The Country House Courtship (42 page)

Mr. Barton chose his garments, she thought, to make a dash, to cut a wave. Mr. O'Brien on the other hand, wore what was necessary and practical. He was not averse to being in fashion, but he did not depend upon being so. Mr. Barton would likely stay home, however, rather than appear in anything less than perfect attire. Mr. O'Brien would not.

Ariana had spoken of the young Mr. O'Brien once—or was it Aunt Bentley? As a tall, young sprig, slim as a whip. He was no longer so slim as that; he had taken on a manlier look, perhaps he fenced often, as did Mr. Mornay.
And why was she thinking of such a thing?
She turned to look out the window.

“When we arrive at the house,” he said, “you must stay in the carriage; I will discover the news, if there is any.” She said nothing, only took in his earnest blue gaze, and felt a great annoyance that she kept noticing those eyes. How irksome, to see nothing in him but a beautiful, sincere man. He caught her gaze, and for a moment it looked to Beatrice that his look was full of something—was it
longing
?

Oh, she felt too dishonest to bear! How could she admire him so, and yet be sure that he would ruin all her hopes if she were to marry him? Was it wrong to have admiration for him without telling him of it? But she must not tell him of it, for she meant to marry Mr. Barton. She just knew she would be happier in the course of her life with a secure and comfortable income to depend upon.

She would have to make Mr. O'Brien understand her so that he would not become bold, or entertain romantic notions of her and end up with ruined hopes.

“Sir, may I speak plainly with you?” she said, looking around a little furtively.

He was intrigued. Her lovely green eyes contrasted prettily with the russet curls framing her face. She was truly a lovely sight…
Oh, dear!
Why must he always think thus
?

“I am at your service, Miss Forsythe.” He added, with a smile, “I am a curate, after all. Many people desire to speak with me in that office, and I am happy to oblige.”

“Precisely! And that is why I must speak to you!”

This little bit of information got him curious. “I see!”

Beatrice blushed lightly. Her rosy cheeks contrasted well with her gray redingote and black half boots. Her face was framed in a bonnet that accented her green eyes, and altogether it struck Mr. O'Brien forcefully that Miss Forsythe was as pretty and desirable a young woman as any man should be happy and proud to own the affections of. More, she was excellent with children; not overly impetuous or silly (as many young women of his acquaintance were); and
wishing to speak to him
.

She cleared her throat.

“May I ask—” he began, while at the very same moment, she said, “Here is the thing—” They both stopped and exchanged a smile. “Here is the thing,” she said again, wondering why on earth she had wanted this conversation. She felt far too embarrassed now that she had demanded his attention. But she had no alternative but to plunge ahead, and so continued, “I have been given—to understand—” and she peeked at his eyes.

“Yes?” He was curious to understand her dilemma.

“By Mr. Barton…that he desires to court me.” (
Goodness, that not was not what she had meant to say!
) Mr. O'Brien drew back. His face went blank, but he said, “And this is troubling to you?” He was trying desperately to ignore the pang of disappointment in his breast. “Has he sought the permission of your parents? Or of Mr. Mornay?”

“He means to, but on account of my sister's exposure to the fever, I believe he lacked an opportunity to speak with Mr. Mornay.”

He nodded, his eyes very intent, listening. Beatrice wished she were talking to him of something else! Of her very real admiration for him—but it was impossible.
How had she thought she could speak of such a thing?

“How may I be of service to you?”

She took a deep breath. “Your acquaintance with Mr. Barton is new, I grant, but I need to ask for your honest assessment of his character. I am having some difficulty making it out…” She trailed off.

A look of concern flitted across his face, and in an apologetic tone, he said, “I fear I am not in a position to judge his character.” He fell silent a minute. Indeed there were a few things that he had noticed about the man, but it did not seem fair that he should warn her against another man; not when he knew how much he wished he could be in that man's position. He was doing it again, was he not! Making a cake of himself over a Forsythe girl!

“As a churchman, sir, I ask you. As a curate, do you not form opinions of people?”

He gave a little smile. She had no idea of his feelings, he could see. That was actually a good thing. “I form opinions as a human being, but I do not think it is fair to Mr. Barton if I say anything of him based upon so short an acquaintance.” He swallowed, and said, “He is evidently a man of some standing, and seems to have a good enough fortune to deserve you.”

It was true that she thought so herself. Nodding in agreement, she said, “Yes, I do expect that he could purchase the Manor, and it is a fine, large house. Not so fine as Aspindon, of course, but still a proud dwelling.”

“Yes.” He thought of his pride at being the occupant of the vicarage, and could only imagine how much larger and finer the Manor House must be. He felt his own pride deflating, such as an air balloon when it has lost the gas inside it. But Beatrice deserved such a house.

“And he goes to London for the Season every year, I understand.”

“Does that suit you?” he asked.

