It did not occur to Mrs. Bentley that Ariana would be fool-headed and refuse to set a date. She was dancing on air herself at having settled things with Mr. Pellham. So she set about to enjoying the remainder of the evening. Now that things were going so fabulously, she became an exceedingly gracious hostess; no request was too great, no complaint met with a cold air. Nothing could ruffle her feathers from now until she died, she felt.
But of course she was wrong.
Twenty-Seven
“What—did—you—say?”
Ariana closed her eyes briefly, then began again. “I merely told Mr. Mornay there remained a matter to settle…before we go forward with the wedding.”
Her aunt’s eyes were wide with stricture, wider than Ariana had ever seen them, and her complexion had turned frighteningly pale.
“Do you realize what you may have done? Do you imagine a man like Mr. Mornay will wait upon your whims, gel? Indeed, he may already be changing his mind regarding the matter!”
“But he insisted we must be betrothed!”
Her aunt’s face changed immediately.
“He said that?” Her tone was less incensed. It was not, then, as bad as her niece had made it sound. When Mr. Mornay insisted upon something he always got his way.
“And you did not deny him?”
“How could I? When the entire city knows I have been with him in his carriage at night!”
“Precisely! Indeed! You see the thing must be settled thus. I will write the banns at once.”
“Aunt,” she protested. “My parents must be consulted first.”
“Oh, for shame, Ariana! Your parents are not fashionable or sociable but I warrant they are possessed of sense. And any sensible person would see the great advantage to yourself of this match. They will not stand in the way, I assure you!”
How could Ariana explain that her only disquieting thought—that Mr. Mornay was not spiritually minded—was sufficient in itself to prevent the wedding? How could Aunt Bentley be expected to understand the importance of a believer marrying only another believer, when she herself stood outside the faith, apart from Christ, unredeemed? Furthermore, her parents would withhold their consent to the match on the same grounds.
The two women were still staring at one another across the table. They had both slept late this morning following the prior night’s excitement.
“When your parents sent you this way, they knew I would be the judge of a good match, and they were content at that. I should think a gel of your age would do likewise.”
Ariana did not wish to argue, but she knew her parents had thought no such thing. Her first impulse was to blurt the truth—that her aunt was considered completely ill-equipped to judge a proper match. But for once she stopped and weighed her words, praying silently for a solution.
An idea emerged.
“My dear Aunt, I should be very pleased to set a date for the ceremony if only you would write to my family and solicit the consent of my parents. If they agree to the match,” she stated firmly, “then so will I. It is that simple.” She was thinking it would be a small miracle to get a response from her family at all, given their total lack of communication since her arrival at Hanover Square.
Ariana’s chaperon was not pleased, but the icy notes in her voice were less pronounced when she next spoke.
“I will write at once in that case, this very minute!” Before rising from her seat she eyed her niece doubtfully. “If Mr. Mornay calls, I insist you go forth with the plans.”
Ariana said nothing. Perhaps now, my parents must respond! They cannot ignore such a letter as my aunt will compose!
Mrs. Bentley headed to her rooms, intent upon writing the missive to her brother at once. She intended upon scolding Ariana’s behaviour in no uncertain terms, which she did, laying her out as “willful, ungrateful, and undeserving.” No lady of her day would have dared put off such a one as Mornay! What was wrong with that young woman?
Ariana hoped to spend the day contemplating her situation in quietude. In her chamber she turned to prayer, and knelt at her bedside for a considerable time. How she loved Mr. Mornay. She thought of all the smiles she had seen on his face of late, and knew in her heart she had been the reason for the smiles. She was good for him, that was certain. But was he good for her? In material things, there was no question.
He was far from the ideal man she had always dreamed of, but then, in other ways he surpassed anything she had ever imagined. Perhaps not in character; besides the lack of private devotion, he was not even a really good man; he admitted that himself. But he was good to her. Kind. She could not think of their kiss, in his carriage, without a foolish grin popping onto her face, and the thought that she might be causing him grief was a heavy thought, indeed.
