The Country House Courtship

by Linore Rose Burkard

  The guests were excited to see Warwickdon. Despite a deep winter chill in the air, the sky was blue and inviting; the sun high in the sky. Since Mr. Hargrove was happy to open his home upon so short a notice, they would all get to take a tour of the vicarage.

  Phillip opted to use an open barouche; it was rarely used during the winter, but the bright clear sky and sun, the lack of snow or ice on the roads, together with the fact that Ariana usually preferred it to a closed carriage, made him willing to do so. He was always happy to please her, and she considered that the tenants delighted so much in spying the couple if they rode in it, that it was worth a little discomfort of cold to lift their spirits. Finally, the occupants of the barouche were able to see a great deal more of the country as opposed to those in closed carriages, so the vehicle was quickly wiped down and brought forth.

  Ariana wore a walking-out dress of striped yellow cambric; her sleeves were gathered above the elbow, and again at the forearm, and there were pretty, laced cuffs. There was also lace at the bodice, a matching striped silk ribbon belt, a contrasting ribbon train, and over this she wore a velvety brown spencer, and then a redingote. She had a fine woolen shawl and a yellow silk bonnet adorned with flowers to complete her outfit, along with half-boots, a muff, and a lorgnette. (A little magnification could be handy when surveying the countryside.)

  Ariana, her husband, and Beatrice sat across from Miss Barton, Mr. Barton, and Mr. O’Brien. Mrs. Forsythe, Aunt Royleforst, and Miss Bluford had opted for the closed carriage.

  “Beatrice, I meant to tell you,” Ariana said, looking across her husband, “that gown is lovely on you!” Beatrice thanked her, but blushed faintly; she hoped no one else of the company knew, as did she and Ariana, that it had been given her by Ariana the day before. Phillip eyed her now, and of course he knew, and his eyes revealed that he knew, but he said nothing. The walking-out gown was of printed cambric, in lilac and yellow, but Beatrice’s pelisse was lined and sturdy, with a raised neck that offered further protection from wintry winds. Her bonnet included a bow-tied cap, an extra layer that did much to keep one warm. Like her sister, she also sported half-boots and a muff, as did Miss Barton.

  Ariana’s arm was entwined with her husband’s, and she snuggled into him as the carriage picked up speed. She was already enjoying this outing with Phillip beside her. Besides keeping busy with the estate, he served as magistrate for the parish and sometimes sat for hours on end, though he always tried to make quick work of any matter brought to him. He was surprised to discover that he enjoyed seeing justice served too. Every now and then he had to sentence a criminal to Newgate, or worse, recommend hanging. But he avoided doing so whenever possible.

  Ariana’s gaze wandered to the occupants sitting across from her. If only she could ascertain whether there was an interest on the part of Mr. O’Brien for her sister, or vice versa, she might have reason to ask one last time about granting the living to the cleric. She had seen him leave the drawing room shortly upon the heels of Miss Barton, however, and reflected that he might prefer the pretty, quiet young woman of a serious nature, to the outspoken, pleasure loving sister of hers. She sighed.

  And now he had Warwickdon and would be in mind of starting a family, no doubt. She had seen the place once before, when Phillip had brought her to meet Mr. Hargrove. It was an ample and respectable house. Of course, less superior than Glendover, the parsonage of their parish; for, unlike many she had seen, Glendover was designed to hold a large family. The people who had planned and erected the building had evidently understood that clergymen liked to raise families as much as anyone, which ought to have been standard for parsonages, but wasn’t. It stood three stories tall, in the dignified Georgian manner; windows aplenty, and was kept up well by the warden, in the absence of an occupant.

  Ariana could envision her sister happily living there. Her mother, father, and Lucy could take a nearby house, and the whole family saving the Norledges (her sister Alberta and Johnathan Norledge, who owned a large property in Chesterton) would be closely situated again! How comfortable it would be!

