With everything moving along, Ariana could almost forget that Mr. Mornay had not been his usual self. He had even sent a fine coach for the occasion, to carry the trousseau. Other items would be hand-carried by servants on foot, and accompanied by Mrs. Bentley, Ariana and Beatrice. Surely if Mr. Mornay was entertaining thoughts of crying off from the wedding, he would not have encouraged such an elaborate transfer.
Nor would he have given his approbation to the proposed tour she was to take of the house. Ariana looked forward to seeing it—Phillip’s house! She would be surrounded by his things, his tastes, his life. Perchance somehow the house would open secret doors to his character—she might know him better by seeing it.
Because he made it clear that he would be away for the day, she wracked her brain for a way to leave a reminder of her presence there. Something he would see when he returned home later. But she got so busy being hurried along by Mrs. Bentley, however, that she forgot to choose such a remembrance.
Mrs. Bentley's plan to send Beatrice home were all for naught because upon hearing of the intended banishment, the O’Briens took pity on the girl. After Beatrice had given Mr. O’Brien a long rant of the evils of agues, and how providence had ceased to smile upon her (a saying she had heard her father use) the gentleman regaled his family with the story that evening, to their amusement. Miss Beatrice was issued an invitation directly, entreating the young lady to stay with them on Blandford Street.
Mrs. O’Brien considered it providential that her youngest daughter, Miss Alice, was Beatrice’s age exactly. Now the girl would have a companion to share her days with. They sent a message to Hanover Square so that Mrs. Bentley would not remove the child from town. “Let her visit us and see if she and Alice do not suit, first,” Mrs. O’Brien’s note had said.
Privately she used words of a much different tone: “Certainly Mrs. Bentley is acting in a hasty manner to send the girl packing! A mere cold is no cause to ruin the happiness of not only Miss Beatrice, but of her sister, who must want her to stay until the wedding. Even a younger sister is some small comfort, I daresay.”
When the servants finished packing the clothing, Ariana and Beatrice joined Aunt Bentley outdoors on the pavement. Ariana wore a gown of light, jaconet muslin, with an over-tunic trimmed with satin ribbon applique and lace. As they began the walk, she felt as though she must be dreaming. Could this town mansion really be her future home? Her stomach fluttered at the thought. She longed to be Mrs. Mornay, to have Phillip as her very own; but being mistress of a large establishment had never been her aim. She was startled to find herself unnerved by the thought of it. And this was only Phillip's town mansion—she would be mistress, too, of Aspindon!
The hustle and bustle of the servants and Mrs. Bentley’s shrill voice giving orders only added to her feeling of the strangeness of it all. But then a coach came rumbling to a stop directly behind the one containing her trunks and bandboxes. When Ariana saw the curious faces of Mrs. Herley and Lavinia peering from the window, her friend’s warm smile restored her presence of mind.
Mr. Mornay’s coach began moving to make a turn-around to head back to Grosvenor Square, followed by the small parade of servants carrying more items.
From her window of their coach, Mrs. Herley begged to know what was all the to-do? Ariana explained. In a minute she had agreed that of course the Herleys must come, too. Mrs. Bentley’s face broke into a disapproving frown, but Ariana was delighted, and welcomed them heartily. The ladies sent their carriage ahead, and joined the threesome on the pavement.
“I am exceedingly glad we thought to call upon you just now,” gushed Lavinia, as they fell into step together. “To think I shall see the whole of the Paragon’s establishment! And that it is to be your house! Can you quite conceive of it, my dear Ariana?”
This was the very thing she was actually having trouble conceiving. “In truth I cannot.”
Suddenly Beatrice exclaimed, “Oh, 'tis Mr. O'Brien and his mamma! I mustn’t go to their house, yet! Please say they may come with us, Ariana, so that I shan’t miss your new house! May they come? Please say they may!
“They have been so kind to open their home to you, of course they may,” the elder sister responded. “But who is to say they desire to come?”
