The Country House Courtship (5 page)

Suddenly Beatrice hoped that the man coming would not be found acceptable. If no one filled the position before Mr. Hargrove took up his new living, the Mornays might remove to their London house! Which meant that she, Beatrice, would join them and live in Grosvenor Square. She had seen the magnificent house at the Square, but not spent more than a night beneath its roof. Just the thought of staying there again sent excitement through her veins.

“Shall we try to guess at the sort of man our cleric is?” asked Ariana. She had taken up her own bit of needlework—her perpetual project was to knit blankets for the poor, dropping them off in the village whenever she had more than one finished.

“Shall we all get to see him?” Beatrice asked curiously.

“I would very much like to, if I may,” put in Mrs. Royleforst.

“You may all meet him,” answered their host. “It will serve to demonstrate his manners in company,” he added lightly. He almost smiled at the thought. Perhaps there would be some diversion in this after all.

Beatrice was proud to be among the family in the finely appointed room, with its dazzling furniture and decoration. And her new walking-out dress of green and pink flowered cambric, the finest winter gown that she had ever had the felicity of enjoying, was perfectly suited for receiving company. Never before had Beatrice felt so indulgent, so condescending, so perfectly at ease among such wealth. After all, she was family; the house belonged to her sister's husband. She was not timidly come to leave flowers for the lady of the manor (as she sometimes did at home), but now she
was
one of the ladies of the manor. At least she was sure it must appear so to the coming visitor.

By this time next year
, she thought to herself
, I shall likely be married to a fine gentleman, and my house, if not quite as elegant as Aspindon, will be richly appointed and pleasing to anyone.

“Will you play, Beatrice? Shall we try to guess at the sort of man who is on his way?” her mama asked her.

“By all means!” Beatrice smiled. “This will be diverting.” She loved a good game, but somehow had convinced herself that a calmness of manner was her trademark. She must not be thought of as a flighty young girl who grew excited at the least cause, or gave way to much mirth. Her nature could not be grave, but of a decidedly serious bent. She did, after all, read poetry and novels, and a few (a very few) other books.

Beatrice saw that everyone was looking at her, and she asked, brightly, “Shall I begin, then?”

“Yes, do,” said Ariana, noting for the thousandth time how much the girl had grown. She was little Beatrice no longer! Ariana watched affectionately while her sister spoke, taking note of her sturdy eyebrows that matched the hue of her hair and the strong features that hinted at a boldness of character, vivid imagination, and mischievous bent that showed primarily in the sparkle of her hazel green eyes. Since childhood Beatrice had shown a propensity to enjoy social occasions, and Ariana marveled that she had not changed in that respect. She was smiling while she thought on how to characterize the mysterious visitor to come, and Ariana had to allow that when she smiled, Beatrice could be called beautiful. She was at the dawn of womanhood, her elder sister thought. And yet, so young.

Beatrice thought for a moment longer, and then said, “I think…it will be a man who has long been a curate, and will be hankering to become a vicar.”

Mrs. Royleforst opined, looking around, “Well, yes, of course, they all do. Perpetual curates! No meaner prison in all Britain for a gentleman!”

“My dear ma'am,” Ariana hastened to reply. “I should say not. That is, there are many curates who are happily situated—”

“And twice as many who are well nigh starving,” the older lady added smoothly. “Curates are nothing but gentlemen in a respectable debtor's prison called the Church. Come, come, Ariana, even you cannot defend our religion in this case; it cannot be. Pluralism, you well know, is a direct result of too many curacies offering such mean stipends as no proper gentleman can live on! I quite sympathize with poor curates, you see.”

Ariana had to smile. “I can see, and I commend it in you. Indeed, I too feel most strongly for the plight of poor churchmen, you must believe me.”

Beatrice, meanwhile, growing bored, scrunched up her face and said, “You must let me finish my caricature: I think—he is poor, exceedingly thin, and exceedingly dull in his conversation.” (The others chuckled.) “He will insist upon calling just when you are prepared to dine, will accept your gracious invitation to join you, and will afterward drink port or claret while he bores Mr. Mornay to distraction (She peeked at the dark eyes across the room and was pleased to find them upon her with a look of small amusement.) and refuse to play cards, or dance, or be amiable.” She smiled a little smugly.

Ariana laughed. “You have painted an ogre! Why is your opinion of a stranger so decidedly gloomy? What is to answer for it, particularly when you have the agreeable Mr. Timmons as your model for a vicar?”

Mrs. Forsythe asked, “Do you despise the profession?”

“No!” Beatrice said, looking around innocently. “Only, now I think on it, a man must do very well in the Church if he is to live as a gentleman, as Mrs. Royleforst says. He cannot make his fortune so well as a soldier or military man, having no recourse to the opportunities that war and travel provide.”

“Opportunites,” said Mr. Mornay, “such as dying at the barrel of a rifle?”

Beatrice paused and pouted at him. “That was not my meaning, as you well know, sir!” But the humour was not entirely lost upon her and she ended upon a little smile. “I grant it is a safer profession; but many a man has been made by his military service, while many a parson must scrounge and take on more parishes than he can handle, merely to get by.”

“It is a grave injustice,” said Ariana, “but no reason to assume our cleric must be morose.”