  As Mr. O’Brien and Mr. Barton kept up a small conversation, Ariana reflected on having the curate back in her circle of acquaintance. How surprising life was! She had not thought to have laid eyes on Mr. O’Brien for many a year. She felt certain already, despite how short an acquaintance they had had thus far, that he had improved in his character—he was no longer the impetuous boy who had taken advantage of Ariana to steal a kiss. He was a man now. And his polite aloofness was just the way he had ought to treat a married lady, she thought.

  He was not bad looking, either. She studied him from her spot across the barouche; his hair, which was no longer light blond, was still wavy, for little wisps around his ears could be seen below the hat; his style of cravat seemed to have improved, which she could see above the deep cut of his coat. Mr. O’Brien had thick, light brows and a face that seemed to be perpetually sporting the stubble of a day’s growth. It actually added to his allure, whereas even Phillip could look rather sinister without a fresh shave every morning. She wondered if the man simply lacked the right shaving tool. Even his short stubble, however, was golden brown, and could not hide a strong, wide chin. He had a decisive forehead, it seemed to her now too.

  Suddenly Ariana felt her husband’s eyes upon her and his voice whispering in her ear. “Enjoying the scenery, or is it just our curate that fascinates you so?” He didn’t sound irked, merely amused.

  She turned to him, bright-eyed. With care not to speak loudly, she said, “I am just imagining.”

  He gave his little smile. “Regarding…?”

  “The match,” she whispered. “How convenient if we should not have to search for a husband for Beatrice when we are in London! And then they would be our neighbours!”

  “You are still setting your hopes upon it.”

  Still keeping her voice carefully low, Ariana said, “Perhaps I am inclined to, due to my own happiness. My experience of having a husband is so pleasant I can do naught but wish that women everywhere were married as I am. Husbands are a wonderful breed,” she added, smiling at him. His eyes sparkled at her, but before he could say anything, Mr. Barton, who had been watching the pair with an unreadable expression, said, “I think we should have given the barouche to the Mornays alone; they are determined to speak only to each other.”

  “Actually,” returned Mr. Mornay, “we were speaking of marriage. Is that a subject you take an interest in, sir?”

  Mr. Barton smiled, as though he were up for a game. “I daresay every gentleman must take an interest in it sooner or later—”

  Mr. Mornay did not let him off that easily. “And is your interest sooner, or later?”

  Barton smiled again, while the others listened, Beatrice feeling her toes begin to curl. He finally said, “I can have no serious interest in marriage, sir, until I have a serious interest in a young lady with whom I may hope to share that estate, do you not agree?” He kept his eyes steadily upon his host, did not so much as glance at Beatrice, but she was already blushing lightly. Ariana saw his careful avoidance of her sister, and felt a small alarm. That kind of care was not without purpose; he did, then, entertain hopes of her!

  Ariana did not dislike the man, but she felt a caution regarding him in her spirit, and would need to know more of him before willingly allowing him an interest in Beatrice.

  Mr. O’Brien said (mercifully, in Beatrice’s opinion, for somehow his remarks were more general), “Without a young woman in particular, you may still have an interest in your future marriage; you must know whether or not you intend to marry, and whether it will be for pleasure, er, rather, love, let us say, or duty.”

  “Is not marriage something to enter chiefly for duty?” asked Beatrice, who did not consider herself to be of a romantic nature at all. But she smiled, adding, “That is what my mama says.”

  “My mother could never say such a thing,” returned Ariana, sitting forward to look curiously at her younger
sister, “for I am sure she would be the first woman to protest that one must marry for love, not duty alone.”

  Barton volunteered, “Chiefly for duty, indeed; do we not see it done all the time? More young women and first sons are sacrificed to ‘duty’ than should be allowable in any society.”

  “So you do think some sacrifices should be allowable?” Mr. Mornay could not help it, and had to plague the man. “But not so many.”

  “There are times when the preservation of one’s house or estate or even one’s title, depends upon the sacrifice of a son or daughter’s preferences in marriage. Would you not agree?”

