The Country House Courtship (13 page)

“You will have no standing or place in the village,” he said. “People will not trust you.” When Mr. Barton had no ready answer, he added, in a small attempt to dilute the severity of his words, “It bodes well for you that you are at least not merely staying at the Inn. That would surely raise doubts about your character.”

“Yes.” Barton jumped at that straw. “I had hoped that leasing the house for a month, at minimum, would be indicative of both my means, and my intentions.”

“Your means? Very many could afford a house for a month, with no real means at all. An annual lease might be far superior if you intend to tell the world you are a man of means.”

Mr. Barton licked his lips. “I have brought my carriage and two servants; I should think that would help give the impression of my means, sir.” The tension in the room had escalated swiftly.

Ariana did not know why her husband was being so hard upon the poor fellow, who seemed, to her eyes, an earnest young man.

He protested, “I am confounded, I assure you, that my object could be misconstrued as an evil one: I depend upon your friendship all the more, Mr. Mornay, and that of your lovely wife and family (with a nod toward the ladies) to reassure the people in this area that I have only the best intentions.” He finished uncertainly, and Ariana was quick to smile at him reassuringly, but her husband only continued to eye the man with a probing stare.

“To
try out
the country,” Phillip said, a little sourly. Mrs. Forsythe's hand took hold of her daughter's, for the tension was palpable.

“Ah—
yes
. The proximity to Town was a further incentive to me, as I do not relish travelling.”

Mrs. Royleforst was watching and listening with great enjoyment. She knew her nephew well enough to suspect he had a reason for raking the young man through the coals, and therefore she did not question it. She almost tittered aloud when his face grew pale and he licked his lips.

Beatrice, however, knew only that her brother-in-law was making a new acquaintance downright uncomfortable—intentionally. It was unpardonable, to her mind.

At that moment Mr. Barton's eye fell upon Beatrice's, who had been listening intently, and he cracked a smile. He knew the look of compassion in a female when he saw it, and inwardly gave himself a point for dressing. His sister had been against his wearing breeches…

…“It is only the middle of the day,” she had pointed out.

But at least he had been right about the matter of his clothing, and to him that was no small thing. He saw it in the eyes and manner of the ladies, though Mr. Mornay was proving to be devilish unfriendly.

Ariana decided she had to end this perplexing tête-à-tête, and said, brightly, “Well, sir, we are not the village, nor are we flummoxed by your presence.” She looked at her husband: “May I ask our guest to stay and dine with us, sir?”

“If it pleases you.”

Ariana smiled, saying, “I daresay even the state dining table shall be filled! Let us all dress for it!” In another minute, Mr. Barton was invited, and accepted, an invitation for dinner, once again congratulating himself on wearing breeches, as well as for navigating through the maze of sticky questions Mr. Mornay had thrown at him.

“Perhaps we could have dancing!” put in Beatrice. “We will have three men and three ladies!” She turned to Mrs. Royleforst, “And if you care to dance, ma'am, I will share my partner with you!” Her excitement was refreshing to Mr. Barton. Miss Forsythe seemed like a girl he could enjoy the company of. He would ask to be her partner after dinner. It promised to be most diverting.

Ariana smiled at her husband, surprised to find him wearing a scowl as he studied Barton. But she said, “Should we send to inquire of your sister, Mr. Barton? Would she wish to join us, do you think?”

Mr. Barton lost his amiable look as he thought on her question. “No, I thank you, ma'am. When Anne is unwell, dancing is the last thing she would enjoy, I assure you.”

Beatrice laughed. “We shall have our own little ball. It shall be delightful!”

Mr. Barton was looking back at her and smiling in return. What an attractive, delightful girl. Things with Mornay were starting out on a deuced uneven keel, but here was an unexpected boon: Miss Forsythe, a family relation. It was something to think upon.

The dinner was not as splendid as Ariana would have liked, for their chef had not had the necessary notice to make it so. But it was nevertheless sumptuous to the minds of the guests, and satisfying. The state dining room, with its elegant chandeliers and satin-damasked table, its silver and crystal service, goblets and covers and napkins, were not put to shame by the many courses the kitchens served up.

Mr. Barton was clearly in his element, happy that the Mornays did not stand upon points and insist that one speak only to the person sitting next to one, as some people did. Instead, he spoke freely across the table, addressing first one, then another person, or being addressed by them in turn.

Beatrice was not shy; she did her fair share of conversation, and part of it concerned her hopes of the Season in London. Miss Bluford had clearly fallen into an awestruck silence by the finery around her, and stared often at her host, which was thoroughly out of character for her. She often looked from one gentleman to another, in fact, but never murmured a word. Ariana thought the poor thing was very admiring of the gentlemen, and wondered, for the first time, if poor little Miss Bluford was a lonely creature.

But there was much joviality at the meal, and she had no time to focus her thoughts on the paid companion. At any other state dining room, Miss Bluford's presence might have been snobbishly ignored—companions were allowed at table, unlike servants, but that did not mean that all people accepted them. But Mrs. Royleforst treated her companion almost as a sister (albeit a servile sister), and no one else in the room—with the possible exception of Mr. Mornay—treated her condescendingly. However, Miss Bluford was properly astonished to find herself at the finest table she had ever sat at.

