The Country House Courtship (3 page)

She paused, looking at him earnestly. “I have no fortune, sir, as you are well aware. And with your connexions, I am certain to make very advantageous acquaintances! What could be more certain? I shall end up, no doubt, just as my sister has, with a man like you!” Beatrice evidently thought she was giving him a great compliment. She waited, expecting a gracious answer.

“Oh, Beatrice!” moaned Mrs. Forsythe. “You foolish gel!”

Mr. Mornay stood up, after folding his paper to a neat size. He said, “It takes more than wearing a corset to say a young lady is grown up, would you not agree?” He directed his remark to the whole room, but then settled his eyes upon Beatrice. He then gave a small bow to the women in general, and turned to leave the room.

Beatrice blushed slightly, embarrassed to be chastised by her brother-in-law.

Mr. Frederick met his master at the door, holding out a salver with a letter for Mr. Mornay, who took it but then looked curiously at the butler.

“It arrived in that condition, sir! I daresay it was lost in the mail or some such thing.”

“Hmm, very good, Freddie.” He held up a battered and ink-soiled missive for his wife to see, while eyeing it dubiously.

She looked amused. “Who is it from?”

He unfolded the paper, as the sealing wax was almost entirely worn off already, and scanned the signature at the bottom. “Colonel Sotheby. I'll read it in my office.”

She nodded, and Mr. Mornay left the room.

Beatrice was still smarting from his earlier remark, and said, as soon as he'd gone, “How ‘grown up' can I be, when I am forced to exist in a small country village, with no prospects, and genteel company only upon a Sunday?”

“You overstate your case! That is not true,” answered her mama, disapprovingly.

“And as for wearing a corset,” Beatrice continued, after taking a sip of tea, “I do not pretend that wearing one is what makes me of age for a Season. I have formed my principles upon sound reason. I have sat beneath the tutelage of my father and of Mr. Timmons, and of his curate, and I should say my principles are well-founded.”

“We are glad to hear it,” Ariana said, with great forbearance, “but really, you should not be setting your mind upon seeking a man like my husband; you should be intent upon finding the man that God has chosen for you.”

“And so I am!” she protested, her eyes wide and laughing. “But look at the advantage He gives me in having
you
for my sister! Am I to ignore that? When it could be the very means of bringing me and my future husband together?”

Ariana played absently with little Miranda's blanket, tucking it in about her chin more snugly. She met her sister's eyes. “London is not the only place a young woman may meet a husband. And if you want
my
husband's approval of your plan, the last thing in the world you should tell him is that you want to meet a man like him! Or that you wish to marry above you in any way!”

“But is it above me? To marry well? When my sister is Mrs. Mornay of Aspindon House?”

“It is above you,” said her mother, “because you are Miss Forsythe of Chesterton.”

“I am a gentleman's daughter,” she replied.

“With no dowry to speak of,” said her mama.

Beatrice's cheeks began to burn. “With a brother-in-law of great fortune and consequence!” she said, petulantly.

“That does not signify!” said her mother.

“It does to me!”

“It should not!” Mrs. Forsythe was quickly growing ashamed of her daughter, and she was relieved that Mr. Mornay had left the room and was not hearing Beatrice right now. Ariana's eyebrows were raised and she was doing her best to act as though she had no part in the dialogue.

“But it does, Mama!”

“Beatrice! You have already said far too much on this matter, which proves to me your great ignorance of the world.” She held up her hand for silence as Beatrice was about to protest. “Not another word! I shan't have it, not another word.” Mrs. Forsythe turned her attention to her elder daughter.

“I think I will visit the nursery to see how Nigel is faring. Do you mind?”

“No, indeed. He will enjoy showing you his toys,” Ariana said as her mother rose to leave the room. “I'll be up myself, shortly, to feed the baby.”

“Very good.” She nodded to her daughter, and then her eye fell upon Beatrice. “I think it would be wise if you said nothing more regarding a Season. In fact, I forbid you to mention it to Mr. Mornay again! Do you understand me?” There was a short silence.

“I do, Mama.” Beatrice was not happy, but she recognized that particular tone of voice. She considered, moreover, that it would be a simple matter to keep from mentioning her hopes to the man, for he evidently would not encourage her in them. But as for herself, she would continue to think of the Season in London. She would continue to hope; and some other day, when Ariana was in a good disposition, she would prevail upon her to sponsor her in London.

Beatrice did not want to be disrespectful, but she knew that Mr. Mornay was quite in error regarding her. He did not know, for instance, that she was determined to make a good match, and recognized it as her lot in life. Every inch she saw of Aspindon just confirmed her sense that a rich life awaited her. She was born for it. And now all that was necessary was to meet her future husband—the man who could make it all happen. She had long prayed for just such a meeting and knew that it was bound to occur. All she had to do was be properly outfitted, and in the proper company, for it to do so.