  “Royals must marry for duty,” murmured Ariana. “It is a price they pay for that station. And I pity them for it.”

  “And those who have large properties and must have an heir,” added her husband.

  Mr. Barton immediately said, “You have a large property, to be sure, sir. Did you marry for duty?”

  Coming as this question did in the presence of his wife, it was felt as no less than a challenge. It might have been that Mr. Barton was trying to understand the family fortunes of the Forsythes. It might have been a deliberate attempt simply to have Mr. Mornay admit that he had not; whatever the motive, Mr. Mornay did not take kindly to the question. He was framing a cutting reply when Mr. O’Brien, surprisingly, beat him to the quick.

  “Have you no eyes, sir? The Mornays share a love that every aspirant of marriage might study to their benefit. If you cannot honestly think you will adore your spouse in the manner of their example, then in my opinion, marriage should not be sought except for the most urgent of reasons.”

  “You mean, such as when a title might go defunct? Or there is no heir to a large estate.”

  “Precisely. But for the average man, his challenge is to find a good wife, to love her well, and trust his fortunes to God.”

  Mr. Barton attempted to chuckle. “I believe we are hearing one of your Sunday sermons, sir!”

  “If so, I like it a great deal!” exclaimed Ariana.

  “This is all neither here nor there,” put in Beatrice, in a tone that was rather irked. “The thing of it is, it is all well and good for a man to say he shall marry for love. But for a woman, it is entirely a different matter! She could love herself out of an advantageous situation, and straight into poverty or ruin—”

  Here Miss Barton, who had been inconspicuously silent heretofore, was overcome by a sudden coughing fit, and everyone paused to ascertain her condition. When she had sufficiently recovered herself Beatrice continued, “As I daresay many a woman has, and shall continue to do; for a woman is subject to her emotions, to a much greater degree, I might add, than men seem to be.”

  “I cannot abide with that,” said Ariana. “Men have feelings every bit as strong as a woman’s!”

  “But they temper their actions and behavior based upon their reason, more than their feelings; whereas we women, though we know it might be our ruin, will love a man whether he be right for us, or not.” Beatrice added quickly, “Most women, that is. I fancy myself too levelheaded to make that mistake.”

  Miss Barton raised an agonized pair of eyes to Beatrice’s, which only her brother—and Mr. O’Brien’s sharp eyes—seemed cognizant of. Miss Barton felt as though Beatrice was pouring vinegar into her every wound. She began to feel ill.

  Mr. Barton tried to move the discussion forward. “A man may temper his actions based on reason, as you say, but he may still be subject to being snared by the wrong woman, just as a woman is subject to placing her heart on the wrong man.”

  “Snared by his heart, or his actions, sir?”

  “Does it matter?” he returned. “A man must be as cautious in love as a woman, which is my point.”

  “On the other hand,” added Mr. O’Brien, “women must sometimes marry for duty, as much as a man. They are quite often charged with saving the family from ruin or starvation by making a good match. Is this not so?”

  Miss Barton wrapped her arms about her middle; Ariana did not know whether she suffered from the cold, or had some other ailment. She would ask her about it afterward.

  “In either case,” the cleric continued, “whether for duty or love or honour, any two people, I am convinced, can learn to love one another; or failing a spontaneous, deep love, may grow into a steady and mature sort of love. The kind that is required of us as Christians, at least. It is my firm belief that no marriage is doomed to fail without the consent of the parties in it.”

  “Those are strong words,” said Mr. Barton, wonderingly. He was of the mind that saw marriage primarily as a union of convenience, to have children, perhaps; but certainly not as a thing to devote oneself to.

  “Think of it,” said Mr. O’Brien, very much warmed to the subject, “at the very heart of marriage is the means of survival, the continuance of our race. Regardless of our emotions upon entering into that estate, the end result is that families are born, and mankind continues.”

  “Which is precisely why both men and women must at times marry for duty,” said Mr. Barton.

  “And disregard love,” added Miss Barton, surprisingly.

