Before the Season Ends

by Linore Rose Burkard

  “This man is so unlike you. He has none of your gentleness, or your virtue. I could hardly conceive of your marrying him—”

  “I appreciate your concern, but I assure you it is unnecessary. Mr. Mornay is kind and thoughtful to me, nothing else.” She paused, and added, “As for virtue, some good deeds go before men, and are widely seen, but some follow after; his are the sort that follow after. He is a good man.”

  Mr. O’Brien cleared his throat. “May I be frank with you, Miss Forsythe?”

  She nodded. “Of course.”

  He spoke next in a low voice. “ ’Tis said he carried you into his coach; I could not reach a window and see for myself, there was such a crowd at them. But was it against your will? I assure you, you would not be the first young lady to be coerced into a union by such methods.”

  The suggestion irked her.

  “Neither Mr. Mornay, nor anyone else for that matter, could coerce me into marriage against my will! You underestimate me, Mr. O’Brien.”

  “I beg your pardon,” he said, hurriedly. “Do not be out of countenance with me. You must know I asked you only out of deep and sincere concern for your welfare.”

  Ariana’s face softened. “I understand. But you must believe Mr. Mornay is not a beast. He is prodigiously good to me.” She smiled disarmingly. “Now; may I ring for tea?”

  Thirty-One

  The next morning Mr. Mornay sent word he would be calling for Ariana in his carriage at eleven o’clock. The footman who came with the note brought an enormous bouquet of heavy, aromatic red roses, which Ariana insisted on placing in water herself.

  Mrs. Bentley was impressed. “I don’t doubt but that man had these brought to town from the forcing house at Aspindon!”

  Ariana hastened to be ready, but at fifteen minutes before the hour the bell rang, and it was he. When she entered the parlour he turned and just stood, staring at her with his perceptive eyes as if seeing her for the first time. She was attired in a walking-out dress of cambric with a high, ruffled neck, her hair done atop her head prettily. He went to meet her, receiving both her hands in his, and reverently kissed each one.

  “Thank you for the roses,” she offered. “They’re beautiful!”

  “As are you.”

  “You look above well yourself.”

  He smiled and pressed her hands in his own. “We are off to see my Aunt Royleforst, if that will be agreeable to you.”

  “Certainly, if you like. I shall inform Aunt Bentley.”

  “I’ll get the carriage.”

  Ariana found her aunt at the breakfast table sipping a cup of chocolate and wearing an old-fashioned mobcap. She came to attention when she heard Mr. Mornay had called, and Ariana spotted the prayer book on the table. She felt a rise of excitement but quelled it for her aunt’s sake.

  “Mr. Mornay is taking me to see Mrs. Royleforst,” Ariana said.

  Mrs. Bentley raised her chin interestedly. “Mrs. Royleforst?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well. Enjoy yourself. And tell Mr. Mornay—no, I’ll come and tell him myself.”

  “He is gone for the carriage already.”

  “Oh, very well, but tell him there are matters we must yet discuss. I dare not bespeak your trousseau without his approval. Though he put the matter into my hands, I know he is far too particular and he must dictate which fabrics he wants for you.”

  Ariana responded by quickly bending and placing another light kiss on her aunt’s cheek. “I must go. I cannot keep Mr. Mornay waiting.” And she rushed from the room.

  Mr. Mornay had turned the carriage and it was ready in the street when Ariana came out. He was about to jump down to help her up, but without waiting for help she raised her skirts and climbed up, joining him atop the board rather clumsily. She plopped, more than sat, beside him, saw his face, and instantly realized her mistake. To her relief, he laughed out loud.

  She smiled demurely. “When I was younger, my mama decried ever teaching me to be a lady.”

  He gave the reins a sharp crack with a shout to the horses. “I suppose I should have realized that when I first discovered you in a tree! But I must inform you I think of you as quite the lady. Young, impulsive, scandalously honest, yes, but when you’ve a mind for it, you can move as smoothly as a queen. I’ve seen you do it.”

  Instead of heading out of Mayfair, Mr. Mornay turned into Grosvenor Square. As he pulled to the curb he explained, “I forgot a gift for my aunt. Come, while I fetch a basket.” Before jumping down from the board, he turned to her gravely.