“We cannot invite the whole town, Miss Beatrice!” Mrs. Bentley’s words were sharp and not without a hint of disapproval, but when the twosome reached the group, Beatrice burst out, “Hullo, what do you think? We are going to Mr. Mornay’s establishment to deliver Ariana’s trousseau and look over the whole house! And you may come, if you like!” She was smiling from ear to ear.
Mr. O’Brien’s countenance rather fell; he had no way of knowing that the Paragon would not be at home, and no wish to see him if he was. Beatrice registered Mr. O’Brien’s response, refocused on his mamma with precocious intuition. “You will see the Paragon’s house! It will be enormous fun! Everything expensive and agreeable!”
Ariana’s lips tightened.
“Oh, do let us go,” said Mrs. O’Brien to her son, looking at him plaintively.
He hesitated. Then as his gaze took in the lovely Ariana, he felt his repulsion of Mr. Mornay melt in the face of the prospect of spending time with her. Her head was framed in a gauze turban with a single egret plume and just at that moment, while he watched, she looked over and smiled a gentle greeting at him.
And that settled it. He agreed—if Miss Forsythe had no objection.
“I have already asked her,” put in Beatrice, “so ʼtis settled!”
When they reached the corner of Brook and David Street, Mr. Pellham joined the party, for he had been sent for by Mrs. Bentley via messenger. Mr. Pellham hoped to see Mr. Mornay. It was Mornay's intervention, sending his own surgeon to look after Mr. Pellham’s injured ankle earlier in the season, which accounted for its healing so prettily. He would always use a cane, but then, he had favored the use of one even before he had taken that nasty fall leading to the painfully prolonged injury.
Including the parade of servants going before them, it was thus quite a large entourage moving along in a merry swarm of caps, bonnets, feathers and top hats, that descended upon the house in Grosvenor Square at half past twelve. As they approached the Paragon’s dwelling, they cheerfully admired other stately homes—for Grosvenor Square was circled by famous dwellings. Although the Georgian townhouses they passed were near palatial, the company was never more admiring than when they reached No.25.
They stood and surveyed the stately building of Portland Stone. Such architectural details! Such carvings and moulded stonework! Intricate plasterwork! Wonderful portico and pillared frontage! All was elegant, neat and classical. Ariana smiled and nodded, giggling now and then at the sheer exuberance of the company, and how they were all so eager to be pleased. She enjoyed the beauty of Mr. Mornay’s house herself—indeed, marveled at it—but she felt rather like a mother hen in a barnyard full of cheeping, trailing chicks. She would have to lead these chicks through the entire three-storey structure, as well as the garret and basement kitchens and service area. To the rear of the house were the mews—but she had no intention of touring them.
So intent was the little group on admiring the stately mansion that no one noticed an old black coach parked at the curb of the Square. It was further down and across the street from house number 25, with a pair of sorry looking nags harnessed in front. Behind the equipage, the equestrian statue of George I stood high and dignified—and ignored.
Generally, such equipages were not seen in the vicinity of Grosvenor Square, and on another day it might have elicited curiosity; but the jolly group admiring the Paragon’s house paid it no mind whatsoever. But from inside the coach, the two faces peeking covertly out at the company were very much on the alert. They were intensely scrutinizing the arrivals on the sidewalk, mindful to see, but not be seen.
“I knew this vigil would pay off,” said the elder of the two.
The other suddenly cried, “I say, ‘tis Miss Herley!
”
“To the devil with Miss Herley!” came the caustic response. “She’s done with you. Which is the one we want?” There was a pause, while the first speaker swallowed his pride and no small distress. Was Miss Herley indeed done with him? But of course she was. That’s what this was all about! He looked glumly at the merry-looking company, with Miss Forsythe clearly visible near the head of the party.
“She’s wearing the white and yellow, next to Miss Herley.” Ariana and Lavinia were engrossed in an animated dialogue, and Ariana laughed at a small joke her friend told. Her face shone prettily with youth and happiness.
The other gave a low whistle. “A tempting armful, that.”
“I told you she was top o’ the trees; Only, I wish there was another way!”
“Don’t get pasty-faced. You’re stronger when you’re in your cups. We’ve agreed on this, haven’t we?”
The younger one nodded reluctantly.
