The Country House Courtship (37 page)

“Good morning, ladies,” he said, in his sober but not unfriendly manner, rising to give a polite bow. “Please, help yourselves.” The sideboard drew the women with its covered dishes, from which emanated an array of welcoming odours. Once again, servants had scurried to bring supplies from the big house: eggs, sausages, kidneys, ham, scones, and toast; the usual fare. The women each accepted a plate from the manservant, Mr. Sykes, and began to select their choice of the repast. Beatrice brought her plate to the table, and then returned for a cup of hot tea. Her mother did likewise.

Mr. O'Brien tried to concentrate on his paper, but felt his eyes drawn to watch his guests; in particular, the younger lady. Beatrice had chosen a morning dress with an open bodice, but lined with muslin lace, a muslin frill at the neck, and frilled cuffs. Only because of the cold did she also wear a laced cap that tied beneath her chin; and over her shoulders was draped a warm shawl in a dark pattern that contrasted prettily with the light-coloured gown. The cap made her appear older, for young girls did not often wear a cap any longer; Mrs. Forsythe's cap was a heavier and lacier affair, but Mr. O'Brien's eyes most often glanced up to watch the young lady's progress. Her cheeks held a rosy morning glow that he could not dislike.

Nevertheless, when she turned to put her plate down, he felt her face was drawn, as though her thoughts were of a melancholy nature. He, too, was not in the best of spirits, and the reason was chiefly from the news article before him. There was more notice of the fever in London, notably the poorer sections, including St. Pancras, which was called “a hub” of sickness. He had considered removing to London to gather his things, give his last sermon, and say his good-byes; but there was a second, part-time curate. He would write the man, instructing him to pick up the services at once. He felt a pang of concern for the parish, but read yet more.

The Chronicle
strongly advised its readers of the metropolis to remain home as much as was convenient; and, if they must go abroad, to venture only into those parts of the city that were respectable. The practice of taking shortcuts through dubious alleys or byways was cautioned against, saying that, aside from the danger of foot pads, these alleys were often the worst culprits in spreading the sickness. They held filthy hovels, where toxic and noxious vapours might be inhaled, making innocent travelers ill, and passing the disease onto other, cleaner areas of the city.

As Mrs. Forsythe sat down with her tea, she eyed her host, and glanced at the newspaper in his hand. With that one glance, Mr. O'Brien developed a terrible feeling of foreboding—she was going to ask to read the paper after he'd done. He could not have explained, were someone to ask him, how he knew what that glance had held; but he did. And he also knew, simultaneously, that he must not allow her to read it—not today.

Mr. O'Brien had no objection to ladies reading newspapers; truly he did not. But he could not distress his guests by allowing them to see the bad write-up about the fever. In a split second, before Mrs. Forsythe could even voice whether or not she did wish to read the paper, all of these thoughts fled through his mind like a coach and four run amok; and in a blink, he flipped the paper shut, folded it again and yet again, and in another second had tossed it directly upon the fire in the grate. It had taken only a few quick movements, and both women at the table froze from surprise while he did it. Mrs. Forsythe almost gasped. It was such a speedy and unexpected thing her host had done!

Both of the women stared into the fireplace, and there, the newspaper could be seen, plain as day, burning up.

“My word!” said Beatrice, with consternation. “Do you burn your newspaper every day?”

He cleared his throat, and answered slowly. “I beg your pardon. I did not mean to startle you.”

Mrs. Forsythe found his behavior rather odd, but said nothing, choosing instead to begin eating. It was a shame, really; she had hoped to read it herself.

Beatrice smiled a little, and took a tentative bite of her egg and sausage.

Mr. O'Brien was satisfied. He had saved them from the newspaper, and he had escaped having to answer Miss Forsythe's question.

When Mr. Speckman called the next day at Aspindon, he had only the faintest dread of finding Mrs. Mornay in ill health. He doubted there had been any transmission of the illness during the lady's brief encounter with Mrs.Taller, choosing to believe it took a lengthy exposure for the mechanism of sickness to spread. Nevertheless, he would call upon her daily, just to be diligent. With his apprentice, Mr. Hannon (highly recommended from Guy's Hospital), looking in on the Tallers, Mr. Speckman had less contact with the sick himself and no qualms about seeing the lady every day, therefore.

Ariana submitted to his ministrations, giving her hand for the pulse to be felt; allowing the stethoscope to touch her chest; and staying quiet as a mouse even when he laid his broad hand upon her forehead and the back of her neck. Mr. Mornay leaned against a wall, and watched.

“She's as right as rain, sir,” the doctor finally pronounced, bringing out a much gratified look upon the features of the landowner.

“May we call back the children?” asked Ariana. Although she knew he was bound to deny her the request, she could not help but to ask anyway.

Mr. Speckman frowned. “Nay, ma'am, you know you must wait; another three to four days, at a minimum.”

“Yes, Mr. Speckman.” With a regretful glance at her husband, she glided from the room.

To Mr. Mornay, the physician said, “Keep an eye on her, sir. At the first hint of a fever, call for me.”

“I'll do that; I thank you.” He ushered the doctor out, wishing it might be the end of their trial.

