The Country House Courtship (15 page)

With that prayer on her heart, if not her lips, sleep came at last.

Mrs. Betsey Taller awoke from a short sleep when her head made contact with the wall. She'd been sitting by the fire, keeping it hot for her daughter, who still lay, unconscious, on the straw bed. Her two boys, to her horror, had started whimpering the night before, and they, too, now lay abed hot with fever. MaryAnn had been sick for three (or was it four?) days now, but today she had begun moaning and coughing in her sleep. Instead of the quiet exhaustion she had displayed earlier, she was restless, tossing and turning, and it was driving Mrs. Taller mad!

Giles had not brought any physic to give the girl. She was sure the apothecary would have offered them something. Anything that might help at all would be administered at once. If only he had done his duty and brought it home!

She reached over and wrung out a cloth, and for the thousandth time placed it upon the girl's forehead. Then she did the same for the boys, changing their old cloths for new ones. When she returned to her daughter, she noticed that MaryAnn was suddenly still…ominously still.
Had she died?
With a terrible gasp she fell upon her, and was prepared to wail to high heaven, but she felt some movement of the chest. It was shallow, but MaryAnn was breathing. When she sat up again, she reached a sudden decision. The scare had brought her to her senses, no matter what Giles said. He was wrong to try to hide the fact of their daughter's illness. It wasn't honest, and no good could come of it.

She crossed herself, and then put her hands along the side of the perspiring face of her child and gazed forlornly at the girl. Then she rose and pulled a shawl around her shoulders. On an impulse, she pulled down a beautiful lined bonnet, which had been given to her by the lady of the big house—Mrs. Mornay. It was her most prized possession. She had no money, but perchance the apothecary would accept it instead. She took one last long look at her daughter, and then the boys—all three of them were sleeping or unconscious from the illness, she did not know—and then slipped out the front door. She could walk to the apothecary's. It would take near an hour, but she would do it. Then another hour, back. Her daughter's condition hadn't changed for two days, but now seemed to be growing suddenly worse. It only made sense that the boys would follow the same pattern. She could not wait. She would have to risk leaving them all alone and go now, while Giles was still out.

It was Mr. O'Brien's third morning at Aspindon, and he was determined to get the attention of his host for the matter of the living. He was disappointed, when he went for breakfast, to learn from a footman that “the Master” had already taken his morning meal.

Did the man know where Mr. O'Brien might find him? Before he could answer, Frederick came up the corridor and asked him, “Are you quite done with your breakfast, sir?”

Mr. O'Brien eyed the butler with surprise. “I am.”

“Would you be so good, then, sir, to join Mr. Mornay in his study?” Mr. O'Brien stared at the butler, first in surprise, and then relief. Like the well-trained servant he was, Freddy was not looking at the cleric, but kept his gaze steadily ahead of him as he spoke.

“I should be
delighted
to join Mr. Mornay in his study!” he cried, giving Freddy quite a surprise. He did not move his head, but swiveled his eyes upon the young man, blinking in surprise.

“
Very good, sir
,” he said, quite deliberately.

Mr. Mornay sat behind a large polished rosewood desk, from where he motioned Mr. O'Brien to a chair. Mr. O'Brien had tried not to gawk on the way to the study, but the more he saw of the house, the more awed he felt. He even began to think that he could better understand his host now, simply for seeing his home with his own eyes. It must engender a certain amount of pride to be brought up in such magnificence, he thought. Not that he was ready to excuse arrogance, but a proper familial pride was perfectly understandable.

Upon the desk was a stack of books, one of which was a large Bible. There were two framed pictures, though Mr. O'Brien could not see the portraits they contained; a small sand pot for blotting letters; an ink well; a quill holder; and a compass. There was more, and Mr. O'Brien would have liked to catalogue every item in the room suddenly, but he took a breath as Mr. Mornay put his hands together upon the desktop and looked at him squarely.

It was time. Here was the announcement he dreaded and yet knew must come. Mr. O'Brien would not be found suitable for Glendover, and somehow Mr. Mornay had wished to keep him waiting this long to hear it. He cleared his throat, and met the man's gaze head on. So be it. Mr. O'Brien was unafraid.