  “Do not move, until I am in position to help you.” The odd set of his face told her he was endeavouring not to laugh, and so she nodded with equal gravity.

  “I am immobile, sir, until you give the word!”

  As on her last visit, she enjoyed the tasteful elegance of his house. Every room was well-appointed, not in the overwhelmingly ornate style of the Regent, but just like Mr. Mornay’s manner of dress: the best quality in the right proportions, for an overall effect of beauty as well as practicality.

  When she was settled in his study, which she preferred to the parlour for its more personal nature, he left to order the basket. Ariana looked around curiously. There were built-in bookshelves lining two walls, and she was tempted to peruse the titles. Papa said you could learn a lot about a person by seeing their books. But it felt disingenuous, somehow, with Mr. Mornay absent, and so she did not.

  The room was comfortable, though strongly masculine with a large, dark-oak desk and ponderous leather chair, and brown wainscoting. Ariana sat in a deeply cushioned side-chair, whose twin was adjacent. A large hearth at one end no doubt ensured a warm room in winter, and above the mantelpiece was a portrait of a beautiful, dark-haired lady. She wondered if it was Mr. Mornay’s mama, and got up to look closely. The moment she saw the swirling dark eyes, Ariana knew her guess had been correct. The lady had his dark good looks, his presence, but without the brooding shadow he seemed to labour under.

  Before taking her seat again, she noticed a few copies of The Sporting Magazine upon the neat desktop, as well as a large, aged, leather-bound tome. Looking at the book from her seat, she wondered if Mr. Mornay might have been reading a Bible. Could it be?

  Feeling slightly breathless, she rose and quickly rounded the desk. She had to know. Yes! The Holy Bible. Upon opening the worn cover she came upon a register of births and deaths. It went back only two generations. She was curious to read it all but the record of deaths stood out more. She felt her eyes drawn to it and quickly scanned its contents, passing over the oldest entries, and beginning at “Edward Henry Mornay,” supposing it was Mr. Mornay’s father.

  Edward Henry Mornay, died, 1800. Nigel Edward Mornay, died, 1800. Miranda Elizabeth Mornay, died, 1801. Three deaths in so little time! And that was the last entry.

  She went back to the record of births, perhaps it would reveal the relation of these people to Mr. Mornay, but a noise in the hall sent her scurrying back to her seat.

  After a slight knock, the butler entered bearing a tray with tea and chocolate. He poured her tea, and then seemed to hesitate, waiting uncertainly. He was a small, stocky man, balding, and with a serious countenance. He bowed, leaving, but then stopped.

  “May I offer,” he ventured, “my deepest congratulations, and say how happy we all are at the prospect of welcoming you to this establishment.”

  “Thank you very much.” She was touched by the fact that Mr. Mornay had notified his staff. “What shall I call you?”

  “Forgive me. William Frederick, at your service, ma’am. The master calls me Freddy.”

  “Thank you, Freddy.” She smiled, and instantly won him over. She was still smiling after he bowed again and left, for he had done so with a barely disguised grin on his well-trained face, and Ariana preferred a butler who was personable.

  After closing the door to the study, Freddy headed back to the kitchens as full of glee as that sober-minded soul could be. The master had informed him his future mistr
ess was in the study, and he was elated by the picture of sweetness she presented. He could hardly wait to share the news with the others.

  “Glory be!” he exclaimed, upon returning to that sanctum for servants, the kitchen. The others turned to listen eagerly.

  “Not only is our determined bachelor to finally feather the nest, but our future mistress is a drop of sunlight.”

  “What’s ’at? A drop o’ sun? ’At’s no way t’describe a laidy,” Letty, a housemaid, grimaced. She looked around, grabbed a cut-glass candlestick and said, “I’ll takes a look meself!”

  “Oh, no, we’ll have none of that,” reprimanded Freddy. But Letty’s face dropped.

  “Mrs. ’amilton’d let me!”

