But Mr. Mornay said, “We’ll soon have ice on her, surely it makes no difference.”
“Mmm, well, I suppose you’re right.” She studied her much-loved niece for a moment, then demanded, “How long has it been since Ariana has taken any liquid?”
He thought for a moment. “Many hours.”
“Hold her head up for me,” she ordered. There was a decanter of water and a glass, and Mrs. Pellham poured a little out, and sat down upon the edge of the mattress. Mr. Mornay had come and sat down himself, raising his wife so that she now rested against him, and he held her head up with his hands. He automatically helped to hold her mouth open so that Ariana’s aunt could pour little drops of water to the side of her throat, knowing that a reflexive action would force her to swallow them.
But Mrs. Pellham had to shake her head sadly while doing it. Ariana’s beautiful little lips were dry and cracked; no longer did they hold a healthy red appearance, but were colorless; and her face quite, quite pale. She also saw the marks from the bleeding instrument, and she almost shivered with distaste. “That man bled her? For shame!”
She laid accusing eyes on the husband. “How could you allow it?”
That was not the thing to say to Mornay in his current state of mind. His look darkened. “How could I not, when a man of medicine assures me it is the thing to do? I would gladly let him cover her with leeches if I thought it might save her life!”
Mrs. Pellham’s brows drew together in a frown, but she said, “I daresay, you’re right; I beg your pardon, Phillip.”
The ice arrived, slivers and chunks in buckets from the icehouse.
Mr. Mornay told his butler and Fotch: “Do not allow the doctor upstairs until I tell you.”
“Yes, sir!”
Mrs. Pellham and Mr. Mornay set to wrapping pieces of ice in cloths and laying them upon poor Ariana’s hot body. Mrs. Pellham put a little pillow on the floor, got on her knees on it, and stayed at a vigil there, changing the ice, wringing out cloths, and looking for change in her niece.
It would be a long and very chilly day.
Twenty-Five
When Beatrice awoke, she felt an unhappiness that she could not, at first, account for. Oh, it was Ariana! Last night they had prayed for her recovery; but was she safe? Had the crisis passed? Beatrice felt she had to do something; she must act, use the time in a productive manner. But what to do?
When Harrietta came and helped her into her daydress, and did her hair up (for the lady had nothing else to do, she protested, and wanted no recompense for her trouble other than the recovery of her mistress), Beatrice thought and thought and finally settled upon a course of action.
To her relief, Mr. O’Brien was in the breakfast room as usual. He was quite regular in his habits, which included rising early, having his private devotions and prayers, and then his breakfast. Without a response in kind to his, “Good morning, Miss Forsythe,” she stopped inside the doorway and cried, “Mr. O’Brien! I need you to take me to Aspindon! Directly, sir!”
He was chewing some food, but stopped abruptly. He had to think for only a second. He stood up, wiping his mouth, and said, “Of course. At once.”
With Sykes atop the board as coachman, Beatrice hesitated outside the vehicle, as Mr. O’Brien held her hand to assist her in climbing up. She had not meant to prolong the touch of his hand, but she was very much aware of it right through her gloves, while she said, “There is no need for you to accompany me. You should limit your exposure by all means.”
“Oh, nonsense!” he replied. “Of course I’ll come.” His gentle tone filled her with gratitude, and for some reason—it must have been her concern for her sister—she was suddenly blinking back tears.
She tried to hide the state of her watery eyes, but Mr. O’Brien seemed to miss nothing concerning her. Beatrice was trying to understand how her life had changed so quickly. One moment she had been enjoying being a guest at Aspindon and having the attention of two gentlemen. Both men were mere diversions, nothing more. At least, that is what they ought to have been.
Mr. Barton changed that when he spoke to her of his wish to court her. She had to consider him differently from then on, and she had not been averse to doing so. He was just the sort of man she had always envisioned marrying. And now, Mr. O’Brien was refusing to remain a mere diversion too! He was supposed to be a fond acquaintance only, brotherly, held in affection. But what she was feeling for him was more than a sisterly love. It was not what she wished to feel for him, and his being near her now was comforting and vexing all at the same time.