  “Miss Barton,” said Mr. Mornay. “Are you unwell?” For his keen eyes had not missed her growing discomfort and unease.

  “My sister is fine,” put in her brother quickly—a little too quickly, so that everyone else could not miss his excessive interest in Anne’s state. “The outdoor air is always difficult for her.” To Anne he added, “I daresay, you should have worn one of your veils. It might have afforded you sufficient protection.”

  “Oh, veils are nothing!” said Ariana. But she removed her shawl and passed it to Miss Barton. “Here. The air is cold. Cover your face to the eyes; and when we return, take the closed carriage with my mother and aunt.” Miss Barton tried to smile; Mrs. Mornay was indeed very kind. “I thank you,” she said, doing as she was bade. She eyed her brother with resentment, however, as she did so.

  They had arrived at Warwickdon. The scenery had been little noticed or remarked upon, as the topic of marriage had taken everyone’s attention. Ariana was sure that Mr. Barton’s ideas could only be injurious to any woman he might take as his wife; but how to say so to her sister without raising her ire? She might inadvertently push the girl into his arms by outright opposition to him. She would speak to Phillip about it; he always knew how to proceed in tricky matters.

  Eleven

  When they alighted from the carriage and stood admiring the vicarage from the road, Miss Barton said, “A capital dwelling, sir,” in her quiet voice. She was making an attempt to come out of her brown study, as Mr. Mornay’s inquiry had alarmed her. She had to be discreet!

  Mr. O’Brien thanked her kindly.

  “It is a charming little house,” said Beatrice.

  “Little!” laughed Ariana. Warwickdon was not as large as the parsonage at Glendover but it was not little. The house was a picturesque dwelling of two stories, not counting the basement and garret. “How can you say so?”

  “It is fine, I grant, for a vicarage, for a parson’s family,” returned Beatrice, as though Mr. O’Brien was not in hearing range, “but after staying at Aspindon House, you can hardly expect me to find it commodious.”

  “One does not compare a vicarage with an estate!” Ariana said.

  Beatrice shrugged. “I just have,” and she smiled mischievously at her sister. But Ariana’s face creased with worry. That girl! Why were her sights set so high?

  To make matters worse, Beatrice turned around to face her, still walking forward (which in this case, meant backward, now), “I daresay I know your thoughts. Where does a country girl develop such thoughts? But I warrant you,” she announced, with an earnest gaze, “that where there is sufficient character, and manners, and good connexions, a personal lack of wealth is not at all the obstacle to an advantageous match that many think.”

  Beatrice actually hoped that she had made herself known to Mr. O’Brien with those words. Now he would never think to raise the
issue of her old absurd promise. Further, she would not have to concern herself with any worries about misleading him.

  Ariana was shocked that Beatrice had shown her hand so completely and openly. She had as much as declared that she was hoping to wed a rich man, based upon her charms or “connexions.” Despite any amount of talk to the ideals of marrying for love, every person in the party knew that this young woman, for one, was no idealist. Not in that sense, at any rate.

  Mr. Barton looked appreciatively at Beatrice. His mouth was formed in a small smile while he considered her words. She was bold indeed, but now he understood perfectly her situation. He’d been right in thinking that she had little in the way of money, but much in the way of connexions. And Beatrice herself was aware that marriages might be based upon those things. She even approved it! He was beginning to think that he and Miss Forsythe would actually make more than a match of convenience, as he at first thought. They might even be suited to one another in temperaments. They seemed to think along similar lines. They both looked at life and marriage as matters of supreme practicality, not with overly romantic notions of “love.”

  Mr. O’Brien had bent his head in thought and now offered a response, aimed only at Beatrice, though the others could hear. “I am sure you are right in some cases; only do keep in mind that a strong character is necessary to enjoy the privileges and advantages that such a marriage may provide. Unless we wish to become dull of heart, or close our eyes to those less fortunate, we must maintain a good conscience before God in all that we do, whether it be choosing our friends…” and he hesitated here, “or our spouse.”