Before the Season Ends

by Linore Rose Burkard

  Ariana decided she must end her aunt’s speculations quite firmly. “Just today, Aunt, he made it abundantly clear that he despises members of my class!” Her voice was earnest or her aunt would have doubted her hearing.

  “Fustian! Your class is the same as mine, and while I grant that he seems generally to despise the majority of people, he does not despise you, no matter what your class. I tell you, upon my word, if Mr. Mornay decides to hold you in favour, he shall do so, devil may care what your circumstances!” After a moment’s thought she added, “He does not need a fortune, goodness knows, and he should likely be quite content to have a bride who can wear all the mode to his fastidious satisfaction.” She looked at her niece. “Some women look absurd with the least little feather on their bonnets, but not you, my dear. You will do him credit, I assure you.”

  Ariana sighed deeply. “Do not place your hopes on the match, Aunt. I myself have no such expectation, and I am certain Mr. Mornay’s thoughts are equally wide of that mark.” She looked plaintively up at the dowager. “May I get out, now? I think I’m hungry.”

  Twenty-Two

  Later that week Mrs. Bentley sent word to inquire after Mr. Mornay, and dared to include an invitation for tea, if he was well. Unfortunately, he was not. He had suffered the cold longer than Ariana, taken a stiff drink when he reached home, and was now laid up with an ague that, according to his doctor, threatened to turn into pleurisy if he was not careful.

  He sent round a polite apology, mentioning how pleased he was to learn that Ariana was completely recovered; a fact which Mrs. Bentley attributed to his hasty intervention on her behalf.

  Ariana was conscience-stricken, knowing her stubbornness was to blame for the entire incident. She hesitated over whether to send an apology, a letter of thanks, or both. In the meantime, Mr. O’Brien called. It was an awkward meeting, but Ariana was sincerely relieved to see him.

  “I am so obliged you have come.” She offered him a seat with an outstretched arm.

  “Thank you, Miss Forsythe. I felt it necessary to apologize for what happened.”

  “Oh, I beg you, do not even think of it.” Her face grew rosy. “Mr. Mornay was in the wrong, I assure you.”

  “Apologize?” Mrs. Bentley had come to attention. “For what?”

  “There is no need,” Ariana insisted.

  “It is generous of you to say so.” Mr. O’Brien was all admiration.

  “No need for what? Apologize for what?” A chaperon had to know!

  “No, not generous, only fair. I assure you it was all a mistake.”

  “You are too good, Miss Forsythe.” The young man was relieved and pleased. “And perhaps I may bring my sister with me on my next call? She is still intent on meeting you, as well as my mama.”

  “Your mama?” The indignant tone of the older lady suddenly captured their attention, and they turned to face Mrs. Bentley. She had a newspaper before her and was sitting on a wing chair, adjacent to the pair.

  “Oh, yes, ma’am. I have told her of Miss Forsythe’s superior qualities—”

  “Young man.” Aunt Bentley’s voice was severe. “You hardly know my niece! I think it is too soon to bring your family to meet her.” This set-down was sufficiently humiliating that Mr. O’Brien only mumbled, “I beg your pardon.”

  Ariana was astonished at her relation and hurried to change the topic.

  “And what have you been reading for devotions of late, Mr. O’Brien? I love to hear what others are learning of our faith.”

  Mr. O’Brien called again the next morning. And the two days following that. Over the course of these visits he and Ariana had discussed his family, her family, the royal family, and today, the future family he hoped to have. Mrs. Bentley did not like the subject, feeling correctly that he was alluding to his wish to include Ariana in his plans. The younger girl sensed the same thing. She tried to envision the family he spoke of, children around the table, with her as the mother. But something did not feel right, and her smiles faltered during the discussion.

  She felt the Lord had sent Mr. O’Brien to steady her confused soul, to be the beacon of light she needed during these trying times of tumultuous happenings with Mr. Mornay. So why was there hesitation regarding him in her soul? It was different from the way she hesitated over Mr. Mornay. With that man, her heart was in danger, but her head knew he was not suitable. With Mr. O’Brien, the opposite was true. In her heart, she couldn’t quite fully embrace him, though her head assured her he was perfect husband-material.