“Mama, may I take a little air? I am in need of the exercise.”

Mrs. Forsythe surveyed Beatrice, and frowned. “I should think your adventure the other morning to have been sufficient to keep you indoors during this cold weather.”

“Mama, I shan't be out for long; I promise you.”

“Are you wearing the woolen stockings I made you?”

Mr. O'Brien was reading a book in the corner of the room, and Beatrice blushed. How could her mother mention such a thing in front of a gentleman? “Of course.”

Mr. O'Brien kept his gaze glued to his book, hoping it would not be incumbent upon him to accompany the young lady. Oh, Miss Forsythe was looking lovely this morning, as she always did; but he was newly determined to remain aloof, and to steer clear of any situations in which they might be alone together. Every reflection, every meditation upon his life and situation told him he must resist the pleasant girl. He would not think of her in a romantic way; he would not think of her in a practical way, as a girl who might make a fine wife; in short, he must not think of her at all.

“Keep your exercise to a quarter hour, then, and I have no objection,” said the mother just then, as she handed an infantryman to Nigel, who was at her skirts upon the floor, hiding his little soldiers among the folds of her dress. “I shan't have you damaging your feet; when you return you will sit by the fire and warm them.”

This seemed embarrassingly juvenile to Beatrice, who raised her gaze to the ceiling as soon as she had turned her back on her mother, but she said, “Yes, Mama.” And with that, she left the room, gathered her coat and scarf and bonnet and muff and her warmest gloves, and ventured outside. It was a bright clear wintry day. She could see the old stone church of Warwickdon, and automatically turned her feet in its direction. She would walk to the church and back. Surely that was no great distance, as she could see the church clearly already.

How pleasant it had been to have Mr. O'Brien as her guide on her last visit here! As she approached the cemetery—was there not always a cemetery?—she appreciated the ancient stones, set at odd angles, with slanted heads protruding from the ground like the poor teeth of an ogre. She was following the walkway, but today decided to read some of the stones, if she could make them out.

Simon Sewell, 1700–1742; Charlotte Sewell, 1685–1730. Gunther Sewell, 1680–1732.
A family. Suddenly Beatrice remembered the portrait gallery at Aspindon, showing generations of Mr. Mornay's family. A cold breeze made her shiver, and she moved on. The gallery portraits ranged in quality and the people within them were sometimes not well recalled (she thought); but each one of them had lived and walked the earth, just as she was doing now.

With a heavy sigh, Beatrice kept moving toward the church. Life was so brief! And yet her own journey seemed already so long as to be tiresome. Until recently, anyway. At Aspindon, everything had been getting more and more delightful; suddenly her life seemed filled with possibilities. Especially since the arrival of Mr. Tristan Barton. She envisioned his dark curls and strong green eyes. His expensive twin-tailed coat and snowy cravats. His coming to Aspindon had quickened her pulse, to be sure. She remembered that one impulsive kiss and almost blushed right there out in the cold. Did he really have serious intentions? It was true that he had called at the vicarage the day before, but he had been all politeness and aloof amiability, nothing more.

And yet Beatrice had been somehow relieved that there was nothing more. When she was not looking into his strong green eyes, she was often engaged in conversation with the man of clear blue ones: Mr. O'Brien. And his conversation was somehow more important, more significant, than Mr. Barton's. She could not think of the curate's soft-spoken gentle words with any disregard whatsoever, whereas she sometimes found Mr. Barton's loud and jovial tones excessive. Even his conversation was loud.

But Mr. Barton loved wit and laughter—was there really anything so wrong in that? Mr. O'Brien was not sporting at all! He was intelligent, but sober. She suddenly recalled how they had laughed together in the cottage when she scolded him for taking hold of her. Even the walk through the wood had been fun; but he was often reading a book of some sort, not asking to play cards or seeking a diversion as Mr. Barton did. Oh! Which one suited her better? She could not be sure.

When she returned to the house, Mr. O'Brien was upon the floor, playing with Nigel. He did have the most agreeable manner with children. She had to admit that Mr. Barton did not call on the days when Mrs. Perler was gone (and thus the children were with the adults almost all day), nor did he ever show the slightest regard for the youngsters. It was as though, in his opinion, they were not quite people yet. But she supposed it would be different for him if they were his own children. Men were often like that, were they not?

She took turns trying to envision herself as the lady of the Manor; then the parson's wife. Why was it that she could only picture a happy family at Warwickdon? Mr. Barton
was
the sort of man Beatrice wanted! Wealthy, fashionable, urbane, and witty. If he bought the Manor, she would be neighbour to her sister in the country, and able to attend as many Seasons as she liked, when in London! In all, Mr. Barton, it seemed to Beatrice, was exactly the man she wanted: handsome, wealthy, with social standing, and able to offer her the life she envisioned for herself.

She would not have the luxury of Aspindon as Mrs. Barton, but she would be well enough to do, and able to live quite comfortably, and with plenty of diversions. What more could she want?

Watching Nigel laughing with the curate, Beatrice's thoughts fell upon her sister, and dark fears began to intrude upon her mind. But she shook them off. Ariana was young and healthy and strong, and she had not spent a great deal of time with Mrs. Taller. What danger could there be?