If only she could believe that Ariana would be well again, and they would go for a Season in London. She could escape this curate’s impact over her, and she would not have to feel the unmistakable loathing she now had for Mr. Barton, the cowardly cove! He disappeared like a wisp of smoke when they gathered to pray for her sister, so little regard had he for her or Ariana.
Her life would go back to the way it was. She could meet a fine gentleman of good standing and family (and wealth) in London, and be married and done with it, without a single further thought of Mr. Peter O’Brien to plague her. It would certainly be best for both of them, for he deserved a good young woman who was content to live in a country parsonage. A young woman who did not fill her head with thoughts of wealth or large estates or grandeur. How could she even be thinking these things, she scolded herself, when she might even this minute be losing her sister?
She glanced up to find Mr. O’Brien studying her with a look of concern and compassion. He immediately spoke up. “Miss Forsythe, may I assure you of my constant prayers for your sister, and, indeed, your entire family?” He pulled a little well-worn book out of his coat pocket and handed it across to her. “These are some of the most comforting verses in English literature that I know of.”
Beatrice put out her gloved hand and accepted it, looking at it in surprise. “I did not know you read poetry.” She was pleased to discover this, for Beatrice loved poetry.
“Oh, yes. I am very fond of Cowper and Coleridge, and Heber and Mrs. Hemans. Mrs. More is nearly too didactic even for me,” he said, smiling gently, “but I believe I have one of hers in these pages.”
“Is this your collection of personal favourites?” This was even more surprising to her, as it cost money to have one’s own writing bound up properly.
“I have a good friend who is a printer,” he explained, while she leafed through the pages of his handwriting, which was fine and neat.
“Do you like Burns?” she asked curiously. “I have always found his verse to be wonderful, once one deciphers it enough to follow the meaning.”
“The Scottish accents are a bit of a challenge at times, yes,” he agreed. “But I do like his work.”
They shared a little smile. Here her sister lay dying, possibly, and first she was thinking of her marriage prospects, and now, poetry! Her face grew more sober with the thought.
“I gave you the book,” he said, “for you to read if you happen to fall into any darker moments. There are times when our minds are so confused that we cannot quiet ourselves enough to hear the whispers of the Holy Spirit through Scripture—do you not find it so?”
Beatrice had only lived long enough to experience small disappointments heretofore, but to the young, small disappointments are felt as falling so severely upon them as war or famine is felt among older individuals. So she looked at him gratefully and nodded in all due earnestness.
“When I have such moments, I often turn to poetry,” he said. “Until I am restored enough to turn to God from my heart.”
Beatrice nodded, feeling as though she was his pupil, and liking it very much.
As they drew near to Aspindon, he said, “You realize that on account of the children you will not be able to return to the vicarage today.”
She had not thought that far, but said, “Yes, of course! I hope you can send your servant to deliver my clothing and effects to me.”
“I’ll return at once and
see to it myself,” he replied, with his clear blue eyes fastened upon her intensely.
“You are too kind,” she answered.
“For you, Miss.” The manservant at the Manor House held out a salver upon which a letter lay, and Miss Barton took it, wonderingly. Who, if not Lord Horatio, would be writing to her?
“My word!” she exclaimed, after opening it. “It’s from the Countess of Weverly! I wonder that she even knows who I am!” Anne’s black hair was curled up around her ears, and she had on a gilt headband that further emphasized the blackness of her locks.
Lord Horatio, who had slept in a guest bedchamber, gave her a pointed look, and she knew at once that something was afoot. “What do you know of this?” she asked, beginning to smile.
“I know only that you shall be invited to one of her parties, and that her ladyship will let it out that you are some sort of heiress.”
