The Country House Courtship (11 page)

“Perhaps I was too friendly toward him! In the past, I mean. I will not make that mistake, again.”

He paused, but, stroking her face and chin, said, “Let us have no more discussion of the matter. I hoped for us to be of one mind in this so that you say nothing to give him false hopes of Glendover. Mr. O'Brien may accept as many benefices as he is offered; only anywhere else in England, than on my lands.”

She looked thoughtful a moment. “I do think you injure the man's character more than is warranted; and I must say, it would be kind in you if he were to be given one of the advowsons you own in the north or south; he could profit from the salary while living at Warwickdon.”

He took a breath and thought for a moment. “You plead his case strongly. Your interest in his welfare begins to strengthen my resolve.”

“Oh, do not say so! You cannot mean you are jealous of him?”

He paused. “All you do is support him! You wish to grant him a living on our property! To keep him near you, in other words.”

“Phillip! I have told you my only design is to encourage a match between him and Beatrice! How could you even think—I am astounded at you!”

“And I am disappointed in you.” Their eyes met, but Ariana had to turn away. Her husband had never before said such a thing to her. But she pushed away the sense of injury, bit her lip, and said, in a small voice, “The parish has stood vacant for two months now. The people need and deserve a parson. When
will
the position be filled?”

“When I've found the right man. I'm still settled upon retaining the rectorship in case we have another son.” He turned her about and kissed her lightly on the mouth. “Not all men wish to join the army or navy, you know.” He was studying her face.

“Do not be out of countenance,” he said. “I am about to do the man a service. You'll see; he will be greatly encouraged.”

“I hope you are right,” she said with resignation.

In one of the cottages belonging to Aspindon House, a home of an agricultural worker and his family, the mother of the household was bent worriedly over the still form of her sleeping eldest child, a girl named MaryAnn. The father walked in, brusquely forcing open the hinged door with a blast of cold air, and coming in loudly, stamped his feet and moved quickly toward the fire. He was rubbing his hands and held them out now, over the coals. “It's taken a nasty turn out there,” he said, turning his hands to warm them evenly.

“She's still sick, Giles.”

He made no answer, didn't flinch, and finished warming his hands before turning to look toward where the child lay on a makeshift bed of straw. He walked over and peered down at the girl, who was red with fever, her blond hair clinging to her face and head in wet wisps. Beads of perspiration were on her skin.

“I don' like it,” said the mother, a woman not much older than her landlady, Mrs. Ariana Mornay. She curled her hands beneath her chin, worrying. “I think we should call the 'pothecary! She's been like this for more'n a day, now!”

The man looked at his wife a moment, thinking. “C'mon, now, Mary; we agreed on this. We can't do that. If word gets out, I'll be taken off the job; we can't afford that. Not in winter!”

“
Why
would ye be? It's not you that's sick!”

“You know how it is! With this fever goin' round, if Mr. Horton gets a whiff o' this girl bein' ill, I'll be chopped off the work like that! They're right afraid that somethin' awful will 'appen to the little master, or the new lit'le laidy at the big house.”

“But we'er not sending '
er
to work! If ye don' go see Mr. Price, she might die, Giles! Can ye live wi' that?” The mother's tortured eyes pleaded with her husband. They looked twice their normal size, being wild with fear. She grasped his arm tightly with one hand, for he had made a move to turn away.

“I'll ask ye again. Can ye live wi' that?” When he made no answer, she said, “Look at 'er! Look at 'er! She's your daughter!” He pulled his arm loose and turned his back, but he was thinking hard.

He went to the nearest window—there were only two—and looked out sullenly. Then he slowly circled the room, still considering what to do. He came back and stood, looking down at the sick girl.

“I'll see what's to be done,” he said, in a gruff, low tone, and replaced his cap and left the cottage. His demeanor was grim.

His wife watched him go, frowning with worry. She turned back to gaze upon the still form of her daughter, and then went and checked on her other offspring, two young boys, who were both soundly asleep. She felt their foreheads and necks; no fever. That was a mercy, at least.

Beatrice, Mrs. Forsythe, and Mr. O'Brien spent the next hour sightseeing on the grounds that flanked the house, except that they did not enter the maze. Beatrice had a fright of mazes, she had to confess. She had heard a lady telling once of a terrible misadventure which occurred when she had gone into a maze, and got lost for nearly an hour. It had started to grow dark, and by the time she made her way back out, she said, she had been ready to swoon. It took her two days to recover her composure.

Beatrice had taken that tale as a warning. When she realized they were at the mouth of the opening to the maze, therefore, she had objected strongly, so that she had to share her story with her companions. Mr. O'Brien was most solicitous and understanding, and he moved them on.

