The Country House Courtship (41 page)

Beatrice giggled at Nigel's feeble attempts to aim the ball with accuracy, but she encouraged him on nevertheless. The last throw of the boy had nearly resulted in a direct blow to Miss Bluford's head, but the lady had shown remarkable fortitude by instantly catching the wayward object (though her face was all amazement) and hastily returning it to the child. Nigel, thinking she was joining the game, proceeded to lob it back to her, making her cry, “Oh, my! Oh, oh, my!” But she laughed for the first time that Beatrice had ever heard, and it was a warm laugh, and she looked almost normal while it lasted, instead of her usual nervous, beady-eyed self.

“Here, Nigel! Throw it to me,” Miss Forsythe said, and almost immediately got a ball coming at her, which she caught, and then gently tossed back. She happened to glance up at the men. Mr. O'Brien was looking on with a serene half-smile, but Mr. Barton was sitting back with a resigned air, his eyes on the ceiling, his features set into a frown. Beatrice wondered what was bothering him. It could not be the children, could it? Miranda was smiling and gurgling for her two female admirers, and Nigel was merely playing catch with her and Miss Bluford. She found the scene nothing but charming. Did not Mr. Barton enjoy family life?

Mrs. Royleforst was also enjoying the atmosphere and making affectionate comments at intervals: “See how well he throws for one so young! I daresay he'll be athletic like his papa!”

This was a poor choice of words, for Nigel, dropping his ball on the instant ran to her and pulled on her gown, crying, “Papa! I want my Papa! And Mama! I want my Papa and Mama!” And just like that, the boy crumpled into tears. Mrs. Perler stood up and picked him up, but he fought her saying, “I want Mama!” Even little Miranda's head had turned to listen to him, and her little face began to wrinkle as her expression turned to one readying to wail.

“Oh, oh, oh!” cried Mrs. Forsythe, who immediately stepped up bouncing the child upon her knee. Miranda's face slowly lost its threatening appearance, and once again she gave her attention to her grandmama; but her large eyes were still wary, and the perfect little mouth remained in a pout.

Mr. Barton, meanwhile, had jumped to his feet. Speaking loudly to be heard above the child's cries, he said, “Anne, I think it high time we made for our own abode; do you not agree?” Anne turned her head toward him in surprise, and, with a last, longing look at the baby, said, “Yes, of course, Tristan. Whatever you say.” Her face went blank, but she stood up, and then started her good-byes. Meanwhile, Mrs. Perler was fighting to keep Nigel in her arms, making her way slowly from the room. She said to Mrs. Forsythe, “I'll send…a nursemaid…for Miranda!”

“There's no hurry,” she returned, watching the young boy fight his nurse. “See to poor Nigel.”

Beatrice came to her feet and hurried to the pair. She offered her arms to the boy. His mouth shut as though she was something that he indeed needed to pay close attention to. He looked up at Mrs. Perler, then back at Beatrice, and then turned to her, arms open. She smilingly took him from the nurse, and went and sat down, speaking soothingly to him. She only nodded as her good-bye to Mr. Barton. She did not like to see him leave; but her nephew needed her attention; and she would give it. Their eyes caught for a moment: his were not sorry.

Directly following that, Beatrice chanced to see that Mr. O'Brien was gazing at her and Nigel. She saw quite a different look in his eyes, though he hurriedly turned away. She frowned, while stroking Nigel's dark black locks, thick and curly like his papa's. How was Ariana, she wondered? Nigel whimpered a little bit, but he quieted and put his head upon her breast, and snuggled against her. She did not look exceedingly like Ariana, but the child recognized some likeness in her that soothed him. He sat up once or twice to study her face, and then lay down upon her again, satisfied in some manner.

“Has there been a recent word from Mr. Speckman?” Beatrice asked.

“I was wondering that very thing,” said her mother.