  “But Mrs. Hamilton isn’t here, is she?” For it was the housekeeper’s day off. He spoke as if speaking to a child, and indeed, though Letty was one of the oldest servants in the household, she often behaved like a petulant youngster, getting away with it because she had worked for the Mornay family for most of her life.

  “I won’t do no ’arm!” She folded her arms angrily across her chest and glowered at the butler, who roundly ignored her.

  “Oh, why not let ’er go?” said Cook, busy filling the basket the master had requested. “We’d all like to say, congratters, that’s all. An’ if she does anythin’ to bodge it, you can give ’er a right drubbin’!”

  “And so I shall,” he stated severely, giving Letty a grim look. With a whoop she grabbed the candlestick and ran from the room.

  Minutes later there was a scratch at the study door, and in walked Letty, all wide-eyed. Lawks, it was true! A lighter-haired laidy she had never seen, and so prim and proper and kindly lookin’! She noted the large eyes, raised in curiosity at the moment, the light green shawl over a pretty cambric dress, and fine bonnet; and even the genteel satin slippers on her feet. Letty, too, had an immediate sense that here was a mistress she could adore. Quickly laying the candlestick on the sturdy desk, she gave Ariana a slow curtsey.

  Ariana felt it necessary to say something to the enormous pair of eyes gaping at her in astonishment.

  “Good day.”

  This appeared to satisfy the servant, for she smiled, revealing a missing tooth, and then turned and strode from the room, still smiling. She was smiling when she entered the kitchen, and when she described the vision she had seen to the others.

  “Bless me!” Cook exclaimed, covering her mouth with one chubby hand. “I ’ave a hankering to see ’er meself.” She was actually the under cook, beneath the real chef of the establishment, but with a good reputation among the staff as a hard worker.

  “Is she pri’ee?” Bessie, a scullery maid who had just come in, wanted to know.

  “Mor’n pri’ee!” offered a gruff footman, who often served as outrider on Mr. Mornay’s coach. He had seen Miss Forsythe on more than one occasion and would have sent a smart remark her way in a jif—if not for her station and the master, that is.

  The parlour maid’s curiosity got the best of her, and soon Miss Forsythe’s musings were interrupted by another faint knock at the door. In a moment the servant swept in holding a feather duster. She took a split-second glance at Ariana and then quickly crossed before her and breezily dusted the desk top, not daring to peek again; then retraced her steps, lightly dusting all the way. She stopped abruptly in front of Ariana (who was beginning to think she might have to endure being dusted herself) and curtseyed, wide-eyed, like the first servant. She then swept out of the room, all in less than thirty seconds, so that it had been like a sort of dance.

  A few moments later, a chambermaid came shyly into the room carrying a rag and pail. She hazarded a split-second glance at Ariana, headed straight to the fireplace and began polishing the grate, which was clean to begin with. When she turned to leave, she too was overcome by a compulsion to curtsey, and did so, her eyes larger than the last servant’s. Ariana smiled at her.

  She had not alarmed her, as had the first maid, or nearly dusted her, as had the second. When, a few seconds later, yet another scratch came at the door, Ariana steeled herself to be interviewed, so to speak, once again.

  This time it was Cook, ostensibly to question the lady as to her preference of fresh fruit for the basket. She took in nearly every inch of Ariana, barely listening to her response that, “Anything, anything at all will be fine, I imagine,” when Mr. Mornay knocked firmly on the door and entered.

  He looked in dismay at Cook bending before Ariana with a crock of fruit in her hands.

  “What’s this?” His hands were on his hips, and he scowled. Cook froze with fear. For a second.

  “Oh, sir! Last week a lady on Grant Street ate a orange and dropped as dead as a doornail, sir! They said she never could tol’rate oranges but she went and ate one, anyroad!” She looked meaningfully at Ariana. “I ’ad to check that your laidy ’ad no indisposition to fruit, sir.”

  Mr. Mornay’s brows were raised, but he no longer looked angry.

  “The basket is for my aunt.”

  Cook’s red, round face grew even redder.

  “I am much obliged to you, nevertheless,” Ariana said quickly, in a hearty tone.