  Her aunt’s assertions that Mr. Mornay might be entertaining a tendre for her had sent her into a frightful discomposure for just these reasons. She liked Mr. Mornay overmuch, though he was not at all the sort of man she ought to like. Mr. O’Brien, on the other hand, was the kind of gentleman who should have set her heart dreaming, but, no sooner than he left her, she would find herself wondering when she would next see the other man.

  Her prayer times were now full of self-reproaches, and she earnestly sought the Lord’s help. If it is Your will, take away this foolish, foolish attraction to Mr. Mornay, and show me, please, if Mr. O’Brien is the man You have chosen for me. I am a senseless, emotional creature! You must change my heart, and my feelings, to comply with Your plan!

  To her mind, it was impossible that God could be actually leading her and Mr. Mornay together (though she would have liked to think it so), for that gentleman, though not without good qualities, was not a man of faith. Disqualified, therefore. No exceptions. She had been raised to marry a man who lived by his religion, and the Paragon did not.

  Mr. O’Brien, on the other hand, had grown up in the faith, and was intent on becoming a clergyman for all the best reasons. To preach the gospel. To better society. To extend charity.

  Now, if he made her an offer, what could be easier to decipher as God’s will?

  Nearly two weeks had passed, with no further word from Mr. Mornay. Ariana was worried about him. Was he dangerously ill? She might have inadvertently ruined his existence!

  She had all along continued to pray for his health and well-being, but when no news came she ventured to suggest she and her aunt call upon him. It was not done for ladies to call upon a gentleman, and she expected a fight with her aunt, but there was none. This should have warned her that Mrs. Bentley had some scheme in mind, but Ariana, not the scheming sort herself, was blithely unaware, and pleased that her aunt had agreed.

  Mrs. Bentley in fact was delighted at the idea, and did not divulge that she knew for a certainty Mr. Mornay had been steadily recovering, and would likely have soon called upon them. Instead, she instructed Haines to summon the carriage.

  Ariana began to regret her suggestion after it was so joyously received, but there was no shirking it now. And perhaps the encounter would put to rest these absurd notions of her aunt’s regarding Mr. Mornay’s interest in her.

  The butler at Grosvenor Square received the ladies doubtfully, taking Mrs. Bentley’s card, but leaving them in the hall until he consulted his master. When he returned, it was clear he was cognizant of having erred in their regard, and his manner became apologetically gracious. They were ushered cordially upstairs into the first floor drawing room, and served excellent tea. Mr. Mornay, they were told, would be in attendance momentarily.

  When he entered the room a few minutes later, Ariana felt a strange mix of emotions. Her stomach gave a small lurch at sight of him. She was heartily glad to see him, remorseful for the trouble she had caused him, and suddenly felt shy when thinking of their last encounter. Had she really sat upon his lap?

  He looked to be in good spirits, was dressed in his usual faultless style, but his face bore the evidence of having been ill. His eyes were shadowed, it seemed to her, and his manner almost entirely without the playful tension he seemed to thrive upon. He bowed politely and took a seat across from them in the well-appointed French-style parlour. The room was fittingly masculine and yet no less elegant than Mrs. Bentley’s parlour. Dark woodwork framed the do
orways and walls, and wainscoting filled the lower half while the upper was Sevres blue. The mantel was crowned with greenery, two matching Chinoiserie vases, and a small Romanesque statue. The windows were draped with heavy gold and blue fabric with golden tassels at the edges.

  When he had thanked them for troubling to visit, Mr. Mornay rested his eyes upon Ariana, and remarked that she was looking in as fine health as he had ever seen her. Something about his manner made it evident to Ariana he was not the least bit changed toward her despite the revelation of her circumstances. Suddenly she was very glad she had thought to visit.

