The Country House Courtship (54 page)

At the front door, Mr. O'Brien turned to Beatrice. “May I ask you to wait just a few minutes? I have taken the liberty of securing a sleigh for us; Mr. Mornay has been good enough to give us use of it. Do you mind? I'll be only a minute.”

But she was already smiling with pleasure. “I'd be delighted! I love a sleigh ride!”

She waited briefly, and then stepped out of doors to wait upon the steps. There was light coming from inside the house, which was just becoming necessary to see well, for the winter day was drawing to a close. There was no moon, and it was still snowing lightly. Beatrice heard a sound and leaned forward, expecting to see the sleigh coming toward her, but could see nothing.

“Miss Forsythe.”

She gasped in surprise, but it was Mr. Barton approaching.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, “for frightening you.”

“My word!” she exclaimed. “You did frighten me. Where did you come from?”

He pointed down the drive, saying, “My carriage is only just over there.” She could not make it out, due to the snow and quickly falling dusk, but she looked at him curiously.

“Are you returning to the house?” she asked.

“I was,” he said, slowly, watching her. “Are you leaving it?” (with a smile).

“No, not leaving. Just going for a sleigh ride with Mr. O'Brien.”

“Ah. The
favoured
gentleman, if I am not mistaken?” He looked around. “And where is he?”

“He is getting the sleigh.”

Mr. Barton took in a breath. “Is there any way I can hope to change your mind regarding my suit?” he asked suddenly.

Beatrice felt uneasy, but replied, “I am sorry, sir, but there is not.”

“May I know why?” He looked at her with an almost angry expression.

“If you must know, it is because I am in love with Mr. O'Brien.”

Mr. Barton said nothing, but merely rocked on his heels a moment or two, and looked out at the snow falling, in the direction of his carriage.

“I am of a mind to take you for a drive myself,” he said lightly.

She looked at him, perplexed. “I am sorry, Mr. Barton, but as I said, I am waiting for Mr. O'Brien to return at any moment.”

“The least you can grant me is a short drive,” he said, “since you deny me a lifetime with you.”

With a sudden feeling of caution, Beatrice turned to grasp the door handle. She was going to wait inside the house and put an end to this pointless discussion. But as soon as she turned, Mr. Barton had her over his shoulder like a sack of flour—just like that!

“Mr. Barton!” she cried, pounding him with her fists. “Put me down this instant, sir!” She dropped her muff and used both her fists against his coat, but he was scarecly paying heed. Instead, he hurried forward carrying her, counting on the snowfall to muffle her cries. Beatrice began yelling the name of Mr. O'Brien, and then, in desperation, “
Peter!
”

J
ust as he was leading the horses to the sleigh, which had taken far longer than he hoped, for there was no groom in the stables, Mr. O'Brien heard yells in the distance. He had two horses in hand, each by the reins below the head, and he looked around frantically for a place to tie one so that he could mount the other. He hadn't saddled it for riding, and it was slippery from the weather, but he had to get to Beatrice as quickly as possible. He didn't ask himself how he knew it was Beatrice. He didn't stop to think it might have been a sound of merriment, or glee. He wrapped the reins of the second horse quickly around a post, and hurried to mount the first animal.

There was a whinny of protest, and the horse reared up. Mr. O'Brien was at the end of his patience, for suddenly it came to him that Miss Forsythe was in danger, and here this animal had the audacity to give him grief. He stalked to the head of the beast, and spoke very closely to its face, holding it strongly by the reins.

“You listen to me, sir!” he said, through gritted teeth. It was a tone of voice that would have astounded anyone familiar with him, for he had never in his life used it before. “You
will
allow me to mount you and you
will
take me to my bride!”

It was an astonishing thing for him to have said, for he hardly knew that Beatrice Forsythe had to be his bride, but, of course, she did. He left the horse's head and scrambled up a bit sloppily. The horse moved about on its legs for balance, but behaved for him, and he got on!

He turned it at once and went in the direction of the front of the house.

Meanwhile, Beatrice was trying to slow down Mr. Barton at every turn. He had growled at his coachman, “On the double, Jarvey,” which told her immediately that the man was a jarvis, a stand-in coachman, not a long-time servant! So she cried out to him, “Oh, sir! This man would have you a criminal for him!”

“Be quiet, Beatrice!” Mr. Barton said, annoyed, as he tried to push her into the carriage.

She clung to the door for dear life. “Do not do his bidding!” she gasped, as loudly as she could. “You'll end up on a gibbet, while he will go free!”

Mr. Barton doubled his grasp on her, while yelling up at the coachman, “I'll pay you fifty pounds for taking us to Scotland! I'll pay you on arrival!”

“Ye'll pay me first, sir,” the man replied, in his own low growl.

“I cannot pay you while I must keep hold of this young woman!”

“What are you
doing
, Mr. Barton?” cried Beatrice, in a strained tone that caught his attention. “I am no
prize
for you! Have you lost your senses?”

He hesitated, and the truth came out. “I'll be brother to Mr. Mornay if we wed, and that is good enough for me!”

“Yes, but if you force me to this, he'll be in your life forever, but as a thorn in your flesh! Think of it, sir! No one who incurs his wrath can be happy around him again! Do you truly wish to ruin your life at so young an age?”

She saw more hesitation on his face. In the back of her mind she thought she heard the sound of horses' hooves, lightly, in the snow, but as from a distance. She spoke quickly. “Mr. Mornay will be your brother, indeed; but he will be an Esau to you! You will need to fear him all the days of your life!”