I
n truth, Mr. Mornay almost felt sorry for O'Brien.
Here it comes
, he thought, again.
He is going to ask me for the living.
He knew it had to be a deuced uncomfortable spot to be in. But the young man, after glancing about the desk, had leveled his gaze on Mornay, who recognized a maturity in that one gesture that had not been in this man upon their last meeting. He had become bolder, for sure.

“How may I serve you?” Mornay asked.

Mr. O'Brien's brows cleared in a sort of relief. This was a decidedly open and nonhostile way for the man to have begun the conversation, although it did seem to ignore the point.

“Well, sir, I must say that I ought to be asking you that question.”

Mornay merely made a small smile, and then casually opened his snuffbox and took a small pinch. He offered it to O'Brien, who declined politely.

“…As I am here on recommendation?” he added, hoping to jar the man's memory.

“Yes?”

“From the Colonel.”

“Yes.”

“You did get the letter?”

“Yes.”

Mr. O'Brien was now practically at the edge of his seat. “I have to know! Forgive me for being blunt, sir, but
why
have you allowed me to come? I do not entertain the notion that you have wholly forgiven me for what has occurred in the past, nor do I expect that you shall. I cannot blame you; I was too much a fool, and I know it.” His eyes had been roaming the tops of the walls, as he spoke, but once again he settled them upon his host, and there was nothing of hope in them. “Why have you let me come? I know what your eventual answer must be; you would sooner present your living to the pope than to me! Is that not so?”

Mr. Mornay hadn't expected to find O'Brien amusing. “I…do not think I could present it to the pope.” But he smiled gently.

“Well, to anyone else in England, then, any other curate save this one!” and he hit his own chest with his thumb, in a disgusted manner. He looked at Mornay. “I need to know, Mr. Mornay, have you brought me here to amuse yourself? As a hoax? I cannot think you have any motive that would be for my benefit. So I beg you, be plain with me on the matter, and I may yet leave here with some semblance of my dignity intact, though I am the first to admit I have precious little of that when I am in your presence to begin with!”

“Slow down, O'Brien,” Mr. Mornay murmured. “I did not summon you here; I did get the Colonel's letter, and, if you must know, I would have indeed attempted to discourage you from coming all this way, had I received it in a timely manner.” He pulled a missive out of a top drawer of the desk, and unfolded it now. “It shows a date of five January, and states that you will arrive at my home on the twenty-fourth of February, if I have no objection, and will be in residence.”

He looked up at the younger man. “The thing is, you see, I did not receive this letter until the day you arrived.” He set it down again.

Mr. O'Brien looked thunderstruck. “What!” He shook his head. “I do not understand! The Colonel assured me he'd written to you last month! I tried to reason him into a different recommendation, sir, of anywhere and anyone else—”

Again the little smile. “I imagine you did,” he said.

“He insisted I come for the interview, however, so, you see, I had no wherewithal except to appear. He would never agree to recommend me to someone else if I hadn't, and I am quite sure I shall need another recommendation, as you know only too well.” His voice was growing quieter and more defeated by the second.

“So we, neither of us, wished to have this interview, and yet here we are.” Mr. Mornay took the letter and placed it back in the drawer from which he had taken it.

Mr. O'Brien began to stand up. “I can be packed and on my way as soon as I can hire a post chaise, sir.” He met his eyes. “I shall return to London, and we both may try to forget this happened.” He paused, standing now. “If I might be so bold, however, as to ask that you will indeed tell the Colonel I did my part in coming—”

Mr. Mornay was watching him, looking almost amused. “Don't be in such a deuced hurry, O'Brien. My wife has asked you to be our guest, and as such, I cannot have you dashing off in a hired post chaise. As for the benefice,” and here he met his eyes head on, “I am afraid I cannot present it to you.” There was an empty pause, a hollow moment for Mr. O'Brien, though it was just as he expected; but then Mr. Mornay went on, “but I have just received word that our neighbouring parish is in desperate need of a curate; Warwickdon. A very ample situation, vicarage, a hundred-and-fifty-acre glebe; it ought to suit you, and I know,” he added, picking up a pencil and playing with it in one hand, “that it will provide a decent salary. There is no question but that it is far superior to your situation at St. Pancras.”

Mr. O'Brien's brows went up while he heard this, and his mouth might just as well have dropped open in utter surprise, for that was how he felt. “Warwickdon! The very Warwickdon I passed through on my journey here? With the Gothic-style church that is visible from the road?”