. I cannot do otherwise than I am doing.”

“Why on earth, not?”

Ariana sighed. “My conscience tells me I may not marry any man unless he has…substantial leanings…toward the church. A man of faith. Of spirituality.”

“Fustian!
Utter
fustian!” Mrs. Bentley could hardly believe her ears.

“Oh, Mr. Mornay is many wonderful things, truly wonderful!” Ariana paused, appreciating his wonderfulness. “But he is not a man of God, a Christian in the truest sense.”

“Upon my soul, Ariana, I cannot think how you could be so… judgmental, and of one who is your senior, no less! Upon my word—of course he is a Christian, his family has always been. What, were you supposing him a heathen?”

“No. I do not mean that his family does not belong to a religion.”

Her aunt stared at her uncomprehendingly.

“Then what
do
you mean?”

Ariana was silent a moment, forming her answer. “That he does not engage in a personal faith, a life of prayer, of seeking God.”

Her aunt shrugged. “We cannot judge what is in a man’s heart! You cannot! You are obviously too young to appreciate what has fallen into
your lap. I have rarely heard of so generous an offer. And if that does not make him a Christian, I cannot know what does.”

“I grant that Mr. Mornay is generous. And kind—when he has a mind to be. Indeed, I grant that willingly. But these are not things, you must know, Aunt, that make us acceptable to God! This is the teaching of Scripture.”

Her aunt looked at her dubiously. “The good things we do must make us Christians,” she insisted. “Why, it is those things which separate us from the animals, or from savages.”

“My dear ma’am, we are separated from the animals because we alone are made in God’s image—no other creature in all creation has been given that honour save humanity. Even ‘savages,’ as you say, are made in the divine image. But we become Christians only by following Christ. We trust in His work on the cross—not our own works, however generous they be. It is through Christ alone that man can be forgiven for his wrongs and made righteous for heaven. Only through trusting in Christ!”

Ariana was nervous about daring to contradict her relation, but these were truths her aunt sorely needed, and she could do no less than try to explain them for her soul’s sake.

“But then
anyone
could be a Christian!”

“Precisely!” Ariana cried, pleased.

“It does not signify what manner of wrongdoing they are guilty of?” She spoke as though the very idea was heresy.

“Not in the least!”

Her aunt threw up her hands.

“In that case, any heathen is a Christian! Any mean-minded person who crawls the face of the earth can be a Christian? You are not making sense, Ariana.”

“It makes perfect sense, ma’am, when you understand no one is innocent in God’s eyes, mean-minded or not. We are all, alike, in need of forgiveness—perhaps some more than others, but no one is beyond God’s love, or His reach. And no one is good enough for His love on their own, without Christ.” She paused, praying the Lord would
illuminate these deep truths of the Christian faith to her woefully unlearned relation.

“I have been baptized,” the lady stated, stiffly. “That is the atonement, and what makes me a Christian!”

Ariana had to shake her head in disagreement. She was troubled by this chasm of misunderstanding between her and her aunt’s ideas of the Christian faith. She spoke gently. “No, ma’am. Baptism is not the atonement. It is merely symbolic of Christ’s atonement. The Bible says there must be blood shed to pay for sin. You see, we owe a debt: a sin debt, which can only be paid for with blood. In the Old Testament, they sacrificed animals to atone for sin. And they had to do it over and over again, for no animal’s blood could permanently erase the stain of sin from a human soul. But Jesus, because He is God as well as man, could atone for our sin. Which is why He died on the cross, ma’am. He was our sacrifice for sin.
He
is the atonement. But His sacrifice only brings forgiveness when we ask for it. We must confess our sin and ask His pardon. And that is what causes the conversion to Christianity. It isn’t about which church you attend, but whether or not you’ve been washed clean of sin—forgiven!—by Christ. A forgiveness that is received by faith.”

Mrs. Bentley wiped her brow tiredly. “If I understand you correctly,” she said, her voice hollow, “you are saying we cannot earn our passage to heaven?”

“That’s right. We cannot. Here is a verse that tells us so, plainly. ‘For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that, not of yourselves, it is the gift of God: not of works, lest any man should boast.’ That is from the book of Ephesians, chapter two…”

Her aunt was staring blankly ahead. Ariana went and sat by her side.

“Aunt? Are you ill?”

She came to as if out of a reverie, and when she spoke it was completely without her usual force of manner.

“This Christianity you speak of is not what I have known. And yet, I must own that I have been long afraid of God, because my works
are sadly lacking. I thought I had to do so much to earn His favour and could not that, well, I simply gave up.” She was looking earnestly at her niece.

Ariana spoke gently. “All you need do, my dear Aunt, is receive a gift—the gift of salvation found in Jesus Christ. Seek Him in prayer, and by reading Scripture, and read the prayer book. Surely these things are not asking too much. Knowing God is within your grasp, Aunt Bentley! Pleasing Him, too. Trust Him, keep Him in your heart, and He will keep you for heaven!”