His shoulders slumped. What she said made perfect sense, given who Mr. Mornay was. There had been rumours of the man finding religion, but Mr. Barton could not say they were true. He saw no softening of the features on the man, no difference in the famously caustic nature. Other people, many other people, would have disputed those very claims with utter accuracy and sincerity, but not Mr. Barton. For some reason he had never found favour with the man.

Perhaps it was because he was capable of doing what he was doing; namely, abducting Miss Forsythe to force her into marriage, that Mornay had only extended a cautious friendship. Of course, Mr. Mornay could not have known that he would do this! But the man had never given up a sense of caution he had formed regarding him—Barton could feel it—and now he was giving justification to Mornay's concerns. He didn't mean to be doing so. If Mr. Mornay had only welcomed him as a brother, none of this would have had to happen!

How was it that all of these thoughts could run swiftly through his mind? Beatrice was staring at him, wide-eyed, and darting glances this way and that, seeking a way of escape. She could sense his hesitation, and she said, “Do not make yourself an enemy in Mr. Mornay. You will live to regret it for many a day, sir!” Just as she was shrugging herself free from his grasp, the jarvis, (who all this time was listening) comprehended that his fifty pounds was about to vanish. Suddenly he was very content to be paid on arrival, and in a loud cry to alert the man who had hired him that night, he yelled, “Get 'er stowed, sir!” And, “We're off!”

With a loud crack of the ribbons, they took off, though even the horses were slipping on the icy pavement. Beatrice and Mr. Barton both went tumbling into the carriage to the floor; Mr. Barton was practically upon her. Through the noise of the creaking carriage and the horses in the snow, Beatrice still felt she could make out a different sound, a different tempo, and there, at the window, from her spot on the floor, she saw the face of Mr. O'Brien appear. Oh, that angelic face! He was going to rescue her!

He was looking in, but not toward the floor; Mr. Barton was just getting to his feet and he held out a hand to her, and—apologized.

“I am sorry, my dear Miss Forsythe,” he said, above all the sounds. “It seems that the world has decided that we must wed. I promise you, I was going to release you!”

“Turn this carriage around at once!” she cried. Behind his head, through the window, there was only darkness. What had happened to her angel? And then, he was there again, and their eyes met, and she knew that he had some plan. Beatrice took her seat and held on to the edge of it. Mr. Barton noted her action, but did not guess at what was behind it.

“I believe,” he said, moving slightly nearer to her, “that you will, in time, learn to love me. And then you will convince Mr. Mornay to do the same. You will tell him how happy you are now that I did this, don't you see? It's all for the best!”

But the horses started whinnying and suddenly the coach was rocking crazily but began to slow down. Mr. Barton looked struck by surprise, for he had no idea what was happening. He reached out and grasped one of her hands, as though to reassure her, only Beatrice pulled it instantly away. Then, to her horror, she heard a report at close range!
Oh my word! What if Mr. O'Brien is killed!

There was the sound of a thump upon the road, and the coach slowed to a stop. Unbeknownst to both the occupants of the carriage, the jarvis who had fired off a shot while trying to keep his perch atop the board had fallen instantly backward, and was knocked unconscious by the fall. His shot had missed Mr. O'Brien by a wide margin and gone off harmlessly in the air.

Beatrice was holding her head in her hands. She could not make herself look to see who had been hurt. If it was Mr. O'Brien, she would not be able to bear it. Not when she might have admitted to him far sooner that she held him in such high regard. Indeed, she loved him! She might have had him for a short time only, but now he could be lost forever! Her own foolishness and pride were to blame!

Mr. Barton had a look on his face that was only mildly less apprehensive, for he knew nothing of Mr. O'Brien being about, and assumed it was Mornay. When nothing happened, no one opened the door, he bit his lip and turned, and slowly opened it himself. Nothing. He glanced at Beatrice, and she saw that he was apprehensive. He gave the door a good kick, making it swing wide, and letting in a blast of cold air, but that was all. No sound of anyone being about. No movement other than the wind.

He looked at Beatrice with a puzzled expression. She raised her head, but just sat there looking terribly sad.

“I'll take a look,” he said. But as soon as he moved to the door, she started to follow him, only she heard a loud thud, and then saw Mr. Barton stop, rock unsteadily on his legs for a moment, his head tottering, and then he fell forward, knocked out cold, onto the snowy road. Frightened, she stepped back a foot inside the carriage. Outside, Mr. O'Brien nodded in a satisfied manner at the prone body on the ground, for the second Barton ventured forth from the interior, he had given Mr. Barton a quick right jab to the head, using every ounce of his strength.

Now he poked his own head into the carriage, after shoving aside Barton's feet (for they had landed on the steps, which had fallen down by some odd fluke during the chase), and saw Beatrice peering apprehensively out at him. Her look changed into a smile. “Oh! My dear sir!” she cried, moving forward at once. She could hardly come forth speedily enough, and he took her exuberantly around the waist to hand her down. With her feet upon the ground, Beatrice could only continue to stare up at him, at dear, dear, Peter O'Brien, and her eyes watered; and when he said, “Are you all right, Miss Forsythe?” she cried, “No! I am not right! I have been a fool!” The truths she had been hiding came spilling out. “I have said I wanted a man of wealth and standing, when what I really want is
you
!”

And that was enough. That one declaration, in the end, was all she had to say to explain herself to him. He swept her up into his arms and bent his head (and his hat fell off though it had stayed on for all this time) and kissed Miss Beatrice Forsythe upon the lips. For a few seconds, the world was soft and sweet, even warm. They smiled at each other, in the approaching dark, and could see they were smiling because of the snow. Then he kissed her again, and then again. He said, “And I am in love with you. Will you be my wife, Beatrice? Little Beatrice Forsythe, who promised to marry me when you were twelve; will you indeed marry me?”