  “Much improved,” he replied when questioned about his own health. He didn’t offer details of the near two weeks of misery he had suffered. Somehow, however, Ariana knew. She could see it on his face.

  “I can hardly tell you how dreadfully sorry I have been, Mr. Mornay,” she offered. “If I only were not so foolishly stubborn!”

  “If you were not so foolishly stubborn,” he returned smartly, “I daresay your company would not be as entertaining as it is.” They smiled at each other. Mrs. Bentley’s eyes lit up at this announcement; her mind turned cartwheels. But she was in a flummox about how to confront the man. She wanted to come straight to the point and demand to know if he had intentions toward her niece, but one did not make demands on Mr. Mornay. His temper was famous and she had no desire to find herself at the brunt of it. Ariana, of course, would be mortified at the least mention of the topic, but that did not signify. There were things a chaperon had to know!

  Suddenly she hit upon an idea: She would propose a social function and ask him point blank to guarantee making an appearance. He was known to be fussy about these things, and passed up twice as many invitations as he received. So she could be fairly confident of the matter by his response. But what sort of function? What could it be?

  The answer, of course, was obvious. A ball was the thing. She could just envision the little printed invitation:

  Mrs. Agatha Bentley requests the pleasure

  of Mr. Phillip Mornay’s company at an

  Evening Party, on Friday, 4th June.

  An answer will oblige. Dancing.

  While she was thinking thus, she found the eyes of their host upon her. Those piercing eyes, looking through to her soul! Or so it seemed, and without further contemplation, she found herself issuing the invitation. “My dear Mr. Mornay, I intend to hold a ball in Ariana’s honour, and may I hope to be sure of your coming?”

  Ariana’s mouth nearly dropped open, for she had been given no information regarding such a thing. Further, was it polite to ask him outright as she had done? Her face took on a rosy hue.

  But Mrs. Bentley was determined to have some insight into the matter of where his feelings lay. She smiled nervously and waited, ready to celebrate a victory, but Mr. Mornay’s countenance was not promising.

  He glanced at Ariana. “I should rather speak to you privately but since Ariana is no stranger to what I am about to say, I will speak in her presence.” He paused and sighed.

  “Mrs. Bentley, I commend you for wanting the best for your niece. If, after we have spoken, you still wish to go forward with this scheme, I will give you my word to attend your affair—assuming I am able to. However—” His look became severe. “You are making things exceedingly difficult for Ariana. How is she to find the match she desires, and can hope to win, while you shamelessly embellish her appearance so? You are putting her forward in society in a way that is not honest. If it is discovered she is not from the sort of family she appears to be from, there will be no less than a scandal.”

  Mrs. Bentley’s face became alarmingly red.

  Mercilessly, Mr. Mornay continued. “I doubt even I could rescue her from a second scandal!”

  Taking a moment to recover from the shock of such a direct challenge, Mrs. Bentley made her reply. “Ariana is my niece and her family is of spotless reputation! I can see no difficulty there, sir!” Her voice was fraught with indignation. Ariana saw that Mrs. Bentley’s fingers gripped her reticule so tightly her knuckles were white. The younger girl sat by, tense and unhappy, not knowing what to say.

  Mr. Mornay, cool as always, wasn’t the least put out. “She is not, however, a great fortune. How is she to know a true friend from a grasping one? I am convinced, as you must be yourself, that that handful of idiotic admirers who run after her at every social function think she is an heiress.”

  Now Mrs. Bentley’s face froze in horrified disbelief. But she rallied her strength with sudden conviction, and it was such a strong conviction that even Mr. Mornay’s severe countenance could not prevent her from voicing it. She cried, in response to his undeserved accusation, “Most of the young bucks these days, sir, give Ariana a wide berth, and for only one reason: because they think she is yours!” With a great deep breath, and in a rare, triumphant tone, she continued. “Mr. Mornay! If anyone is responsible for putting her forward in society, it is you more than I!” Mrs. Bentley’s eyes were wide with the power of righteous indignation. “You have taken her to Carlton House, danced with her, taken her to the opera and ballet! The theatre! These are no small things!” She gave a magnificent pause to let him digest what she had said, and added, in a less agonized tone, “It gives one the impression, does it not, that if the venerable Mr. Mornay knows and approves of this gel, then she must be of excellent standing. And for that matter, though she is not to inherit a fortune, she does have claim to a respectable sum!”

