The Country House Courtship (50 page)

The moment the couple left, the children came down for their daily time to be with the adults, and so Mrs. Forsythe wore only smiles for their sake, and made sure to stay in the parlour while their visit lasted. She would not let Mrs. Royleforst have them all to herself!

“Dash it all, I've just remembered something!” said Lord Horatio.

“Well?” asked Tristan. They were just turning in to the drive of the Manor. “I'm supposed to get Mornay to London for Prinny.”

“Are you? That's deuced interesting because I am supposed to do that very thing, also!”

“Tristan has had no opportunity,” explained Anne. “Mrs. Mornay's illness makes it impossible.”

“Did you tell the prince?” Lord Horatio asked.

“I told him of the threat to Mrs. Mornay; and that the Paragon would no doubt accept the viscountcy.”

“He has agreed then?”

“No, not in so many words. But would you turn down a title? He's an Englishman, is he not?”

Horatio whistled. “One never knows with our dignified friend.”

“The place is a sickbed, in any case,” snapped Mr. Barton. “We'd take our life in our hands if we try and see him now.”

“Let us call there in a few days,” said Anne. “By then, the outcome with poor Mrs. Mornay will be determined, and we will know whether to try the man or not.”

“Well, and since you are newly wed, I think I'll just take myself off to London, and leave the Manor House for your pleasure.”

“And abandon Miss Forsythe to the curate?” asked Anne, half joking.

“She is stuck at Aspindon now until her sister either recovers, or dies. I should not likely see her, in any case.”

“See here,” said Lord Horatio. “Mrs. Mornay is a dear friend; do not speak so unfeelingly of her, I pray you.”

“I beg your pardon,” he said, surprised to discover this. “I only mean that my interest in Miss Forsythe must cease if Mrs. Mornay does not rally through this.”

“Is that so?” asked his lordship, still feeling protective of Ariana.

“She brings me no advantage without her sister, you addlepate! I can't afford to marry beneath me,” he answered.

“You dare to say that to me? When I have just married your sister with a dowry so small as to be unacceptable to my parents!”

Mr. Barton eyed him with an unreadable expression. “You are a better man than I,” he said. “But a poorer one.”

“On the contrary,” said his lordship with an easy smile, as he put one arm around his new wife, “I have riches ye know not of.”

B
y the time word had spread that Mrs. Mornay had survived the crisis, Mr. Barton was back in London. He threw himself into his clubs and gaming at tables, and congratulated himself on finding an escape from the tedium of the countryside. During quieter moments, he saw the pretty face of Miss Forsythe, or heard her delightful laughter, or detected a sparkle of mischief in her bright eyes. It was a pity, that's all. But he decided he must soon make the drive and find out what was what before giving her up entirely.

He did not have the latest report—that Ariana had survived the crisis—so that instead the news went around swiftly that she was in grave danger. The Regent himself heard this, and sent a gift for the children. He did not know what else to do.

Then, exactly three days after Ariana had awoken from her sickness, word trickled in of her recovery. Mr. Barton had still been dragging his steps and hadn't returned to Middlesex, but at this news he made haste and was on the road speedily. Now that he knew his course, he wanted to see to it with all due haste, before that deuced parson had a chance to usurp his place.

Ariana was growing stronger by the day, but her husband made it clear to Beatrice that his wife would not be setting foot in London until she was absolutely fully recovered. When she accepted this information without a qualm, he assumed it was on account of her good sense in the matter. She understood that her sister could not be rushing about from ballroom to dinner party after having suffered such a devastating illness. Little did he think her meek acquiescence had far less to do with Ariana than with Beatrice's changing hopes.

What had she wanted so badly in London, she now wondered. It was true that Mr. O'Brien had nothing so fine as an Aspindon; he was not a man about town; he was not a glib, amusing Mr. Barton. And yet, somehow she had become thankful that he was not! In fact, she suspected that she loved him all the more for it! A finer house might have been a boon, but in her heart she had developed this odd feeling that
where
she lived was not nearly as important as
who
she lived with. In fact, it was worse than that: She was feeling that she belonged in the vicarage, with Mr. O'Brien. Indeed, could it be that it was her place to be at his side no matter where he lived? Yet, for all she knew, Mr. O'Brien thought her a foolish girl, not worth his time. He had not given her any indication of his thinking otherwise.

She had not seen the man since the day he brought her to the estate, the same day that Ariana had overcome the worst of her danger. But she thought of him often. If only she had not expressed an interest in a fine house! In a Season in London! In Mr. Barton! How foolish her words sounded to her own ears now! Oh, she assuredly had been most foolish!