“Yes! Exceedingly.” But as she said this, her own words felt hollow for some reason. She did not understand why they did. She desired to go to London, did she not? The thought of a Season every year—why it was thrilling; it must be so!

“I think I should say,” he offered, making her look hopefully at him, “that it speaks well of Mr. Barton that he would offer for you (and I hope you won't take this badly, for I mean nothing against you by it), but his circumstances are above yours, do you not agree?”

“Oh, yes, that is true! I have family, with Mrs. Mornay as my sister; but he has fortune, I grant him that.”

He looked at her assuringly, if not enthusiastically. “He will keep you in good style.”

“Yes.”

“In short, I can only say that there appears to be no reason against him, unless you know of something in him that I do not.”

Her pretty eyes widened. “But I am asking what
you
know of him! As my friend! Gentlemen are often knowledgeable of other gentlemen in ways that we females are wholly ignorant of. We have no manner of knowing or judging a man in his true character when we only see him in company, at his best behaviour. I am asking you, sir, if you know of anything undesirable in him. Something I would not see in him in a drawing room!”

Her manner was so earnest, that he searched his brain for anything that might answer. He cleared his throat. “Well, I do not take him for a man of deep religion, if that is what you seek to know.”

She nodded eagerly. “Yes?”

“I have not seen evidence that he and his sister share a great love between them, as some siblings do.”

“I have noted that too!”

“But I must tell you—”

“Yes? Yes!”

“Mr. Mornay is the man whose opinion you must seek. He will know whether Mr. Barton is suitable for you better than I.”

A strange sort of disappointment filled her breast. Mr. O'Brien did not want to discourage her regarding Mr. Barton's suit. Why was that the least bit deflating? She should have welcomed it as a good sign. As evidence that Mr. Barton had no grievous failings that should rightly warn her away. But instead, she felt disappointed. Another matter occurred to her. One that she had no idea she would raise, but suddenly she did:

“Mr. O'Brien, I must discuss one thing more with you, if I may?”

“By all means.”

“I wanted to mention how good of you it is that you have not once even alluded to my childish promise to marry you!” She tried to laugh while she spoke, to show him that she knew it was merely a joke, now. He nodded, but said nothing for a moment.

“Of course.”

“You knew, then, that it was my youth and inexperience speaking?”

“Of course!” But he looked very uncomfortable.

“It does not pain you, that I mention it?” she asked him gently, and he met her gaze, noting her large pretty eyes, and surprised her by answering, fully as gently as she had asked the question, “Little Beatrice, no man of honour would hold a child to such a thing.”

“No,” she agreed, her eyes suddenly seeming to shine. She turned her head away, looking out the window. “I was only a child!”

“Of course. A very fetching, affectionate one,” he said, smiling at the memory.

“I daresay I embarrassed you a great deal!” She met his gaze again, and the watery look had vanished. The carriage slowed to a stop, and he came to attention.

“Remain here. I'll be right back.” He spoke with decision, almost abruptly.

“Yes, sir.” He did not look at her but climbed out of the coach and was at the door of the house in a minute.

Mr. O'Brien was troubled. As he waited for the door to be answered, he wondered: What did Beatrice want of him, really? What did his opinion of Mr. Barton matter? It would normally be precisely the thing a young lady should not wish to know, if she cherished hopes of marriage to a man. Why look for trouble? Why seek to know what might alter the course? Did she truly want Barton or not, that was his question.

After waiting at the door for a few moments, the housekeeper finally answered. She looked frazzled. Her eyes widened at sight of him, and she stepped back. “Come no further, sir! The mistress has fallen ill! She's got the fever! God have mercy on us!”

Somehow Beatrice had convinced herself that her sister would not take sick. The atmosphere in the carriage had swiftly changed to a dark foreboding feeling when Mr. O'Brien returned almost at once with the dreaded announcement. He ordered the carriage to return to the vicarage before rejoining Beatrice.

“A fever is not always severe,” Mr. O'Brien said, in an effort to comfort Beatrice.

“Yes,” she agreed, in a low voice. But her eyes were filled with worry.

“We will continue to hold Mrs. and Mr. Mornay in prayer. You must trust God's faithfulness.”

She looked up to meet his gaze. “God's faithfulness, sir, did not prevent a score of deaths in London from this illness!”

“Yes, but many of those people were undernourished, not attended to in their illness, and already in a weakened state before they got the fever. Your sister is young and strong; and in the best hands. We have every reason to hope!” She nodded, but nevertheless a tear slipped from one eye. He rummaged in his clothing to produce a wrinkled handkerchief from an inside pocket of his waistcoat.

“Thank you,” she said, receiving it and dabbing her eyes. The next few minutes were passed in complete silence except for the noise of the carriage wheels and the horses upon the road.

“Truly, I did not believe—that she would get ill.”

He nodded. “I know.”