“There’s nothing left for us, so we’ve nothing to lose, and I daresay we shall exact a pretty penny for that piece of work.”
“Nothing to lose?” said the first. “Only our heads. We’ll end up ‘dancing on air’ Julian.”
“Don’t be such a gull!” came the disgusted response. “The lords don’t hang their own. Who’s that young chit? Just a girl.”
The younger man reluctantly tore his eyes from Miss Lavinia Herley, whom he had not seen for some few weeks, and studied the youngest member of the promenade.
“Must be a sister. She’s not a Herley.”
“As I thought. Hmmm, if the elder one is trouble, we can always take the younger. Her absence might provoke stronger feelings altogether, in fact.”
But the younger man was paying little heed to his brother; his eyes were once again on the object of his affection—Lavinia Herley. The entourage was moving on into the house now. The house where their enemy, Phillip Mornay—he would never call him the Paragon—dwelt.
Inside, Ariana was greeted by the whole of Mr. Mornay’s staff, who had been summoned by Frederick to line up and meet their soon-to-be mistress. While the guests exclaimed at the delicate hand-painted Chinese wallpaper, Frederick gave Ariana the name and station of each servant. Beatrice walked aside her sister, her eyes large, as if she, too, were soon to relocate to the square. She would later say to the O’Briens that she was “Utterly fascinated by the number of servants her sister should command!”
Each servant dropped respectful curtseys or bows, some smiling shyly. Ariana recognized a few of the footmen, the skinny maid Letty, and the rosy-cheeked, plump cook. When she came to the new scullery maid, the lowliest of the staff, she smiled and said, “Why, ‘tis Molly!” The little girl almost smiled, and curtseyed shyly, but kept her eyes lowered. “Are you happy here, my gel?”
The servant nodded, ‘yes.’
“Excellent!” said Ariana, and then moved on, blithely unaware that the upper staff were now roiling with the wonder of how their future mistress could know the least important member of the servants, stopping to speak to her! It was rather shocking. She had merely smiled or nodded a greeting at the rest of them. It was felt as a snub.
Mrs. Hamilton, the housekeeper, felt a distinct chill as she watched her future mistress. She had never set eyes on Miss Forsythe prior to this day, and, indeed, had been dreading doing so. A young mistress, to her mind, spelt trouble. Had not her own mother twice been dismissed by a new young mistress? Her mother, who had been an excellent housekeeper in her day, twice had lost her situation due to the capricious whims of spoilt young women. Miss Forsythe would be no different—she knew it in her bones!
The young woman would undoubtedly bring her own favourite servants, and if she, Mrs. Hamilton, did not get on with them, she’d be out on the street before the honeymoon ended. Ladies were loyal only to their own maids—it was a fact of life.
The hardest part of it was that Grosvenor Square had been Mrs. Hamilton’s best station to date. And she was convinced that her mother's final fate was to befall her as well—that of ending up at Draper's Asylum in Margate—that place which was called a refuge for “decayed housekeepers.” She shuddered to think she might soon be forced to join its ranks!
It had been nothing short of miraculous that Mr. Mornay’s butler had approved her for the position of housekeeper in the establishment to begin with. Women of her age were seldom hired; most people preferred younger, middle-aged blood. Fortunately Mr. Mornay cared not.
Further, he was a generous master. Boxing Day was a thrill. Though his temper was famous, she had never known him to be cruel or excessively out of countenance with his staff. The servants were uniformly attached to him, proud of him, and happy to work for him. Mrs. Hamilton had gloried in her good fortune as housekeeper of 25 Grosvenor Square. She was unlikely to acquire such a position of esteem again. If she lost this one, Miss Ariana Forsythe would be to blame. What could be done to prevent such a calamity? There had to be a solution. And she must find it.
Ariana, meanwhile, motioned to the housekeeper for a private word. “Mrs. Hamilton, I hope you shall teach me what I must know to run this household successfully. I so want to please Mr. Mornay! Everything must be smooth as ever it was, for which I will very much rely upon your knowledge.” Ariana’s words, though meant kindly, were not received in kind.
