The Country House Courtship (8 page)

Could this account for his dark hair?
Beatrice wondered. Did not people usually turn grey, or white, as a result of great difficulties? Perhaps; but Mr. O'Brien had turned brunette, strange as it seemed. Again she noticed that the change suited him quite well. It was too bad that he was not a man of independent means. As a curate, he was not the type of man (she knew in her heart) that she must marry. She felt a pang of unrest with the thought, but brushed it aside.

No unsuitable man would make her turn her head, not even an impressive curate with a heart of gold! She was determined to have her day in the upper-class society of the Season, and to see what would come of that. There had to be gentlemen aplenty there, and Mr. O'Brien was not the only man in the world with beautiful blue eyes and a big heart.

I may be young
, she thought,
but I am no longer the child who would marry the first eligible young man she met just because he wanted a cure for being lovesick!
Mr. O'Brien had been utterly deflated in spirit upon losing Ariana to Mr. Mornay, and Beatrice had felt sorry for him. Now she was older and wiser. Now she understood life far better. And besides, he no longer seemed the least bit sick from love.

A
riana was feeling a great heartache. Had not she herself wanted to turn her hand to helping the poor of London?

She and Phillip had been so happy raising their own little family that thoughts of the plight of the city's poor had utterly fled from her mind. It had been too, too long since she'd even considered it. Phillip had agreed to support many a city institution, and they had been faithfully contributing their help since; but still she suddenly felt far removed from it all. It did not seem enough—writing a cheque or sending a bank note. Such was not a sacrifice for them. It was nothing like being there firsthand as Mr. O'Brien was.

What a good, good thing it was that God had sent Mr. O'Brien! It was reawakening her heart to things she must do. Things such as reacquainting herself with the efforts of the latest societies and organizations that toiled on behalf of the poor. A trip to London could help immensely in that; there was nothing like visiting personally to know whether an institute or school was worthy of their funds, for instance. Someday, she dreamed, she would like to get involved in a practical way. Knitting blankets was too antiseptic: she wanted to get her hands dirty in the work, so to speak!

Like most women whose husbands owned a large estate, she had no hand in the financial doings regarding it. Other than informing their man of business when she wanted to support a charity (who, in turn, would clear it with Phillip, she knew) she did not even have a hand in charitable giving.

With difficulty, she turned her mind back to Mr. O'Brien, who was saying, “The devil of it is, if I were as wealthy as, well, as you are, sir (and here he turned to Mr. Mornay), it would only help for a short period of time! These people are not trained to look after themselves; they do not know the least thing about homesteading, or simple gardening—those who have a small plot of land, that is. Most do not. But it is appallingly—
mad
—their manner of life!” He stopped, catching himself giving way to helpless anger.

The women were eyeing him sorrowfully, with understanding. Ariana looked ready to cry, and Beatrice was heart-stricken. Mr. O'Brien collected himself; he knew he had made his point, and now felt almost apologetic.

“Mr. O'Brien,” said Ariana, preventing that apology from coming. Her large, pretty eyes, somewhat watery at the moment, peered up at him. “I pray you will dine with us. You have nothing prepared elsewhere, I hope?”

“I believe I passed a respectable-looking inn some miles back, and was going to return to it for my supper, ma'am.”

“Oh, do not think of it!” she replied. “You will eat your meal with us.”

“Your offer is very kind,” he said with utter sincerity. He seemed to have found a much more agreeable reception than he had hoped for, and he was startled, but pleased.

As mistress of Aspindon House, Ariana delighted in any benevolent action she might take. She was not cognizant that her husband was standing now with his back to the room, and staring out at the prospect as though he had never seen it before.

The maids began cleaning up the tea dishes, and Ariana said, “Mama, why do not you and Beatrice accompany Mr. O'Brien for a walk about the house while Mrs. Perler and I see to the children?”

“The children?” asked the cleric. His eyes had come alight. “I beg your pardon, I had completely forgotten! Allow me to offer my deepest congratulations. I understand you have just recently welcomed a new little miss into the household!” Even Mr. Mornay turned around for this, for he, like his wife, was inordinately proud of his offspring.

“Yes, our baby Miranda; I thank you,” said Ariana, smiling with pleasure. “Our little boy, Nigel, is four; and our little girl, Miranda, is just two months.”

“Two months! My word, you are just out of your confinement! I do hope I shall have the pleasure of an introduction,” he said in a droll tone.