Miss Barton frowned. “An heiress! But that is a falsehood! Explain this to me, my lord!”
“Call me Horatio, darling.”
“Yes, I shall. Only please explain your meaning in this, first, sir!”
He thought for a moment. “Anne—I’m going to marry you, no matter what. You know that.”
She now grew alarmed. “Yes?”
“But if my mother hears her ladyship speak well of you, my parents will cease to frown upon our union. With their blessing, things will go far better for us, for the rest of our lives. Is it not worth acquiring?”
“Not in this way! Horatio!”
He had to smile simply because she had used his name. “There is no other way to accomplish the thing speedily; and since we must wed without further delay, it must answer.” He merely glanced down at the region of her belly for her to understand him.
“When the child comes, your parents will know.”
“They will be eager to hide the fact, and they will adore having a grandchild! God knows when my brother and his wife will supply one. Katherine seems to be barren.”
“I am sorry for her.”
He smiled at her. “Do not be. If they have no son, and we do, he will be next in line for the title.”
She feigned astonishment. “You are avaricious, sir!”
He laughed. “No! Only practical! It’s the law, but I didn’t write it!”
In the next room, the sound of their voices woke Mr. Barton. He felt at odds, and remembered the news about Mrs. Mornay being in a crisis, and this only worsened his mood. He wanted to marry into the family, but if that lady died, his hopes were dashed. He decided his safest course was to distance himself from Miss Forsythe for the time being. She was no use to him at all if her sister was to die. He’d make a trip to London; he’d been stuck in the country for too long as it was. Anne was getting properly married now, and he no longer needed to hide her from anyone. And Mornay—that man was devilish tricky about his plans. The sad demise of Ariana Mornay loomed before him like a spectre, and even the allure of Miss Beatrice Forsythe could not hold him in Middlesex a day longer.
He would compose a short message to explain his absence at the vicarage. He would say that he’d been called away on “business.” He laughed to himself. Business—it was convenient to fall upon, if nothing else! With a slow gait caused by drinking too much the prior evening, and waking up in an uncomfortable spot—on the floor—he made his way toward the others in the morning room.
“Speaking of our being wed,” Anne was saying when he entered, “when shall we? Have you settled it with Mr. O’Brien?”
“No. Why do we not go to the vicarage right now and do so? I cannot bear waiting a day longer to call you ‘Lady Horatio’!”
At that moment a sound in the doorway made them both look up in surprise. Mr. Barton was standing there, rather disheveled, rubbing his head. “Did I hear you mention going to the vicarage?”
“Yes, Tristan! His lordship wants us to be married directly!” While he ingested that thought, she added, “I am surprised to see you up and about.” When he was in his cups, he did not usually awake before noon or later.
“I heard your laughing from the parlour,” he grumbled. “If a man would sleep, he must have silence.”
“If a man would have silence, he must sleep in his bedchamber,” returned Lord Horatio. He and Anne exchanged little smiles while Tristan merely scowled. “We’ll need a witness,” he said, “so do come along.”
Mr. Barton stopped and thought about this for a moment. He nodded. “Very well, then,” and left to get dressed.
Lord Horatio looked at Anne. “Do you need to change?” he asked, noticing she was in a morning dress.
Anne held out one arm, and showed him that, cleverly hidden beneath a lace frill which served as a hem for the puffed shoulders of her gown, was a placket where the sleeves were attached. They could be unattached. Smiling, he did the unbuttoning, first for one sleeve, then the other.
“Voila!” she said, folding the fabric carefully. “I have a day dress.”
“Astonishing,” he said.
“And economical too,” she added.
Now they had only to wait for Tristan.
Before Beatrice exited the carriage when it pulled up outside her sister’s estate, she turned to Mr. O’Brien, hoping that she was not about to dig herself in deeper in misunderstanding than what already existed, in her mind, between them.