Beatrice, nonplussed, said, “I thought you desired an ogre—someone we could laugh at.”

“What
do
we know of this man, truly?” asked Mrs. Forsythe. “Is he coming by recommendation? I am certain Mr. Timmons could advise you where to find a good man, sir, (this to Mr. Mornay) if you are in need of help in that regard.”

Mr. Mornay spoke up. “He comes highly recommended. He would not be coming at all, however, I assure you, except that the letter recommending him was delayed. Lost in the mail, no doubt, so that I only received it yesterday. But he is wasting his time.”

Ariana was surprised. “Have you presented the living to someone else?”

Her husband met her eyes. “Without your knowing of it? No.”

“But you said he is wasting his time. And that he would not be coming if you had notice. What are we to make of that?” she asked, curious at his mysterious air.

“When the man arrives, you will understand me.”

“We do need a vicar at Glendover,” she reminded him. “The people all feel the absence of poor Mr. Applegate.”

“The people are managing to get themselves to Warwickdon. 'Tis but two miles, and their spiritual needs are being met thus. I should like to fill the position with a man of
my
choosing, if you must know.”

“But of course you will choose the man. Only you can, my darling.” Her face registered a momentary discomfort as she recalled that they were not alone—it was vexing to feel they must address each other formally in the presence of guests. Calling Phillip “my darling,” was her habit—not easy to alter on demand. “But I do think you must give this man—whatever you know of him—a fair trial of your scrutiny; for the Colonel's sake, if not his own.”

“Do you have aught against the Colonel?” asked Mrs. Forsythe. “For what reason are you so decided in your opinion against the man he recommends?”

“It has nothing to do with the Colonel,” he answered.

“What is the curate's name?” asked Beatrice.

“Yes, give us the name, Phillip!” added Mrs. Royleforst.

“Yes, the name!” echoed her minion, nodding her skinny head. She liked to be included in as much of genteel society as possible.

“Perhaps we can conjecture better upon his character if we hear his name.” Ariana looked at her husband. They all looked at him.

“Ariana, do you not know it?” asked her mama, a little surprised.

“Actually, no, Mr. Mornay has not told me.” She looked back at her husband. “You evidently know the man, or something of him. Is this not so?”

“I could never forget it, I assure you. But since he is expected any minute, I think I shall leave it to him to make himself known to you. ”

Beatrice said, “You can never forget it? It must be singular, somehow!”

“I should say!” cried Mrs. Royleforst. “If you indeed know this fellow, Phillip, ought you not to tell us what you know? Should we be on our guard? Something is afoot in this business, I can smell it.”

He merely gave that maddening half-smile, so Ariana said, “Never mind, let us devise our own little name for the ogre, then.” She paused and fell to thinking, and then looked up with a rapturous expression for a second. In the next moment, however, her face fell again. “Oh, I can think of nothing. Beatrice, do you have something?”

To everyone's surprise, not least of all Mrs. Royleforst, her companion, Miss Bluford spoke up. “I—I think I can, if I may be allowed—”

“But of course, Miss Bluford!” cried her mistress, quite surprised.

The lady's lips came together in concentration, and she lifted her chin. The other occupants in the room were almost craning their necks, waiting, except for Phillip, who had crossed his arms and merely sat, watching her with not the least surprise or curiosity on his face.

“How—how do you like—” and here she paused again.

“Out with it, my dear!” said her mistress.

Miss Bluford swallowed. “How do you like this? Mr.
Frogglethorpe
.” All the females in the room chuckled in surprise that sober Miss Bluford would produce such a name.

“Very amusing, Miss Bluford!” gasped Mrs. Royleforst approvingly. With this encouragement, Miss Bluford gave a little wobbly smile and added, “Let us say, then, Mr. Frederick Frogglethorpe!” Her skinny shoulders shook as she quietly enjoyed her own mirth and gave little peeks at the others about her (except for Mr. Mornay. She was still wary of him.). She loved that she had amused everyone.

“I daresay Frederick shan't like it,” replied the lady of the house, thinking of their butler, Mr. Frederick, whom her husband called “Freddy.”

Little Nigel burst into the room at that moment, leaving the door ajar.

“Mama! Papa! Nigel is back!”

“Come to Auntie Royleforst,” said the large older woman, immediately. Mrs. Forsythe had been just about to offer her own arms to the child, and frowned, but she said nothing.

Beatrice repeated, “Frederick Frogglethorpe. I believe it has a very proper ring to it—almost.” And she laughed. “Ah, yes, ‘Mr. Frederick Frogglethorpe
at your service, ma'am,'” and Miss Bluford tittered the most of anyone. Ariana was smiling, enjoying that her sister found the little exercise diverting. Beatrice added, “I think he will bow timidly, with overarching propriety, and will offer you a great deal of flummery.” They all chuckled, and Miss Bluford, nodding fervently, agreed, “Yes, flummery—indeed, indeed! The richest sort! The smoothest going down! Quite the vicar!”

Mrs. Royleforst continued to feel amazed and amused at how Miss Bluford was coming out of her shell of silence, but she was too busy allowing Nigel the pleasure of crawling all over her large person to say anything of it.

The clock ticked, and they all continued to wait.