“Miss Beatrice,” said Mrs. Pellham, for she had been at table when Mr. Mornay let fall the news regarding a London Season. “You might consider returning to the metropolis with Mr. Pellham and myself. I no longer have the consequence I had when your sister was with me, but I can show you a very diverting time, I am sure.”

Mr. Pellham nodded saying, “To be sure, your aunt is superb at gathering invitations.”

“Why, thank you, Randolph!” the matron crooned.

“I am much obliged, Aunt Pellham,” replied Beatrice. “Truly. Only I must tell you, at present I have no wish to go to London.” Mr. Mornay held his fork in midair. (Ariana was still taking her meals, small ones, in her chamber.)

Mrs. Pellham said, “Oh! I beg your pardon! I understood you desired a coming-out!”

Embarrassed, Beatrice replied, “I meant no disrespect, ma'am.” She dabbed her mouth with a linen cloth. “May I have some time to consider your offer?”

“Of course you may,” she answered. This struck Mrs. Pellham as reasonable. She no longer felt that strong need to sponsor a gel as she had used to. Marrying Randolph seemed to have filled some part of her that had used to need the attention. Her offer to Beatrice, therefore, was all the more generous in that it was entirely unselfish. She did have a few last words, however, which she lost no time in parting with:

“Do you recall that your sister will now truly be Lady Mornay, as your brother has finally had the good sense to accept the honor of a title. A viscountess! My niece!” she beamed at Mr. Mornay with more than her usual approval.

Mr. Mornay merely nodded. When he finished eating he told Beatrice he needed to speak with her.

When they were alone in the library afterward (so that the Pellhams could sit in the drawing room), he looked wryly at his young relation, and asked, “What has made you think better of a London Season?”

She gazed at him with an odd expression. “I suppose I am merely thankful that my sister is well; if I do go to Town, I should prefer it to be with her and you, sir; not my aunt and uncle.”

“Your aunt is likely to put forth a greater expenditure upon you than either myself or your sister.”

She nodded, but he could see it did not impress her in the least.
Interesting!

“I must tell you,” he said, “that during your sister's illness I had much time to consider a great many things, one of them being the day you disappeared upon the estate with Mr. O'Brien.”

This caught her attention, and she looked up at him with interest.

“Yes?”

“I have come to the conclusion that the incident was sufficiently compromising to your character so that you must wed.”

Beatrice's face froze. Her eyes opened wider. She could not help it and had to smile just a little, all beneath the watchful gaze of her brother-in-law. She looked at him, and all he could detect upon her features was relief and joy. By Jove, the girl was in love! No wonder she had given up London!

“I will write to Mr. Barton at once,” he started to say, but Beatrice gasped.

“Mr. Barton!” she cried. “Surely you do not think I can wed Mr. Barton!”

He stopped in surprise. “He offered for you, regardless of the incident with O'Brien. It makes an easy escape for you, under the circumstances.”

“Escape? To what?” There was silence a moment. “To a life with
him
?”

Here Mr. Mornay had to smile. “Barton has the money to keep you in style; he can buy the Manor House, and you can be neighbour to your sister. Does this not please you?”

Beatrice was suddenly taking deep breaths, too distraught to say anything. She leapt to her feet and walked first this way, then that. Her arms were crossed across her middle. “I can never marry Mr. Barton! Was I compromised by Mr. Barton?
No!
Was I taken care of by Mr.Barton?
No!
” She looked at Mornay as though he was pigeon-headed. Blinking back tears, she said, “Is he a good, kind man who fears the Lord?
No!
Is he gentle and soft-spoken and wise?
No!
” She stopped before him and opened her arms in exasperation. “Do you honestly think he would make me a good husband?”

Mr. Mornay was trying not to smile. But he said, “
No!
”

“Oh! Then you shan't try to force me to wed him?”

Her startled words brought out the full, handsome smile. “By no means! I only proposed it because I thought you preferred him.” How auspicious. He knew that his wife would be delighted to discover that her sister had fallen in love with their young cleric.

Beatrice stared at him for a second. In unison, because he saw it coming, they both shouted, “NO!”

Weak with relief, Beatrice sat back down upon a wing chair in the room. A maid had come in and was building up the fire, but she paid no heed to her. Beatrice looked up at him, smiling through tears of joy, and said, “You are the best and kindest of brothers, sir! You are the best and kindest!”