“I believe my daughter means to remove the maze,” said Mrs. Forsythe. “No one goes in it any longer, for Nigel once ran ahead of Mrs. Perler and that poor woman nearly had an apoplexy! It took her fifteen minutes to find the child, you see, who kept running ahead, and would not give an answer or make a sound, as he thought it a game. I daresay she felt just like the woman you told us of,” she added.

They continued on, for it was a clear day, giving much to admire even in winter. Mr. O'Brien was courteous and entertaining, and had offered an arm to each lady, so that they flanked him on either side.

“How long do you expect to be staying with us, sir?” inquired Mrs. Forsythe.

Mr. O'Brien met her gaze with a curious little smile. “I am unable to answer that question, ma'am, as I hardly expected to be here this long.”

“Sir?” she asked, smiling in return. “Can you explain yourself?”

“Well,” he said, “as you know, I am come on account of a recommendation from Colonel Sotheby.”

“Yes; so what is your surprise at still being here?”

“I assumed, based on my past experiences with Mr. Mornay, that he would make quick work of sending me back to London, ma'am.”

“Indeed?” asked Beatrice. “On what account?” As soon as she asked, she suddenly remembered how Mr. O'Brien had tried to put himself forward at Ariana's wedding—to the point of standing in for the Paragon, who was late. It turned out that Mr. Mornay had actually been shot in the arm the night before, which caused his tardiness; but Mr. O'Brien had certainly not endeared himself to anyone by making a last, though hopeless, attempt at marrying Ariana Forsythe.

“I believe, if you must know, it was my ill-advised infatuation for your sister.”

He had been honest and frank, and non-evasive, and Mrs. Forsythe was determined to be pleased with him in any case, so she said, heartily, “I understand, sir! Now you mention it, I recall some such thing; but there is no need for us to dwell upon the past. We are all aware, I am sure, of how much we learn as we grow older; and how much we regret our youthful blunders.”

Beatrice was pleased to be included in this assessment of learning more and growing older and regretting youthful blunders as though they were assuredly behind her, so she said, “Amen to that!”

She was sorely tempted just then to raise the subject of her own “youthful blunder” when she had promised to marry Mr. O'Brien. If she did, particularly in the context of putting these things in the past, it would relieve her of the constant worry that the curate would speak of it. But she fell to thinking about it, and wondering how to begin, and the moment was lost.

Mr. O'Brien, for his part, was both pleased and surprised by their good will, and chuckled to himself at Beatrice's response. He saw that they were coming around another bend of the house, returning to the front, and said, “I believe I shall inquire of our hosts for a hot drink when we reach the drawing room. Who shall join me in it?”

“I will!” said Mrs. Forsythe. “A good hot cup of negus, I think.”

“I will too,” said Beatrice, peeking up at him from within her bonnet. “Although chocolate will suffice for me.”

Her large green eyes made a pleasing contrast to the buff-coloured velvety hat she sported, the ribbons of which formed a large bow beneath her chin. Her scarf was flapping behind her, and small russet curls framed her face. Mr. O'Brien was aware, deep within himself, that she was looking lovely. But a major portion of his brain warned him against noticing her at all. She was a Forsythe. He would never make a cake of himself by admiring another Forsythe girl. It was utterly unthinkable. Particularly as he was waiting upon Mr. Mornay to determine his fate, as it were.

On an intellectual level, he knew that only God could decide his fate. And how he prayed He would! If God were to grant him the vicarage at Glendover—but no, he shouldn't even think of it. It was not going to happen. He saw it in every look of his host. It was a mystery to him why Mr. Mornay had not yet thrown him out on his ears, but that was probably because Ariana had spoken for him.

She had also insisted he stay to sup with them; and then she urged him to take a guest bedchamber in the house, so that he found himself now as a guest of the Mornays. He had no idea when the gavel would be dropped; when Mr. Mornay would impart the dreaded news and make him leave. He had come prepared for that to happen, but each delay of the business somehow upped the stakes for him. This was why he had requested the meeting with Mornay. He could not, must not, allow himself to hope. He would concentrate on behaving as any good curate should; on seeking to make amends for his past transgressions. He could at least return home, then, in the knowledge that this event had occurred for a worthy cause. If nothing else, he would be at peace with the Mornays.

It would be an unexpected boon. He suddenly realized that he should like very much to be on good terms with the couple. Even with Mr. Mornay. Astonishing.

When Giles Taller reached the apothecary's, he hesitated a few moments, looked around warily, and then entered the shop. Another man was at the counter talking to the clerk and Giles settled himself to wait, standing with his arms crossed, and his head bent, as though lost in his own thoughts. But he was listening, and couldn't help hearing the conversation.