The Country House Courtship (47 page)

Mr. Pellham said, “Show me to a guest bedchamber, sir, with room enough for my wife and me; we are staying.” His firm tone conveyed that the decision had been made. Freddie looked to his master who said nothing, so he bowed and said, “This way, if you please, sir.” It actually encouraged him that new people had come; fresh blood, which was not already discouraged or exhausted, like the rest of them.

Before they left, the butler found the courage to face his master, saying, “Perhaps you can take some rest now, sir. With Mrs. Pellham here—”

Mr. Mornay turned an acid eye upon his servant, who wisely dropped the matter and turned away to take Mr. Pellham to his quarters. Meanwhile, a footman had appeared, who hurried to get the luggage for the guests brought into the house. Everyone was cold, and tired, and should have been miserable, but even Mr. Mornay felt a twinge of hope. For what reason? There was none. Only more people to share the misery with. But even sharing misery was better than not, it seemed.

“Take me to her!” Mrs. Pellham's authoritative voice stirred some energy within the man, and he said, “This way.” The morning light had grown enough to make his taper of no use, and he blew it out as they climbed the stairs.

Inside the bedchamber, Mrs. Pellham's shrewd eyes took in the situation at once; the face of the doctor, worried; the gel on the bed, smothered in blankets and sweat; the heat in the room. She opened her eyes rather wide and said to Mr. Mornay, “I want you to remove this man from the room, if you would, sir.” Mr. Mornay eyed her with some surprise, but he looked at the physician, whose face was registering shock at such a thing, and said, “Do as she says, sir.”

“You desire that I leave the patient, sir?” Both he and his assistant were deeply disapproving of the request, their faces clearly showed.

“Go to the kitchens and have some refreshment,” Mr. Mornay said. “Leave us for now.”

Mr. Speckman took a look at Ariana. Then, still looking bewildered and none too happy, strode from the room, trying to keep his dignity intact.

The moment the door closed upon them, Mrs. Pellham, said, “Get some buckets of water up here at once!” Mr. Mornay had been growing in his distrust of the doctor's methods, and he did not so much as question her intentions. He pulled on the bellpull, strongly, and more than once. He went immediately to the windows and threw them open as far as they would go.

“My thought exactly!” said Mrs. Pellham approvingly. She was already pulling off the heavy blankets that were upon Ariana, and she was so disgusted that she merely threw them to the floor. She saw the basin of water beside the bed, and the cloth, and wrung it out, and placed it across Ariana's forehead.

“Is ice available?” she asked, just as a bewildered Haines appeared at the door, followed quickly by Fotch. “Gentlemen, we need water; douse the fire; we need ice; on the double!” Both men seemed energized by the requests—finally, there was something they could do! They turned and hurried off to get the supplies. Meanwhile, Mrs. Pellham said, “Help me open this nightdress! It is far too heavy.”

But Mr. Mornay said, “We'll soon have ice on her, surely it makes no difference.”

“Mmm, well, I suppose you're right.” She studied her much-loved niece for a moment, then demanded, “How long has it been since Ariana has taken any liquid?”

He thought for a moment. “Many hours.”

“Hold her head up for me,” she ordered. There was a decanter of water and a glass, and Mrs. Pellham poured a little out, and sat down upon the edge of the mattress. Mr. Mornay had come and sat down himself, raising his wife so that she now rested against him, and he held her head up with his hands. He automatically helped to hold her mouth open so that Ariana's aunt could pour little drops of water to the side of her throat, knowing that a reflexive action would force her to swallow them.

But Mrs. Pellham had to shake her head sadly while doing it. Ariana's beautiful little lips were dry and cracked; no longer did they hold a healthy red appearance, but were colorless; and her face quite, quite pale. She also saw the marks from the
bleeding instrument
, and she almost shivered with distaste. “That man
bled
her? For shame!”

She laid accusing eyes on the husband. “How could you allow it?”

That was not the thing to say to Mornay in his current state of mind. His look darkened. “How could I not, when a man of medicine assures me it is the thing to do? I would gladly let him cover her with leeches if I thought it might save her life!”

Mrs. Pellham's brows drew together in a frown, but she said, “I daresay, you're right; I beg your pardon, Phillip.”

The ice arrived, slivers and chunks in buckets from the icehouse.

Mr. Mornay told his butler and Fotch: “Do not allow the doctor upstairs until I tell you.”

“Yes, sir!”

Mrs. Pellham and Mr. Mornay set to wrapping pieces of ice in cloths and laying them upon poor Ariana's hot body. Mrs. Pellham put a little pillow on the floor, got on her knees on it, and stayed at a vigil there, changing the ice, wringing out cloths, and looking for change in her niece.

It would be a long and very chilly day.

W
hen Beatrice awoke, she felt an unhappiness that she could not, at first, account for. Oh, it was Ariana! Last night they had prayed for her recovery; but was she safe? Had the crisis passed? Beatrice felt she had to do something; she must act, use the time in a productive manner. But what to do?