All the women were smiling. “But of course!” Ariana said. “You could hardly avoid it in this household, sir, for we allow our children a great deal of time with us.”

Tristan Barton sat across from his sister in the morning room of the Manor House, while he finished his coffee and toast. Miss Barton was morosely stirring her chocolate, absentmindedly.

“Now we are settled,” he said, “I should like to call upon Mr. Mornay. It's deuces there's naught else to do around here, in
the country
!” he snorted with derision. “However can anyone prefer it?”

Miss Barton raised her head enough to cast a glance out a window of the room, which overlooked the frontage of the estate. “I think it's lovely country,” she said. “And not even that far from Town.”

“Half a day's drive, you mean!” he returned. “Quite far enough. In any case, I'll have to take the carriage, but I do not imagine you were planning on using it. You look ill, in fact. Are you unwell?” His eyes had narrowed sharply upon really seeing her face.

“I am fine,” she answered, looking down for a second.

When she did look up, he said, “But you are certainly not in your looks. I want you to rest while I am out.” Anne's eyes had darkish circles, as though she had not been sleeping well, or felt ill.

“Tristan?” Her voice was low, and she paused, looking flustered.

“Yes?”

“You—you shan't forget to tell them your sister is with you?”

He grimaced. “I told you I mean to introduce you. I've decided that you can be of use to me, in fact. You will keep Mrs. Mornay in company, so that I may hope to get more of the mister to myself. I am determined to do my service for the prince as speedily as possible. It may be that I can procure some good for us from this before any…detrimental reports may reach the ears of His Royal Highness.”

He was standing now, brushing off his coat, and he asked, “How do I look, eh?”

She glanced over him. “I do think breeches are formal for a morning call.”

“This is Mornay I'm seeing, Anne! Can anything be too formal for such a man?”

“When meeting him with the prince, or at an affair, I suppose not; but here in the country?”

“I wouldn't be at all surprised if he keeps to London styles, country or no; I mean to be prepared.”

“You will seem to be striving for their approval.”

“But I am. I must have their approval, or my chances of doing anything for the prince are dashed.”

“But do you not want to seem more confident? As though you have no reason
not
to be approved of? You should allow your good manners to speak for you. Not your attire.”

He went up to her and stroked her cheek. Miss Barton was surprised, but pleased. He looked at her almost pityingly, however, and said, “Anne, Anne. If you knew how to dress properly for the right company, I might even now be addressing you as ‘my lady.' You failed to impress his lordship's family, do you not see?”

“You do not know the least thing about it!”
she cried, taking his hand and throwing it from her. She was already in tears. He stopped, a little taken aback by her passionate rebuttal.

“Do not try to tell me anything about a matter you are entirely ignorant of!”

“What do you mean?” he demanded. “What am I ignorant of?”

She turned and glared at him for a moment, silent with anger. “It was your decision to sell our family home that first made them question our respectability!”

“Yes, but what of Brummell? Do you recall? He sold his estate, and no one questioned his dashed respectability!”

“Brummell was an Original! And I daresay that the same people who paid him court would shrink from giving him a daughter in marriage! Respectability and good
ton
are two different things! No one questions whether you are fashionable, or agreeable—but
you sold our family house
! You threw away our ties to the land! You must know that a family estate means the world to these people! How can you have failed to understand that?” Her voice was cracking, and she could no longer keep herself from sobbing. She rushed from the room.

The next day, Mr. Mornay asked his wife to take tea with him and the children in the nursery—a startling request, but Ariana was delighted to comply. They liked to be together for bohea and biscuits, but lately the children joined them in the drawing room since the guests were there as well. It would be cozier upstairs, just the four of them and Mrs. Perler.

Thirty-five minutes later, Miranda had been fed with all the attentions due an infant (meaning she was burped, nursed on the other breast, burped yet again, and thoroughly adored, all while maintaining a complete oblivion to the squeals of delight and laughter around her) before Ariana asked her husband, “Do you wish to hold your daughter?” Coat removed, he had been playing upon the carpet with his son, letting the child climb all over him and giving him rides upon his back.

“By all means,” he said, with a little smile, patting Nigel on the head before getting up to come and take the baby. Unlike the manner of his rough play with their son, Phillip took his littlest child gingerly into his arms, but without the great air of confidence that usually accompanied his actions. He sat down and studied her face, touched her with his finger, and let her little fingers clamp around one of his. Ariana came and sat beside them, after giving Nigel some tea and letting him pick what he wanted from the tray, which usually amounted to naught but biscuits.