All she had to do was change her sister and brother-in-law's minds on the matter. How difficult could that be?

B
eatrice had a secret fascination for her brother-in-law, which perhaps did its part in fueling her resolve to marry a man like him. She had no romantic notions about Mr. Mornay, of course—that would be wicked! But she saw no reason why she could not get herself a husband of his ilk, despite anything her mama or Ariana had said. Twice already Beatrice had quickly stood aside when her brother-in-law was approaching so that she could watch him; he spied her by chance both times, caught her gaze, and both times had looked again at her, as though perplexed. Beatrice had given little smiles, and he nodded in return.

Little did he know that she was practicing upon him! If she could meet Mr. Mornay's dark eyes and handsome expression with equanimity, she felt certain she could do so when meeting other gentlemen whom she admired. Besides, it was becoming more and more clear to Beatrice that a man of means
must
be her object in marriage: Her sister's house and grounds were precisely the quality she adored. Not to mention, servants aplenty; a beauteous bedchamber all to herself with its own little sitting room; meals to delight in; yes, all was opulent, indeed. There was an enormous park and grounds that went on for near a mile, and actual tenants—to make one feel quite important!

The Mornays might just as well have been lord and lady, in Beatrice's opinion. Mr. Mornay was the sitting magistrate for the county; their estate was finer than Lady Middleton's, a thing Beatrice had pointed out on her last visit at Aspindon (and been roundly shushed by her mother for). Who, she asked herself, after experiencing this fine life, could be content with marriage to any mere mister? Was it not plain to see that Beatrice's family had been raised a notch in society by Ariana's marriage? And she, Beatrice, certainly deserved a union of equal advantage. By God's grace, it had become her due.

Mr. Tristan Barton entered his apartment on Brooke Street in London. It was a second floor flat, a rare find in the imposing neighbourhood where most townhouses were fully occupied by one person or family, not separated into flats like this one. It gave Mr. Barton the advantage of being a resident of Mayfair without the usual expense of a house. Since he lived with only his sister, he saw no reason to incur greater damage to his pocketbook by keeping an entire house.

After he'd given up his coat, gloves, and hat to their sole manservant, he pulled some bank notes from a pocket of his waistcoat and began to count them. Sometimes when gaming got hot and heavy, he lost track of how much he was winning or losing. Tonight, he'd come out on top, at least. As he stood in the doorway to the drawing room counting the notes from his pocket, he heard a low cough and looked up.

“Anne! Why are you not abed?” He was not smiling.

His sister compressed her lips with suppressed grief. His brows came together. “What is it, Anne? What has happened?” She had been standing against the fireplace, staring down into the flames until she heard him come in. She put a handkerchief to her mouth and turned away, making him enter the parlour. She let herself down shakily upon a sofa.

“For heaven's sake!” he said, exasperated. “It cannot be so bad as all that!” He had undone his neckcloth, letting the cravat hang untidily about his chest. Watching her, he sat himself in a chair and leaned back contemplatively. “His lordship has abandoned you, hasn't he?”

Her only response was to shut her eyes hard, as if she could block out the unwelcome words.

“Did I not tell you that family was too full of its own importance?” he continued. “I tried to warn you.”

Anne's grimace deepened; but she cried, “Oh, if it were only that! I pray God it would be only that!”

He looked perplexed, but he sat back, watching her cautiously. “I, for one, am the bearer of
good
news.” is drew her attention, and, through her tears, she looked at him expectantly. He saw her look and smiled. “The Regent needed a man to do him a personal favour, and I proposed myself—and, what do you think? He appointed me to it!” He waited for her reaction, but when there was none but a continuing look of questioning, he added, “He has put his trust in me for the thing! Do you not see how this signifies? If I can accomplish the deed for the prince, I will hereafter be a part of his set. No one will give me looks as though I am not good enough for them any longer!”

To her continuing silence, he added, “It would be a feather in your cap, dear Anne. Perhaps his lordship—if he is what is troubling you—will see you in a different light. If my consequence improves, yours shall too, it is certain.”

When Anne's look merely darkened, he added, “Is this not what grieves you? That his family frowns upon you? If I succeed in my hopes for the prince, I may even be able to wriggle a recommendation for you from some great lady! Enough to burn the ears of the Countess and make them change their opinion of us! Enough to shut the mouths of those prigs, for sure!”

She turned sharply away at those words, and a small sob escaped her throat. His face darkened. “All right; out with it, Anne. Dash it, what has happened? Tell your brother while he is in a good humour over this stroke of fortune. I cannot think why you are not rejoicing at it as well. Whatever concerns me concerns you.”

“That is precisely the thing,” she said, raising her agonized face to his, “that worries me most!”

“What?” A look of dark suspicion entered his eyes, and he stood and swiftly approached her where she sat. He sat down near her. Something told him that only gentleness would part her from her secret. “What is it? Tell me everything.” His face and demeanour were grave.

She could barely stand to look at him.