  This put her in Cook’s good graces from that day forward. Meanwhile, below stairs, both housemaids had pronounced her to be as “pri’ee as a princess.” Upon her return to the safety of the kitchens, Cook added to the consensus but also exclaimed, “Now there be a kind mistress if ever I saw one.”

  When Ariana and Mr. Mornay were finally seated again atop the board, the basket carefully stowed in back, she turned to him.

  “Is your aunt expecting us?”

  “No.” His eyes were upon his horses as he moved them into traffic. “She is expecting me. She asked me to bring you, but since I suspected she wished to interrogate you, I said I would not.” He looked at her. “Do you mind going? I believe she will encourage you, and right now I welcome encouragement from any corner.”

  Ariana felt a small alarm. Mrs. Royleforst was apparently a force to be reckoned with, but as she was thinking thus, he added, “And she will be delighted to see you.” Ariana hoped he was right.

  Thirty-Two

  The visit began smoothly in Mrs. Royleforst’s opulent parlour where they drank lemonade, and ate biscuits and afternoon cake. They sat chatting about light subjects for a proper amount of time, after which Mrs. Royleforst bid her nephew go and bring her a newspaper.

  He looked pointedly at Miss Bluford, who had joined the company: Why did not she do it, since it was her occupation to satisfy the whims of her mistress? But Miss Bluford refused to peek at him, though Ariana was certain she felt the dark eyes upon her.

  Mrs. Royleforst shrewdly interfered.

  “No, no, it must be you, Phillip! I am intent on speaking with Miss Forsythe.”

  “In that case,” he said gallantly, rising from his seat, “I am at your service.” But he gave his aunt a strong look before he bowed and left. “Go easy on her.” The door clicked shut quietly behind him. Ariana and Mrs. Royleforst faced each other.

  “Miss Bluford,” she said. “I am in mind to have some negus. Do see if you can make some up for us.” Without a word, the woman rose and left the room. Now it was only the two of them.

  Coming straight to the point, Mrs. Royleforst was astonished, she said, that any girl would refuse her nephew, and she wanted to know why Ariana had done so. When Ariana explained her hesitation as stemming from her spiritual life, the woman became annoyed.

  “You should then consider it your Christian duty to improve Phillip, and you can best do that by marrying him.” Without raising her voice, she managed to pack a good scold in her words.

  “Only God can improve a person, ma’am,” Ariana countered. “And I consider it my chief duty to please the Lord by marrying a man who shares my faith.”

  The lady’s eyebrows went up above her small eyes.

  “You are dead set against him, then!”

  “No, I am hoping…the situation will change.”
Her words sounded lame to her own ears.

  “But you are unwilling to change it yourself! Humph! I see little hope there.” She gazed at Ariana with a severe expression on her face.

  Ariana tried to soften that expression. “We are indeed betrothed.”

  “Nonsense! When you refuse to set a wedding date? I am greatly moved by Phillip’s astonishing concern for you, Miss Forsythe. And I daresay you have no idea of the great honour he is offering you.” She paused, looking searchingly at the girl, then continued. “If you want a man who will say whatever you want and deceive you, I warrant there are many for the taking. But if you want one who is true to his word, to his heart, and will be true to you—Phillip is your man. Despite my disappointment in your stubbornness, your foolishness, I advise you as a friend: Be done with your qualms, and thank God for what He has given you. My nephew may not be the man to please a crowd, but he is true to the bone, I assure you.”

  Ariana had no more replies. And worse, she felt a nagging conviction that what Mrs. Royleforst was saying was true: Mr. Mornay was good for his word. He wouldn’t intentionally deceive her. He could have professed a false faith, but hadn’t. He was a good man.

  When he returned to the room the unmistakable tension in the air was palpable. He thought it best to take Ariana home. She was quiet on the return drive, and he was too familiar with his aunt not to know why.

  “Would you like to talk about it?”

  “No. Thank you.” Then, “She despises me.”

  “She gave you a set-down?”

  “Quite.”

  “For putting off my suit?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then she does not, believe me, despise you. If she did, she would have given you numerous reasons why you are right to do as you are doing.”

  She looked at him, surprised. “Are you certain?”

  “Completely.”