Mr. O'Brien came to attention as all eyes turned to him. “Come to think of it, no; I haven't had word. Let me check with Mrs. Persimmon,” and he left the room.

As soon as he'd gone, Mrs. Royleforst said, “Mr. Barton is too good for the children, I see.”

“What do you mean, Aunt Royleforst?” (Beatrice called her “aunt,” although she was not technically Beatrice's relation.)

“Did you not see his face when the little ones arrived? It fell like an anchor at bay! And he could not have escaped any quicker when Nigel, poor thing, started crying. Did you not note it?”

“I did,” agreed Miss Bluford, not surprising anyone. She always agreed with her mistress.

“I believe you have hit upon something,” said Mrs. Forsythe. “But not all young men can appreciate children. Not even all men who are fathers can!” She gave a little laugh.

“Men hardly consider young children to be people,” offered Beatrice, who desperately wanted to defend Mr. Barton.

“Well, I must say,” continued the large woman, “when we had to leave Aspindon, it was, in my opinion, the time for Mr. Barton to be gallant, and offer us the use of the Manor. He ought to at least have offered some small number of us a room. I daresay that house is big enough for a regiment!”

“A young man feels awkward being host to female guests, ma'am!” was Beatrice's reply.

“Fustian,” she replied comfortably. “Mr. O'Brien has handled us beautifully, without a doubt, and he is certainly a young man; and Miss Barton is with her brother and would act as hostess, depend upon it. It gives one the thought that they have something to hide. A secret.”

“Really, ma'am!” cried Beatrice, shocked. “I think you make too much of it. Mr. Barton had no need to offer the Manor, when Mr. O'Brien was already so obliging to open his house to us.”

“Yes, my dear, a house that is all fine and good, but the Manor is finer, still. He must have far more resources at his disposal than our curate, and yet not half so much generosity! A man who is not compelled to be generous, to my mind, is a man who is
not
generous.”

“Indeed!” said Miss Bluford.

“She's asleep,” said Mrs. Forsythe just then, hardly above a whisper, but ironically, it was this very air of silence that made the others stop and pay attention. Only one side of Miranda's small round head could be seen, for she was nestled against Mrs. Forsythe's shoulder, head turned to one side. The blondish wisps of hair about her face were angelically sweet.

“I believe I'll take her to the nursery,” said Beatrice's mother, rising carefully. “I should like to put her to bed myself, and sit and watch her sleep, afterward.” She looked pointedly at Beatrice. “Do send me word at once if anything is heard regarding your sister!”

“Of course, Mama!”

No sooner had Mrs. Forsythe left the room with the baby than Mr. O'Brien returned, leaving no opportunity for further conversation about Mr. Barton. It was exceedingly irksome to Beatrice that Mrs. Royleforst had called his character into doubt. Perhaps it was true he did not care for children—were not many gentlemen like that? Particularly young gentlemen? And if Nigel had not been her own relation, would Beatrice have felt any less plagued by his crying than Mr. Barton had? Probably not. Oh, dear; it was all very befuddling. Beatrice adored children, and how could she seriously consider a man who seemed to have only disregard for them? Of course, they were not betrothed, yet. No agreement had been made, no promises exchanged. He had not yet spoken for her to either her mother or Mr. Mornay.

Mr. O'Brien pulled her from her thoughts. “There has been no word as yet from Aspindon. If you like, I can call and inquire of a servant.”

“I should think you would be safer inquiring from the doctor himself,” said Mrs. Royleforst. “Do you know his residence?”

Mr. O'Brien shook his head. He was as new to the area as anyone else in the room. “I'll call for the carriage,” he said. Mr. Mornay's carriage was at their disposal, since the man had three of them, and had thoughtfully instructed his servants to stay at the vicarage for the sake of the women, who might need transportation for any number of reasons.

