The Country House Courtship (18 page)

M
r. Hargrove received the letter from Aspindon House with great joy. He motioned for the servant to wait, and hurried into his study to pen a reply.

“Mrs. Persimmon!” he called excitedly. A lady quickly appeared from the kitchen, still removing her apron. She was both housekeeper and cook for the establishment, a thing which would strike any Londoner as an odd coexistence; but for country cottages, doubling up on duties was not at all unusual. There was also a single manservant, dressed in worn ivory-colored breeches and a waistcoat and jacket, who accepted the apron with a nod, and went to return it to its place.

Mrs. Persimmon wore a white cap, from which some thick graying curls peeked out. She was of a matronly age, perhaps fifty, and had been pretty in her youth, one could tell. She had large, light eyes and an expression that seemed to be always just upon the point of saying something, or expecting a request. She was eager to please.

“Mrs. Persimmon!” the man exclaimed again upon her appearance. “Can you conceive of it? Mr. Mornay has a curate to send to me directly!” (He rolled the “r” in the word as if to emphasize the astonishing immediacy of the fact.)

“Directly, sir?” she asked, amazed, but with a dawning worry upon her heart. “How directly?”

“He comes to see the vicarage this very day!” The man was practically whistling with excitement, but Mrs. Persimmon cried, “Mercy me! This very day! And the house in such a disorder!”

The vicar's expression sobered. “Mrs. Persimmon,” he said more sternly. “It is only to be expected that I must be about my packing. It will not signify, I assure you.”

“Yes, sir,” she said at once, turning to go. “Shall I prepare some refreshments for you and your guest, sir?”

“Yes, do, refreshments, of course. Very good, Mrs. Persimmon.”

Mr. Hargrove wrote out his response for the owner of Aspindon House, and gave it to the messenger, who took off with it apace. The vicar then continued pulling pieces of paper from his drawer. He had more writing to do, and he had best get it done. He had letters to pen for the leading families of the area, as a courtesy. One for the magistrate, even though Mr. Mornay had mentioned notifying him as well. One for the bishop; a copy for the warden; one for his relations in the north. He hoped that after meeting the new man today he might even be able to supply them with a possible date for his installation as their new vicar.

His blood seemed to surge in his veins while he wrote; ah, there was nothing like good fortune to make a man feel young. He had long anticipated this event, and now that it was upon him, it felt too good to be true. He hoped that this Peter O'Brien would be willing to step into his shoes as quickly as possible. Sunday next would not be too soon for him! (His congregation, he knew, would be unhappy that he was leaving during Lent; but what could he do? His new congregation expressly wished to have him for the Day of Resurrection, and here the Lord seemed to have provided his way of escape from Warwickdon. It was out of his hands.)

Anne Barton excused herself and went in search of a place of privacy—unfortunately the only room that came to mind was the privy, but she knew that even in a great house like Aspindon, the slightest unsavoury odor would empty her stomach of its contents at once.

She really had not felt up to being in society today, and she was angry that she had allowed Tristan to bully her into it. Thing was, she had not been feeling well for three weeks now. She hid her condition from Tristan as much as possible. He did not know, for instance, that following every meal, Anne had to give it up into a chamber pot.

She tried to hide her growing thinness with a good deal of shawls, and wore her robe over her morning gowns at home every day now. Her brother was like a thorn in her side; his disgust of her was sufficiently daunting that she had to make sure she gave him no further reasons to disregard her even more. He would be repelled if he knew how sick she really was.

A footman in the corridor caught her eye, and so she stopped and asked, “What room is this, if you please?” She nodded toward a door which he seemed to be standing guard before.

“The library, mum.”

“Oh, excellent,” she said, a little weakly. She was not going to make it much farther. He opened the door for her, and she went into a beautiful, cozy room, warmly wainscoted and with an abundance of wall shelves. There was no fire, and it was cold in the room, but she looked around hurriedly for a vessel; anything that could suffice. Spying a small coal scuttle, she picked it up like treasure. It would have to do.

Six minutes later, her composure regained, Miss Barton exited the library and headed back toward the drawing room. A maid had been about to enter, evidently prepared to start a fire for her.

“Oh, that won't be necessary,” she said.

She hoped the girl would not notice that someone had been sick and then dumped the evidence in the grate. She had seen no other place to discard it. She sniffed, and went her way.

Mr. O'Brien waited only long enough for the slight young woman to go some distance from the library before turning the handle quietly and slipping into the room. What had she been doing? He had a suspicion, and needed to know. He looked around for a likely object and spied the very same vessel Miss Barton had seen. In less than a minute he had deduced what he needed to know, and left the library with a thoughtful look upon his face.

The guests were excited to see Warwickdon. Despite a deep winter chill in the air, the sky was blue and inviting; the sun high in the sky. Since Mr. Hargrove was happy to open his home upon so short a notice, they would all get to take a tour of the vicarage.

Phillip opted to use an open barouche; it was rarely used during the winter, but the bright clear sky and sun, the lack of snow or ice on the roads, together with the fact that Ariana usually preferred it to a closed carriage, made him willing to do so. He was always happy to please her, and she considered that the tenants delighted so much in spying the couple if they rode in it, that it was worth a little discomfort of cold to lift their spirits. Finally, the occupants of the barouche were able to see a great deal more of the country as opposed to those in closed carriages, so the vehicle was quickly wiped down and brought forth.