“Ma’am, I am at your service, but there is no need to concern yourself, I assure you. Mr. Frederick and I shall maintain the running of the house. You are too great a lady, ma’am, if I may say so, to condescend to our concerns.” She curtseyed as she spoke.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hamilton, but you must not spare me domestic concerns. It is my part to know these things, and my intention, I assure you.”
Mrs. Hamilton curtseyed stiffly, and murmured, “As you please, ma’am.” But the colour that had popped up on her cheeks was not from pleasure. With a sinking heart she was thinking, And put myself out of a situation, that’s what. So she’s a sly one, is she? ‘Her part to know these things,’ indeed!
She did not wish to think wrongly of Miss Forsythe—she was a pretty, sweetly countenanced girl—but her words were like the proverbial nail in the coffin. After this, there could be no doubt. The young woman clearly sought to make Mrs. Hamilton dispensable. And why make her dispensable if she was not to be dispensed with? Miss Forsythe made her intentions clear, and now it only remained to see what Mrs. Hamilton could do to prevent those intentions from being realized.
As the little group assembled in the first floor parlour, a small mob of London’s premier shopkeepers were admitted, and came forward with their assistants, all bowing and speaking at once. Ariana was looking in confusion from one gentleman to the next until her aunt intervened.
“Gentlemen, if you please! One at a time!” Mrs. Bentley’s authoritative voice never failed to produce its desired effect, bringing an instant silence. But it couldn’t last. The merchants shared a passionate desire to be of help to furnish or decorate the home of the Paragon.
Mrs. Bentley had sent word, inviting them to attend. A new mistress might decide there were things she must have that were lacking in the house or at least wish to make her presence known with a few small indications of her tastes and styles, particularly in a dwelling which had been home to a bachelor for years. They could advise on the latest style, accept orders, and offer expert opinions.
Mrs. Bentley motioned to Ferddie, who came and deftly ushered the shopkeepers and merchants into a ground floor sitting room. There he told them in no uncertain terms that they must wait to be called upon. And wait they would. It gave consequence to their business if they could include in their pattern books the words, “This item was purchased by the Paragon;” or, “Proudly in the morning room in the house of the Paragon.”
“Why are they here, Aunt Bentley?” Ariana asked.
“For you, of course. To help you decide what you want for the house. Or may need.”
“I could not conceive of—” she started to say, but Mrs. Bentley walked off to t
ake Mr. Pellham’s arm. Ariana considered her aunt’s words. Not only had 25 Grosvenor Square been planned and built with particular care for classic styling, but Mr. Mornay himself had the better sense of style and colour. Did he not choose her trousseau for that reason? His house was appointed with the same faultless taste which had earned him the title of ‘Paragon.’ Everything elegant and in the right proportions, so that everyone bowed to his word on a matter of fashion or decoration. There was beauty and grace in his dwelling. She did not think she would the merchants for anything.
Ariana followed the housekeeper, hoping her aunt would forget about the tradesmen. Suddenly Mrs. Bentley was back at her side. “Now I think on it, I want to oversee the moving of your trousseau,” the lady murmured. “You cannot trust servants to do these things properly.”
“But do you not wish to see the house?”
“I do, of course. Which is why you must wait and offer your guests some refreshment until I return. I’ll make quick work of it.” She turned and went after the train of servants. My niece, she was thinking, to be mistress here! It was such a comfortable, encouraging thought that she left the room with a smile. In the hall a little chambermaid flitted past with a hasty curtsey. A little chambermaid that looked familiar.
Why, it was Molly! Molly, the servant girl who had been an instrument in the theft of Ariana’s letters! Mrs. Bentley stopped and gave the maid a disapproving eye. The little traitor! She oughn’t to be kept on here, not when she was involved with such spurious dealings in the past. She made a mental note to speak to Mr. Mornay’s housekeeper.
The party took advantage of its time in the drawing room to look about with a rare lack of inhibition, admiring all. The beautiful marble fireplace and elegant sofa and chairs. The frescoes and carved statues and portraits on the walls. Exclamations were given over everything.
The House in Grosvenor Square: A Novel of Regency England (The Regency Trilogy Book 2) Page 3