“Did you take note of Mr. Barton’s hasty exit last night?” She knew he had; but desired to know his thoughts about it. Besides, she wanted to somehow raise the subject of Mr. Barton so that she could let Mr. O’Brien know of a certainty that Beatrice no longer wished to be courted by him.
He looked at her in surprise a moment. “I did, of course.”
Beatrice was studying the upholstery of the Mornays’ fine coach. “May I ask, what you made of it, sir?”
Mr. O’Brien cleared his throat. Here he was again, in a dashed uncomfortable spot. But his honest opinion, he felt, was true enough to be shared. To withhold it from any young woman seeking counsel could not be right. “I think we must assume that he is lacking in his religion, Miss Forsythe.” He tried to say it as gently as possible; he knew she had hopes of the man.
Her eyes flew to his.
“That has been my suspicion, exactly!” She looked up at him earnestly, searching his eyes for a sign that Mr. O’Brien just might, might have some feelings upon the subject; some feelings for her. She saw nothing to give her that assurance. In response, she had to try to dig deeper.
“Do you consider Mr. Barton to be a man of good character?”
He stared at her. He was perplexed that she should be asking his opinion. When he had no right, no authority over her, no reason to involve himself in her decisions… Finally, he said, “Miss Forsythe, if you have doubts regarding the man, again I can only advise you to speak of them to Mr. Mornay. Allow him to decide if the man is worthy or not.”
Her eyes widened. “Do you think Mr. Mornay is a good judge of character?”
He let out a breath of amusement. “I should say so! I think he is an excellent judge.”
When she made no answer, he added, “Does he know anything of Mr. Barton’s intentions toward you? Or of your…er…hopes regarding him?”
This made her turn her head sharply and look up at him again. “My hopes? At this moment I do not know what to think or feel regarding the man! He fled from me the moment he understood that my sister was seriously ill! He failed to offer rooms in his house for anyone, though he had available space. He fails to show the concern that any friend should offer in such a situation. I do not know if I have any hopes of him at all.”
His brow furrowed. “I took it to understand that you desired his courtship.”
She met his gaze. “I—I did. I thought I did.” She took in a deep breath. “I found him agreeable and amusing; I thought he was an honourable gentleman; but I have since seen things in his character and nature that give me pause.”
“I see.” He was studying her with a very perplexed look, as i
f he did not see, not at all. “I think you are wise to think through such a step. You are young and have plenty of life ahead of you. Do not settle yourself upon a man who does not deserve you.”
“May I ask you?” she was emboldened to say, “if, in your opinion, Mr. Barton deserves me?” It was an awkward question, and only Beatrice’s desire to ascertain whether or not Mr. O’Brien had any feelings at all for her, made her ask it.
Mr. O’Brien laid his head back against the cushion. What could he say? Mr. Barton was a social superior. “I know that he has the means to support you in style, which I have understood as being of importance to you. He appears to be a gentleman; and I can say nothing against his actions until I have understood them.” He was taking care to be absolutely fair to the man, and he felt unable to seize the opportunity to put himself forward. It would be wrong of him to do so. “I do not take him for a man of religion, and that is cause for concern; but only you can decide how great a concern that will be, Miss Forsythe.”
This was plainly not the answer she had hoped for, and she set her mouth into a small frown.
The carriage stopped, and with a quick “Good day!” she began to step out without giving him or any servant time to put down the steps. She opened the door, and would have immediately fallen to the ground had not Mr. O’Brien grasped her around the waist.
“You will injure yourself!” he said, surprised.
Beatrice stood back and turned to look at him. She saw nothing of reproof in his eyes; nothing of reproach; only honest concern.
“Do you never run out of patience?” she asked, as though it was a vexing thing. The steps had been let down by the butler/coachman, and now Beatrice stomped off, leaving him blinking at her for a second, but he hurried to catch up.
“Were you not going to return to the vicarage and retrieve my things?” she asked, turning to him in impatience. “If you come in with me, you may not be able to return to your home.”
The Country House Courtship Page 30