Callers interrupted her prayerful ruminations. At first it was only Lavinia and her mama come to give their congratulations. Lavinia wanted desperately to speak with Ariana alone but there was no chance, for other callers were arriving, then more and more. Ariana could not help but enjoy the attention and visits. People were delighted by the idea of the Paragon betrothed and they had resumed calling Ariana Lady Mornay.
Haines was instructed to turn away further visitors and the card tray in the hall was soon overflowing with little, gilded cards. Ariana and her aunt would have to return all these visits. And each and every person who left a card did so with the thought that Ariana Forsythe was to marry Mr. Mornay. It wasn’t long before the parlour overflowed with flowers, nosegays, and other novelties, all sent for the bride-to-be.
An especially lovely arrangement came from Carlton House, inscribed with the prince’s name. “Our most extraordinary congratulations to a most deserving lady.” Ariana was speechless with pleasure but could have wept as well. Mr. Mornay was right: There was no way the wedding could not go forward without scandalizing all of society.
Later, she was reading her Bible, curled upon a sofa in the parlour where she could enjoy the flowers, when Mr. Mornay appeared. He had intentionally arrived late so he might have Ariana to himself. He was fully aware of the sensation he had caused the previous evening—and of how crowded the parlour had probably been all day at Hanover Square. Not many had dared call at his own residence, and he was home, according to the butler, only for those he wished to see. When Ariana saw him in the doorway she was startled, and quickly sat up.
“Don’t move,” he said, entering the room. “You looked charming.” He came and sat across from her. “What are you reading?”
She handed him her Bible and a raised brow, momentarily.
“I see.” He opened the cover and thumbed through some pages.
“Do you ever read the Scriptures?” She purposefully kept her voice light.
“Not since my days at Eton, I’m afraid. You appear to have been enjoying them, however.”
“Yes; I try to read at least a few verses daily. Papa says that to read the Holy Book from cover to cover a minimum of once a year will help one lead a pure life.”
He nodded, and cleared his throat.
“May I ring for tea?” Ariana suggested.
“If you wish.” He seemed restless. “How was your day?”
“Just as you imagine, I warrant.” She met his eyes with a small, rueful grin.
He smiled, and looked about at all the flowers and other gifts. She pointed out the arrangement from the prince and he went and read the card, and nodded.
“Deserving, indeed; for once, I agree completely with Prinny.”
He stood and came to her, then leaned down and kissed her forehead.
“I just wondered…” he rubbed his chin with one hand. “If perhaps you are willing now to set a date?”
“I realize the whole town is expecting that,” she admitted. “And I am endeavouring not to fret about it.”
He nodded, taking a seat across from her.
“But I believe you should have thought of the social consequences before taking us out to your carriage. Though I understand you di
d not expect to meet with any resistance to your offer.”
“Hardly,” he said, relaxing into a smile. “I should have known, however, that with you, anything is possible.”
“Indeed, with God all things are possible.”
“That must include our wedding, then,” he answered smartly. She was startled, but only smiled demurely and rearranged a fold in her gown. He had been sitting with his legs crossed, but he now unfolded them and placed his gleaming leather boots solidly upon the carpet. He leaned forward in his seat, so that he was closer to where she sat.
“Ariana, we must set a date. Publish the banns, and so forth. I am in mind to meet your family.” He stopped, seeing her troubled expression.
“I think not yet.”
He cleared his throat, his tumultuous eyes swirling darkly. “And it is still this matter of the faith that hinders you?”
She shifted in her seat. “Yes, as I tried to explain last night.”
He drew off his gloves rapidly and plopped them upon a little table. He reached across the space that separated the two sofas and gently grasped Ariana’s hands. They were bare like his own, and he held her soft hands firmly.