  He sat transfixed, a small smile coming upon his features.

  “Upon my word,” he breathed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I suppose I am guilty in the matter.”

  Ariana’s face was stiff with restraint for she was endeavouring not to protest. She was feeling terribly hurt, despite the fact that everything which had been said about her was true.

  Mr. Mornay, his eyes alight with mirth, looked at Ariana and then back to Mrs. Bentley.

  “They’re keeping away from her still, you say? And on my account? Cowards! I would have thought my absence from town—and from her side—was enough for anyone who wished to approach her to do so. And for Ariana to encourage someone. But that brings us right back to the problem, does it not? Whom can she encourage?”

  Mrs. Bentley did not hesitate to press her advantage, for this was precisely the question she hoped herself to settle once and for all.

  “Obviously,” she intoned, “it would be a man who has not whittled away his fortune at cards or debauchery as have so many men these days. It would have to be a man who does not need a wealthy bride; it would have to be a man like—you!”

  Ariana breathed in sharply from shock. The words hung in the air, while that queer little smile played about Mr. Mornay’s mouth, though his brows were raised. Mrs. Bentley sat still, her eyes large in her face and her heart beat almost painfully in her chest. What would he say to that?

  But the answer never came. Before he could reply, Ariana shot up out of her chair. She could tolerate the situation no longer.

  “This cannot be borne! Mr. Mornay!” She turned to him in glorious indignation. “I forbid you to say another word!”

  His eyes were not without compassion, but he couldn’t erase the smile upon his face. This was exactly the kind of behaviour in Ariana he most enjoyed. Mrs. Bentley’s countenance, meanwhile, had fallen mightily. This was exactly the kind of behaviour in Ariana she most dreaded.

  Ariana, heedless of her aunt’s reproving demeanour, continued. “Aunt Bentley, I pray you would not…force the matter! I am not ruined by your generosity or by Mr. Mornay’s past attentions! I expect any day to receive an offer that I intend to accept, and therefore all of this is entirely unnecessary!”

  And then, striding for the formal double doors of the room, she announced, “Please. We must go.”

  Mr. Mornay’s eyes followed her.

  “An offer from whom?” His tone conveyed that he had every right to know.

  Ariana glanced at him, startled, but ignored the question, her
hand upon the doorknob.

  “Come, please, Aunt, we have presumed upon Mr. Mornay’s hospitality long enough.”

  “Ariana! An offer from whom? You said you expected any day to receive an offer. What is the name of the gentleman, if you please?”

  Ariana hesitated. She did not want to admit that she did not know of a certainty that Mr. O’Brien was about to offer for her, as she had rashly stated. It had seemed that way, to be sure, but what if she was wrong? She could not say his name. Her aunt, to her surprise, came to her rescue.

  “I imagine ’tis that young sprig, O’Brien!” Her distaste for him was evident.

  Mr. Mornay’s swirling eyes turned darkly upon Ariana.

  “O’Brien!”

  Ariana refused to meet his eyes and clutched the doorknob tighter. From behind her, he added, “Surely we can do better than that.”

  What did he mean, we?

  “Mr. O’Brien is perfectly respectable!” She had turned to face both of the others with this exclamation.

  Mrs. Bentley let out a moan. “Respectable, indeed!”

  “I will not discuss this!” Ariana gave Mr. Mornay a hurried curtsey, and babbled, “I am greatly relieved to see you are recovered…and… and much obliged for the tea!” Again she took hold of the doorknob, this time starting to turn it. Mr. Mornay jumped to his feet and strode quickly to her and took her hand.

  She endeavoured to pull it away, but he held it fast; and addressed her aunt.