Ariana wore a walking-out dress of striped yellow cambric; her sleeves were gathered above the elbow, and again at the forearm, and there were pretty, laced cuffs. There was also lace at the bodice, a matching striped silk ribbon belt, a contrasting ribbon train, and over this she wore a velvety brown spencer, and then a redingote. She had a fine woolen shawl and a yellow silk bonnet adorned with flowers to complete her outfit, along with half-boots, a muff, and a lorgnette. (A little magnification could be handy when surveying the countryside.)

Ariana, her husband, and Beatrice sat across from Miss Barton, Mr. Barton, and Mr. O'Brien. Mrs. Forsythe, Aunt Royleforst, and Miss Bluford had opted for the closed carriage.

“Beatrice, I meant to tell you,” Ariana said, looking across her husband, “that gown is lovely on you!” Beatrice thanked her, but blushed faintly; she hoped no one else of the company knew, as did she and Ariana, that it had been given her by Ariana the day before. Phillip eyed her now, and of course he knew, and his eyes revealed that he knew, but he said nothing. The walking-out gown was of printed cambric, in lilac and yellow, but Beatrice's pelisse was lined and sturdy, with a raised neck that offered further protection from wintry winds. Her bonnet included a bow-tied cap, an extra layer that did much to keep one warm. Like her sister, she also sported half-boots and a muff, as did Miss Barton.

Ariana's arm was entwined with her husband's, and she snuggled into him as the carriage picked up speed. She was already enjoying this outing with Phillip beside her. Besides keeping busy with the estate, he served as magistrate for the parish and sometimes sat for hours on end, though he always tried to make quick work of any matter brought to him. He was surprised to discover that he enjoyed seeing justice served too. Every now and then he had to sentence a criminal to Newgate, or worse, recommend hanging. But he avoided doing so whenever possible.

Ariana's gaze wandered to the occupants sitting across from her. If only she could ascertain whether there was an interest on the part of Mr. O'Brien for her sister, or vice versa, she might have reason to ask one last time about granting the living to the cleric. She had seen him leave the drawing room shortly upon the heels of Miss Barton, however, and reflected that he might prefer the pretty, quiet young woman of a serious nature, to the outspoken, pleasure loving sister of hers. She sighed.

And now he had Warwickdon and would be in mind of starting a family, no doubt. She had seen the place once before, when Phillip had brought her to meet Mr. Hargrove. It was an ample and respectable house. Of course, less superior than Glendover, the parsonage of their parish; for, unlike many she had seen, Glendover was designed to hold a large family. The people who had planned and erected the building had evidently understood that clergymen liked to raise families as much as anyone, which ought to have been standard for parsonages, but wasn't. It stood three stories tall, in the dignified Georgian manner; windows aplenty, and was kept up well by the warden, in the absence of an occupant.

Ariana could envision her sister happily living there. Her mother, father, and Lucy could take a nearby house, and the whole family saving the Norledges (her sister Alberta and Johnathan Norledge, who owned a large property in Chesterton) would be closely situated again! How comfortable it would be!

As Mr. O'Brien and Mr. Barton kept up a small conversation, Ariana reflected on having the curate back in her circle of acquaintance. How surprising life was! She had not thought to have laid eyes on Mr. O'Brien for many a year. She felt certain already, despite how short an acquaintance they had had thus far, that he had improved in his character—he was no longer the impetuous boy who had taken advantage of Ariana to steal a kiss. He was a man now. And his polite aloofness was just the way he had ought to treat a married lady, she thought.

He was not bad looking, either. She studied him from her spot across the barouche; his hair, which was no longer light blond, was still wavy, for little wisps around his ears could be seen below the hat; his style of cravat seemed to have improved, which she could see above the deep cut of his coat. Mr. O'Brien had thick, light brows and a face that seemed to be perpetually sporting the stubble of a day's growth. It actually added to his allure, whereas even Phillip could look rather sinister without a fresh shave every morning. She wondered if the man simply lacked the right shaving tool. Even his short stubble, however, was golden brown, and could not hide a strong, wide chin. He had a decisive forehead, it seemed to her now too.

Suddenly Ariana felt her husband's eyes upon her and his voice whispering in her ear. “Enjoying the scenery, or is it just our curate that fascinates you so?” He didn't sound irked, merely amused.

She turned to him, bright-eyed. With care not to speak loudly, she said, “I am just imagining.”

He gave his little smile. “Regarding…?”

“The match,” she whispered. “How convenient if we should not have to search for a husband for Beatrice when we are in London! And then they would be our neighbours!”

“You are still setting your hopes upon it.”

Still keeping her voice carefully low, Ariana said, “Perhaps I am inclined to, due to my own happiness. My experience of having a husband is so pleasant I can do naught but wish that women everywhere were married as I am. Husbands are a wonderful breed,” she added, smiling at him. His eyes sparkled at her, but before he could say anything, Mr. Barton, who had been watching the pair with an unreadable expression, said, “I think we should have given the barouche to the Mornays alone; they are determined to speak only to each other.”