“We have time,” he said. “While all the arrangements are being made. I expect in this time, your hesitations will dissolve. You may instruct me, as you wish, on any matters of faith and I will be your student.”
She smiled tenderly at him. “I understand you mean well, and I am grateful for that. I will be pleased to review Bible passages with you. Yet, please strive to understand there are some things in the Scripture that only God can reveal.”
Amazingly his temper did not surface. His eyes, in fact, sparkled with mischief. “And how would you propose God should do so?”
She waited thoughtfully. “I think He must first place in you a great desire to seek Him. To understand His Word.” Here she picked up her Bible and held it out demonstratively. Putting it back down, she added, “He will teach you to recognize what is sin, and to hear His voice—and to receive His forgiveness. He promises eternal life to all those who put their trust in Him, and so you must do so. As must we all.”
Mr. Mornay listened, his eyes reflecting interest, but they sparkled from the sheer enjoyment of being instructed by Ariana.
She sat back in her chair. “Well?”
He gave a little smile. “I think He can manage most of that. Except the part about hearing His voice. Do you really believe you can hear from the Almighty?”
“Yes, I do, indeed. The Lord promises to direct His children, which in many cases, amounts to His speaking to us. To our hearts, that is, to lead us. Only we must be faithful to seek Him in prayer, and by reading the Scriptures. His letters to us, you see.” And then her expression became troubled. “I’ve been meaning to tell you. I have written countless letters to my parents but have not heard a word in return! And this is unlike them. I have a wonderful family. I cannot account for their silence, and, I must add, my aunt is writing to them to procure their permission for the wedding.” She paused. He was listening intently as usual, and waited for her to continue. “I fear we may have a new problem if they fail to answer, yet again. And I worry that there is something amiss—though I cannot guess what it is!”
“If they fail to answer,” he said, “does it not free you to follow your own conscience? I do have your aunt’s approval…”
“But they must answer! I know my parents would never hold themselves aloof from me. There must be an explanation, but I cannot think what it is! And Alberta, too, has not written!”
To his questioning look she explained, “My older sister.”
“You have an older sister?” He was rightly surprised since they had never discussed her family at length.
“Oh, I’ll explain that later. But I know something is amiss. Only I cannot imagine—I have tried not to fret about them—” At this point she was holding back tears.
He looked concerned, but fell silent while he considered all she had said.
“How do you send your letters?”
“I simply leave them on the hallway tray, as my aunt instructed me. Haines is responsible for seeing they are sent.”
“And, to your knowledge, they are sent?”
“Yes, that is, the next time I see the tray it has been emptied, so I assume they have gone with the mail coach.”
He thought for a moment. “Not even one letter, you say, has reached you?”
She nodded. “Not even one. And this is completely out of character for them.”
“Call for Haines.”
She was surprised, but did so, going toward the bellpull to summon the servant. In a few moments the butler appeared, his face expectant.
“Yes, ma’am?” He had stopped inside the doorway.
“Come in, if you would, please, Haines,” Mornay said.
There was an instant look of curiosity on the servant’s round face, but he hid it at once behind a well-trained exterior and came and stood before Mr. Mornay, bowing politely.
“Sir?”
“Tell me, Haines, when Miss Forsythe leaves her letters on the hall tray, are you the one who posts them?”
The man looked perplexed for a second, but then his brows cleared. “No, sir.”
“Who does, then? Who posts her letters?”
Startled, Haines balked, but then mastered his expression once more. “Who would, you mean, sir, if miss was to leave a letter?”
A raised brow on Mr. Mornay’s face revealed that he thought the discussion might be getting somewhere.
“No. I mean when she does. Who has been taking her letters from the tray and seeing to them?” At this, Haines dropped all pretence of being indifferent, looked squarely at Mr. Mornay and said, “I have never seen her place a letter on the tray. To my knowledge, sir, she never has.”
Ariana gasped.
“Can this be possible?” Mr. Mornay asked her.