When Harrietta came and helped her into her daydress, and did her hair up (for the lady had nothing else to do, she protested, and wanted no recompense for her trouble other than the recovery of her mistress), Beatrice thought and thought and finally settled upon a course of action.

To her relief, Mr. O'Brien was in the breakfast room as usual. He was quite regular in his habits, which included rising early, having his private devotions and prayers, and then his breakfast. Without a response in kind to his, “Good morning, Miss Forsythe,” she stopped inside the doorway and cried, “Mr. O'Brien! I need you to take me to Aspindon! Directly, sir!”

He was chewing some food, but stopped abruptly. He had to think for only a second. He stood up, wiping his mouth, and said, “Of course. At once.”

With Sykes atop the board as coachman, Beatrice hesitated outside the vehicle, as Mr. O'Brien held her hand to assist her in climbing up. She had not meant to prolong the touch of his hand, but she was very much aware of it right through her gloves, while she said, “There is no need for you to accompany me. You should limit your exposure by all means.”

“Oh, nonsense!” he replied. “Of course I'll come.” His gentle tone filled her with gratitude, and for some reason—it must have been her concern for her sister—she was suddenly blinking back tears.

She tried to hide the state of her watery eyes, but Mr. O'Brien seemed to miss nothing concerning her. Beatrice was trying to understand how her life had changed so quickly. One moment she had been enjoying being a guest at Aspindon and having the attention of two gentlemen. Both men were mere diversions, nothing more. At least, that is what they ought to have been.

Mr. Barton changed that when he spoke to her of his wish to court her. She had to consider him differently from then on, and she had not been averse to doing so. He was just the sort of man she had always envisioned marrying. And now, Mr. O'Brien was refusing to remain a mere diversion too! He was supposed to be a fond acquaintance only, brotherly, held in affection. But what she was feeling for him was more than a sisterly love. It was not what she wished to feel for him, and his being near her now was comforting and vexing all at the same time.

If only she could believe that Ariana would be well again, and they would go for a Season in London. She could escape this curate's impact over her, and she would not have to feel the unmistakable loathing she now had for Mr. Barton, the cowardly cove! He disappeared like a wisp of smoke when they gathered to pray for her sister, so little regard had he for her or Ariana.

Her life would go back to the way it was. She could meet a fine gentleman of good standing and family (and wealth) in London, and be married and done with it, without a single further thought of Mr. Peter O'Brien to plague her. It would certainly be best for both of them, for he deserved a good young woman who was content to live in a country parsonage. A young woman who did not fill her head with thoughts of wealth or large estates or grandeur.
How could she even be thinking these things
, she scolded herself,
when she might even this minute be losing her sister
?

She glanced up to find Mr. O'Brien studying her with a look of concern and compassion. He immediately spoke up. “Miss Forsythe, may I assure you of my constant prayers for your sister, and, indeed, your entire family?” He pulled a little well-worn book out of his coat pocket and handed it across to her. “These are some of the most comforting verses in English literature that I know of.”

Beatrice put out her gloved hand and accepted it, looking at it in surprise. “I did not know you read poetry.” She was pleased to discover this, for Beatrice loved poetry.

“Oh, yes. I am very fond of Cowper and Coleridge, and Heber and Mrs. Hemans. Mrs. More is nearly too didactic even for me,” he said, smiling gently, “but I believe I have one of hers in these pages.”

“Is this your collection of personal favourites?” This was even more surprising to her, as it cost money to have one's own writing bound up properly.

“I have a good friend who is a printer,” he explained, while she leafed through the pages of his handwriting, which was fine and neat.

“Do you like Burns?” she asked curiously. “I have always found his verse to be wonderful, once one deciphers it enough to follow the meaning.”

“The Scottish accents are a bit of a challenge at times, yes,” he agreed. “But I do like his work.”

They shared a little smile. Here her sister lay dying, possibly, and first she was thinking of her marriage prospects, and now, poetry! Her face grew more sober with the thought.

“I gave you the book,” he said, “for you to read if you happen to fall into any darker moments. There are times when our minds are so confused that we cannot quiet ourselves enough to hear the whispers of the Holy Spirit through Scripture—do you not find it so?”

Beatrice had only lived long enough to experience small disappointments heretofore, but to the young, small disappointments are felt as falling so severely upon them as war or famine is felt among older individuals. So she looked at him gratefully and nodded in all due earnestness.

“When I have such moments, I often turn to poetry,” he said. “Until I am restored enough to turn to God from my heart.”

Beatrice nodded, feeling as though she was his pupil, and liking it very much.

As they drew near to Aspindon, he said, “You realize that on account of the children you will not be able to return to the vicarage today.”

She had not thought that far, but said, “Yes, of course! I hope you can send your servant to deliver my clothing and effects to me.”

“I'll return at once and see to it myself,” he replied, with his clear blue eyes fastened upon her intensely.

“You are too kind,” she answered.