Beatrice was enjoying the sheer power of Mr. Barton's presence. When he spoke, she found herself listening with pleasure. The only chink in the armour of his persona was if Mr. Mornay chanced to say something. He alone seemed to deflate Mr. Barton's confidence completely.

Mr. O'Brien was no longer a man to vie for a woman's attention, particularly when her surname was “Forsythe”—so he merely observed how Mr. Barton managed to monopolize Beatrice's conversation, allowing his own remarks to be brief and to the point. He was determined to remain dispassionate, aloof. He spoke when spoken to, not averse to holding conversation, but he was certainly not about to insist upon having Miss Forsythe's attention when Mr. Barton so evidently required it.

The thing upon his mind most (other than the striking appearance of Miss Forsythe, which he was obliged to ignore entirely) was the fact that he had still not had an audience with Mr. Mornay. The thing was becoming absurdly overdue, to his mind. He had come to Aspindon House to inquire about a living. He'd been sent by the recommendation of a man the Paragon could respect. He deserved to have this meeting, even if he was to receive an unapologetic rejection for his troubles.

He noted the spotless cravat on Mr. Barton and wondered if his own attire was up to snuff. But how could it be? He was surrounded by men who dressed to the nines. True, little Miss Bluford spent as much time silently studying him as she did the other two gentlemen at table; but he had no idea what her object could be, or what she was trying to discover.

Miss Bluford was actually astonished at the fine figures all three men made in their evening wear. Not a one of them was unhandsome, each had thick strong brows, though of differing shades. Each man had a strong nose, a fine forehead. Mr. Mornay, she decided, was the most handsome. He had an aura of strength about him, whether it came from being the master of the house, or from the fencing and sparring he did often as exercise. But the other two, she could not decide between. Mr. Barton's ease of conversation lent him an air of urbanity and grace that did much to add to his charms. Mr. O'Brien, on the other hand, had a quiet dignity and serious depth in his looks that gave him the air of a brooding hero (almost in the style of Lord Byron).

Miss Bluford had read many romances, and, as Mr. Mornay was frightful to her at times (not to mention married), and Mr. Barton too sauve for her to imagine conversing with at all, she finally concluded that Mr. O'Brien was the man most worthy of admiration. From that point, she paid special attention to all his conversation. She laughed at anything with the slightest touch of humor; she quite amazed Beatrice by her attentions to the man, in fact, but it served to make Beatrice appreciate his presence more, oddly enough, no matter how much Mr. Barton tried to monopolize her conversation.

When the meal was ended, Ariana rose to signal the ladies to leave for the drawing room. Frederick came in to announce that the small band of musicians had arrived, however, and so Mr. Mornay offered to forgo the customary male practice of remaining at table to enjoy a glass of port with conversation not deemed fit for women. His wife thanked him with a brilliant smile.

The dancing was thrilling for Beatrice, especially since the Mornays enjoyed waltzing with each other. The small trio which had been hurriedly called for from town were equal to the task of playing the music required for various waltzes, reels, and country dances. Beatrice enjoyed a waltz with both Mr. Barton and Mr. O'Brien, and found the latter man to be a much better dancer, to her surprise. Mr. Barton was so much more the cosmopolitan man. But Mr. O'Brien had a sensitivity to her movements that made him give her just the right amount of leading to perform the steps in a smooth rhythm that was as pleasing to the eye, she was sure, as to herself. Nevertheless, she felt more at ease with Mr. Barton, for his looks were simple and curious, nothing more. Mr. O'Brien had eyes filled with thoughts and sentiments that she could not guess at, and which made her uneasy.

“Are you just come from London?” Beatrice had asked Mr. Barton, at one point. She could not resist learning more of the metropolis, and perhaps the Season.

Mr. Barton looked at her expectantly. “I am. Have you been there of late?”

“No!” A smile. “No, though I should like to acquaint myself with the place. My sister is considering whether she will give me a coming-out this year.”

“Ah. For the Season?” To her nod, he said, “Splendid idea!”

Beatrice was elated at this response. “My mother is old-fashioned, I'm afraid! She thinks I am too young. What do you think, Mr. Barton?”

A charming smile. “That depends on how old you are, Miss Forsythe. May I ask?”

“I am seventeen years, sir.”

“Seventeen.” He was still smiling. “I daresay girls as young as fifteen sometimes have their coming-out; and seventeen is by no means considered too young.”

She laughed. “You are in all things a tonic to me, Mr. Barton!”

“I am honoured to be of service,” he said, and his eyes sparkled with satisfaction.

Mr. O'Brien saw the two of them talking and smiling with each other, and felt as though a little feeble candle of hope was being snuffed out inside him. But for what had he been hoping? That Miss Beatrice Forsythe would be smitten with him? It was perfectly understandable that Barton should have her. He was evidently of a higher class than Mr. O'Brien; he had wealth and social aplomb, and would no doubt fit in just right with the Mornays. He wished her well of him, he really did.