“I have left more than a dozen letters, I am certain of it!”
Haines looked dumbfounded.
“I have never seen them…” He lapsed into a troubled silence.
“One thing is certain.” Mr. Mornay faced Ariana. “Whoever takes them is not sending them on. Your parents have not written because they think you have not.”
“No. They would write me in any case,” Ariana insisted. “If my letters have not been reaching them, I feel sure the same fate has befallen their letters to me!”
“But who? Why?” asked the butler. He was terrified of being a suspect to their minds, although he knew himself to be innocent.
“That is the question we must all find the answer to.” Mr. Mornay looked at Haines and told him to ask his mistress to join them.
When, a few minutes later, Mrs. Bentley arrived, she had already prised some of the business from her longtime servant, and demanded to know the entirety. Ariana told her all she knew. Mrs. Bentley fixed her eyes shrewdly ahead, staring at nothing, deep in thought. Suddenly she looked at them all.
“I think I know a suspect!” She sounded as surprised by the realization as the others were to hear she had got one. The lady of the house looked at Haines.
“Molly. Something about that abigail has long bohered me! What do you know of her?”
Twenty-Eight
Mrs. Bentley sent her letter to Ariana’s parents by way of her own personal messenger, with a smaller note from Ariana explaining, as well as it could, why they might not have received any letters from their daughter, and that Ariana had received none from them. Ariana wanted to write pages about Mr. Mornay, but her aunt was in a hurry, wanting to see the wedding move forward, and would only allow the short note.
After the discussion in the parlour, they agreed to set up a test to discover if Mrs. Bentley’s theory about Molly, the newest maid in her employ, was correct. To wit, was she the interceptor of the letters? Haines had not been able to give any information about her except she seemed to be adequate for her position. But Mrs. Ruskin, when sent for, had some illuminatin
g information. As housekeeper, Mrs. Ruskin handled the hiring of domestics, needing only a final approval from the butler before taking on a body. It was she who had interviewed and hired Molly.
The girl had come highly recommended. Mrs. Ruskin was even able to locate the letter which had accompanied the abigail when she applied for the position. Mrs. Bentley opened the paper impatiently and had barely scanned its contents when she let out a great, “Aha! I might have known!”
She passed the paper to Mr. Mornay who looked it over swiftly. He recognized the name Cecelia Worthington, but it meant little to him as her family was distinguished neither in birth or fortune. He passed the pages to Ariana.
“Gracious!” She looked in dismay at the paper and then to her aunt, who was pacing with cat-like intensity.
“Of all the nerve! That woman sent Molly here for a purpose. She usually uses her ‘Sophia darling’ to spy out anything she wants to know, but to infiltrate my household in this manner—it is—it is unendurable! Inexcusable! Why, it must be criminal!” she concluded, hopefully.
“Only if the crime is provable,” put in Mr. Mornay, to which her face dropped. He added, “Which is precisely what we shall find out when we conduct our test.”
The test was simple: Ariana would write a letter and leave it on the tray as usual. Only this time Haines would be on the watch, and a footman also—just in case. One was to follow Molly after she had confiscated the letter, which they were all certain she would do. When he discovered what she did with it, he would return and make his report. The tricky thing was to decide what to put in the letter. It had to seem authentic, but somehow contain bait for Mrs. Worthington, to make her come forward. It would be all too easy for her to place full blame on the maid and feign innocence. Unless she could somehow be coerced into revealing her hand in it.
After mulling over ideas, Mr. Mornay suggested a tactic that was daring and foolproof. Rather than write a letter at all, they would infuse the paper with a strong, permanent ink powder, so that whoever opened it would be hard pressed not to find herself instantly stained with evidence. While the ink would come out eventually from her skin, it would take time—time enough for them to confront and expose her. If it sprinkled over her clothing, well, that would furnish permanent evidence.
Before the Season Ends Page 24