Suddenly Beatrice said, “Wait. I'll go with you, sir. With a chaperone, of course!” she added, quickly. Beatrice was growing increasingly restless and disturbed in her thoughts. Was it because Ariana might be ill? Because her Season in London might be in jeopardy? Was it because of Mr. Barton's increased attentiveness to her? Or, it might even have been the steady and thoughtful gaze of the intelligent curate that was grating on her nerves. Everything about his looks told Beatrice that he felt no
dis
like of her—but he said nothing of affection, either; and she did not know what to think. Beatrice felt that she
must
accompany the man—like a moth driven to a flame, she wished to simply be in his comforting presence.

“Whatever for?” asked Mrs. Royleforst. “And with Nigel asleep upon your lap!”

But Beatrice had the perfect way to obtain her wish. “Please?” she asked, looking to Mr. O'Brien, and motioning so that he came and lifted the sleeping child. “Give him to Mrs. Royleforst,” she said, which he did. The child blinked sleepily, but did not fully awaken, and he snuggled into his new “pillow” and settled down. Mrs. Royleforst was delighted, and took her shawl from around her shoulders (with the help of Miss Bluford) and lay it over the boy, tucking it in around his little chubby legs.

“I daresay, we'll take a nap together!” she chuckled.

And when Beatrice got up to leave with the curate she said not another word.

M
r. O'Brien said, as he led the way to the front door, “I would feel more secure if you sought your mother's leave before accompanying me, Miss Forsythe.”

Beatrice stared at him. “Do I make you uneasy, sir?” Her eyes twinkled and she turned away smiling, but he said, “Not at all. As I suspect you well know.” His countenance was serious, but she detected a slight gleam in his eyes.

“Then have no fear!” she returned. “I promise not to get frostbit.”

He smiled gently, and helped her with her coat. Mr. O'Brien had on a double-breasted coat of black cloth, dark pantaloons, and hunting boots. The linen frill of his white shirt showed over his waistcoat, and his neatly tied cravat was nevertheless voluminous, as though it held up his head. He put on a black fawn hat and gloves, and allowed Sykes to help him wrap his face in a warm scarf.

Beatrice, meanwhile, was watching as she tied her bonnet, and put on her own gloves. She grabbed her large fur muff—it certainly had come in handy the other day! Mr. O'Brien motioned to one of the servants who had come from Aspindon, and the man fell into step behind them.

“If I hear a word of reproach about this,” he said to her as they went toward the coach, “I will turn it right back around to you.”

“My mother will never reproach you, sir,” she said mysteriously.

The servant hopped onto the back of the carriage, and they entered and took seats facing each other. Mr. O'Brien looked at her quizzically. “And why will your mother never reproach me?”

Beatrice considered how best to answer him. Perhaps she should not have teased him with that statement. But it was true.

“Because I have opened the parsonage to you?” He was guessing.

“Because she finds you so agreeable,” she said, finally. “She utterly approves of you.” He smiled. “And is your mother the only Forsythe who finds me agreeable?” he asked, looking at her directly.

Beatrice smiled. “Why, no, not at all!” When he smiled at her response, she said, “My sister has always found you so!” They laughed quietly.

“Little Beatrice,” he said, shaking his head. And she was instantly reminded of the promise she had made at twelve years old, only she did not want to be reminded of it. And why
did
Mr. O'Brien call her “Little Beatrice”? It made her feel like a child. It put her at a disadvantage. And what was next? Was he going to raise the memory of her rash words? Or the way she had undoubtedly embarrassed him before his family by speaking about it?

“
I will marry him,”
she had said right to the man's mother. “
As soon as my papa gives his leave!”
Why did it haunt her so? She had decided that if he was going to reproach her with it, he would surely have done so by now. Beatrice fell silent just thinking about it. Meanwhile, she noticed he looked quite as elegant as Mr. Barton, but with a less studied air. His choice of attire was eminently suitable for a clergyman, and may have been less dear than Mr. Barton's, but Mr. O'Brien was taller and more manly in his bearing.